“The gate’s unlocked,” I assured the man. “Just be careful going through the parking lot.”
“Right.” And with that he disconnected.
The next hour passed in a blur for me. I raced from venue to venue making sure everything proceeded with as few hitches as possible. The fireworks company had six men on the job and they hurried through their preparations, securing the various sets of rockets into holders and checking their launching equipment or whatever they called it. I didn’t stick around long enough to be sure of all the technical terms. I had other places to be, other hands to hold—or slap.
Out of desperation I sent Vanderveer into the auditorium to begin checking lights and sound in case our gremlin had been playing games with us again. I also asked him to make sure the programs were ready to be passed out by the ushers—members of the SCOURGEs overseen by the ever-efficient Faith Alvarez.
The Boy Scouts—six different troops of the little darlings—were actually setting up their various games and craft booths under the watchful eyes of their Senior Patrol Leaders and even more watchful eyes of the Scout Masters and their Assistant Scout Masters. All peaceful there. For the moment.
I next did the rounds of the Foodies where the heavenly—and spicy—aromas of at least seventeen different chilis wafted out to greet me. I grabbed my opportunity—and a bowl of Charlie’s creation—and sat for a few minutes eating an early lunch with my aunt. Then it was off again to check the cotton candy machines—three of them—which were in full production preparing for the beginning of the cotton candy sculpting contest. Mental note to self—stay clear of the inevitable sticky mess but make sure the booths supplied sufficient wet wipes for the participants.
After that I veered into the locale where the Berry Recipe contest would be held, mostly to get a good whiff of the pies, cobblers and other concoctions being prepared for the taste tests. Perhaps I could pull a few strings and get myself onto that judging panel. In my dreams. I wouldn’t have the time to stay in one place for as long as the contest would take.
People began to flock into the picnic area. It had looked huge and empty except for the booths and trailers before. Now it began to look crowded. It might mean more chaos but it was a very good thing financially. Merit County First would be taking in quite a haul which meant that all our local charities would benefit during the coming year. And hopefully everyone would think my fee had been worth the extra money brought in by my added events.
In the distance one of the high school bands struck up Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever”. It grew louder as the musicians came closer, headed… I raced for the auditorium’s front steps, which I knew would be their destination.
I arrived to find John Goulding just coming out of the building. “What’s the rush?” he asked as I paused at the edge of the parking lot.
“Has Sarkisian cleared the use of this side?” I demanded. I’d forgotten to ask and he’d forgotten to tell me.
“It’s okay,” he assured me. “We’re just keeping people out of the parking lot still though it doesn’t seem likely we can get anything more from that storage building. Now, inside’s another matter. I’ve got the area where Pete Norton was killed all blocked off with a proper barrier, not just yellow tape.” He spread his feet and folded his arms, a sure sign he was settling in for a nice gossipy chat about the murders. “Got any impressions about that crew you’ve been working with? That Connie Wessex, she sure looks like a determined woman and not one to take what her husband did lightly.” He regarded me hopefully. “And that Theresa delGuardia. Now there’s a woman I wouldn’t want to cross. Although there’s something I don’t quite like about Edward Vanderveer. He’s in there now, bustling around, getting into everything.”
“It’s where he needs to be.” I almost had to shout now over the strident tones of the trombones and sousaphones. “I’ll just go see how he’s doing.” I hurried past John.
He followed me and slammed the door behind us. Apparently he wasn’t a music lover—at least not at that volume. “How’s everything going out there?” he asked.
I refrained from shuddering. “Noisy and busy. Which means a successful event.”
We found Edward Vanderveer slumped in one of the folding chairs near the stage door, eyeing the movable panels the sheriff’s department had put up around the area where we’d found Pete’s body. He looked up at our approach. “I still don’t understand why anyone would kill him,” he said. “He was such a nice guy.” He focused on John. “Are you any closer to figuring out this mess?”
