Hot Dogs (17 page)

We talked about anything other than the murder investigation
and the Fourth of July festivities while we ate.
Dinner, according to Aunt
Gerda, was definitely not a time to discuss anything stressful.
So between the
conversation, the wine, the wonderful food and Sarkisian’s presence, I began to
unwind.

Finally we finished our last bites and I reluctantly stood
to clear the table.
I reached for the plates but Aunt Gerda stopped me and
shooed both me and Sarkisian off to the living room to begin work on the
financial records.

“It looks like there are a lot of them,” she said as a
clincher.

With that I had to agree.
There were far more files than I
would have expected.

“I got everyone’s,” he said on a note of apology.

Oh damn, just what I didn’t need.
I wanted to curl up with
Sarkisian and go to sleep to prepare for the madhouse of tomorrow.
But it
didn’t look like that was going to happen any time soon.

We started on Ivan Janowski’s records since it was his fault
I was stuck doing this.
I began five years back to get a general picture and
the one that emerged was a bit of a mess.
He had a habit of very large
expenditures, mostly on furnishings, art, clothes and jewelry for himself and
his wife.
He was the major spender judging from the signatures on the checks
though his wife did her share.
And it all far exceeded his income.

Curious as to how he had avoided bankruptcy, I made a more
thorough check of his deposits.
Aside from the normal paychecks and stock
dividends I came across one for twenty thousand dollars in cash.
That was
followed by cash withdrawals of fifteen hundred dollars each month and a sharp
decrease in spending.
Then the withdrawals stopped abruptly after twenty-eight
months.

“That’s a pretty steep interest rate,” I said slowly.
“Except if it was a loan he would have received it in a check.”

“That,” said Sarkisian, “sounds like his link to Hank
Kaufmann.”

So Janowski had sought the help of a loan shark.
“But if his
loan was paid off almost two years ago…” I let my speculation trail off and continued
to check the one place we’d find answers.

Sure enough the same month he made his last “loan”
payment—or whatever it was—his spending spree resumed.
In a matter of four
months this time he was bouncing checks again.
And there, not surprisingly,
came another deposit of twenty thousand in cash.
The monthly withdrawals of
fifteen hundred also resumed but only for about five months.
Then they dropped
to one thousand then five hundred and his spending on other items skyrocketed
again.
In May, just over a month ago, the withdrawals stopped.

“And at the beginning of July,” Sarkisian mused, “one of
Hank Kaufmann’s enforcers pays him a rather unpleasant visit.”

I sighed as I set the folder aside.
“So that explains that
guy—what was his name?”

“Frank Greer.”

“Frank Greer,” I repeated—the only way I can ever remember
names.
“And why Janowski was so upset.
But it doesn’t have anything to do with
either murder.”

“Unless you happen to know that Pete Norton was also one of
Hank Kaufmann’s enforcers.”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
I closed it and
swallowed.
“Are you serious?”

He nodded.
“Hank himself called to let me know.
Most of the
people he employs to keep an eye on his loans, as he phrases it, keep a low
profile.
They have other jobs and merely pay visits to convey messages from
Hank and remind the loan recipients of their obligations.
Pete Norton was one
of those.
Frank Greer only gets sent in when hints and reminders aren’t
enough.”

“Hank Kaufmann actually called you?”

Sarkisian grinned.
“The guy likes to make sure he stays on
the right side of the law.”

“Not by much,” I interjected.

“Not by much,” Sarkisian agreed.
“But somehow Hank manages
it.
And so far Frank Greer hasn’t been convicted of grievous bodily harm—though
we suspect it’s because none of the victims want to press charges.
As soon as
Hank heard about Pete Norton’s murder he called the department to let us know
about their connection.”

“His is a legal business but he thinks it’s important to let
you know a murder victim was one of his employees?”

“‘Occupational hazard’, Hank called it.”

So had Janowski killed Pete in a fit of rage or panic?
Could
he possibly have had the mistaken belief that getting rid of Pete would get
Hank off his back?
People have had even stranger ideas than that.

It certainly gave Janowski a reason not to admit to seeing
Pete.
And Pete’s association with Hank Kaufmann would have been enough for a
judge to grant the search warrant for the financial records.

