Hot Dogs (23 page)

Sarkisian nodded.

“Someone tampered with the fuse box to lure Vanderveer down
here with the intention of making him fall,” I said slowly, taking it in.

“Only you went first so they had to hit Vanderveer over the
head.
They were probably waiting close at hand since the fall wouldn’t
necessarily prove lethal.”

“Luckily,” I muttered.

“How certain was it Vanderveer would be the one to take care
of the power?” he asked.

I considered.
“Fairly certain.
He was familiar with the
setup back here, more so than any of the other committee members.
And remember?
He was the one who flipped the switch when something went wrong with the fuse
box during the rehearsals yesterday.”

“Were any of the others—” he didn’t specify he meant his
suspects but he didn’t need to, “hanging around back here?”

I tried to remember but I’d been outside when the lights
went out.
“Any of them might have been,” I admitted at last.
“Janowski had
Theresa call to see if Vanderveer was taking care of it,” I added.

The many arguments between Janowski and Vanderveer loomed
large in my mind.
“But why kill him?” The memory of Vanderveer asking about
Sarkisian suddenly flared in my mind.
“Did he ever talk to you today?”

“What do you mean?”

“It was something he said.
He was looking pensive then asked
me where you were, said he wanted to ask you something.
But I had the
impression it was more than that.”

Sarkisian shook his head.
“He never approached me.
Damn.
I’ve
got some thinking to do.”

“And not a brownie in sight,” I murmured.

“Too true.” He looked up as John approached us.
“Time we
clear out and let Roberta finish her job.
And hope the rest of the team isn’t
far away.”

He assisted me up the steps to the hall that was no longer
dark.
It was crowded though.

Lizzie, for once without her dogs, worked her way through to
us.
“What happened?” She stared at my arm.
“Did you fall?”

“Bit of a mishap,” Sarkisian said smoothly.
“Have you been
down this hall any time during the last few hours?”

“Of course I have.” She looked at me.
“We’ve all been
running all over the place, helping people with their costumes, finding lost
props—”

“Chasing ratty little dogs,” Quantrell put in.
I hadn’t
realized he’d joined us.

Lizzie glared at him.
“I’ve put them in the van, so lay off,
will you?”

“When did you put them out there?” I asked.
I remembered
them yapping earlier, then she’d taken them for a walk.
But they’d been on
stage not all that long ago.

“Right after their performance.
They were all on edge, poor
dears.
I thought they needed some quiet.”

“And so did we,” Quantrell stuck in.

And so did Lizzie maybe?
If she’d tried to set a trap on the
basement stairs with her whole troupe of performing dogs in tow, everyone would
have known where she was.
I shivered and tried to rid myself of that thought.
If Vanderveer’s murderer really had been on hand to make sure he was dead after
the fall, he—or she—would have known I’d started down those booby-trapped steps
first.
And hadn’t done anything to stop me.
I felt a bit ill knowing someone
cared so little for my life and limbs.

“Annike?” Sue pushed forward, all concern.
“What’s going on
back here?” Her eyes widened as she stared at me.
“What happened to you?”

“Sue.” Sarkisian focused on her.
“The show’s going to be
over soon isn’t it?”

“Only two more acts.
Looks like we’ve survived—” She broke
off.
“We have survived it, haven’t we?”

Sarkisian didn’t answer her question.
He considered a moment
then nodded.
“Right.
You and Neil go to the front doors and don’t let anyone
out until John and Becky get there.”

She stared hard at him.
“All right.
But I’ll want a full
explanation and soon.
And you’d better be wearing that as a fashion accessory,”
she told me, nodding at my sling.
With that she turned around and strode off on
her mission, calling for Neil.

Was Sarkisian considering the entire audience as potential
witnesses?
At least we already had names and addresses for all the performers
and the backstage helpers.

The rock song that had been playing suddenly stopped and
applause sounded from the audience.
The band trooped into the wings and the
next act took the stage.

Becky emerged from the stairwell and beckoned Sarkisian.
He
joined her, they spoke for a minute with the rest of us staring at them and she
handed him something.
He returned with a travel mug in a plastic evidence bag.

“When did you see this last?” He held it up for Lizzie to
look at.
It had “Hot Dogs” emblazoned across it along with Lizzie’s logo—a
picture of a poodle jumping through a hoop.

“There it is.
I was looking for it.” She reached out then
hesitated.
“Why’s it in that bag?”

“Evidence,” he said.
“When did you see it last?”

“This afternoon.
It couldn’t possibly have anything to do
with Pete’s death.
Or Wessex’s for that matter.” Her eyes narrowed.
“You found
it in the basement?
I have no idea how it got there—or why it should matter.
Something’s happened again, hasn’t it?” She looked at me.
“Were you pushed or
something?” Now her eyes widened.
“Did someone try to kill you?”

