HotDogs

by Janice Bennett

  This call proved to be from the leader of one of the equestrian groups, the Peruvian Pasos. “Where do I tell our members to park their horse trailers?” she demanded.

  I swallowed back several impolite responses. “It’s posted on the website,” I reminded her.

  “I don’t have a computer with me. Can’t you just tell me?”

  I checked my notes and gave her the name and block of the street set aside for them. The caller rang off satisfied and I heaved a sigh of relief. At least someone was happy. Did that count as something going right?

  The lighting and sound checks started up again so apparently Vanderveer had returned to his perch. I stood in the wings watching Debra Carlisle’s little tap dancers performing a hilarious version of “Putting on the Ritz” retitled—and appropriately choreographed—“Putting on the Mitts”.

  Sarkisian came up behind me and I leaned back against him. He slid his arms around my waist and kissed my temple. “A moment of calm.”

  “Rare aren’t they?” I agreed.

  He straightened, his hold on me loosening and I craned my neck to see what—or more likely whom—he was watching. “Ivan Janowski?” I asked out loud. “Is he doing something suspicious?”

  I felt more than saw him shake his head. “Just reviewing.”

  “Do it so I can hear,” I invited.

  “Well, he’d had a very longstanding feud with Lee Wessex and it exploded again last year, probably over his having an affair with Connie Wessex. And his wife can’t vouch for where he was around the time Wessex was probably killed.”

  “True. But other than motive and opportunity?”

  Sarkisian shook his head. “Nothing tangible.”

  “At least not yet?”

  “Not yet,” he agreed.

  “But did he have a reason for killing Pete?” I added.

  “We’re still looking into Norton’s background.”

  “You think the murders might not be related?” I demanded, skeptical.

  “Now that would be an amazing coincidence. But it’s always a possibility, however remote.”

  “Unless someone took advantage of our discovering Wessex’s body and killed Pete, hoping we’d think it was the same person?”

  He hugged me. “You really think so?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But there’s always a chance. A good cop,” I added, “keeps his mind open to all possibilities.” That was one of my late husband’s rules and he’d been a damn good sheriff.

  Sarkisian raised his head, probably in response to one of the bangs that had been echoing down from the lighting area and a note of abstraction crept into his voice. “Very true.”

  “What just occurred to you?” I demanded.

  “Do you remember how long it took Vanderveer to find the fuse box? It was almost as if he were trying to prove to us he didn’t know where it was.”

  “He’s done a show here before,” I agreed, frowning. “But he said Pete took care of things, so maybe Vanderveer really didn’t know where to find the fuse box.” Though I’d thought we’d searched in an awful lot of wrong places before going to the most obvious one. It just hadn’t occurred to me before now it might have been on purpose. “You think he’s the one who turned out the lights? But he was up there.” I pointed over our heads.

  “He could have overloaded the circuits on purpose,” Sarkisian suggested. “Or set something up in the fuse box.”

  “Like a timer?” I know absolutely nothing about electricity except the stuff can be dangerous if not handled with care. “You think Pete caught him rigging something?”

  Sarkisian let out a long breath. “As a very wise sheriff of this county once—or probably frequently—said, it’s best to keep your mind open to any and all possibilities.”

  Before I could answer, his phone rang. He kissed me quickly then answered it. The voice on the other end sounded like a woman’s. Dr. Sarah, I realized.

  The rock band awaiting their turn to be tested for lights and sound gathered closer, obviously wanting to hear whatever it was the sheriff might say. Sarkisian made a face at me and headed outside, away from the prying ears and I sighed. I’d have to get the autopsy information out of him later. At least as much as I was likely to understand. I know my limitations.

  Janowski wandered up the steps at the edge of the stage and glanced at his watch. He’d been doing that a lot, I realized. It had stuck on the fringes of my mind, not fully noticed but not completely overlooked either. Most people I know these days use their cell phones to tell them what time it is. Not Janowski. He probably had a very fancy watch. Was he trying to draw attention to it?

  No, I realized suddenly. If anything he was being very surreptitious. That focused my gaze on him. He was up to something.

  He checked his watch again then drew in a deep breath. He waved Lizzie over and said something I couldn’t hear to her. She shrugged and nodded absently and he walked toward the side door. Unfortunately for him I was standing near it, propping up the wall.

  His eyes widened as he saw me and he came to an abrupt halt. It might have been my suspicious imagination but he looked a bit panicky. “Just—” he broke off. “Just stepping out for a breath of air. It’s stuffy in here.”

  The side door was still wide open from when the lights had gone out but he was right, it was stuffy. But the state of the air had nothing to do with his reason for checking his watch. I nodded absently and pretended to be absorbed in watching the rock band setting up their drum kit.

  Janowski strode quickly past me. When he’d exited the building I pulled out my phone to see what time it was. One forty-three. Did he need to be somewhere or see someone at two? Or even, if he was headed somewhere just outside, at one forty-five?

  Only one way to find out.

  I peered out the door, searching for Sarkisian but as always there was never a cop when you needed one. I slipped outside after Janowski. After all, I could need fresh air too, couldn’t I?

