HotDogs

by Janice Bennett

  Janowski’s mouth twitched into an evil smile. ”That’ll shoot Vanderveer’s lighting efforts all to hell.” He gave a short nod of satisfaction. “Okay, outside it is. I’ll have Theresa tell everyone.”

  “Not so fast.” I caught him as he turned away. “We might still be able to hold it in here. Wait until the forensics team has a look around.”

  He deflated. “But it might be best—”

  “It’s always best to change as little as possible once arrangements have been made. We’ll wait to tell people but I intend to go out there and have a look and make some contingency plans. Why don’t you come with me? And we’ll have Pete—” I broke off. We wouldn’t be able to have Pete Norton do anything. It was Pete’s murder that was causing our potential displacement.

  Janowski glanced at me and looked away at once. “Damn,” he said. “It doesn’t feel real, does it? I mean first Lee Wessex and now Pete Norton.”

  I shook my head. “Lee Wessex died a year ago.”

  “But we only just found out about it. That makes it feel like it was yesterday.”

  True. No argument there. And I doubted it was coincidence that Pete Norton turned up dead the morning after Lee Wessex’s body was found. And they’d both been hit over the head. So what had Pete known about Wessex’s death? Or was it something about the missing money Wessex had stolen but with which he’d never made his clean escape?

  “We’d better move everyone off the stage. Out of the whole auditorium, I guess,” I said without much hope.

  “Right.” Theresa cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Listen up, everyone,” then turned back to me. “Where to?”

  “The stadium,” I said after a moment’s thought. We could let people rehearse down there. Except the arena floor consisted of loose dirt at the moment. The fairgrounds possessed a portable stage, which actually consisted of four wagons that could be drawn up on their massive wheels and positioned next to each other then secured by some means completely unknown to me. I had a sinking feeling I might be finding out.

  And of course Pete Norton was the one I would have had to ask about the location of those wagons and how to get them dragged into position. Pete was going to be sorely missed. He was the one who knew everything.

  And possibly just a little too much?

  Theresa, with the help of Lizzie Mobley and her dogs, moved everyone toward the arena. Vanderveer, who obviously couldn’t do anything with lights down there, grumbled it would all be a waste of time.

  “And since I’ll be free, I’ll just take charge of those keys,” he added, eyeing the handful that lay on the table near the side door.

  Ivan Janowski glared at him. “I should be the one to hold them.”

  Edward Vanderveer reached for them, a determined look on his face.

  “Wait,” I cried. “No one should touch them again. There might be fingerprints on them.”

  “Of course there are,” Vanderveer said but he lowered his hand. “Quantrell picked them up out of the dirt outside.”

  Janowski eyed the keys as if they had sprouted thorns. “Damn right there’ll be prints on them and most of them will be mine. I had to try quite a few of them before I was able to let us in here.”

  “So touching them again won’t matter in the least,” Vanderveer declared. He snatched them up.

  I started to protest but he waved my objections aside. “I’ll lock the place up so no one can slip in again.”

  Janowski glowered, muttered something about interfering busybodies then glared at me. “You’d better stay,” he decided. “Vanderveer might need a witness that he didn’t go back inside himself.” And with that he stalked off after the last of the talent acts.

  Vanderveer shot a dirty look after him. “Imbecile,” he muttered then turned to eye the building. “We’d better check all the doors and windows, make sure everything is secure.”

  “Isn’t that the first thing you did when you couldn’t find Pete and the keys?” I asked.

  He turned a pained expression on me. “I have no idea what Janowski might have done.”

  “We should leave the checking to the sheriff’s department,” I told him firmly. “They’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  The bakery delivery arrived first. After claiming half a dozen brownies, a selection of mixed pastries and a carafe of coffee for Sarkisian’s crew, I sent the rest down to the arena. Vanderveer and I settled with them on the front steps to wait. The aroma from the delectables was almost too much to bear and I was just reaching for a brownie when I heard the distant sounds of the ghoul squad’s approach. My never-ending diet was saved by the sirens.

