HotDogs

by Janice Bennett

  “What is it?” He answered almost at once, sounding harassed.

  “It’s Annike,” I began.

  “I’m just parking beside the gate.” His usual precise tones began to reemerge. “Why are they all here so early? They aren’t supposed to start arriving for another twenty minutes.”

  “We told them they could be here over half an hour ago.”

  A short silence ensued. “There, it’s open. I must have gotten the time wrong.”

  Had he? Or had he been doing something at the fairgrounds after the night watchmen would have gone home when he could be sure no one was around to catch him? And of course he’d have the keys for the auditorium as well as the Exhibitors’ Gate. Damn, I always hate suspecting people of having ulterior motives. So often they do—and for reasons that are strictly personal and not in the least illegal though occasionally reprehensible.

  Since I was already driving I might as well continue to the fairgrounds. Based on experience I was willing to bet the Foodies would have all sorts of questions—already answered of course but that wouldn’t stop them from asking them again. And again. A great deal of my job seemed to be hand-holding for the nervous and stressed.

  By the time I reached the gate everything seemed to be running smoothly. I pulled Freya around to Parking Lot B. It was almost empty except for the backup vehicles brought by the Foodies. I recognized Vanderveer’s sleek Mercedes among the motley assortment. I left Freya in a convenient spot and struck out for the picnic area armed with my laptop and notebook. It pays to be prepared.

  Through the general chaos of getting set up I began to smell the incredible aromas of a wide variety of chilis and berry concoctions. So far, so good. And it did smell good. I waved to various people I recognized. I knew many of the Foodies by sight, having dealt with them through other events in the past. I even knew some of the non-professionals, at least the ones from Upper River Gulch.

  I was well into the food area before I spotted Vanderveer walking around, exchanging greetings, hopefully answering questions. When he saw me he frowned but strode over.

  “I thought you’d be at the parade,” he said by way of greeting.

  I shook my head. “My job is to make sure everything runs smoothly.”

  He puffed out his chest. “I’ve got everything under control here.”

  “So it seems,” I admitted. Now if only the fireworks truck would arrive and the Boy Scouts would get their game venues set up I might be able to relax.

  An anxious frown creased his brow. “The fireworks will make it, won’t they? What will we do if they don’t?”

  “Call in Pyromaniacs Anonymous,” I said, only half joking. I was sure they could put on a fun show in a pinch though not the professional display people had paid big prices to attend. I shuddered at the thought of coping with refunds.

  Leaving Vanderveer in charge I headed back to the parade to make sure all ran smoothly there as well.

  I took the opportunity of the relatively peaceful drive to catch up on my to-do list—mental, unfortunately, because I was behind the wheel.

  Parade. The Grand Marshal had arrived, enough of the marchers were on site and in the appropriate staging areas and it was well underway. Check—at last temporarily.

  Food Contests. A large number of the competitors were on site and setting up so even if all of them didn’t make it we’d have enough to allow the judging to take place and keep the crowd happy and well fed—providing of course we had a crowd.

  What if I gave an event and nobody came?

  I clamped down on that thought. Positive. I had to stay positive. So check for the food contests too.

  Kiddie Games. I hadn’t heard from the Scout Master yet and the troop members who weren’t marching should have been at the fairgrounds by now setting up their booths and wading pools filled with sand for the sandcastles and stocking the pond with the sailboats. Speaking clearly, I told my phone to call the Scout Master. It only took three tries for it to work then I waited while it rang and rang.

  Just as I began to prepare a short message to leave on the voice mail a harassed man answered. “Yes?”

  I gave my name.

  “Don’t worry,” he interrupted me. “We’re just parking. We had a bit of trouble getting the younger boys to settle down and help load everything but we’ll be set up in plenty of time.”

  “They don’t pay you enough,” I told him fervently. I’d dealt with kids of all ages in the course of my job and I knew what their handlers had to cope with.