“Don’t you worry,” the deputy said in his best keep-the-public-calm voice. “The sheriff knows what he’s doing.”
“And what most other people have been doing as well,” I added but under my breath.
“The sheriff,” Vanderveer said in a musing tone. “Yes, I think so.” He looked up at me. “Where is he?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t seen him for quite a while. Do you need to talk to him?”
“What? Oh no, nothing special. I-I just wanted to ask him a question.”
The muted tones of a loudspeaker apparently manned by Ivan Janowski rang out, announcing the beginning of the balloon contests—one of the scouts’ offerings. There were categories for blowing and tying speed, for size without popping and even sculptures. I’ve never been fond of exploding balloons so I’d already decided to give that venue a wide berth if at all possible.
Vanderveer however straightened. “What’s that damn man doing with that loudspeaker?” he demanded.
“It’s his assigned job.” I’d already checked my notes for that.
Vanderveer huffed. “He’ll make a mull of it.”
I doubted Theresa would let that happen but I kept quiet.
Vanderveer transferred his glare to John. “The talent show acts can still use the dressing rooms, can’t they?”
The deputy cast a quick glance down the hallway that led to the various storage and dressing rooms and the stairs to the basement. “All clear,” he assured us.
“Good.” Vanderveer pulled out his phone and peered at the digital display of the time. “The first acts won’t be trying to get in for at least an hour. Think I’ll go check out the picnic.” And with that he took his leave.
“What’s got into him today?” John asked as the stage door slammed behind Vanderveer.
“Event jitters?” I suggested. “The ongoing battle for supremacy over Ivan Janowski? Two murders? All of the above?” And was he on his way to find Sarkisian? If so, why?
John nodded. “I—”
My phone rang with “C is for Cookie”, interrupting him and he wandered off while I went to deal with the complaint of one of the amateur contestants in the ice cream flavor event.
This one was a mess—in more ways than one. When I reached the area set aside for the judging I found three men—one wearing a judge’s sash—and a woman standing inches apart, all shouting. A group of spectators had gathered around and I heard loud cracks about taking bets on who would win the fight.
I sighed and waded in. “What’s up?” I asked brightly to counteract the sinking sensation in my stomach. At least they weren’t hitting each other over the head with inflatable ice cream cones.
“He took a bribe,” shouted one of the men.
“I didn’t,” yelled the judge right back in his face.
I winced. Somewhere nearby there would probably be a reporter. TV, radio, print—it didn’t matter. The county didn’t need allegations of corruption.
All four combatants were yelling again so I did as well.
“Quiet!”
It was so unexpected it worked. They fell silent and stared at me. “You.” I pointed to the man who had made the accusation. “What makes you think this judge took a bribe?”
“He took an envelope from her.” He jerked his head toward the woman in the group.
The woman glared at him. “He did no such—”
“Quiet,” I repeated, interrupting her. I turned
back to the first man. “If he took an envelope, where did he put it?”
“Inside coat pocket.”
That sounded pretty definite. I regarded the judge. “Just to settle this would you mind showing him what—if anything—is in your pocket?”
“How dare you?” The judge stared at me in an outrage that didn’t quite ring true, possibly because of the hint of bluster in it. “I’ll do no such thing. You have no right to ask me.”
Janowski and Sarkisian arrived together, Janowski looking harassed, Sarkisian mildly amused. “What’s going on?” the sheriff asked. He held up his hand to stop everyone from speaking at once then raised his eyebrows at me. I explained and he nodded. “Right. Mr. Janowski, we’ll have to remove this judge and—”
“It was only a certificate for some free ice cream,” the ex-judge protested.
Sarkisian shook his head. “Bribery and corruption are very serious charges, sir.”
The man stared at him aghast as if he expected Sarkisian to whip out a pair of handcuffs and drag him off to jail at once.
“Right,” I said quickly. “You’re eliminated from the competition,” I told the woman.
“By what right—” the woman began.
