Hot Dogs (15 page)

Vanderveer smiled.
“There are some things, my dear Janowski,
that are of even more importance than that.” He nodded to Sarkisian and headed
back to his loft.

Janowski glared after the man.
“Has he been feeding you
unfounded gossip?”

“I always welcome input from everyone involved even remotely
in a case,” Sarkisian said with extreme diplomacy.

“Remotely.” Janowski snorted.
“If anyone stood to gain from
Lee Wessex’s death it was his partner.
Damn oily man.”

A scurry of claws on the floorboards announced the arrival
of Roomba making her appointed rounds in search of anything not nailed down
that would fit into her mouth.
Mazda tagged along accompanied by an entourage
of poodles.
Lizzie brought up the rear.

“There you are,” she said to Janowski.
“They’re ready to
begin again.
Did you want to be there?”

Janowski shot Sarkisian an odd look then turned to Lizzie.
“Let’s go.
The sooner we get this over with today the better.”

I’d just started after them when my phone rang with its
generic music.
Whoever it was they weren’t officially connected to the event.
Curious, I tapped my earpiece and gave my name.

“Glad I finally tracked you down, Ms.
McKinley,” said a
cheerful young man’s voice.
“I’m Gabe Rafferty, president of the local chapter
of Pyromaniacs Anonymous.” That was the fun-loving group who, with the full
knowledge and supervision of the fire department, staged huge bonfire events
throughout the year.

I could guess what he wanted.
Only the reflection that the
fireworks company had yet to put in an appearance kept me from listening to my
shrieking instincts to hang up right now.
I managed a polite, “How may I help
you?”

“I know this is late notice but we—our membership—think it
would be a great idea for us to sponsor an amateur fireworks show as a prelude
to the big one.” He actually sounded as if he thought he was presenting me with
a marvelous suggestion.

“What a…an intriguing idea,” I managed, squelching the image
of a couple of dozen complete amateurs competing and the resultant burns, minor
explosions and mini brush fires.
“I’m afraid it’s too late to work it into the
program for this year.
And there wouldn’t be time for the people who’d love to
participate to get anything together.
But you should definitely contact the
fire department and the county supervisors to get approval for next year.”
Which I secretly hoped they wouldn’t get.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy setting
off a few sparklers and other safe fireworks.
But a lot of excited people
trying to show off in a confined area all too frequently leads to serious
accidents.

“Next year?” He sounded disappointed.

“It’s bound to be popular,” I assured him.
It would be too
if they could figure out how to keep people from setting fire to each other.
“And thank you for calling.”

“Right.” Determination entered his voice.
“We’ll see you
next year.”

“You look grim,” Sarkisian told me when I’d disconnected,
then added when I’d explained, “That might, with sufficient supervision, become
a very popular addition to the…er…festivities.”

“Too popular.”

This time it was Sarkisian’s phone that rang.
He answered
and listened a moment.
“I’m in the auditorium.
I’ll meet you at the side door.”

“Anything good?”

“Becky is back from her round of errands,” he said.
He
strode toward the exit.

I went with him.
It was either that or go back out front and
listen to Janowski complain.
Easy choice.

It was pleasant being outdoors in the sun, all the more so
because I knew it was only a brief respite from the chaos inside.
I drew a deep
breath and held Sarkisian’s hand and enjoyed the moment.

All too soon Becky Deschler hurried along the path, notebook
in hand.
She looked pleased, which meant she’d found something useful.
She
waved to us and came to a halt, grinning.

“Something big?” Sarkisian asked.

“Oh, I’ve got a lengthy report for you,” she assured him.
“But I’ll just give you the highlight right now.” She consulted her notebook
though I was sure she didn’t really need to.
“I went to the emergency vet
clinic where Ms.
Mobley took Mazda after Wessex ran over him last year.
The
woman I talked to remembered both her and Mazda because of Hot Dogs.”

Sarkisian nodded, his gaze narrowing.
“So what’s wrong with
Ms.
Mobley’s alibi for that night?”

Becky positively beamed.
“She wasn’t just sitting in the
waiting room, she was pacing all over the place muttering to herself.
When the
vet tech asked if there was anything she could do for her, she said Ms.
Mobley
practically exploded, vowing she was going to kill Wessex for being so callous.
The tech said she tried to calm her down, saying accidents happen, especially
in parking lots.
But Ms.
Mobley said it wasn’t the fact Wessex had hit Mazda,
it was the fact he hadn’t cared, that he’d actually seemed to be glad he might
possibly have killed the poor little dog.
And then she stormed out and didn’t
come back for a very long time—at least several hours.”

Chapter Twelve

We found Lizzie.
It wasn’t hard even though she was no
longer with Janowski.
We just followed the excited yips and waited for Roomba
to make her inevitable appearance, nose fixed to the floorboards and surrounded
by a gaggle of frenetic poodles.
Mazda followed in due course and Lizzie
trailed in the rear, her arms loaded down with unattached leashes.