  He laughed. “That’s the rotten part of volunteer jobs,” he agreed. “But think of the trouble the little monsters might be causing if we didn’t try to organize them.”

  “Organized trouble is always best,” I agreed.

  He laughed again and we both disconnected with me at least feeling a bit better. Boy Scouts, check.

  That brought me up to the talent show, which had occupied so much of our time I felt there was nothing I could do but hope at this stage. So talent show, check.

  Then came the barbecue so the crowd leaving the talent show would be able to eat dinner without having to leave the fairgrounds. A number of the Foodies would be staying, switching out their chili for slabs of meat and ribs simmering in a succulent sauce. It was a chance for them to earn more money and for me not to have to worry. Too much at least. They were already on site and none of them had called to tell me they’d forgotten to pack what they needed for the barbecue, so check for that one too.

  And lastly the fireworks show—which had yet to arrive.

  I’d just parked near the parade once more and reached for my phone to call the fireworks company for an updated ETA when the damn thing rang with the tone assigned to Theresa delGuardia. Possibilities of what could have gone wrong flooded my mind as I climbed out and tapped the earpiece.

  “Where are you?” she demanded as soon as I’d said my name.

  The desperation in her tone alerted me to trouble and I pulled my emergency whistle out of the glove compartment. As I locked Freya I said, “I just got back from the fairgrounds. There was—”

  She interrupted me. “We need you here. They’re fighting.”

  “Who is?” I’d left Vanderveer riding herd on the Foodies and she had Janowski here at the parade so it couldn’t be them. I quickened my pace until I was almost running and hung the whistle around my neck. With the crowd now lining Main Street to watch the show only stray late arrivals slowed my progress.

  “The hygienists and the optometrists.”

  Staging Area Four, I remembered. I made a slight switch in direction.

  “Two of the inflatable toothbrushes collapsed,” Theresa went on, “and the hygienists accused the optometrists of sabotaging them because their inflatable glasses don’t look nearly as good and—” She broke off with a cry.

  I could see why for myself even from about thirty yards away. Several of the hygienists were hitting their opponents over the head with their inflatable toothbrushes and a couple of others were head-butting—or possibly cap-butting since they were using the tops of their toothpaste tube costumes—white-coated men and women with huge inflatable glasses.

  The optometrists were by no means taking this lying down. Several swung their glasses in arcs and toothpaste tubes were falling like chopped down trees. Several members of one of the high school marching bands struck up the theme from Rocky and Lizzie’s red, white and blue dogs seemed to be everywhere, yapping and nipping and tripping people.

  I groaned. My first instinct was to do an about face and hide in Freya. Or possibly the next county. But my business depended on client satisfaction and even though I wasn’t technically responsible for the parade, my clients always seemed to extend my culpability to anything that went wrong.

  I raised my whistle, blew hard and waded in, blocking erratic swings and stumbling toothpaste tubes as best I could. I let loose with another shrill blast and had the satisfaction of seeing the combatants pause to look at me.

  I
put my hands on my hips and fixed the ones in front of me with a scathing look. “Are you quite done?” I demanded in my best school mistress tones.

  “They started it,” said an optometrist, thereby carrying out the playground theme.

  “You.” I pointed at a hygienist who still had her toothbrush raised offensively. “Take your group and go over there.” I pointed to one side of the staging area then scooped up a bright red poodle that was leaping up at my knees and tucked it under my arm. “And you.” I pointed at the optometrist who now had the grace to look a trifle sheepish. “Take your group over there.” I pointed to the opposite side. “Now. And stay there. All of you.”

  This was met with a few low-voiced cheers from the bystanders and a chorus of yapping from the dogs.

  “Thank you.” Theresa delGuardia appeared at my elbow.

  I nodded. “I’ve had training as a lion tamer.” By which I meant I’d done hard time dealing with the SCOURGE elite squad. Those leading lights of the Service Club Of Upper River Gulch Environs could decide that a completely insane idea made perfect sense—and then act on it. Ever since I moved home it had fallen to my lot to get them out of trouble since keeping them out of it was impossible. “Have you seen Sarkisian?” I asked.

