HotDogs

by Janice Bennett

  Sarkisian grinned. “Better one large one than Lizzie Mobley’s gang of pint-sized yappers.” So spoke a man who likes his dogs on the large and drooly side.

  We talked about anything other than the murder investigation and the Fourth of July festivities while we ate. Dinner, according to Aunt Gerda, was definitely not a time to discuss anything stressful. So between the conversation, the wine, the wonderful food and Sarkisian’s presence, I began to unwind.

  Finally we finished our last bites and I reluctantly stood to clear the table. I reached for the plates but Aunt Gerda stopped me and shooed both me and Sarkisian off to the living room to begin work on the financial records.

  “It looks like there are a lot of them,” she said as a clincher.

  With that I had to agree. There were far more files than I would have expected.

  “I got everyone’s,” he said on a note of apology.

  Oh damn, just what I didn’t need. I wanted to curl up with Sarkisian and go to sleep to prepare for the madhouse of tomorrow. But it didn’t look like that was going to happen any time soon.

  We started on Ivan Janowski’s records since it was his fault I was stuck doing this. I began five years back to get a general picture and the one that emerged was a bit of a mess. He had a habit of very large expenditures, mostly on furnishings, art, clothes and jewelry for himself and his wife. He was the major spender judging from the signatures on the checks though his wife did her share. And it all far exceeded his income.

  Curious as to how he had avoided bankruptcy, I made a more thorough check of his deposits. Aside from the normal paychecks and stock dividends I came across one for twenty thousand dollars in cash. That was followed by cash withdrawals of fifteen hundred dollars each month and a sharp decrease in spending. Then the withdrawals stopped abruptly after twenty-eight months.

  “That’s a pretty steep interest rate,” I said slowly. “Except if it was a loan he would have received it in a check.”

  “That,” said Sarkisian, “sounds like his link to Hank Kaufmann.”

  So Janowski had sought the help of a loan shark. “But if his loan was paid off almost two years ago…” I let my speculation trail off and continued to check the one place we’d find answers.

  Sure enough the same month he made his last “loan” payment—or whatever it was—his spending spree resumed. In a matter of four months this time he was bouncing checks again. And there, not surprisingly, came another deposit of twenty thousand in cash. The monthly withdrawals of fifteen hundred also resumed but only for about five months. Then they dropped to one thousand then five hundred and his spending on other items skyrocketed again. In May, just over a month ago, the withdrawals stopped.

  “And at the beginning of July,” Sarkisian mused, “one of Hank Kaufmann’s enforcers pays him a rather unpleasant visit.”

  I sighed as I set the folder aside. “So that explains that guy—what was his name?”

  “Frank Greer.”

  “Frank Greer,” I repeated—the only way I can ever remember names. “And why Janowski was so upset. But it doesn’t have anything to do with either murder.”

  “Unless you happen to know that Pete Norton was also one of Hank Kaufmann’s enforcers.”

  I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I closed it and swallowed. “Are you serious?”

  He nodded. “Hank himself called to let me know. Most of the people he employs to keep an eye on his loans, as he phrases it, keep a low profile. They have other jobs and merely pay visits to convey messages from Hank and remind the loan recipients of their obligations. Pete Norton was one of those. Frank Greer only gets sent in when hints and reminders aren’t enough.”

  “Hank Kaufmann actually called you?”

  Sarkisian grinned. “The guy likes to make sure he stays on the right side of the law.”

  “Not by much,” I interjected.

  “Not by much,” Sarkisian agreed. “But somehow Hank manages it. And so far Frank Greer hasn’t been convicted of grievous bodily harm—though we suspect it’s because none of the victims want to press charges. As soon as Hank heard about Pete Norton’s murder he called the department to let us know about their connection.”

  “His is a legal business but he thinks it’s important to let you know a murder victim was one of his employees?”

  “‘Occupational hazard’, Hank called it.”

  So had Janowski killed Pete in a fit of rage or panic? Could he possibly have had the mistaken belief that getting rid of Pete would get Hank off his back? People have had even stranger ideas than that.

  It certainly gave Janowski a reason not to admit to seeing Pete. And Pete’s association with Hank Kaufmann would have been enough for a judge to grant the search warrant for the financial records.

