Hot Dogs (25 page)

“Has Sarah had a look at you?” she demanded when I’d given
her the edited version.

“And Brian Quantrell.
I’ve been thoroughly checked over.
I’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

“Poor dear.
Faith and Paul are around here somewhere and I
saw Sue and Neil about half an hour ago.
We’ll all pitch in and get this event
finished.”

If my shoulder hadn’t been aching so much I’d have leaned
across the table and kissed her.
As it was I could only thank her, which I did
with heartfelt sincerity.

The tall distinguished figure of Theodore McKinley, my late
husband’s uncle, pushed his way past the counter and into our little enclave.
“Is this where I get the best barbecue in the state?” he asked in the booming
voice that kept his students awake.

Uncle Theo is the head of the Classics Department at
Stowridge College, the small liberal arts school a few miles outside of
Meritville.
Over the years I’ve come to love him dearly.
He and my Aunt Gerda
were the mainstays that kept me from falling apart completely when my husband
was killed.
He and Sarkisian got along very well too.
They’d first met when
Sarkisian, who at that time had been sheriff of Merit County for less than a
week, had answered a disturbance call on the campus.

I settled in a folding chair provided by Charlie, and Uncle
Theo took a seat opposite.
Aunt Gerda and Sarkisian rounded up plates for all
of us.
I leaned back, closed my eyes and savored each mouthful.

Aunt Gerda went back to helping Charlie wait on the
customers.
Uncle Theo was questioning Sarkisian about the course of the
investigation.
I ought to be touring the picnic area again, smiling and making
conversation with the various cooks and attendees—playing my own role as
Goodwill Ambassador.
Thinking of which, I ought to be making sure Quantrell was
doing his job in that respect.
With two murders to live down this year, not to
mention the discovery of Lee Wessex’s body, this event was going to need all
the goodwill it could get.

“Why wait?” Uncle Theo asked.

My thoughts, I realized, had drifted from his conversation
with Sarkisian.
They zeroed back now and I came alert.
Had Sarkisian just told
him he’d figured out who the murderer was?

“It’s not fair to her.” Sarkisian kept his voice low.

“You think it’s fair to refuse to marry her?” A touch of
amusement colored Uncle Theo’s voice.

“Between the job and school—”

“There’ll always be excuses,” Uncle Theo interrupted.
“You’re saying you don’t have time to make a marriage work?
Believe me, a
relationship as solid as yours can survive anything except lack of commitment.
You’re the psychologist.
You should know that.”

“But living apart is no way to begin a marriage.
It’s more
like a way to end one.”

“Have you that little faith in her?
Annike’s not a child and
she knows what’s important in life—probably more than either of us considering
what she’s gone through.”

“Maybe when I’m done with the class work and I only have the
thesis left.” Sarkisian’s tone made it final, ending the discussion.
“How’s
everything in your department?” he went on, transitioning not very smoothly to
a new topic.

The conversation veered to the various people Sarkisian had
met during the course of that earlier investigation—thefts of computer
equipment amounting to enough to fund the guilty students through the rest of
their expensive educations but instead had gotten them arrested and
incarcerated, not to mention expelled.

I let them talk.
I had some thinking to do with probably a
good dose of conniving.
I wasn’t about to let Sarkisian’s overactive sense of
what he felt to be right ruin my marriage intentions.

His phone rang, interrupting all of us.
He answered then
listened.
“You’re sure?” he asked at last.
“Right.
Good job.” He snapped the
phone closed and shoved it back in his pocket.

“What is it?” I asked, opening my eyes at last.

“Looks like I have to go to work,” he said.
“I need to
arrest your Goodwill Ambassador.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“Brian Quantrell?” I gasped the name.
My mind raced.
He
certainly had motive, his prints had been on at least two of the murder
weapons, he’d been acting suspiciously and trying to stay out of the limelight
today…

Then the oddity of Sarkisian’s having said anything at all
about what he was going to do struck me.
He never let me know whom he was about
to arrest for murder for the simple reason he knew I wouldn’t be able to hide
my reactions if I saw the person before he did.

I fixed him with as compelling a gaze as I could manage.
“What for?”

“Impersonating a paramedic.”

“Impersonating—” I broke off.
“What do you mean?
Brian
Quantrell isn’t a real paramedic?
But he’s got the uniform,” I said lamely.
“He’s got a job.
Doesn’t that make him a paramedic?”

“He doesn’t have a real license.
Seems he failed his
training.
Twice.”

“Then how was he able to get hired?”

“It’s easier than you’d think to get a phony license.”