  Theresa shook her head. “Do you have something to tell him?” She lowered her voice to almost a whisper so I could barely hear her over the noise of the parade. “About the murders?”

  Actually I just wanted a comforting hug but I wasn’t about to say that. “I just came from the fairgrounds,” I said airily.

  Her eyes widened and her tone sharpened. “Something new has come up, hasn’t it? What’s going on over there? Is it going to interfere with the talent show? Don’t let him stop us from holding it. Not now.”

  She sounded so dismayed I hurried to reassure her everything was all right and I wasn’t carrying any dire news to him. She didn’t look convinced.

  Fortunately there was a very easy way to find people these days. I dragged out my cell phone and punched the “2”—his speed dial number.

  Only seconds passed before he answered. “Hey beautiful.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the parking lot where the parade ends. The Grand Marshal’s car is about to arrive.”

  “I’m on my way.” I knew Sarkisian well enough to know he wouldn’t be there, wouldn’t have mentioned the Grand Marshal’s car, if something about it hadn’t been on his mind. Which meant he wanted to talk to Brian Quantrell and probably about that five thousand dollars that had appeared in his account—before Connie would have a chance to warn him about what she’d told us.

  I skimmed the parade route, catching sight of a team of go-karts disguised as kayaks performing a rather impressive maneuvering routine. Several of the riders—or paddlers—waved at me and I recognized members of the Land’s End Yacht Club. That gang was almost as crazy as the SCOURGEs, which you could tell from one look at their Spanish galleon-shaped clubhouse. I was relieved they didn’t harbor any ill will toward me. Not that they should of course but one never knew.

  Their shouts were drowned out by the bagpipes that marched just ahead of them. I’m one of the few people who actually love bagpipes. I reached the Boy Scouts next, marching in a twisting line that I suddenly realized represented a rope tying itself into a bowline knot. I actually got to see quite a bit of the parade, racing along, trying to overtake the lead.

  The route was just over a mile long and I’d started near the beginning. I’m the first to admit I’m not in great shape and I was panting as I hurried the last block to the parking lot where the first several groups already milled around in the way performers do when they’ve just finished their turn. No one wanted to leave yet.

  In spite of the continually growing swarm of people, Sarkisian was easy to spot. He stood off to one side at the center of a small clearing with only Brian Quantrell near at hand. No one wanted to jostle a law officer—except people like me. I could use a little jostling with him.

  I slowed my pace so I wouldn’t arrive gasping for air then as nonchalantly as I could slipped my arm through Sarkisian’s. “Hi Brian,” I said brightly, considering I was still breathing hard. “Enjoy your moment in the spotlight?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You mean the parade or with your—” He caught Sarkisian’s eye and changed what he’d been about to say. “With our sheriff?”

  I tried to look innocent. “What do you mean?”

  He gave a short laugh. I wasn’t fooling him in the least. “I’ll save him the trouble of telling you. You already know I had an affair with Connie Wessex just before her husband disappeared. I’d been idealistic enough at the time to want to marry her. She dumped me of course but gave me a parting present to soften the blow. A pretty generous one, in cash. I haven’t touched the money. I’m saving it for something appropriate.”

  That basically matched Connie’s version. Of course that didn’t make it true.

  “Oh hell,” he said suddenly, looking over my shoulder. “Here comes the County Supervisor. He’ll be chasing me to be his Goodwill Ambassador.” And with that he ducked out of sight before Janowski could come up to us.

  Sarkisian looked at me. “Productive morning?”

  “I stopped a couple of fights.”

  He snorted. “Better than me then. I can’t say I’ve accomplished a damn thing.”

  I squeezed his arm. “You’ve learned that Connie and Brian have their stories straight.”

  “Yeah.” He gave a short laugh but I realized he was watching Ivan Janowski looking around, apparently trying to find Quantrell.

