Hot Dogs (6 page)

He kissed me again—sometimes the only way to shut me up.
“Dinner tonight,” he promised.
“We’ll talk about it.
Right now I have to get
back to work.
Mind spelling the people at the tables so I can talk to them?
One
at a time?”

“I’ve got the SCOURGEs coming.
Can I tag along for the
questioning?”

“When has my saying ‘no’ ever stopped you?”

“I love a man who understands me,” I assured him.

He took a step back toward me only to stumble over Mazda who
stood right between us, his doggy stare fixed upward on me.
I scooped the
little guy up to keep him safe and was again amazed at how hefty such a small
dog could be.

“Now,” Sarkisian began, that gleam in his eyes that promised
so much, “if I can just get you to—”

“Sheriff?” Connie Wessex peered around the curtain.
“There
you are.” She fluttered her unnaturally long lashes at him.
She’s even older
than I am but she looks incredible.
And it’s not all due to her designer
clothes and perfectly styled hair—the doing of Sue Hinkel, Upper River Gulch’s
genius salon artist.
She’s just one of those women who exude sex appeal without
even trying.

“What’s going to happen now?” she asked.
“I’ll have to make
funeral arrangements and…” Tears brimmed in her eyes.
“It’s going to be
ghastly, isn’t it, once the newshounds get hold of this?”

“We’ll deal with that when it happens,” he assured her, his
voice calm and soothing.
“Right now I need you to look at something for me.” He
drew out the plastic bag with the sheet of paper that had been in Wessex’s
pocket.

I thought he’d shown it to her in the parking lot when we’d
left them together.
Apparently he’d been saving it.
So why wait until now, I
wondered?
It probably had something to do with the way he won the confidence of
his suspects so he could slip in something they weren’t expecting at an
appropriate moment.
I didn’t fully understand how it worked, only that it did.

Connie stared at the sheet.
Even by the uncertain light I
would swear her face turned pale.

Chapter Five

Very slowly, Connie Wessex shook her head.
“No,” she said.
“I’ve never seen that one.”

Sarkisian said nothing, merely waiting with his eyebrows
raised and that slight encouraging smile on his face that seemed to assure his
victims he’d believe anything they cared to tell him.
It seldom failed to make
them spill far more secrets than seemed possible.
When he finally received his
doctorate in psychology he was going to be very, very good at his new job.

For a long moment their gazes held then Connie looked down.
“He
liked to make people nervous,” she said at last.
“I have no idea who this one
was for.”

“You mean he wrote it?” Sarkisian almost managed to keep the
surprise from his expression.

She nodded.
“He’d leave them for anyone who annoyed him.
It
didn’t matter that he rarely knew anything about the person.
Everyone has some
sort of secret they’re terrified will be discovered.
He had a cruel sense of
humor.”

“How did you find out what he was doing?
Did he ever give you
one of these?”

Dark color surged up her neck and across her face.
She
glanced at Mazda who panted happily in my arms then back to Sarkisian.
“I don’t
know anyone he didn’t leave one for at some time or other.”

He nodded, his expression one of sympathetic understanding.
“And yours probably didn’t mean any more than the rest of them did.”

“Of course they didn’t.
None of them ever did.”

Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose a fraction.
“They?”

She hesitated then shrugged.
“The first came through the
mail and could have been sent by anyone.
The second—that one showed up in the
middle of the dining room table.
Someone could have slipped into the house.
But
the third one he left that on my pillow and I caught him leaving the room.
When
I confronted him he just laughed and said if I didn’t have any secrets then I
wouldn’t have any reason to be upset.”

“And did you have any secrets?”

“I— Of course not.
At least nothing that matters to anyone
but me.
It’s not like I’ve done anything illegal.
I’ve never hurt anyone or
anything like that.
I never—” She broke off, apparently realizing at last she
was talking too much.

“That’s the way it is with most people,” Sarkisian agreed.
“Well thank you for clearing that up for me.
You’ve been a great help.”

“I— Yes, of course.” She gave him a tentative smile and
hurried away into the throng of people who hovered around the door.

“Hey, Annike,” a familiar woman’s voice shouted from
somewhere outside.
“Are you hiding in there?”

