HotDogs

by Janice Bennett

  “She’ll be back soon,” I told him soothingly. “Besides, except for the couple of people who asked for specially colored lights you don’t really need any help. I heard you’ve done some pretty complicated things in the past. This should be a breeze for you.” I managed an admiring tone. A bit of blatant flattery can smooth over all sorts of messes. That’s another one of my business rules though I can’t remember which number it is. Not that it matters, as long as it works.

  And I could tell this one did—as usual—because of the way he preened. “If Janowski will quit stalling,” he said in a too-loud voice that carried easily even over the hubbub of the acts settling into the theatre seats to wait their turns, “we could get to work.”

  Janowski’s head shot up and he directed a baleful glare in our direction. “Don’t you need to be up there?” He pointed toward the lighting loft. “Or have you forgotten how to climb stairs?”

  “So we’re ready now?” I called brightly. That’s another of my rules for staying in business. Keep the clients from actually coming to blows. Besides, it was bad for the county’s image to have their committee members at each other’s throats.

  I nudged Vanderveer up the steps and followed, more to make sure he got there than to offer any tangible help. I didn’t intend to remain a moment longer than necessary. Standing on anything more than a foot off the ground makes me nervous. Stairs need a railing. Ladders and I just don’t get along.

  As I reached the third step my phone sang forth with “C is for Cookie”. “Saved by the bell,” I murmured mostly to myself and answered to find out which of the Foodies needed me now.

  “Ms. McKinley?” came a woman’s voice I recognized as one of the caterers I used when I couldn’t get Charlie Fallon. “We heard there’d been another murder out there.”

  News travels fast.

  “The picnic and all the contests are still on,” I assured her, answering the question behind her comment.

  A sigh of relief reached me. “That’s good. We’ve done a lot of prep work. I’d have hated it to go to waste.”

  “It won’t,” I assured her. I descended to terra firma and made my way to where the registration tables still sat. “Just give me a sec to get my laptop open.” I suited action to words. “What time did you want to bring your equipment in?” I asked, stalling for time while the machine booted up so I could access my notes and charts.

  “Everything really will be safe overnight?” She sounded doubtful.

  “There’ll be a security patrol,” I promised. “The fireworks truck is supposed to arrive pretty soon and there’s no way we’re leaving that unguarded.” I checked the file that finally popped up. “I’ve got you down for the chili contest, the ice cream flavor contest, the cotton candy sculpting contest and…” I scrolled lower, “that seems to be it.”

  “Is it too late to enter the berry recipe contest? We came up with something we think everyone will love.”

  “You’re added,” I assured her, typing in the necessary information. I told her about going to the Livestock Gate.

  “Don’t worry, I can find the picnic area from there,” she said. “Are the space assignments posted? Then no problem. If I have any questions I’ll give you another call.” She thanked me and rang off.

  From behind me I heard a group of high school students who had dubbed themselves “Fast Paced Productions” launch their dramatic—to use the term loosely—presentation of a five-minute version of Gone With the Wind, which they believed should live up to its title. From the laughter erupting from the impromptu audience it seemed their offering was a success.

  Both sound and lights seemed to be working perfectly so I decided to leave Vanderveer on his own. Another good business rule—never interfere when something is running smoothly. There were enough things that weren’t. We still had a bit over twenty-eight hours before the Talent Show was scheduled to kick off, which was plenty of time for things to go wrong.

  And before that we had to set up the Foodies and their related contests not to mention the—I checked my list—yes, the hot dog eating contest, a sand castle contest, a box car derby and a toy boat race. These last four events had been proposed by the district office of the Boy Scouts as a much-needed fund raiser. Remembering previous experiences with the scouts I knew the events would be well managed and the scouts themselves, if not always well mannered, would at least be well overseen by someone other than me. That last at the moment was the most important point.

  While I was deciding what most needed my attention currently a commotion rose from the stage. The actors had stopped and were arguing. One shouted, “That’s the wrong color light.”

  “It’s the right one,” Vanderveer called back from his loft.

  “Come take a look,” the actor yelled.

  Vanderveer clattered down the stairs. I hurried to join him and together we halted in the wings. An eerie purple light bathed the students, making them look like something out of a horror show instead of a comedy.

  “I know I had the right one,” Vanderveer declared. “I checked it three times. Someone,” he added and fixed me with an accusing glare, “has been playing games with the bulbs.”

  “You’d have noticed before now, wouldn’t you?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “This is the first time I’ve used that light.”

  Janowski strode up the stairs at the edge of the stage and didn’t waste a moment going on the offensive against Vanderveer. “I thought you said you knew what you were doing.”

  Lizzie, complete with her entourage of yipping doglets, hurried after him. “Of course he does. So what happened?”

  “Someone must have come during the night to sabotage us,” Vanderveer said.

  Janowski snorted. “And murdered Pete while they were at it? Being caught switching a few bulbs isn’t reason enough to kill someone.”

  “Unless it was Pete doing the switching,” Lizzie said slowly.

  “Only Vanderveer would care enough to kill someone for that,” Janowski declared.

  “Now wait a minute,” the accused began.

