Hot Dogs (9 page)

Connie seemed to be a woman who demanded perfection.
Both
her playing and her appearance hinted at that.
She might not have been able to
bear the stigma of having her husband rob her—not to mention everyone else—in order
to leave her.

Chapter Seven

It was almost nine o’clock before we finally called it quits
for the night.
I was hungry and grouchy, a matter that wasn’t helped any by the
fact that even though I could now go home, Sarkisian couldn’t.
I had a few
choice swearwords for dedicated law enforcement officers but he knew I wouldn’t
have him any other way.
But just this once I’d have liked him to whisk me off
to a candlelit dinner with white linens and flowers on the table and something
succulent accompanied by a vintage wine.
What I was likely to get would be a
bowl of cereal in a house empty of all except seven cats and my
parakeet—hopefully not sharing a room.

My beloved Aunt Gerda, who had taken me in over a year and a
half ago when I quit my accounting job and had found myself and my parakeet
homeless, had gone to San Francisco to see a play with Charlie Fallon and I
didn’t expect them back until sometime the next day.
I only had myself to blame
for that and I couldn’t be happier about it—except when I could use a little of
her wonderful cooking and even more wonderful sympathy.
It had been through
that disastrous Easter fete at the yacht club that she’d met Charlie.
I
suspected they might marry once I was safely off her hands and firmly in
Sarkisian’s.
I hoped so at least.
Aunt Gerda had grown accustomed to having
someone around her home and her cats appreciated the extra lap.
They’d all be
lonely when I moved out.
Or at the rate I was going that might be a great big
“if”.
Sarkisian was dragging his feet on the way to the altar.

After bidding Sarkisian a lingering farewell in the parking
lot I drove along the winding road that led from the fairgrounds through
farming fields, over the river and finally onto Last Gasp Hill, one of the two
main roads that intersect in Upper River Gulch.
A few minutes more took me up
the steep road beneath the overhanging pines and redwoods and through the
wrought-iron gate—always open—that marked the beginning of my aunt’s driveway.

I was surprised to spot lights through the trees as I wound
my way up the gravel toward the house.
Yes, lots of lights.
And there was
Charlie’s car—not the van he used to transport food for the café he now owns in
Upper River Gulch but the small sporty model he uses for fun.
What brought them
home a day early?
Frowning, I fumbled in the sunshade for the garage door
opener, clicked it then pulled into my parking place still labeled with the wood-burned
sign reading “Annike and Freya” and switched off the ignition.

As soon as I exited the garage—thereby triggering the safety
lamp that illuminated the twenty redwood steps leading up to the house that
perched above the garage—a large body hurtled out of the darkness and slammed
into my legs.
From the amount of drool now soaking my jeans I had no trouble
identifying my attacker as Boondoggle, the bloodhound mix that had adopted
Sarkisian last Halloween.
He stayed with us whenever Sarkisian was away at
school which was becoming distressingly more often as he’d completed all the
course work that could be done on-line and now had to appear more often in
person.
Distressing to me because he was away so much, not because we had
Boondoggle’s company all that time.
The cats had managed to whip him into
shape, which I suspected was one of the reasons he liked to be outside.
He also
liked to herd my aunt’s pet turkey, TediBird, which was fine by me.
That Damned
Bird and I had been in a state of open warfare since we’d first met.
Fortunately she’d have gone to roost for the night in her pen that we’d decked
out with the backseat of an old car—her favorite nesting place.
Life had
definitely improved in that respect.
She used to nest in Freya.

As I mounted the steps I didn’t trip over a single cat.
In
fact not one of the furry little beasties was anywhere to be seen.
It wasn’t because
Boondoggle accompanied me up the stairs though.
It might be summer but it still
gets cold and foggy here and the little monsters would be inside curled up
somewhere cozy.

I opened the door and was greeted by the wonderful aroma of
herbs and freshly baked bread.
Ah, the comforts of home.
From the living room I
could hear Cary Grant speaking which meant Charlie and Aunt Gerda were in there
watching a movie.
I closed the door took off my coat and hung it in the closet.
As I looked in, Charlie waved.
He couldn’t get up, not without dislodging the
three cats lined up along his legs which rested on a footstool.
Aunt Gerda though
scattered the two who filled her lap and rose to give me a welcoming hug.

“There you are, dear.
Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.
Please tell me there are some leftovers?”

“Lasagna,” Charlie said cheerfully.
“Not ours, we picked
some up on the way home.”

“Why?
I mean you were going to stay—”

“The news, dear,” Aunt Gerda explained.
“We picked up a
broadcast after the matinee, all about that man who stole the funds last year
being found dead at the fairgrounds.
And right when you were trying to launch
your event.
Has it been complete chaos for you?” Her sympathy wrapped around
me, as warm and comforting as a purring cat.

I trailed her into the kitchen where she brought a huge foil
pan from the refrigerator and scooped out a generous portion from the already
depleted contents.
While I popped it into the microwave to nuke it for a few
minutes, she added dressing to the remainder of their salad and placed it into
a bowl.
The loaf of herb bread I’d put in the machine before I’d left home that
morning now sat on the counter, a huge chunk missing but still fragrant in
spite of no longer being warm.
I cut a small slice then retrieved the lasagna
and settled at the table with a glass of wine.

Almost at once a heavy weight settled on my feet.
The
Siamese Olaf, judging by the bulk and the fur that now tickled the top of my
ankle.
A set of fangs were lovingly inserted into my other ankle, announcing
the presence of Furface.
Ah, the comforts—and sometimes discomforts—of home.
I
wouldn’t trade them for anything.
Except maybe an undisturbed evening with
Sarkisian.