“Reinforcements at last,” I exclaimed in relief.
Even if I
weren’t anxious about getting volunteers to take over out here, I‘d have been
delighted to welcome Faith Alvarez.
She’s one of those rare individuals who is
as efficient as she is good-hearted.

I could just see the top of her gray curls.
Her husband Paul
would be somewhere nearby since he was as willing to pitch in and help with any
mess as was his wife.
I’d met them just over a year ago during a rather
harrowing Easter fete I was staging at the yacht club where they were members.
They had since moved to Upper River Gulch and become SCOURGE members, adding a
much needed note of sanity to that notably insane group.
I thrust Mazda into
Sarkisian’s arms and all but ran to greet them with open arms.
Any time they’re
helping I know things will get done properly.

“Am I glad to see you,” I exclaimed, hugging them both at
the same time.

“And we’re just the vanguard,” Paul assured me with his
normal cheerfulness.
“Sue and Neil are coming in a few minutes.
They’re just
stopping by the Still to make sure that new batch of blueberry liqueur is
coming along all right.”

Sue—that’s Sue Hinkel of salon fame—is engaged to Neil
Cartwright, an ex-air force pilot who has taken over the management of the
Still—more properly Brandywine Distillery—since the death of his Uncle Hugh
last October.
He’s been a great addition to Upper River Gulch and Sue has seen
to it he takes part in everything while he’s been recovering from losing his
leg when his plane was shot down.
She’s been as good for him as she’s been for
the whole town.
I make cracks about the SCOURGEs but I love every eccentric one
of them dearly.

“Give me about five minutes to get the committee settled
then you can start sending the talent to the stage,” I told them.

Faith grinned.
“Paperwork in hand?”

I nodded.
“I’ll stand by to receive.” When Sue and Neil got
here I’d have them take over that job, leaving me free to deal with the next
tasks.

With alacrity Lizzie and Vanderveer handed over their places
at the tables to Faith and Paul.
Sure in the knowledge that those two would
keep everything under control I herded the two committee members—plus Lizzie’s
dogs—toward the stage.
Only Roomba lingered with the crowd, her long pointy
nose fixed to the ground as she raced around fulfilling her function of
vacuuming up any stray scraps of food that might dirty the ground.

I gave the gathering horde of people one last uncertain
look.
I’d figured the show could run for approximately two hours, plus
intermissions, before the public called it quits and either stormed the stage
in protest or simply decamped from the auditorium.
It was beginning to look as
if we could pick and choose our acts.
The idea of sufficient talent lifted my
spirits which had sunk with the discovery of Lee Wessex’s body.

Over the hubbub of voices I heard Paul’s calm resonant
tones.
“No, you parade entrants just need to leave your photos and forms.
We’ll
post the marching order and your assigned staging area on the internet site by
three p.m.
No, no need to call us.
Just go to the site.
The address is right
there.
No, just under your finger.”

I closed my eyes, saying a prayer of thanks for Paul Alvarez
and the calming effect he had on people.
There was even a slight chance we’d
have the marching order ready by then.
We had set noon as the cut-off time for
the forms to be turned in since they’d been accepting them at both the county
courthouse in Meritville and on the website for the last two weeks.
Janowski—or
rather his assistant Theresa—had brought with them an impressively large stack,
considering how small our county is.
Janowski—or more likely Theresa—was
supposed to have sorted the papers by the type of group and I hoped she had.
Once I got the talent show hopefuls under the watchful eye of Sue and Neil I’d
have to retire to a semi-quiet corner and do some serious parade management.

“No,” I heard Faith’s voice rising in her tones of command.
“The auditions will continue this evening for those who have to work today.
We
won’t be able to announce which acts have been accepted until everyone has had
a chance to perform for the committee.”

I heard numerous complaints but left them to Faith.
I knew
from experience she was more than capable of dealing with a rebellious crowd.

“We’ll never get through all these people.” Janowski stood
at the edge of the stage, glaring at me as if this were my fault.

I closed my eyes briefly.
“That’s why I told the committee
we should start last weekend.”