  Oh hell, no it wasn’t. I grabbed a brownie and bit into it as the wails increased in volume and Sarkisian’s Jeep, leading the charge, swung into the parking lot. As the other vehicles pulled up as close to the auditorium as they could I ran to the Jeep to greet the sheriff as he climbed out.

  He wrapped an arm around me, kissing me soundly and his eyes lit with a familiar gleam. “Brownies.”

  I almost laughed. “Over here.”

  Roomba came shooting up from the arena and dived into the midst of the disembarking forensics team, her long pointed nose searching out any possible crumbs, fallen leaves, even tiny twigs. Three of the poodles and the hobbling Mazda surrounded us, leaping and yipping in their delight to see Sarkisian, almost tripping him as we armed him with brownies then strode toward the side entrance to the auditorium.

  Vanderveer hurried to unlock the door then presented the keys to the sheriff with a ceremonial bow. “Only Quantrell, Janowski and I have touched them since we found them. There.” He pointed dramatically to the spot beneath the shrub where Quantrell had spotted them such a short time ago.

  Sarkisian waved over Salvador Rodriguez who was already pulling on a pair of gloves. He took the keys and dropped them into an evidence bag. Roberta Dominguez followed him into the building with Dr. Sarah and Sarkisian trailing after them.

  Vanderveer started up the steps but I stopped him. “Let them do their jobs,” I said.

  “Can’t we watch?” he demanded.

  “Is that why you volunteered to stay here?” Admittedly it was fascinating to watch the ghoul squad in action but it also felt like an odd sort of invasion of the dead man’s privacy. On the few occasions I’ve been present I’ve had to stifle the urge to apologize to the body for intruding.

  Vanderveer shrugged. “Beats just sitting here.”

  “Why don’t you go down to the arena?” I suggested.

  He cast a sideways glance toward the entrance to the auditorium. “You’re staying, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely not.” I took him by the arm. “Come on. We’re not doing any good here and we’ve got a show to organize. Besides, you want a pastry before they’re all gone, don’t you?”

  We didn’t get very far before we heard the sound of voices coming from the arena. I recognized Lizzie’s, ordering people to be quiet. Then Theresa’s announcing that the order for the performances had been finalized and no changes could be made because the program had already gone to the printer. I silently blessed her for that. It had gone to the printer. Mine. I had yet to give it to her to take to the county office where it would be duplicated en masse to be distributed at the show.

  “A string quartet can’t play on dirt.” Connie Wessex, in a calf-length navy blue chiffon dress, was looking appalled. The other members of her musical group clutched their instrument cases, worried expressions on their faces. Not surprisingly Connie hadn’t lugged the cello down here.

  “We’ll get a portable stage if we have to,” I yelled over the general hubbub.

  Debra Carlisle, not far from me, laughed. “You mean you don’t want to see my kiddies trying to tap dance on dirt?”

  I sighed. “It might lack something of the traditional tapping sound.”

  More protests, more questions. Everyone wanted to know what was going on and what we were going to do about it. The Hot Dogs—at least those wh
o had come along for the ride—bounced around, thoroughly enjoying the chaos. Not for the first time I regretting not having a whip and a chair.

  With Theresa’s aid I finally managed to get people calmed down and ready to listen. We were handing out copies of the performance order when Sarkisian joined us, a half-eaten brownie in one hand. I noticed a bulge in the pocket of his uniform shirt with just a hint of a white napkin sticking out. He worked his way through the crowd to Ivan Janowski who stood removed from the others, watching the milling group. Janowski, I noted, held a croissant and sipped from a cup of coffee.

  Coffee sounded good at the moment. I made my way over to one of the pots and poured some then strolled back to where Sarkisian and Janowski spoke in lowered voices.

  “Just thanking him for staying so late,” Janowski was saying. “He was being a real trooper, wasn’t he?” He turned to me for confirmation.