With a sigh I turned my attention to the next file.

Lizzie Mobley’s records for the most part were exactly what
one would expect.
She received a moderate salary for her management of Merit
County First and took in a small amount on the side with performances by Hot
Dogs.
I was surprised though she didn’t supplement her income with dog
training.
It would have seemed an obvious thing for her to do.
She wasn’t rich
by a long shot and her bills for the vet and the dog food ate up—so to
speak—the majority of her income.
Still she kept herself out of the clutches of
men like Hank Kauffman.

Edward Vanderveer’s thick file lay next in the stack.
I
shuddered but dutifully worked my way through the banks statements.

“It was lucky for him the partnership of Wessex and
Vanderveer was incorporated,” I said when I finally reached the previous year.
“No one could touch his personal assets when the company went bankrupt.” And
he’d come out of it better than I’d realized—with a good deal more than just
the million dollars from personal investments I’d already heard about.
I
couldn’t help but wonder if any of his wealth had been derived from redirected
client funds but to determine that for certain I’d need to get hold of the
company’s books, not just his personal records.
“How much money was in Lee
Wessex’s briefcase?” I asked, following that line of thought.

“As far as we can tell, everything collected from the Fourth
of July events.”

“But not what he’d stolen from his business or his own bank
accounts and not Connie’s jewelry?” I stared at him.
That’s never time wasted.
It’s a pleasant view.

Sarkisian shook his head.
“He wouldn’t have been carrying
those when he was killed.”

“So they were probably in his car along with his suitcase,”
I mused.
“And whoever killed him…kept them?
Disposed of them?”

“They haven’t turned up yet,” he assured me.

“Safe deposit boxes?” I ventured.

“Only Janowski, Vanderveer and Connie Wessex have them and
none of them contained the missing jewelry.”

“Personal safes?”

“Becky and John are checking for those tonight but those can
be easy to hide.”

I considered.
“I can see someone getting rid of his clothes
but
not
the money and jewelry.”

“Unless Wessex hid everything himself.”

I thought about that.
“You mean he might have planned to
meet someone?
He’d stashed everything else he’d stolen before he got to the
fairgrounds with the intention of picking it up on his way to the airport?
Then
he shoved the briefcase into that wall before whoever it was got there?” In
which case I might be wasting my time trying to find mysterious deposits in
people’s accounts since the Fourth of July last year.

“It’s beginning to look like that’s a real possibility,”
Sarkisian confirmed.

“And therefore his murder had nothing to do with his
thefts?”

“Or we have one very disappointed and frustrated killer to
look for.”

I completed Vanderveer’s records and couldn’t help but
wonder if the man’s wealth had anything to do with the animosity felt by
Janowski.
One had all the wealth and the other wanted at least the appearance
of it.
But those thoughts were just sidetracking me.

I turned next to Brian Quantrell’s folder and a pattern of
modest salary and modest expenses emerged almost at once.
No hidden
extravagances, no apparent vices—except his membership in a golf club and a
fairly expensive guitar.
I diligently went over every entry until I reached a surprise.

“Five thousand in cash?” I looked up from the neat rows of
numbers on the statement.
“On the twenty-second of July last year.”

Sarkisian, who’d been standing behind me with a cup of
coffee, leaned forward, resting his chin on my shoulder as he studied the page.
“Well well well.
Another of Hank’s beneficiaries?
Does he pay it back?”

I turned to the following month but there were no cash
withdrawals and nothing from his ATM card that might have indicated the payback
of a loan.
I checked all the way up to the present and found no sizeable
withdrawals.
The money was still there, basically untouched.

“Interesting.” Sarkisian frowned as he resumed the seat
beside me.

At once Clumsy crawled into his lap.
I could only be
grateful the animal didn’t insinuate himself into the middle of all these
financial records.
He lived up to his name.

Theresa delGuardia was next.
According to the automatic
deposits she’d earned no more than a moderate salary from Wessex and
Vanderveer.
That surprised me, considering how efficient the woman was.
Apparently her fierce loyalty had stopped her from seeking more lucrative
employment elsewhere.
And I was sure she could have found it.
Her salary as
assistant to Janowski was proof of that.
The county was careful with its
spending but it kept good employees by paying them as much as it could manage.