If possible he glared even harder.
“We’re busy people with
important jobs.
We didn’t have the time to waste on days and days of this.”

“Well now you only have one,” I assured him and shooed him
back toward the front row of seats.

Sarkisian stood at the edge of the stage, still holding the
plastic bag containing Lee Wessex’s note.
Theresa, who had followed Janowski,
paused to cast it an uncertain glance.
She hadn’t been with us when Sarkisian
showed it to the others, I remembered suddenly.
And Janowski had said the
sheriff should ask her about it.

“Ms.
delGuardia?” With a slight gesture of his head, the
sheriff called her over.
She went with obvious reluctance.

Edward Vanderveer followed her.
“This won’t take long, will
it, Sheriff?
We’ve got to get these tryouts started.”

“No, not if you tell me what I need to know,” Sarkisian
countered.

Vanderveer stiffened.
“I’m sure I don’t know anything that
might help.” He eyed the plastic bag.
“What is that?”

Sarkisian told them, explaining where it had been found.

Theresa peered at it and the color drained from her face.
“Not
another one,” she breathed and tears started to her eyes.

“You’ve seen others?” Sarkisian kept his tone gentle, encouraging.

She nodded.
“On Mr.
Vanderveer’s desk.” She glanced at him.
“You must remember.”

Vanderveer glared at the current letter.
“I certainly do.”

“And now—I mean—oh I don’t know what I mean.
It just seems
so terrible that someone gave one to Mr.
Wessex too.
Or,” and her eyes widened,
“someone knew what…what a horrible thing he was doing and tried to stop him by
letting him know they knew?”

“We’ll definitely be looking into it.
And you received one
of these, Mr.
Vanderveer?”

He nodded.
“Exactly the same.
It’s not the sort of thing you
forget.
I mean it had to be a joke or a stab in the dark or something like that
but still—” His mouth tightened.
“It’s not pleasant.”

So apparently all was not well in the partnership even
before Wessex stole all that money.
Wessex had left Vanderveer one of his
notes—but was there a reason for it?
Had Vanderveer been up to something?
Or
had it just been intended to distress?
Knowing Sarkisian, he’d find out.

“Theresa,” bellowed Janowski.

Theresa looked up at the sheriff then away again.
“Is that
all?”

“Go ahead.
And thank you for your help.”

She gave him an uncertain smile and hurried to take a
position at Janowski’s side.

Edward Vanderveer watched her go, frowning.
“This has been
really hard on the poor woman.
She absolutely hero-worshipped Lee Wessex.
To
discover he was a thief almost destroyed her.
I’m glad she found a job that’s
demanding enough to keep her occupied.
And,” he added ruefully, “I gather she’s
transferred that worship to her new boss.
Janowski isn’t too pleased but at
least his wife doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Did Connie Wessex?” Sarkisian asked.

Vanderveer snorted.
“Connie jealous of someone as plain as
Theresa delGuardia?
I doubt Connie was aware of the woman as anything other
than a piece of office equipment.
No, Connie was…too busy to pay attention to
Theresa’s hero worship.”

Too busy doing what, I wondered?
Sarkisian’s impassive
expression gave nothing away but I bet he was registering the same question.

Footsteps sounded on the creaking floorboards and a group of
teenage girls joined us.
“Do we just go out on the stage?” one of them asked.

Vanderveer frowned at their clothes, which varied from
extremely short cutoff jeans to a knotted sarong barely covering an
almost-not-there bathing suit.
“Is that what you intend to wear if you get into
the show?
And what,” he added with growing disapproval, “do you do?”

“We’re a band,” the girl said despite the complete lack of
any supporting evidence.
They didn’t have so much as a single musical
instrument between them.

Another of the girls, whose short dark hair stood out in
surprisingly becoming spikes, looked dismayed.
“No one said we had to come in
costume.
You can see that on the audition DVD we brought.” She handed it over
along with their registration form.

Audition DVD?
That hadn’t occurred to me.
I experienced a
moment of pure panic before I remembered my laptop came equipped with a player.
We’d get through this, I kept telling myself.
We’d survive.

Theresa hurried over.
“Mr.
Janowski wants to know what the
holdup is.”