“I’m in charge here,” Janowski interrupted. “If anyone is getting eliminated, I’ll eliminate them. You’re eliminated.” And with that Janowski strode off.
Lizzie, surrounded by red, white and blue poodles hurried over. Apparently she’d gone home to collect the dachshunds for her performance later because she had Mazda tucked under her arm and Roomba scoured the ground for anything she could vacuum up. “What’s going on?” Lizzie looked worried. “We don’t want any fuss,” she told me in an urgent under voice. “We want people spending money.”
“They are,” I assured her. “You’re still free to sell ice cream,” I told the woman who had given the bribe.
She brightened. “I’m not being kicked out completely?”
“She ought to be,” said her accuser.
I shook my head. “She didn’t bribe anyone to get her place here and she paid a fee—to Merit County First—just like you did.” I caught Sakrisian’s arm and led him away.
“What had Janowski so upset?” I asked as we distanced ourselves from the recent battleground.
“He was caught by a reporter.” Sarkisian grinned. “The woman wanted to know how well he knew Pete Norton and was fishing for whatever she could get about Janowski’s fight with Wessex last year. She’d even dug up their old high school feud.”
“I bet he greeted you like an old friend just to get away from her.”
“More likely to give her the impression he wasn’t afraid of me. But I don’t think Xena was fooled.”
“Xena Osenika?” She was the new investigative reporter for our local television station, as exotically beautiful as she was ruthless. She tended to use tabloid techniques mixed with thorough research and she was known and hated by anyone with a secret to hide. If Xena was on the prowl for stories she’d find a gold mine here. Murder, corruption, loan sharking—I wondered what else might turn up.
“Has she figured out who you’re investigating?” I asked suddenly.
He hesitated then admitted after a moment, “She’s got her suspicions. I didn’t confirm or deny and both Becky and John know better than to drop information to a reporter but I gathered that just before I got there Janowski was throwing hints around to sidetrack her from him.”
I caught his hand and squeezed it. “Think she’ll find anything juicy that you haven’t already learned?”
“I think I beat her to why Theresa delGuardia seems to crop up everywhere I look.”
I stopped and pulled him around to face me. “She murdered Lee Wessex and Pete Norton?”
Sarkisian actually smiled. “That’s still a possibility. This is a little more innocuous than that though. She’s been doing a little job for Edward Vanderveer.”
I opened my mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say.
Obligingly Sarkisian put a finger to my chin and pushed it up. “He’s been having her spy on her new boss.”
“But…” For a moment words failed me. “Why?” I demanded at last. “I thought she just about worshipped Janowski.”
“True. But Vanderveer apparently told her Janowski was engaged in some criminal activity and didn’t deserve to be on the Board of Supervisors so she was trying to find out the truth.”
“Criminal activity?” I tried to imagine it but couldn’t. “What, taking bribes? Misappropriation of funds? Disorderly pompousness?”
He grinned at that last but shook his head. “He never told her what he suspected. She had the impression he didn’t know, that he was just hoping she’d unearth something he could use to get Janowski thrown off the Board. She’s decided he’s just a troublemaker. But in case there was any truth to his allegations she was determined to dig around and find out for sure.”
“Did she? Find anything out, I mean?”
“Well she insists she never found any evidence.”
“You mean she didn’t uncover his dealings with that loan shark?”
“I think,” Sarkisian said slowly, “she probably did. She just didn’t tell Vanderveer. Or me.”
I considered. “So why did she tell you as much as she did?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. She said,” and he emphasized that last word, “she started wondering why Vanderveer was so determined to get Janowski into trouble and she thought I ought to know what Vanderveer was up to.”
“So that explains a lot of Theresa’s activity.” I looked out across the crowd. Over all the noise of people hopefully having a good time I could hear Lizzie’s little yappers in full voice. “Now if we could only figure out where Lizzie sneaks off to and who that man is—” I broke off. “You don’t think he could be another of Hank Kaufmann’s guys, do you?”