But she would hardly have killed her former employer just so
she could feel free to change jobs.
That would have been a very strange twist
on loyalty.

No outstanding expenses here either.
She’d taken a yearly
vacation—a very affordable four-day cruise down the Mexican coast, judging by
the name of the on-line tour company to which she made out the checks.
Hey, I
keep track of these things.
Someday I’m going to take a vacation.
At the rate we’re
going though it won’t be a honeymoon with Sarkisian.

I set Theresa aside and picked up Connie.
I’d saved her for
last since hers was the thickest and undoubtedly the messiest.

Her investment portfolio over which she’d assured us she’d
been working last night while Pete was being murdered was copious and
intricate.
Funds seemed to shift back and forth between money markets, stocks,
bonds and real estate.
This could easily take me several days of concentrated
sorting.
If it could wait until after the Fourth I might have time.
For the
moment I’d confine myself to searching for cash transactions.

Connie Wessex wasn’t big on cash it seemed.
She wrote large
checks, usually to credit card companies, rarely to charities.
Nothing changed
even after her husband went missing.

Until July twenty-second.

I stared at the five thousand dollar withdrawal and emitted
a soundless whistle.

“What is it?” Sarkisian, who had moved to the braided rug
the better to play with Boondoggle, looked up.

I told him.
“The same day the identical amount was deposited
in Brian Quantrell’s account,” I added though knowing him he’d made the
connection as soon as he heard the amount.
“Think it was a payoff for killing
her husband for her?”

Chapter Fourteen

I awoke well before dawn to my cell phone playing “On the
Road Again”, which I was currently using for my alarm.
I groaned.
Getting up
was made harder by the fact I had Sarkisian’s arm draped across me.
I eased out
with care trying not to disturb him and headed for the shower.

By the time I emerged dressed for a long day of chaos he was
up and in the kitchen assembling the makings for omelets.
The cinnamon oatmeal
bread I’d put into the machine before going to bed beeped as I slid my arms
around his waist.
I muttered a mild curse and disengaged myself to dump the
loaf on a wire rack to cool.

Sarkisian went for his own shower while I made us breakfast.
He reappeared just as I was pouring the coffee and dishing out the fluffy egg
concoction—one of Aunt Gerda’s fantastic recipes.
She’d emerge later, probably
in time to come watch the parade.
She always enjoyed attending my events—if
only for the amusement it afforded her to watch me struggling with all the
nonsense people could devise.

We ate quickly, gathered what we’d need then left to go our
separate ways.
He had to return to his apartment and change into uniform and I
had to go straight to the parade route to discover what creative mishaps
awaited me.
My one consolation was that since all but one of the primary
suspects in the investigation were in some way involved in the parade—and the
one who wasn’t was bound to show up to watch—I’d be seeing Sarkisian again
soon.

The fact the Fourth of July had dawned with a heavy fog
would in no way interfere with the parade.
It’s just part of our summer weather
and we take it in stride.
People dressed in easily removable layers in
anticipation of the blazing sun that would eventually burn away the gray and
leave the sky a brilliant blue.

Cars and trucks of every description filled all the parking
spaces within the vicinity of Main Street.
That surprised me.
The parade wasn’t
due to kick off yet for another hour and a half.
We should be gratified that
people had come so early to ensure themselves a good view.

It took some searching but I finally found Freya a slot I
could ease into some distance away.
At least I’d come prepared.
I’d printed out
all the papers I thought I could possibly need—and a number I was sure I
wouldn’t but brought anyway on the philosophy that one never knew—and clipped
them onto a board to which I’d tied three pens.
Be prepared, that’s me.
I
always thought I’d have made a great Boy Scout.
Armed with my notes and
checklists, I locked my laptop in the trunk and made my way to the first
staging area.

It seemed awfully crowded.
I looked through the mob of
costumed and uniformed people carrying props or musical instruments and
occasionally both.
And some led horses.
Surely I hadn’t put so many people
together in one spot.
I racked my memory.
No, I was sure I hadn’t.