  With a sigh I turned my attention to the next file.

  Lizzie Mobley’s records for the most part were exactly what one would expect. She received a moderate salary for her management of Merit County First and took in a small amount on the side with performances by Hot Dogs. I was surprised though she didn’t supplement her income with dog training. It would have seemed an obvious thing for her to do. She wasn’t rich by a long shot and her bills for the vet and the dog food ate up—so to speak—the majority of her income. Still she kept herself out of the clutches of men like Hank Kauffman.

  Edward Vanderveer’s thick file lay next in the stack. I shuddered but dutifully worked my way through the banks statements.

  “It was lucky for him the partnership of Wessex and Vanderveer was incorporated,” I said when I finally reached the previous year. “No one could touch his personal assets when the company went bankrupt.” And he’d come out of it better than I’d realized—with a good deal more than just the million dollars from personal investments I’d already heard about. I couldn’t help but wonder if any of his wealth had been derived from redirected client funds but to determine that for certain I’d need to get hold of the company’s books, not just his personal records. “How much money was in Lee Wessex’s briefcase?” I asked, following that line of thought.

  “As far as we can tell, everything collected from the Fourth of July events.”

  “But not what he’d stolen from his business or his own bank accounts and not Connie’s jewelry?” I stared at him. That’s never time wasted. It’s a pleasant view.

  Sarkisian shook his head. “He wouldn’t have been carrying those when he was killed.”

  “So they were probably in his car along with his suitcase,” I mused. “And whoever killed him…kept them? Disposed of them?”

  “They haven’t turned up yet,” he assured me.

  “Safe deposit boxes?” I ventured.

  “Only Janowski, Vanderveer and Connie Wessex have them and none of them contained the missing jewelry.”

  “Personal safes?”

  “Becky and John are checking for those tonight but those can be easy to hide.”

  I considered. “I can see someone getting rid of his clothes but not the money and jewelry.”

  “Unless Wessex hid everything himself.”

  I thought about that. “You mean he might have planned to meet someone? He’d stashed everything else he’d stolen before he got to the fairgrounds with the intention of picking it up on his way to the airport? Then he shoved the briefcase into that wall before whoever it was got there?” In which case I might be wasting my time trying to find mysterious deposits in people’s accounts since the Fourth of July last year.

  “It’s beginning to look like that’s a real possibility,” Sarkisian confirmed.

  “And therefore his murder had nothing to do with his thefts?”

  “Or we have one very disappointed and frustrated killer to look for.”

  I completed Vanderveer’s records and couldn’t help but wonder if the man’s wealth had anything to do with the animosity felt by Janowski. One had all the wealth and the other wanted at least the appearance of it. But those thoughts were just sidetracking me.
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  I turned next to Brian Quantrell’s folder and a pattern of modest salary and modest expenses emerged almost at once. No hidden extravagances, no apparent vices—except his membership in a golf club and a fairly expensive guitar. I diligently went over every entry until I reached a surprise.

  “Five thousand in cash?” I looked up from the neat rows of numbers on the statement. “On the twenty-second of July last year.”

  Sarkisian, who’d been standing behind me with a cup of coffee, leaned forward, resting his chin on my shoulder as he studied the page. “Well well well. Another of Hank’s beneficiaries? Does he pay it back?”

  I turned to the following month but there were no cash withdrawals and nothing from his ATM card that might have indicated the payback of a loan. I checked all the way up to the present and found no sizeable withdrawals. The money was still there, basically untouched.

  “Interesting.” Sarkisian frowned as he resumed the seat beside me.

  At once Clumsy crawled into his lap. I could only be grateful the animal didn’t insinuate himself into the middle of all these financial records. He lived up to his name.

  Theresa delGuardia was next. According to the automatic deposits she’d earned no more than a moderate salary from Wessex and Vanderveer. That surprised me, considering how efficient the woman was. Apparently her fierce loyalty had stopped her from seeking more lucrative employment elsewhere. And I was sure she could have found it. Her salary as assistant to Janowski was proof of that. The county was careful with its spending but it kept good employees by paying them as much as it could manage.