  Janowski. Just how seriously was Sarkisian suspecting him? While the sheriff shared evidence freely with me he never discussed his thoughts on the innocence or guilt of his suspects. He claims—and rightly so—I could never hide my reactions and therefore my knowledge from these people. Sometimes I hate it when Sarkisian is right.

  I studied Janowski who had whipped out his cell phone, probably to harass poor Theresa into tracking down Quantrell. Unless he had Quantrell’s number. After all, Quantrell was Grand Marshal. But then Janowski liked to delegate tasks to Theresa, probably for the simple reason that he could.

  Janowski. I dragged my thoughts back to his potential as a suspect. He’d had a fight with Lee Wessex at the fireworks show last year over Connie. He could easily have followed him out to where his car was parked beside that storage shed, grabbed Quantrell’s golf club and hit him over the head, possibly out of rage and without any definite intention to kill him.

  As for Pete Norton…well, Pete might have guessed something about Wessex’s murder. Or Pete might have delivered a threat from Hank Kaufmann and Janowski might have been either frightened or angry enough to strike out at the man, assuming we’d believe the two murders to be related. Oh damn, Pete probably had been killed because of what he’d guessed.

  I sighed. Connie, Theresa, Lizzie, Quantrell, Vanderveer, Janowski—they all had motives and opportunity for both deaths and there were pitifully few clues that weren’t merely circumstantial. I toyed with the thought the murderer might be someone else altogether but Sarkisian was thorough. Before he ever focused on those six he’d have ruled out all other family members, business associates and other possible candidates for likely suspects.

  Which brought me back to Vanderveer and his commandeering of the keys to the fairgrounds. On the off chance Sarkisian didn’t already know about this—and it was slim, the man always seems to know everything—I told him.

  He eyed me with that fond smile that sometimes makes me melt and other times makes me want to hit him. “Any idea how long he was there before he unlocked the gate?” He also gets straight to the point.

  “He said he was just arriving. The Foodies who were waiting can confirm which way he came from. But he could have been and gone any time during the night.”

  “To do what?” Now the damn man sounded amused.

  “How should I know? I—”

  With typically
annoying timing my phone sang out with Aunt Gerda’s voice. “Annike, dear, I know you’re probably busy but would you mind answering? I’d like to talk to you. Annike? Are you there?”

  Before it could continue I tapped my earpiece. “Where are you?”

  “I didn’t see you at the parade.” She sounded concerned.

  “I’ve been a bit busy. But I got to see a little of it. What about you?”

  “I stood near the beginning so I could get away quickly. I’m over at the fairgrounds now,” my beloved aunt assured me, “and Mr. Vanderveer is shouting at all the food booth people and no one is listening to him. I’m really afraid you ought to come over and tell him to be a little more polite.”

  “Right. On my way.” I disconnected and glanced at Sarkisian.

  “Duty calls?” he asked.

  I nodded. “See you at the picnic.”

  I kissed him quickly and strode off to prevent another disaster—such as someone hauling off and hitting Vanderveer over the head out of sheer frustration with the man. I shuddered. Before the end of the day, it just might be me doing the hitting.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I’d barely started Freya’s engine and begun the intricate maneuvers to get out of the parking space when my phone rang again, this time with “Light My Fire.” Someone from the fireworks company. Damn, what with the optometrists and the hygienists I’d forgotten to call them. I tapped the earpiece, identified myself and braced for whatever new problem awaited.

  “We’re just pulling off the freeway,” announced a man’s cheerful voice. “Will there be anyone waiting at the gate to let us in?”

  I groaned. These guys and their huge truck were supposed to have been there yesterday afternoon when there wouldn’t have been a lot of people and cars potentially in their way. At the latest I’d hoped they’d arrive with the dawn. But no, they’d picked what amounted to the beginning of rush hour to put in their bulky appearance. Well at least they were here and the promised fireworks exhibition wasn’t going to go up in the proverbial smoke.