  Janowski held up his hand, silencing him. “What I was going to say is that you might be an idiot but you’re a very precise idiot. You’d have fixed the bulbs before leaving.”

  Vanderveer looked mollified but only for a moment while Janowski’s words sank in. “Now wait a minute,” he repeated.

  “Can you fix them now?” I asked quickly. We were gathering a crowd.

  Vanderveer glared at me. “Right. At least I can do something other than sit around and look pompous.” And with that, fortunately, he stormed back to the loft.

  Apparently he found the correct replacement bulb because the light switched from sickly purple to a much nicer shade of overly dramatic red. The act resumed, the lighting switched again and this time all was well with the world. Everyone returned to their places and I went in search of Sarkisian.

  I found him just outside, for the moment alone. I took advantage of it and wrapped my arms around his waist.

  “Rough day?” he asked.

  I nodded. “If I bump off Janowski, do you think I could get off with justifiable homicide?”

  He kissed my forehead. “You might even get a medal from the other county supervisors.”

  I smiled. Just a few moments of Sarkisian’s company does me a world of good. “Do you think—” I began only to be interrupted by his phone.

  He gave an exaggerated sigh and answered. “Sarkisian.”

  I could hear a man’s voice on the other end but not what he said.

  Sarkisian listened, frowning. “You’ve got the exact times?” he asked. “Right. Good work. Thanks.”

  “Which means?” I asked as he stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

  “That was Jimmy the Geek. It seems Connie Wessex was not online last night like she claimed.”

  I dredged up her alibi from the depths of my memory. “So she wasn’t checking her investment portfolio?”

  “Not until a
fter midnight and she only stayed on for about ten minutes. So,” he mused, “I wonder what she was doing before then?”

  She was certainly up to something she didn’t want anyone to know about or she wouldn’t have needed to lie.

  Such as murdering Pete Norton, perhaps?

  Chapter Eleven

  “So now you need to talk to Connie Wessex again,” I said.

  “It would certainly be simpler if everyone told me the truth the first time around,” Sarkisian complained. “Not to mention how guilty they make themselves look when they lie.”

  “Pity there are so many reasons for lying. Think of the trouble it would save if the first person who lied was the murderer.”

  Sarkisian’s agreement was heartfelt.

  He went off in search of Connie. I checked on Vanderveer and found him in complete control of his lights and not in the least in need of my assistance. Satisfied, I headed out for a quick breath of fresh air before facing Janowski.

  As I started to open the door, a woman’s voice reached me. It only took a moment for me to recognize it as Connie’s. Apparently Sarkisian hadn’t had to go far in search of her.

  “It hasn’t anything to do with your murders, all right?” she snapped. “I don’t see why I should have to divulge all my private business.”

  “Don’t you mean private affairs?” came the sheriff’s amiable voice.

  I remained where I was, out of sight and apparently unnoticed.

  Her voice lowered and her tone becoming furious. “It has nothing to do with this. And if you know where I was, why are you asking?”

  A brief silence followed and I could picture Sarkisian fighting back a sigh. “Do you enjoy being a murder suspect?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I don’t.”

  “And I don’t like wasting my time wondering about people who are innocent. If you can tell me who you were with and he can corroborate it then I don’t have to keep you on my list of suspects anymore.”

  “Oh.” She sounded somewhat mollified. “You really need his name?”

  “I’m afraid I need to talk to him.”

  “That’s rather awkward.”

  “I can be very discreet,” he reassured her. “I take it he’s married?”

  “If it got out it would cause a scandal.” The worry in her voice increased. “You really have to talk to him?”

  “I’ll visit him on some other pretext and make sure no one else ever learns why I really wanted to talk to him. Unless you’re lying of course. I can’t protect him if the matter has to go to court.”

  This time the silence stretched for almost a full minute. At last, grudgingly, she gave him a name. I could see why she wanted to avoid a scandal. He was a prominent aspiring politician—and at last ten years her junior. The press would have a field day over that.

  The first notes of “C is for Cookie” sounded and I ran for it, tapping my earpiece and answering it as I raced down the hall. If they’d heard, Sarkisian at least would know I’d been eavesdropping.

  I stopped outside one of the dressing rooms. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t catch that,” I said.

  “Who assigned the booth locations?” came a man’s argumentative voice.

  “We drew names out of a hat to ensure fairness,” I said, knowing whoever was on the other end would never believe me.

  “So it was just chance I got the worst possible spot?”

  “There are no bad spots,” I said with what I hoped was the truth. “We laid the area out with care to assure everyone had an equal chance for sales.”

  The man snorted. “Then it won’t matter to anyone if you switch my location.”

  “We can’t. The list has already been printed. You’ll see when everyone is set up you’re really in a great spot.”

  What he answered to that wasn’t printable by any standards.

  “Are all the trailers and vans in position?” I demanded when I could squeeze in a word.

  “Mine sure as hell isn’t.”

  “And yours isn’t the only one, is it? You can’t get a clear picture of how everything is going to look until everyone has set up. Now where are you? I’ll come down and meet you.”

  “Good. You’ll see what I mean—if you’re honest enough to admit I’m right.” He told me where to find him and with that he disconnected.