“If so he isn’t anyone we’ve identified. And we keep pretty close tabs on Hank and his gang.”
His phone rang. He answered it, listened for a moment then covered the mouthpiece. “It’s Roberta,” he told me. “More lab results.”
“I’d better get back to rounds,” I told him. “Call me if you get free for two whole seconds.” I kissed him quickly and headed off to prevent any more trouble on which the enterprising Xena Osenika might report to our discredit.
Chapter Seventeen
Amazingly everything seemed to be running smoothly. Midday faded to afternoon as I did my rounds of all the venues again. Okay, so mostly I was hoping to catch a few more minutes with Sarkisian but he remained annoyingly nowhere to be found. I could always call him but he was working on solving the murders and I didn’t want to disturb him. He knew how to get hold of me when he had a chance.
I stood for a few minutes watching the breath-powered sailboat race across the wading-depth fountain in the middle of the grounds, where uniformed scouts cheered on all the contestants and handed out prizes for a variety of creative categories before starting the next race. The kids—and their parents—all seemed happy and that was what was important.
I headed toward where the ice cream flavor contest was in full swing. At the moment the judges sampled offerings from the amateurs. Some of them were pretty creative and not necessarily good ideas, such as the barbecue sauce ice cream, while others such as the triple chocolate chunk raspberry had me drooling.
I was just envisioning a small scoop of that on top of one of the berry cobblers when my phone alarm went off with “There’s No Business Like Show Business”. That was the signal to go to the auditorium to keep an eye on the performers as they began to assemble, get into costume and set up to go on stage. It probably also saved my perpetual diet. I walked down the gentle slope to where I could already see a few people lining up at the stage door.
Vanderveer beat me to it by a nose. “Let me through,” he shouted though there was no need. They good-naturedly moved aside to give him room and I took advantage of it and followed him into the building.
Vanderveer frowned at me. “Where are my helpers?”
“You said you didn’t need anyone,” I reminded him. That had been early on in the planning stages and judging by his annoyed expression he’d forgotten.
“That was before—” He broke off and nodded toward the barrier. “Go round up a few people to act as escorts. I don’t think anyone should be wandering around alone back here.”
He had a point. After showing several people to dressing rooms I slipped onto the stage then down into the first row of seats and began making phone calls. Most of my usual helpers were already turning up for usher duty though. This time it looked like it would be up to me.
My alarm went off again, this time with “Thanks for the Memories” which meant the picnic was officially over. Damn, I’d have to leave Vanderveer alone and he was not going to be pleased. I braced myself to warn him of my desertion and mounted the steps to the stage.
Theresa delGuardia hurried toward me armed as usual with her clipboard and steno pad. Sarkisian’s revelation about her immediately sprang to mind but I didn’t see where it made any difference to drafting her to help guard the backstage area.
“I’ve got to chase some of the Foodies out of the fairgrounds,” I told her.
She frowned, her normal calm slipping a trifle. “But we’ve got to watch people back here.”
“You’ll have to do it or find someone else until I get back.” I glanced around and spotted Neil Cartwright and Sue Hinkel. “Hey!” I called over the excited chatter of the first few acts who were now dressed and milling around. “You’re drafted.”
“Now where have I heard that before?” Neil commented dryly. Not that he’d ever been drafted of course. He’d volunteered by way of the Air Force Academy.
“We thought you might need us,” Sue said, cheerful as always. It never ceased to amaze me how her good humor could last through all the events she’s helped me with.
Neil walked carefully over to join me with Sue hovering—not too obviously—at his side. I explained what I wanted them to do. It wasn’t going to be easy. People were beginning to crowd the area, calling for missing props, arguing over turns in the dressing rooms, generally bordering on panic. But Sue was a natural organizer and Neil, despite spending most of his Air Force career in a fighter plane, was an experienced officer. I felt fully confident—and a little guilty—leaving them in charge.
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