  I blinked, trying to make rapid connections. “You mean Pete? Yeah, he’s—I mean he was.” The fact I now had to use the past tense hit me for the first time. Pete Norton was really dead. He’d been such a great guy. I’d done a couple of events at the fairgrounds before and he’d always been good-natured, putting up with all the nonsense and arguing my clients could produce, always ready to help. The only time I’d ever seen him get mad was over Lizzie’s dogs. They’d had a real war going on—not that I thought Lizzie would kill him over that. I blinked again, trying to focus. “We’re really going to miss him.”

  Sarkisian nodded agreement. As sheriff, he’d dealt with Pete on a number of occasions too.

  “Then what did you do?” Sarkisian asked, continuing the questions I’d interrupted.

  “Called a couple of the other county supervisors. Having Lee Wessex’s body found here—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I was driving home at the time. My cell phone account should document the numbers I called and the times of the conversations.”

  “What did they have to say?”

  Janowski’s lip curled. “Not to let anything, especially a year-old murder, get in the way of this year’s celebrations.”

  Sarkisian nodded. “That sounds like them. Can’t blame them either. This is a big deal for the county. And the funds it’ll bring in are badly needed by Merit County First, especially since last year’s proceeds disappeared. So you drove straight home last night?”

  Janowski hesitated then shook his head. “It had been a bit of an odd day. I went to a bar, had a few drinks.” He provided the name which Sarkisian jotted down. “Got more sympathy from the bartender than I ever would from that shrew of a wife of mine.”

  Sarkisian shook his head. “Rough having a wife like that,” he said as if he’d ever been married to anyone, sweet or sour.

  Janowski nodded. “You know, she actually blamed me last year for Wessex’s stealing all the funds? Kept saying she’d told me to take charge of them which she never did. Hell, they weren’t my responsibility. It was Wessex’s assigned job to present them to Lizzie.”

  Sarkisian rolled his eyes. “Wives,” he said and carefully didn’t look at me. “Bet she gave you a hard time the whole way home last year.”

  Janowski hesitated. “We didn’t know about Wessex vanishing with the money yet, just that he took charge of it. She doesn’t need much of an excuse to start an argument.”

  Sarkisian shook his head. “That’s rough. All that fuss just because you let someone else have a little limelight.”

  Brian Quantrell, guitar case in hand, cast a sly look from where he stood only a few feet away. “Were you really fighting about that? Not about Connie?”

  Janowski shot him a furious glare then recovered. “What’s that got to do with you, Quantrell? Jealous?”

  Quantrell gave a short laugh. “You didn’t really think you were the only one sleeping with her, did you?”

  All expression faded from Janowski’s face. “Why do you think I dumped her? I expect my women to be faithful.”

  “Even the married ones?” came Quantrell’s retort.

  Janowski looked him up and down. “Yes.”

  “You were also having an affair with Ms. Wessex?” Sarkisian asked the paramedic.

  Quantrell nodded. “Short but sweet. And I’m only telling you because this is a murder investigation. Unlike some people,” and his gaze flickered to Janowski, “I don’t go around bragging about my conquests.”

  Janowski snorted. “That’s because you don’t have any besides Connie. That woman would sleep with anyone.”

  “But she wouldn’t leave her husband,” Sarkisian stuck in. “I understand, Mr. Quantrell, that you had an argument with her about that the night her husband died.”

  Quantrell cast him an uneasy look but Sarkisian’s air of sympathetic interest seemed to reassure him. Even after all this time, that still amazes me.

  “Not about her sleeping around,” Quantrell explained. “About her leaving her husband. Yeah. I was pretty naïve. For a brief time there I actually thought she might marry me. I found out the hard way what she was really like.” He shrugged. “I got over it and learned a valuable lesson.”

  “And what were you talking to Pete Norton about last night while everyone was leaving?”

  “Damn, poor Pete.” He shook his head. “Just about making sure we had an emergency vehicle lane all the way into the arena in case of an accident with the fireworks. But he said he had it all arranged.” His frown deepened. “I wonder who’ll take over organizing things like that for us.”