“Try to remember where you put the mug down last.” Sarkisian
kept his voice calm but compelling.

Lizzie shook her head.
“I don’t know.
I had it filled with
lemonade in the picnic area then I came back over here.
The dogs were nervous
with so many people around and I needed both hands to deal with them.
I must
have set it down fairly soon.
Yes, I know I didn’t have it when I was helping
that little baton twirler with her costume.”

“And you didn’t have it when you were talking to that man
outside,” I said.

“Uncle Martin?
I guess I didn’t.”

Uncle Martin?
If he was her uncle why did she act so
mysteriously about meeting him?

Sarkisian signaled to Becky and John.
“Keep all this as
quiet as possible.
But I also want you to stand at the exit and get the names
and addresses of everyone in the audience.
Sue and Neil are standing guard and
they can help you.
And while you’re at it find out if anyone noticed someone
leaving toward the end of the program.”

He turned back to me as the two deputies departed on their
mission.
“Why don’t you sit down?” It wasn’t a suggestion.

“And miss all the fun?” I wasn’t about to admit I was
feeling a bit dizzy from the pain and shock.

“Sarkisian.” Quantrell edged over to him.
“Want me to do
anything?”

“Try to clear this area of people?” he suggested.

That took considerable time.
Before he’d managed to herd
more than a few back toward the wings Janowski’s voice came across the
loudspeaker, thanking everyone for attending the First Annual Merit County
Talent Extravaganza.

I cringed.
“First Annual” implied they intended to
perpetrate a second one.

A minute later Janowski, followed by Theresa, arrived and
demanded to know what was going on.
Sarkisian filled them in.

I didn’t listen.
I leaned against the wall and thought about
that tripwire.

Whoever set it up must have done it at a time when they
weren’t likely to be seen.
Of course they could also have done it at a time
when so many people were running around back here looking for things that the
presence of one evil-intentioned person wouldn’t be noticed.
Which meant just
about any time.

“We need to find out who went into the basement last and
when,” Sarkisian said, echoing my thoughts.

Quantrell, who had managed to complete his task, frowned.
“I
went down right after the first act went on to look for a possible replacement
prop for one of the jugglers.
I certainly didn’t trip over anything.”

“Vanderveer went down, didn’t he?
To check something?”
Janowski asked.

“Yes,” confirmed Theresa.
“He was complaining about it the
whole time.
I stood up here and waited for him then after he came back up he
realized he’d left the keys down there and told me to fetch them for him while
he went back to the light loft.” Her eyes widened in dismay.
“That was about
twenty minutes into the program.
Does that make me the last person down before
the tripwire?” She shuddered.
“What if it had already been up?” Her gaze
strayed to me.
“You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

“I went down after that,” Lizzie admitted.

We all turned to stare at her.
“It was still too hot to put
the dogs in the van,” she explained.
“I was hoping it might be a quiet safe
place for them to wait where they wouldn’t get overexcited.
But the vibrations
from the bass amplifiers got them howling.” She glared at Quantrell.
“We’d only
just come back up when I saw you.”

And, as I remembered, they’d argued about the Hot Dogs and
their yapping.

“What about Ms.
Wessex?” Sarkisian asked.

Everyone looked at each other and began a chorus on
variations of “No, I haven’t seen her.”

“What’s going on?” Connie herself pushed into our little
group.
“Where’s Mr.
Vanderveer?
I want to thank him for the wonderful job he
did with the lighting.” She looked up toward the loft as if expecting to see
him there.

“Did you go into the basement for anything this afternoon?”
Janowski demanded.

His presumptuousness didn’t seem to bother Sarkisian.
If
anything he enjoys watching his suspects get involved.
He says he learns more
by watching and listening than he ever does by direct questions.
Now he watched
Janowski even more closely than he did Connie.

She stared at the supervisor.
“Of course not.
Why should I?”

“The rest of us did,” Theresa said.

“Well it’s your jobs to take care of things back here.
I
spent my time with the other members of the string quartet, trying to stay in
the proper mood for our performance.”

“And they’ll be able to say you never left them?” Sarkisian
asked.

She stared at him.
“Of course,” she said coldly and turned
to stride away.

Quantrell frowned after her.
“Better catch the other members
before she warns them what to say.”

“You performed but you were still helping other people,”
Theresa told him.

Quantrell shrugged.
“In my job you get used to helping
people all the time.”

“Did anyone else notice she didn’t ask why we wanted to
know?” Lizzie asked.

Janowski stared at her.
“You mean you think she already knew
Vanderveer is dead?”

“She didn’t ask about Annike’s sling either and that’s
pretty obvious,” Lizzie pointed out.

Chapter Nineteen

Lizzie’s mentioning my arm only served to remind me about it
and somehow increased its throbbing.
I hadn’t thought that was possible.