“Just about to take them for a walk,” she told us
cheerfully.

“Having the leashes on them would be a good idea,” Sarkisian
pointed out.

She shrugged.
“They’ll be all right.”

“Mazda wasn’t last year.”

“I’ll make sure they’re nowhere near speeding idiots.” Her
gaze narrowed.
“Or are you working around to asking me something?”

Sarkisian beamed at her as if she’d said something
particularly clever.
“Very astute.
In fact I was wondering what you were doing
last year while poor little Mazda was having his emergency surgery.”

She hesitated, her gaze sharp on his face.
I could almost
see the calculations taking place behind her suddenly impassive expression.
At
last she shrugged.
“I came back here.
I’d left the other dogs with-with a
friend and I wanted to make sure they were all safe.
Once I got here and
collected them I just walked around, trying to calm down.”

“And that friend would be?”

Again she hesitated.
“My uncle,” she said at last.
“He likes
dogs but can’t have any at his apartment so he visits mine whenever he can.” At
Sarkisian’s request she provided her uncle’s name, address and phone number.

“Thank you,” Sarkisian said.
“It’s always nice to get these
little details cleared up.”

“Yes.” For a long moment she looked uncertain then she
called the wandering dogs to her and began attaching leashes at random.
She
cast one last glance at us before hurrying her troupe out the door and pulling
it closed behind her.

I glanced at Sarkisian.
“Think that’s true?
Or do you think
she came back here and carried out the threat she’d been making?”

“Now that,” he said with fake solemnity, “is the sixty-four
thousand dollar question.”

“I thought all game shows had gone to a million dollars
now,” I said.

He shook his head.
“I’m stuck in the distant past I guess.”

I switched gears back to Lizzie.
“Hitting someone over the
head several times sounds a lot like rage to me.”

“Speaking from personal experience?”

I considered.
“I think I’d go for the throat though I’d
probably do it all wrong.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich and amazingly good to
hear in the midst of all this trouble and chaos.
“If we ever have a
strangulation case I’ll keep you in mind.”

“I’ve got a sure-fire way for you to keep me in mind.” I
slid my arms around his waist.

“Annike—” He broke off and shook his head.

“You’re not going to get away with putting off our wedding.”

“I know how you’re looking forward to planning it,” he said,
hitting below the belt.

I flinched.
“We’ll elope.”

“Just us, the department and all of Upper River Gulch?”

I sighed.
I hated it when he had a strong argument.
“You
haven’t heard the end of this, Owen,” I warned him.
I wasn’t one to give up
easily.
Stubborn, that’s me.

I could see the glimmer of a rejoinder twinkling in his eye
but before he could deliver it his phone rang.

“Saved by the bell,” he muttered at me and barked his name
into the speaker.
Whatever the person on the other end was saying, it seemed to
cheer him up.
“Good work, Rodriguez,” he said at last.
“How’s Roberta coming
with the briefcase?
That soon?
Good.
I’ll be waiting for your call.” He
disconnected.

He turned to me.
“Quantrell’s fingerprints are on parts of
the golf club used to kill Wessex.
And Roberta found prints on the interior of
the briefcase.
She should have matches if they’re available fairly soon.”

The side door opened but it wasn’t Lizzie returning with her
doglets.
A paramedic I didn’t recognize looked in, surveying the controlled
chaos of the backstage area.
He focused on Sarkisian and me.
“Has Brian
Quantrell done his act yet?”

“Need him?” Sarkisian asked.

“I was just hoping to hear him play.” The man edged into the
room.

“He won’t,” I said.
“Only a few bars.
He’ll be sitting in
one place,” I explained as I saw the disappointment on the man’s face.
“We only
need him on long enough to check the lights and sound.
It’s the ones where
there are several people all moving around who have to do their entire
routines.”

“Damn.
Brian’s really good, isn’t he?” The paramedic craned
his neck, trying to see the magician who currently occupied the stage.

“Why not come to the performance tomorrow?
Then you can see
everyone.” Never miss a chance to sell a ticket, I reminded myself.
“It’s for a
good cause, you know.
Every penny goes to charity.”

He wasn’t listening to me anymore though.
I looked over my
shoulder to see what had caught his attention and saw Quantrell, his guitar
clutched in his hands, wending his way toward us.

“I came to hear you but they say you won’t be playing,” his
friend said.

“Nah, not much today.” Quantrell kept going, heading for the
door.

His friend turned to follow him.
“Rumor has it that guy
Wessex was killed with a golf club.
Wouldn’t it be a hoot if it turned out to
be the one you lost right around then?”

Quantrell looked back, his face flushed.
“I don’t think—” He
caught Sarkisian’s knowing eye and broke off.
“‘A hoot’ isn’t the term I’d use.
It’s all too likely.” His shoulders slumped.
“My ambulance was parked near that
storage building and I’d been out there practicing a few swings.”

For one moment I wondered if he were about to confess to
using Wessex’s head as the practice golf ball.

“For how long?” Sarkisian asked.