“That’s the internet for you,” stuck in Uncle Theo.
“You can
buy anything there.”

Charlie, who’d come near to listen, nodded.
“And get away
with murder,” he said then looked stricken at what he’d said.

I felt sick.
If Brian wasn’t qualified for the job, how many
people’s lives had he endangered in the course of his work?
And did that sort
of callous indifference extend to hitting inconvenient men over the head with
golf clubs and pieces of pipe?
After all, if he’d killed accidentally it might
not be that hard to kill on purpose.

“Do you have to arrest Quantrell immediately?” I asked.

He eyed me sympathetically.
“You don’t want your Goodwill
Ambassador arrested during your event?”

“Bad publicity,” I assured him.
“A month or two from now
would be ideal.
But I don’t suppose you can wait that long?”

“My first priority,” he said, “is to make sure no one else
gets killed.”

I shot him a searching look.
“You think it’s likely?”

“Very likely.
I want to take Brian Quantrell into custody
tonight.”

“He’s on duty, isn’t he?
As a paramedic, I mean.”

Sarkisian nodded as he rose.

“Can’t you even finish your dinner?”

“Later.
I don’t want to take any chances.” He carried his
plate to the trash can.

Janowski’s voice boomed out over the loudspeaker.
“The
fireworks will begin in fifteen minutes.
Please take your seats, everyone.”

All over the picnic area people began to stand and move in
the general direction of the stadium which wasn’t far away.
It was almost
completely dark, I realized, something that wasn’t obvious with all the lights
the vendors had switched on.
I checked my phone for the time.
Only five minutes
later than the worker had predicted.
I was impressed.
I could only hope the
guys from the fireworks company had done their jobs efficiently.
They’d
certainly done them fast.

Sarkisian struck off for the parking lot where the ambulance
was parked ready in case of need.
I followed, not wanting to be left behind.
I
still couldn’t believe Brian Quantrell was the killer but I’d felt that way
about others in the past.
There were times I suspected I must be a truly rotten
judge of character.

“How can someone have it in them to kill in cold blood and
still seem like a really nice person?” I asked in a rather small voice.

He wrapped his arm about me briefly.
“You never want to see
the bad in people, do you?”

Progress was slow.
People kept stopping us either to
congratulate me on the success of the talent show or to ask Sarkisian about the
deaths of Lee Wessex and Pete Norton.
I thanked my well-wishers.
Sarkisian
returned the usual “it’s too early yet to comment” response.
If we ran into
Xena Osenika though she’d never accept that as an answer.
And we’d never get
rid of her.
With as little fuss as we could manage—we didn’t want to attract
attention—we disentangled ourselves from the crowd and struck out once more in
search of Brian Quantrell.

That had all taken too much time.
The first rockets exploded
into the air as we reached the path.
We instinctively looked up to see the
brilliant display of colored lights that blossomed in the dark sky.
Apparently
they’d decided to start with a real bang.

Excited yipping erupted from nearby and I didn’t have to
look to know who was there.
A bevy of excitable doglets charged around the
corner, some staring skyward at the fading lights and lingering smoke, others
making a beeline for Sarkisian and me.
I leaned down to fend off the excited
Roomba who ran full tilt into my legs.
Sarkisian caught Mazda who had put on a
surprising turn of speed on his three legs.
There was obviously no slowing some
doglets down.
This one could still zoom.

Lizzie appeared in the rear with a number of the colorful
poodles on leashes.
“Fireworks always make them crazy,” she called, which we
could take for an apology if we liked for the racket they made.

“Poor things,” I said and meant it.
“Wouldn’t they be
happier away from here?”

“I’d left them in the van with their treats and chew toys
but they’re less afraid when they can see what’s going on.” She narrowed her
eyes.
“Where are you headed?
I’d have thought you’d be in the stands.
Has something
happened?”

“Just doing a perimeter sweep,” I said.
“I’m working,
remember?”

Her face relaxed into a smile, illuminated as another
explosion of both rockets and upset poodles and dachshunds filled the night
with both light and far too much sound.
“This has been a fantastic day.
At
least—” She broke off and gave an uncertain shrug.
“You know what I mean.
You
did a good job for us.”

I thanked her.
I’d certainly worked hard.
And it was not my
fault a body had been found and two more people had been murdered.
After all,
that all revolved around last year’s event.
Not my responsibility at all.

We watched as a series of smaller balls of fire exploded to
the accompaniment of more yipping from the doglets.

“Are you going to try to watch the ground sets with them?”
Sarkisian asked.

Lizzie shook her head.
“I’ll take them back to the van
first.
But right now I need them to get some exercise.” With that she waved at
us and set off across the fairgrounds, away from the stadium.