Before I’d gone more than a few steps into the chaos a band
leader from one of the high schools bore down on me with determination in his
eye and a paper in his hand.
Others, garbed in the most outlandish outfits and
all brandishing papers, joined in the attack, all talking at once.

“What’s going on, Annike?” the band director demanded.

“Our staging area was closed,” complained a belly dancer.

I rounded on her.
“Closed?”

The rest of her troupe gathered around her in a flourish of
sequins and filmy fabric and clinking coins but she shushed them and turned
back to me.
“There was a sign redirecting us here.
What happened?
And why
didn’t you let us know?
The change,” she added darkly, “was not on the
website.”

The leader of an equestrian group, garbed in black velvet
trimmed with silver sequins, complete with a massive sombrero, waved another
paper under my nose.
When I was able to grab hold of it to keep it still long
enough to read, I could see someone had replaced the sheet I’d printed with a
new and very different one.

“There’s nowhere for the horse trailers,” the man shouted at
me over the din of other irate voices.

I checked where he was jabbing his finger and sure enough,
his group had been reassigned to a place big enough to hold possibly two cars
if they parked with extreme care and didn’t mind being sideswiped by large
trucks.

“Quiet everybody,” I shouted.

As usual no one followed orders.
I spotted what I needed
through the crowd and forced my way through until I reached a bugler from a
drum and bugle squad or whatever they were called.
I shouted at him and he
grinned, raised the instrument to his mouth and let loose with a blast that
sent several horses—fortunately being held at a distance from the
crowd—skittering sideways.
The noise subsided.

“Go back to your original assigned positions,” I yelled.
“Someone’s been playing games so ignore anything new.
If you can’t remember
where you were supposed to go, see me—in an orderly manner,” I finished
desperately as several people began to converge on me.

Janowski elbowed his way to the front to the annoyance of
several of the marchers.

“What’s going on?”

I explained and he swore with an inventiveness that
surprised me.
“Why?” he demanded at last.

I wanted to know the answer to that as well.
And I bet
Sarkisian would be interested.
Did someone have a reason—beyond causing
chaos—to shift things around like this?
Like the murderer perhaps?
I’ve never
been a big believer in coincidences though I know they do happen.
If someone
played fast and loose with our parade though I was willing to bet it had to do
with Lee Wessex’s and Pete Norton’s deaths.
But what could the killer possibly
gain by this?
Extra time?
And if so, for what?

Theresa delGuardia pushed through the chaos.
“You,” she
said, snagging a young woman in a dental coat and carrying a giant inflatable
toothbrush.
“You’re from the Hygienists Association’s precision drill team.”
She made it a statement.

“Gee, how did you guess?” the hygienist asked.

Theresa ignored her sarcasm.
“Go back to…” she looked it up
on her own clipboard of papers, “Staging Area Four.
And take those tubes of
toothpaste with you.” She waved toward a group of women dressed in the
appropriate costumes.
“Now you,” she zeroed in on a woman in a wheelchair.
“You’re part of a drill team, aren’t you.” This time she made it sound like an
accusation.
“You’re set for Staging Area Two.”

Four years ago the county supervisors, in their never-ending
search to bring more fame and at least a little fortune to our tiny county, had
added a new feature to the Merit County Fourth of July parade—the Trophy of
Merit.
Each year they awarded it to the most innovative unit.
The result was it
had become a status symbol to march as part of one of the drill teams and the
participants vied with each other for the most unique costumes and routines.

This year we not only had the hygienists but another drill
team consisting of dentists carrying—appropriately—giant inflatable drills.
And
yes, they made sure we all caught the pun of drills and drill teams.
I admit I
was looking forward to seeing their routine.
We also had a group of
optometrists with oversized glasses, doctors with stethoscopes, nurses with
blood pressure cuffs, lawyers in the long gowns and wigs not usually seen on
this side of the Atlantic, accountants with large inflatable calculators,
pharmacists with giant pill bottles, firemen with hoses and paramedics with
stretchers.
And each had an appropriate routine with which to entertain the
crowd as they marched down Meritville’s Main Street.
Even one of the high
schools had gotten into the spirit, sending their drill team armed with Dremels
to accompany their marching band.
I think my favorite though was the tractor
precision drill team.
I could only hope they didn’t lose control and plow their
way through the crowd.