“Not sure.” Quantrell shrugged.
“I got a call to check on
someone and I set the club down but I honestly can’t remember where.
Things got
busy after that and I forgot all about it.
I didn’t even realize it was missing
until my next day off.” He glanced up at Sarkisian.
“For all I know it could
have been my club that was used to kill him.
I hadn’t made the connection
before.”

And he didn’t sound too pleased to have made it now.

The distinctive refrain from “Light My Fire” sounded from my
pocket as the two paramedics left the building together and I tapped the
earpiece to find out what the fireworks company wanted.
I glanced at the clock
and saw it was time for them to arrive.
My heart lifted.
Something was going
right.

“The truck broke down,” the man on the other end of the
phone told me.

Okay, maybe not all that right.

“Where are you?
And how long before you’ll be here?”

I heard him suck in his breath.
“Now that’s hard to say.”

“You don’t know where you are?” I demanded.

“Oh, I know that all right.
We’re about fifteen miles from
the warehouse.
Thing is, we can’t get another truck to take your load.”

“And you’re only telling me this now?” I kept my voice calm
with an effort.
“You must have been sitting there for hours.”

“Well, we’ve got a crew trying to work on it.
Thing is, they
can’t seem to figure out what’s wrong.
What?” This last was obviously not said
to me.
“Ah hell.”

That didn’t sound good.
“What is it?”

“Broken part.
They’re going to have to get a replacement.”

“So it should be ready to roll in about an hour?” I asked,
ever the optimist.

“Depends on whether or not they can get what they need.”

“Call me in an hour,” I ordered.
“Just to give me an
update.”

He agreed though I doubted he would.
I’d have to call him.

I didn’t like the idea of the truck being late and the crew
having to do a rush job on the setup.
That they might not make it at all I
refused to consider.
Of course there was always Pyromaniacs Anonymous.
They’d
be happy to stage something even at the last minute.
I tried to put it out of
my mind for the moment and went to the edge of the stage to watch a gymnastics
class perform tumbling routines.
Tricky lighting but Vanderveer seemed to be
coping pretty well.

At least until the lights went out.

The darkness was abrupt and almost complete, turning our
chaos into an absolute madhouse.
The kids on the stage yelled in protest and
their coach was shouting for them all to stay exactly where they were.
I went
to the side door and threw it open to let in some daylight.

“What’s going on?” shouted Janowski.

“Looks like the lights went out,” a male voice yelled with
heavy sarcasm.

Janowski ignored the guy.
“Vanderveer?
Are you responsible?”

“Anyone hurt?” Quantrell and his fellow paramedic, who
apparently hadn’t gone far, raced back into the building and pushed forward.
“All you kids okay?”

“Someone fell,” the coach called back.
“Ron?
You all right?”

“Landed on my arm,” a boy of about ten replied.
He was
holding his elbow and rubbing it.

“Let’s see.” Quantrell knelt beside him and tried to examine
the arm.

The boy pulled free.
“I’m fine.” He glared at Quantrell.
“I’m going to do my routine.”

The coach joined them but I turned away.
A flashlight was
shining around in the loft.
A moment later Vanderveer descended the stairs.

“What happened?” I asked.

“We must have blown a fuse,” he said.
“This place needs a
lot of renovation.
Everything about it is old.”

Sarkisian appeared at my side.
“Where’s the switch box?”

“We need Pete Norton to show us,” Vanderveer said.
“He’s
always handled these things before.
Can’t we get someone from the Fairgrounds
Committee to send us a replacement for him?”

The three of us set off on the search with Vanderveer and
his flashlight leading the way.
Sarkisian, I noticed, had his in hand, just not
switched on.
Since he always had an extremely good reason for everything he
did, I kept my mouth shut.

Vanderveer, with us trailing in his wake, opened the doors
of each of the dressing rooms and storage closets and shone his light around.
Finally we reached the door to the basement.
Sarkisian switched on his own
flash at last and by the two beams we cautiously made our way down the old
uneven wooden steps.

A careful search of the room finally revealed the switch box
in the right front corner.
Vanderveer directed his light into the ancient
contraption and did something I couldn’t see.
Apparently it worked because a
cheer rose from above us even though nothing changed down here.

“Was it an overloaded breaker?” I asked as we made our way
out of the basement.

Vanderveer snorted.
“Sabotage.
Probably the same jokester
who switched the color of the lights.”

“No real harm, just an annoyance,” Sarkisian mused.

But why annoyances, I wondered?
Was someone trying to
distract us from the murders?
Or from some vital clue concerning the murders?
If so, they were succeeding.

Or were they?
After this latest trick we were going to be a
damn sight more vigilant than ever.

As if to confirm that thought I spotted Theresa prowling
around, peering into corners, jotting down notes in her little book.
What
exactly she was doing I had no idea.
But it was undoubtedly on Janowski’s
orders.
Janowski himself was pacing the area, staring at everything and
everybody as if he were seeking some sign of impending sabotage.