“Pandemonium on the paw.” Sarisian shook his head.

“Boondoggle is much better behaved,” I assured him with less
than the truth.

“Trained by your aunt’s cats,” he agreed.

“And That Damned Bird.”

We reached the lot at last and spotted the ambulance at
once, which was parked in a strategic position for rapid access and escape from
the grounds.

A paramedic—not Brian—leaned against the side, his arms
folded as he watched the display lighting up the sky.
He nodded at us as we
approached.
“All quiet?”

“Except for the Hot Dogs,” Sarkisian agreed.
“Where’s your
partner?”

“Brian?
Didn’t he find you?”

Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose.
“Was he trying to?”

“Yeah.
Said he’d thought of something and wanted to tell
you.
Took off about ten minutes ago.
I’ll call him if you like.”

“Please do.”

The paramedic placed the call and as soon as Quantrell
answered told him the sheriff was at the ambulance.
I couldn’t hear what Brian
responded but the other paramedic said, “Right.
I’ll tell him,” and
disconnected.
“He asked if you’d join him at the picnic grounds.”

Sarkisian thanked him and we started back the way we’d come.
“Why don’t you join your aunt?” he suggested after we were out of earshot of
the ambulance driver.

I hesitated.
In all honesty I was surprised he’d let me
accompany him this far.
“You’ll be careful?”

His smile warmed me.
“I’ve got a lot to live for.”

He kissed me and the sky lit up with brilliant lights.
It
might have had something to do with another rocket going off at that moment but
I preferred to think otherwise.

The yapping that continued, even after the reverberations of
the rocket had faded away, warned us we would shortly have company.
He released
me with obvious reluctance.

“Go on,” he said softly.

I kissed him again quickly and started along the path.
The
bang of another rocket reverberated through the night only this one was
accompanied by screams of fear rather than enjoyment from the crowd.
I stopped,
alert, even as Sarkisian broke into a run.

“The damn thing’s going into the woods, not the sky,” he
yelled at me.

Already he punched buttons into his phone, probably calling
the fire department.
They had a truck on the premises in case of an emergency
like this.
They’d have it under control in a short time.
I hoped.
I followed
Sarkisian, not toward the picnic grounds or the stadium but to where we could see
flames rising into the air.
The ache in my shoulder slowed me down but I kept
going.

I could guess what had happened.
One of the firework stands
hadn’t been properly anchored.
The force of the rocket taking off had knocked
it over, altering the course of the damn thing.
I could only be grateful it
hadn’t gone into the crowd.

At the back of my mind I knew a moment of thankfulness that
I hadn’t hired the fireworks company, that they were the same one the county
used every year.
They couldn’t blame me for this latest fiasco.
Could they?

Hell, of course they could.
At least they could try.

A siren blared forth though why they bothered I couldn’t
imagine.
The truck wasn’t rolling very far.
A number of people already dashed
into the treeline, Sarkisian among them.
I went as well.
I’d stay out of
people’s way but I wanted to be on hand to help—if there was anything I could
do.

The Hot Dogs were yipping and yapping up a storm, racing
every which way in their excitement.
Most of them trailed leashes and I made an
attempt to snatch at one as the blue poodle attached to it dashed past.
The
firemen definitely did not need this.
I lunged for another leash but the sudden
pain in my shoulder made me slow and straighten.

“Annike?” Quantrell ran up to me.
“You all right?
Don’t try
to bend down.”

I winced.
“I’d figured that out.”

“Better go back to the stands,” he told me and took off
again.

As he entered the line of trees I heard him say, “What?” in
a startled voice then he collapsed on the ground.

Oh god, not another one, not another one,
kept
repeating over and over in my mind as I stumbled toward him.

If anything the barking became even more piercing and
frenetic.
Colorful poodles and the sturdy log-shapes of the dachshunds seemed
to be everywhere.
I was screaming Sarkisian’s name, I realized.
As I fell to my
knees at Quantrell’s side I felt something swish through the air where my head
had been a moment before.

I ducked and rolled, crying out at the sharp pain shooting
up my neck, across my shoulder and down my arm.
I continued rolling, half my
mind screaming with the continued throbbing, the other half hearing the
crashing through the underbrush of more than one person and the yammering of
two dachshunds and at least half a dozen poodles in full pursuit.

“Oh god.” Quantrell sat up, his hand going to his head,
probing gently.
“Damn.”

“Brian?” My voice came out far shakier than I’d hoped.

“Annike?” He struggled to his knees then bent forward on all
fours.
“What did I run into?”