  One forty-five it must have been. Janowski hadn’t gone very far—less than thirty yards from where I stood in fact. He was with another man and I gained the impression of his being young, tough and definitely not someone I’d like to meet in a dark alley. Janowski looked like he didn’t want to meet him in the middle of an open parking lot on a brilliantly sunny day. And even I could tell they were arguing.

  The man, who was facing my direction, said something to Janowski and left abruptly. Janowski spun around and his expression when his gaze met mine was one of abject dismay.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “The guy needed directions,” Janowski called to me. It must have sounded lame even to himself because he hurried past me, his gaze now averted.

  Interesting.

  Sarkisian emerged from around the far side of the building. “I just saw Frank Greer,” he said, frowning. “What was he doing here?”

  “Young and tough? You know him? According to Ivan Janowski, asking for directions,” I said. “Who is he?”

  “Ever hear of Hank Kaufmann?”

  “The name sounds familiar.” And then it hit me. My late husband had run into him a few times—strictly in the line of his sheriffing duties. “He’s a loan shark, isn’t he?”

  Sarkisian nodded. “Operates just a hair this side of the law.”

  “And this Frank Greer works for him?”

  Sarkisian eyed me with a look I had come to know—and dread. “You busy tonight?”

  “Something tells me you aren’t asking me for a date.”

  His slow, devilish grin flashed. “We could combine business with pleasure,” he suggested.

  “Your place or mine? And while we’re on the subject, why isn’t your place also mine?”

  “Annike—”

  I held a finger to his lips. “I know what you’re going to say. We’ve been having this same argument for the last six months. I am not waiting to get married until after you finish your degrees.”

  “I’m living in two places. If I don’t have work
to do for the department I have work to do for school. That’s no way to start a marriage.”

  I fixed him with a stern eye. “Boondoggle needs a proper home, not this bouncing around between your apartment and Aunt Gerda’s house.”

  “Next,” he said accusingly, “you’ll be saying he needs parents.”

  “Well?”

  He smiled, albeit reluctantly. “We’ll talk about it when we get this business settled.”

  “No more talking, Owen. What we’re doing when we get this business settled is getting married.”

  “Annike—”

  I kissed him. Sometimes that’s the only way to shut him up. “My place. Tonight. Boondoggle and I—and the cats and Vilhelm and Aunt Gerda—will be waiting.” And with that I walked off before he could start the arguments again.

  I had no illusions about why he’d wanted to know if I were busy. If Ivan Janowski were involved with a loan shark, Sarkisian would want me to look into his financial position. Not that I could see where it had anything to do with the year-old murder—or even poor Pete’s for that matter—but one never knew.

  The fairgrounds crew arrived, fresh from decorating the outside of the auditorium and ready to begin work on the inside. Janowski turned to this new task with enthusiasm and was soon issuing contradictory instructions to any of the men he could grab hold of. I cringed but resolutely set to work pouring the proverbial oil over the waters Janowski was so busily agitating.

  Somehow we got through both that and the rest of the sound and light testing. My phone was ringing almost nonstop now with people who couldn’t figure out the relatively simple process of looking something up on an internet site. I talked to Marchers who wanted to make sure the site had their correct staging area and to Foodies just checking in. Apparently in this computerized age they still wanted the reassurance of a human voice.

  As I at last left the auditorium in the company of Ivan Janowski, Edward Vanderveer and Theresa delGuardia, I spotted Sarkisian talking animatedly on his phone. He merely waved to me—not much considering what I wanted but I’d long since learned how to make do with scraps. He pointed to the instrument indicating either he couldn’t get off the call or he’d ring me later or possibly both then turned his back on us.

  “Think he’s found a clue?” Vanderveer asked, raising his eyebrows at me.

  I shrugged. I was too tired to speculate.

  We made the rounds of the Foodie site, double checking to make sure the space assignments were still posted. They were—but despite my reassurances to everyone who had talked to me, a few had taken it upon themselves to change their locations. Janowski and Vanderveer began arguing with someone who had appropriated what he claimed to be a more advantageous space. It didn’t matter how often we explained that the spots had been assigned by drawing names and numbers. No one seemed happy.

  It was long past lunchtime and I was starving. Something warned me though this might not be just the right moment to ask if any of the Foodies who were currently there had any samples they’d like to dish out. It might have been the small crowd beginning to gather around Janowski, Vanderveer and their current opponent. A few of the people closing in on us had an aggressive bearing and were probably hoping that if anyone was going to get a better spot it would be them. Theresa and I tried to calm things down but we seemed to make very little headway.

  Abruptly Janowski swung to face Vanderveer. “You keep out of this, you interfering idiot. I’ll handle it.”

  “What ever gave you the delusion you know how to handle people?” Vanderveer shot back at him.

  “I,” pronounced Janowski, “am a county supervisor. I’m in charge here.”

  And the argument was off and festering.

  The crowd seemed about evenly torn between being entertained by the committee members’ fight and angry that the two men were no longer addressing the space issue. I eased myself into the background and stayed out of it. The animosity between these two seemed to be growing by the minute. It gave me a very uneasy feeling and I wondered if I ought to warn Sarkisian we might have another body on our hands soon.