Fortunately—for me at least—Dr.
Sarah strode down the hall
looking more harassed than anyone should.
“I’ve just been going over the lab
reports on Pete Norton,” she told Sarkisian.
“I—” She broke off and stared at
me.
“What the hell happened to you?”

“Who me?
Nothing.
Why?”

“Not today, Annike,” she sighed.
“I’m not up to it.
How
badly are you hurt?”

I resisted the urge to tell her she was the doctor.
She
really looked exhausted.
“Brian Quantrell put a temporary patch on me.
I’ll
hold together until you’ve got time for a quiet cup of coffee.”

“And your emergency chocolate stash?” she asked, the light
of hope in her eyes.

“I’ll dig it out for you,” I promised.
“But first go ahead
with your report.”

“Oh.
Right.
Norton’s lab work.” She took a deep breath,
refocusing.
“There wasn’t much.
He had a moderate amount of alcohol in his
system but not enough to be a contributing factor in his death.
Other than
possibly slowing down his reaction time.
That’s about it.
But Chris said you
had another body for me.
Did you mean Annike?” Her tone made it clear she was
not feeling amused.

Sarkisian filled her in on recent events.
She sighed again
and turned back to me.
“You just can’t resist getting involved, can you?
All
right, let’s look at you first.
It sounds like Mr.
Vanderveer won’t mind
waiting a little longer.”

We found a measure of privacy in one of the dressing rooms
and she subjected me to a thorough probing of my shoulder and arm.
At last she
sat back, a touch of her more normal cheerfulness lightening her expression.
“Looks like you got lucky.
It doesn’t feel like there’s anything broken.”

“Oh good.
How much worse would that feel?” I asked.

She grinned—typical doctor.
“You’ve probably got a few
things pulled a bit.
Want to go to the hospital for some x-rays just to be
sure?”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?”

This time she actually laughed, a sure sign she was fast
returning to her usual self.
“All right.
Keep it in that sling for now,” she
advised.
“I’ll stop by Gerda’s and take another look tomorrow.
Provided you
promise to have some of Charlie’s cinnamon rolls on hand.”

I promised and thanked her and accepted the small bottle
containing a few emergency pain killers she unearthed from a pocket in her bag.
Fortified by a shared handful of chocolate chips we returned to the hallway.
Sarkisian pounced on her at once and led her toward the basement where Roberta,
now assisted by Salvador Rodriguez—the only other member of the team who’d made
it—was hard at work.

I sought out a drinking fountain and swallowed a pill.

I assured myself that in about twenty minutes life would
feel a great deal better.

And I still had the barbecue and the fireworks show to
survive.

I tried not to think how much I wanted to go home and curl
up in a chair with a lapful of cats and drink a cup of chamomile tea spiked
with rum.

Or better yet, sneak off to Reno with Sarkisian and get
married.
No late flights out there?
Damn.

“You ought to sit down.”

I hadn’t even heard Sarkisian approach.
I leaned against him
and closed my eyes.
“Just tell me none of this really happened.”

He kissed my forehead.
“Wish I could.”

“Sheriff?” A young man I recognized as one of the members of
Connie Wessex’s string quartet approached us hesitantly.
“Sorry to disturb
you.”

Sarkisian let me go and turned to face him.
“What can I do
for you?”

The violinist worked his lower lip between his teeth,
obviously wishing he were anywhere else but here.
“It’s about Connie.
Damn I
feel uncomfortable about this.”

“That’s normal, especially when you know you should do
something but feel like you’re betraying someone by doing it.”

The man looked up, surprised.

“But you’re not really the one doing the betraying,”
Sarkisian went on, choosing his words with care.
“The person who expects you to
lie or conceal the truth is the one betraying themselves.”

The young man nodded.
“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“So what did Ms.
Wessex ask you to lie about?”

“She wanted us—the quartet—to say we were all together, all
the time.
But it isn’t true.
We were wandering all over the place.” His brow
furrowed and for a moment I thought he wouldn’t say anything else.
Then he
rushed ahead.
“I had the impression she slipped away at one point because we
couldn’t find her anywhere.
Then the next time I saw her was at least half an hour
later and she was coming up this hallway.
She’d probably just been in a
restroom or a dressing room or something like that.
I’m sure it’s not important
but…” His voice trailed off.

“Most likely,” Sarkisian agreed.
“But I appreciate your
telling me.
It makes it easier for me to sort everything out.”

The man seemed relieved that he hadn’t just gotten his
fellow musician into trouble.
He smiled, nodded to us both and walked away,
much more relaxed.

Sarkisian watched him go.
“I think,” he said slowly, “I need
to have a little chat with Connie Wessex.”

“You think she—” I broke off, not wanting to voice the
thought.

“I have an idea about what might be behind her
suspicious-looking activities but I might be wrong.
I need to be certain.”