  “I’ll have someone call the fairgrounds committee,” Janowski decided and started off, presumably to pass the order along to Theresa.

  Quantrell caught him. “Look, I think it might be better if you got another Grand Marshal for the parade. How about the sheriff?”

  Janowski glared at him. “It’s already been announced. We can’t possibly make a change at this date.”

  “I’ve been telling you all along I don’t want to do this. Now less than ever.”

  “Well you’re going to. I don’t know about you but I don’t want all the gossips speculating about why you backed out the day before the parade.” And with that he stalked off.

  Quantrell remained where he stood, his expression bleak. “No,” he muttered at last. He glanced around, his gaze fell on Sarkisian and me and he hurried away, probably eager to get out of the sheriff’s sight—and thoughts.

  So why didn’t Brian Quantrell want to be Grand Marshal? And what—if anything—might he have to fear from the speculation of the gossips?

  Before I could voice these thoughts to Sarkisian, Edward Vanderveer disentangled himself from the upset performers and came to my side. “How much longer are you going to be inside that auditorium?” he demanded of Sarkisian. “What are you doing now?”

  “We need to establish when Pete Norton was seen last,” Sarkisian said. He fixed the man with his encouraging smile.

  Vanderveer frowned. “He was waiting to lock up after we all left last night.” He considered a moment then shook his head. “I don’t remember who was the last out of the building.” He turned to me and raised his eyebrows.

  I shook my head. “I left before you did,” I told Sarkisian.

  He nodded and a slight twitch of his lip assured me he remembered our lingering parting in the parking lot.

  “So wouldn’t that make you the last to see Pete?” Vanderveer asked the sheriff.

  Sarkisian shook his head. “The auditorium wasn’t of interest to us at that time. When I left I remember seeing you and Theresa delGuardia. You were talking to Pete Norton.”

  Vanderveer hesitated, frowning as with an effort of memory. “That’s right. Just before I left I asked him where the workers could park their cars. Last year it was beside the storage building where we found Lee’s body. I didn’t think you’d want us leaving our cars there again this year, not considering it’s a crime scene.”

  Sarkisian nodded encouragement.

  Vanderveer rushed on. “That’s it. I mean Pete said we could park besi
de the auditorium, that he’d have an area roped off just for us and assign one of the parking attendants to keep everyone else out. He was really helpful.” His brow furrowed. “I just hope whoever replaces him will be half as good.”

  “And what was he doing when you left?” Sarkisian prompted.

  Vanderveer shook his head. “No idea. No, wait. I think he was talking to Theresa. I remember seeing them in my headlights and wondering what she wanted him for.”

  “And then what did you do?”

  “Then—” He broke off. “You can’t think I killed him. Why should I?”

  “Just trying to eliminate people,” Sarkisian told him in that reassuring voice that calmed the fears of the uninitiated. “It’s so much easier when I can prove you had nothing to do with it. The more people I can eliminate, the easier it becomes.”

  “Oh.” Vanderveer’s anger abated as abruptly as it had arisen. “Last night,” he muttered as if he had trouble remembering that far back. “I just went home. And no, no one saw me. I live alone. Someone in one of the other condos might have heard me come in or moving around. I went straight to work and kept at it for quite awhile. You can see what I got done if you’d like. I was on my computer for part of the time though I can’t remember exactly when. I’m sure it documented times though.” He shook his head. “Sorry, no alibi.”

  Nor, as I remembered, had he had one for the approximate time when Lee Wessex must have been killed last year. And as someone had pointed out earlier, even though Wessex’s theft had stolen the company funds and forced their brokerage into bankruptcy, Vanderveer had come out of it with over a million dollars of “personal” money. Had he killed his partner to recover what had been stolen from the clients’ accounts—and keep it for himself? If so, offhand I could think of at least half a dozen ways he could have hidden his windfall.

  Sarkisian thanked him and looked around. He moved from my side and I, curious as always, followed him. He didn’t disappoint me. He approached Theresa delGuardia where she stood with a clipboard talking to Connie Wessex.