It took the better part of an hour to get the staging areas
sorted out.
Finally as the excess equestrian units, drill teams, bands and
floats returned to their proper positions, Staging Area One began to look more
the way I’d envisioned it.
I peered around, clipboard in hand, checking off the
units that remained.
Everyone present and accounted for, I noted with relief.

Except the Grand Marshal.

Where the hell was Brian Quantrell?

I knew he’d been coerced into agreeing and had been looking
for an excuse to get out of doing this but would he just not show up?
He
wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave us in the lurch like this.

But what if something had happened to him?

I called his cell phone.
It went straight to voice mail
which probably meant it wasn’t switched on.
Damn Quantrell.

Janowski checked his watch.
“Where is the Grand Marshal?” he
yelled at me.

I closed my eyes for a moment.
“I’m sure he’ll be here any
minute,” I lied.

What if he couldn’t come?
The image of Pete Norton lying in
a pool of his own blood, his head partially bashed in, rose in my mind.
Was
Quantrell all right?

“It will be fine, Mr.
Janowski.” Theresa all but stroked his
arm in an attempt to soothe the man’s shattered nerves.
“He’ll be here any
minute now, you’ll see.”

Sarkisian, an even more welcome sight than usual, strode through
the crowd, drawing more than his fair share of interested looks.
Everyone who
listened to any news at all had to know about both murders by now but no one
dared assault the sheriff with questions.
He made it to my side unmolested and
I kept my greeting restrained because of the watchful eyes.
His smile warmed me
as it always did.

“Where’s Lizzie Mobley?” he asked me.

I checked my chart.
“Staging Area Four.” I cringed as
Janowski demanded once again, this time of anyone within hearing distance,
where the hell the Grand Marshal was.
“I’ll come with you,” I announced.
Grabbing hold of his arm, I dragged him away.

“Janowski getting on your nerves?” His amusement was mingled
with sympathy.

“I can’t blame him, I suppose.
It would be awfully
embarrassing if our Grand Marshal didn’t show up.” I cast Sarkisian an
uncertain glance and asked the question that haunted me.
“Do you think anything
could have happened to him?”

He stopped and frowned.
“You think—”

“Why aren’t you here?” Janowski’s outraged voice carried
across to us, cutting across Sarkisian’s words.
“We’re supposed to start in
about twenty minutes.
We can’t start without the Grand Marshal.”

I made my way through the milling people as quickly as I
could with Sarkisian just behind me.
“Is that Quantrell?” I asked.

Janowski glared at me.
“Says he’s running late.
Damn the
man.
Here’s his chance to be in the spotlight and he goes and oversleeps.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Parades never get off exactly
on time.
We’ll be fine.”

Theresa reiterated my statement over and over and Janowski
began to look a little less red in the face.
Sure I was leaving him in good
hands, I set forth once again for Staging Area Four with Sarkisian.

“What do you want Lizzie for?” I asked.

Sarkisian shot me a smiling glance.
“Do you really want to
waste our few minutes together talking about her and her dogs?”

I didn’t.
“When are we getting married?”

“When the time is right.”

“You’re just sorry you ever asked me,” I told him.

“If we were alone I’d leave you in no doubt how glad I am
that I did.”

“You’re dragging your feet.”

He stopped.
“I want you to be happy.
I want us to have a
life together.
That’s just not in the cards right now.”

I could see the worry lines on his face.
Never worry a man
with unimportant details, I reminded myself.
Particularly when he’s got
problems with his work.
“I’ll behave,” I promised.

I didn’t say in what manner and surprisingly he didn’t pick
up on the ambiguity of my comment.
Either that or he didn’t want to continue
the argument.
I didn’t blame him.
Arguing with him can be fun but right now we
both needed to reduce the stress level and get our respective jobs done.
There’s a time and a place for everything.
And the time and the place for our
wedding was beginning to take shape in the back of my devious mind.