“We checked on Vilhelm, gave him a new seed treat and
covered his cage,” Aunt Gerda assured me.
She caught the gray and white Dagmar
who tried to climb her way into my lap, the better to reach my dinner.

“Who’s handling the investigation?” Charlie called from the
living room.

“Owen arrived just in the nick of time,” I called back
between mouthfuls.
I still thought of him as Sarkisian most of the time—some
habits are hard to break—but I’d finally adjusted to calling him by his first
name.

Charlie’s contagious chuckle sounded.
“Lucky him.”

They both asked a lot of questions and I answered as best I
could but really not much had emerged yet.
I hoped Sarkisian was making
progress.
He had to return to school after the holiday and I wanted to spend at
least a few minutes with him when he wasn’t immersed in an investigation.
Hell,
I wanted to spend a few minutes with him when I wasn’t immersed in an event.

Another of the cats launched a successful assault on my lap
from the other side and I looked down to see the tiger-striped manx Hefty
settling in for the duration.
I caught his front feet as he began to knead my
legs and repositioned him.
He curled up purring.

Not for long though.
I finished my dinner and dislodged the
entire group as I stood to carry my dishes to the sink.
Aunt Gerda headed me
off, saying I looked too tired to stay on my feet and for once I allowed her to
shoo me off to bed and leave the clean-up to her.
And the cats.
I spotted the
black tom Clumsy living up to his name as he knocked over a wooden spoon and
upended a saucer on his way to investigate what I might have left.
The cats
could lick the plates so clean I’d joked with my aunt about being able to put
them away in the cupboard after their ministrations.
Not that we’d ever
actually done it of course, though I was tempted to try it some night when we
had guests over just to see their faces.

As Aunt Gerda had said, Vilhelm’s cage was covered and not
so much as a single cheep greeted my arrival.
I missed the parakeet’s normally
verbose greeting but it was way past his bedtime.
Mine too for that matter.

He made up for it in the morning with a raucous reveille.
His cage might still be dark but that never stopped him when he was in a cranky
mood.
And being locked in his cage all day without any company other than the
bird in his mirror always ruffled his little green feathers.
I let him out for
a flap around the room while I headed toward the bathroom for a quick shower.

Four of the cats were on parakeet patrol this morning, a
fact made obvious when I tripped over the rotund Siamese Olaf.
Calico Birgit
shifted to get herself out of my way but orange Mischief took advantage of my
stumble and dived for the door and the forbidden delights within.
I dragged it
closed just in time, catching him on the nose.
He slunk off to swat the
semi-innocent Dagmar who hunkered her gray and white furry body just behind the
others.

This was going to be just a typical morning for me, I
reflected as I got ready for my day.
On the whole it shouldn’t be too bad.
I
checked my schedule.
Yes, we were going to festoon the auditorium with red,
white and blue bunting and rosettes—when and if the ghoul squad finished with
them.
Then we were going to rehearse as many acts as could make it to check the
lighting and let them get used to being on the stage.
Some of the food trailers
had requested entry into the picnic area a day early so they would have time to
set up properly to be ready for the lunchtime festivities on the Fourth.
I had
to make sure we’d have extra sign-up forms and judging sheets for the ice cream
flavor contest, the cotton candy sculpting contest, the sand castle contest,
the balloon blowing contest, the berry recipe contest and the hot dog eating
contest.
Any contest dealing with food has made me uneasy since a rather
memorable pie-eating contest one Thanksgiving weekend but I steeled my nerves
to face it.

We’d finalized both the performance order and the marching
order during our quieter—to use the term loosely—moments the afternoon before.
We’d set up staging areas for the parade and rehearsal times for most of the
acts as well and posted them on the internet, not that I counted on anyone to
actually check the site.
And several of those who did would undoubtedly
complain about their position in the marching order and there’d probably be a
few who’d beg to have their position on the talent show program changed.
I’d
made a note to print out the program this morning and deliver it to Theresa to
take to the county office for official printing before the requests could come
in.

Toward late afternoon the trucks bearing the fireworks would
show up to start setting up their show.
Most of their work would take place
tomorrow though, hopefully safely distanced from the food booths, games and
contests that would begin as soon as the parade ended.
Speaking of tomorrow and
the fireworks exhibit…yes, I’d already triple checked with both high schools
our tiny county boasted.
They promised faithfully to have as many of their band
members as could be rounded up in the middle of summer on hand to play for the
entertainment of the crowd as they ate the barbecue dinner and took their seats
and waited for it to become dark enough to begin the show.
I read the list over
again.
No, on the whole today ought to be a relatively easy day.

Famous last words, a voice whispered in my mind but I
ignored it.

A louder, if tinnier one, began cheeping in my ear.
“Dirty
bird, needs a bath.
Yummy bird, here kitty, kitty.”

I removed Vilhelm from my shoulder where he pulled at
strands of my permed hair, transferred him to his cage then fetched his bathtub
and partly filled it with warm water.
He perched on the edge, eyed the bird in
the mirrored bottom then jumped in to attack it.
The sounds of loud squawking
and splashing followed me from the room.

This time only the black Clumsy awaited me and he only made
a token attempt to slip past to pay a visit to the parakeet.
After a year and a
half Aunt Gerda’s cats were finally coming to terms with being excluded from
bird territory.
That didn’t mean they wouldn’t try to break in of course but
they seemed resigned to failure.