  But would it be Ivan Janowski’s temper that got the better of him or would precise Edward Vanderveer reach breaking point and hit Janowski over the head?

  For one horrible moment I could see it happening, Vanderveer’s careful air of restraint shattering, his eyes glazing over, his thin mouth cracking in a manic grin as he seized the nearest blunt instrument…

  A vision of Pete’s head, with its multiple bashes, came to mind and I felt ill.

  By the time we headed back toward the parking lot, Vanderveer and Janowski weren’t speaking. On the whole that was an improvement—or at least it would have been if they both hadn’t kept telling me what they wished me to convey to the other. And what they wanted me to say for them was becoming increasingly more impolite. Theresa prudently kept herself too busy taking notes to be of any help in passing along the ruder messages though she did occasionally make soothing sounds.

  It was a relief to climb into Freya and slam the door on the others. Unfortunately we were all headed over to check on the parade route which meant I’d be meeting up with them again all too soon.

  Compared to the Foodies, the Parade check went smoothly. The workers had erected the grandstands, draped them with buntings and hung the banners over the street. Numerous trash and recycling bins now lined the route and the posters marking the staging areas hung in the correct positions—and no one had altered them.

  I ran through my mental checklist. Decorations—check. Parade—check. Picnic—cringe but check. Talent show—as checked as anything could be. Barbecue—another cringe but check. I forced the Foodies and their complaints out of my mind. Fireworks—now scheduled to arrive early on the Fourth. Not a thing I could do about them, so a temporary check there too.

  It hit me with all the force of intense shock that I didn’t have anything else I had to do until the following day.

  I’m not dumb. I lit out for home.

  I arrived at Aunt Gerda’s to an enthusiastic greeting from Boondoggle. The ungainly hound bounded and leapt around Freya as I pulled up to the garage at a snail’s pace so I wouldn’t run over the idiot hound. Letting Freya inside meant letting in Boondoggle as well and the ridiculous beast crouched his front end low while wagging the whole rear in his delight at seeing me again. The moment I excited the car he was all over me, sniffing and whining—a sure sign he could detect some trace of Sarkisian’s scent on my clothes.

  The dog further endeared himself to me by chasing—albeit halfheartedly—TediBird. I always felt that obstreperous and demanding turkey could use a good chase though in truth I never wished her serious harm. Despite comments to the contrary I preferred her roosting to roasting but then I’ve always been a soft touch where animals are concerned. With Boondoggle’s aid I locked her in her cozy pen with her dinner.

  Several of the cats trailed along in their usual unhelpful way. It was a warm evening with dusk still more than an hour away—a miracle for me to be home so early the night before an event—and this lot of furries were probably on gopher patrol. They seemed more than willing to abandon it though for the prospect of a lap.

  I let us all into the house. “Where’s Charlie?” I called. His car hadn’t been in the yard.

  Aunt Gerda stuck her head out of the kitchen. “You’re home early, dear. Congratulations.”

  I sank into one of the brightly painted chairs that surrounded the kitchen table. “Charlie?” I asked again. Teeth lovingly attached themselves to my ankle and I bent down to detach Furface and scoop him into my lap.

  “His daughter only just arrived and she was too tired after her long drive to come over tonight.”

  I nodded as I rearranged the cat to allow for the rotund Olaf to join us. I could understand being tired after a drive. “Owen will be along eventually,” I warned her. “Whenever he can get free. And he’s bringing work for me.”

  “Then we’d better make extra dinne
r,” my aunt decided and proceeded to chop more chicken into whatever delectable concoction she was creating.

  I got out the candles and wineglasses though wine might be a mistake. I needed to stay awake and alert if I were supposed to make sense out of financial data. To be honest though I’d rather be hazy and half asleep. Come to think of it, I already was.

  The gentle roar of the official Jeep announced Sarkisian’s arrival much earlier than I’d expected. I had just sat again at the table but I unceremoniously dumped the cats that had once more settled on me and hurried to the door. I had it open before he reached the top stair. If Boondoggle hadn’t been trying to knock me over to get at his master first I might have gotten the sort of kiss I’d been longing for all day.

  He finally made it inside, set down the box of papers and files he carried, greeted Boondoggle to the hound’s temporary satisfaction, detached Furface’s teeth from his ankle and at last turned his attention to me. “What smells so good?” he asked when he could speak again.

  “Hello, Owen.” Aunt Gerda greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “Just chicken soup and rolls.”

  “Just.” He rolled his eyes. Aunt Gerda’s soup and rolls always managed to taste even better than their fantastic aroma. Of course everything she cooked did.

  I gestured to the box. “Anything interesting in all those papers?”

  “Haven’t looked at them yet. I just wanted to get over here.”

  “They can wait until after we’ve eaten,” Aunt Gerda told him.

  We cleared a path through the cats to reach the table. I brought out the salad bowl and the furry little monsters swarmed in and settled on our laps or feet. Boondoggle behaved himself—considering this was Boondoggle—and lay at Sarkisian’s side panting with that ridiculous tongue of his hanging out. The rotund Olaf curled his body next to the hound’s. Birgit joined them.

  I shook my head. “He’s a hot dog.”