  I sighed and took off for the picnic grounds.

  In the end, explaining the flow of foot traffic wasn’t enough. I had to actually walk him through it, pointing out the strategically placed gaps between the setup sites where people would flow in and out of the eating area. He’d apparently overlooked some of these, assuming the openings were actually more vendor spots. By the time I left him he was still grumbling but now about how to get everything set up so he could go home. I refrained—with effort—from telling him he had no one to blame but himself for wasting time.

  Theresa had apparently contacted the fairgrounds crew. I could hear them hard at work hammering and yelling back and forth as they put up the decorations. I veered toward the stadium where the noise was coming from and was gratified to see they had almost finished there. Now if only they didn’t run afoul of the Foodies when they started on the picnic area, I’d have cause for a bit of celebration of my own.

  I returned to the auditorium to find a new wave of chaos had taken over. People were hurrying about in every direction, opening doors and drawers, sticking their noses into every corner. John, on duty guarding the taped off area, looked frantic.

  I caught a teenaged girl in full goth—although the spider web tattoos looked inked rather than permanent—with a guitar slung over her back. “What’s going on?”

  “One of the baton twirlers lost her baton,” the girl said cheerfully. “We’re all helping her look for it.”

  It appeared to be a furious search with no stone left unturned and no available body left sitting around. Even Edward Vanderveer had descended from his aerie to take part in the hunt. It wasn’t even anything valuable they sought. The little girl could easily get another baton by tomorrow’s performance.

  And why, with this much intense scrounging through every nook and cranny, hadn’t someone discovered it?

  My mind began to race with suspicion. Had someone hidden it on purpose to give him or herself an excuse to race around backstage, possibly getting into the taped off area to inspect the place Pete Norton had been killed? But if so, why? Natural curiosity or some sinister motive that escaped my overworked brain? Or was it another prank like switching the order of the acts and exchanging one of the colored lights?

  What the hell was going on?

  On impulse I tried to spot Sarkisian’s suspects. Lizzie had to be around somewhere because several dogs yipped and tore around apparently enjoying all the activity. I couldn’t see Janowski but I could hear him yelling at someone to just bring on the next act. Connie and the other members of her quartet emerged from one of the dressing rooms. Brian Quantrell came up the hall, pushed his way past Connie and began a conversation with John Goulding. Yes, everyone there—everyone able to take a good look behind the tape—except Theresa delGuardia.

  No. There she was just emerging from the stage. She must have returned from her printing errand while I was down at the picnic grounds. She looked around then hurried over to John and Quantrell.

  Roomba scooted out of the crowd, her nose as always skimming the ground in her eternal search for scraps. Mazda hobbled after her, his head up, his pointed nose sniffing. Three poodles brought up the rear.

  If I slipped outside I could pretend I didn’t know anything about this chaos. I knew a craven impulse to do just that.

  I was seriously considering acting on it when a warm welcome hand closed over my arm.

  “What now?” Sarkisian asked.

  I told him what I’d heard. “I think John’s a bit overwhelmed,” I added.

  Sarkisian nodded, his gaze narrowing. I followed the direction and realized he watched Quantrell. Or was he watching Theresa? I
t was hard to tell. Quantrell didn’t seem to be doing anything too suspicious at the moment—beyond taking the opportunity to study the cordoned-off area. Theresa seemed more interested in studying Quantrell. She gazed up at him, an expression of pure worship on her face.

  “According to Connie Wessex,” I said, my mind racing back to an earlier conversation, “Theresa tried to seduce Lee Wessex shortly before he disappeared.”

  “So Ms. Wessex told me.”

  “If Wessex rejected Theresa, do you think that might have driven her to murder him?”

  “Hell hath no fury, you mean?”

  “Did Connie drag up that old gossip?” Vanderveer appeared at our side. Apparently we hadn’t kept our voices low enough.

  “You were Wessex’s partner,” Sarkisian said. “And she was his secretary. If there were any truth in the rumor I’m sure you’d know all about it.”

  Vanderveer looked pleased. “Of course I would. And there is very little truth to it. Yes, she worshipped him. And yes, she did make a rather clumsy play for him. And yes, he did reject her. But it only made her worship him all the more—you know, the unattainable god-like being nonsense.”

  Sarkisian considered. “That wasn’t just a show for your benefit?”

  Vanderveer shrugged. “It might have been I suppose. She’s got too much pride to admit to being hurt. But if she were, she’d have struck out at him at once, don’t you think? And whatever Connie’s been telling you, all that happened about a year before he disappeared, not days. I can’t think of a single reason why she’d wait so long.”

  Neither could I.

  “If you really think your motive is love, you might want to take a closer look at Brian Quantrell,” Vanderveer added.

  “Love?” Sarkisian asked with all the air of one open to a nice bit of gossip. Actually he loves gossip. He says he learns more about the person telling the stories than he does about the person being gossiped about though.

  Vanderveer gave a short pleased nod. “Quantrell was arguing with Connie about her leaving Lee last Fourth, just before the fireworks started.”

  Sarkisian nodded. “I’ve heard that.”