“Come on, give.” I fixed him with a determined eye.
“I’ve
suffered enough in the cause of this investigation.
What’s she up to?”

“No reason not to tell you I suppose,” he decided.
“I think
she was meeting one of her several lovers.”

“Several?” I considered.
From what little I’d learned about
Connie Wessex it did seem probable.
She must have been seeing Brian Quantrell
and Ivan Janowski at the same time.

He nodded.
“I’ve heard about three she’s seeing at the
moment.
There might be more.
And from what I’ve been hearing about her tendencies,
meeting one of them in a dressing room back here, where they might get caught,
is very much her style.”

“How…brave of her,” I managed.
I started walking, just
wanting to get away from the auditorium.
“I’ve been thinking,” I began as we
exited through the stage door.

“Always dangerous,” Sarkisian interjected.

Something about his tone alerted me.
I eyed him, noting that
distant expression in his eyes that tends to mean something has just occurred
to him.

“You know who did it, don’t you?” I demanded.

“I think so,” he admitted.
“Things are beginning to fall
into place.”

I didn’t bother to question how sure he was of what he’d
worked out.
He’s the most thorough man I’ve ever met.
“And you don’t have any
proof?”

“Nothing solid that would stand up in court.” He slipped his
arm around my waist and pulled me close.
“It’s all pretty circumstantial.
Going
strictly by the evidence we have at this point, any one of them could have
committed all three murders.”

“So you’re basing it on character.”

He nodded.
“Even with extreme motivation, not everyone is
able to bring themselves to the point of actually killing someone else.
The
person we’re looking for struck out at Lee Wessex—whether with the intention of
killing him or just in anger, I’m not positive yet.
But they were also willing
to kill two other people only because of what they knew or guessed.”

“Self protection is a pretty strong motive,” I suggested.

“True.
But it isn’t always enough.
We’ve got someone here
who considers their own reputation or staying out of prison for a few years or
whatever to be more important than the lives of two otherwise innocent people.
That’s pretty callous and self-centered.”

“So basically, unless the person confesses, you’re stuck?”

“At the moment,” he agreed.

“You could set a trap,” I suggested but tentatively.

He gave me a pitying look.
“Remember what happened the last
time I set a trap?”

“I know, I know, I stumbled into it.
But this time I’ll know
ahead of time and—”

“And someone else might stumble into it.
I’m not taking that
risk.”

“But you can’t let this person get away with three murders.”
I shivered.
“Besides, murder seems to be becoming a habit with them.”

“They won’t get away with it.” He sounded determined but I
knew there was only so much he could do within the scope of the law.

Movement in an otherwise deserted area near the livestock
barns caught my attention and I realized it was one of Lizzie’s dogs—a blue
one—vanishing around a corner.
Where Lizzie’s dogs were, Lizzie wouldn’t be far
away.
Most people were either still in the auditorium or heading toward the
barbecue.
Lizzie and her little yappers were definitely bucking the trend.

“I wonder…” Sarkisian let the sentence trail off and strode
off in pursuit.

Being me, I hurried after him, clutching my elbow in its
sling to keep from jarring that shoulder any more than necessary.

Yes, there was Lizzie just disappearing into one of the
large structures not too far from the arena where—I hoped—the fireworks would
almost be ready for their appointed blast-off.
All nine of the little dogs in
their assorted colors flocked in with her, with Roomba patrolling the ground
for any possible scraps and Mazda hobbling along in her wake.

Rather than approach the barn directly, Sarkisian circled
around so he wouldn’t be seen by anyone inside.
Then he positioned himself
where he could look through the huge opening.
I took up a spot at his side.

It was pretty dark in there.
No lights had been turned on
and it was rapidly approaching dusk—which meant it was almost time for the
fireworks and I should be down there making sure everything was all right.
But
I wasn’t leaving Sarkisian until we knew what Lizzie was up to.

She hurried across to a man—her Uncle Martin, if she were to
be believed—and they engaged in an animated conversation that involved her
gesturing wildly.
The dogs rambled around, sniffing the fascinating odors of
the little stalls—except for Roomba who continued her diligent search for
anything she could inhale, edible or not.
She selected several things, spat one
back out then continued in high-powered vacuum mode.

Mazda suddenly let out a joyful yip and bounded toward us as
enthusiastically as anything as ungainly as a three-legged dachshund could
bound.
Lizzie spun around, her expression of dismay evident.
Sarkisian stepped
into the open as the doglet tried to scramble up his legs the better to be
patted.

“What do you want?” Lizzie demanded.
“You-you followed me.”

The man—Martin—shook his head.
“I’ve heard the sheriff is
pretty sharp, Lizzie.
I’ll wager he’s guessed about you already.”

She threw him a panicked look.

“No help for it,” Martin went on.
“It’ll be easier if you
just confess.”