  But she would hardly have killed her former employer just so she could feel free to change jobs. That would have been a very strange twist on loyalty.

  No outstanding expenses here either. She’d taken a yearly vacation—a very affordable four-day cruise down the Mexican coast, judging by the name of the on-line tour company to which she made out the checks. Hey, I keep track of these things. Someday I’m going to take a vacation. At the rate we’re going though it won’t be a honeymoon with Sarkisian.

  I set Theresa aside and picked up Connie. I’d saved her for last since hers was the thickest and undoubtedly the messiest.

  Her investment portfolio over which she’d assured us she’d been working last night while Pete was being murdered was copious and intricate. Funds seemed to shift back and forth between money markets, stocks, bonds and real estate. This could easily take me several days of concentrated sorting. If it could wait until after the Fourth I might have time. For the moment I’d confine myself to searching for cash transactions.

  Connie Wessex wasn’t big on cash it seemed. She wrote large checks, usually to credit card companies, rarely to charities. Nothing changed even after her husband went missing.

  Until July twenty-second.

  I stared at the five thousand dollar withdrawal and emitted a soundless whistle.

  “What is it?” Sarkisian, who had moved to the braided rug the better to play with Boondoggle, looked up.

  I told him. “The same day the identical amount was deposited in Brian Quantrell’s account,” I added though knowing him he’d made the connection as soon as he heard the amount. “Think it was a payoff for killing her husband for her?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I awoke well before dawn to my cell phone playing “On the Road Again”, which I was currently using for my alarm. I groaned. Getting up was made harder by the fact I had Sarkisian’s arm draped across me. I eased out with care trying not to disturb him and headed for the shower.

  By the time I emerged dressed for a long day of chaos he was up and in the kitchen assembling the makings for omelets. The cinnamon oatmeal bread I’d put into the machine before going to bed beeped as I slid my arms around his waist. I muttered a mild curse and disengaged myself to dump the loaf on a wire rack to cool.

  Sarkisian went for his own shower while I made us breakfast. He reappeared just as I was pouring the coffee and dishing out the fluffy egg concoction—one of Aunt Gerda’s fantastic recipes. She’d emerge later, probably in time to come watch the parade. She always enjoyed attending my events—if only for the amusement it afforded her to watch me struggling with all the nonsense people could devise.

  We ate quickly, gathered what we’d need then left to go our separate ways. He had to return to his apartment and change into uniform and I had to go straight to the parade route to discover what creative mishaps awaited me. My one consolation was that since all but one of the primary suspects in the investigation were in some way involved in the parade—and the one who wasn’t was bound to show up to watch—I’d be seeing Sarkisian again soon.

  The fact the Fourth of July had dawned with a heavy fog would in no way interfere with the parade. It’s just part of our summer weather and we take it in stride. People dressed in easily removable layers in anticipation of the blazing sun that would eventually burn away the gray and leave the sky a brilliant blue.

  Cars and trucks of every description filled all the parking spaces within the vicinity of Main Street. That surprised me. The parade wasn’t due to kick off yet for another hour and a half. We should be gratified that people had come so early to ensure themselves a good view.

  It took some searching but I finally found Freya a slot I could ease into some distance away. At least I’d come prepared. I’d printed out all the papers I thought I could possibly need—and a number I was sure I wouldn’t but brought anyway on the philosophy that one never knew—and clipped them onto a board to which I’d tied three pens. Be prepared, that’s me. I always thought I’d have made a great Boy Scout. Armed with my notes and checklists, I locked my laptop in the trunk and made my way to the first staging area.

  It seemed awfully crowded. I looked through the mob of costumed and uniformed people carrying props or musical instruments and occasionally both. And some led horses. Surely I hadn’t put so many people together in one spot. I racked my memory. No, I was sure I hadn’t.

  Before I’d gone more than a few steps into the chaos a band leader from one of the high schools bore down on me with determination in his eye and a paper in his hand. Others, garbed in the most outlandish outfits and all brandishing papers, joined in the attack, all talking at once.

  “What’s going on, Annike?” the band director demanded.

  “Our staging area was closed,” complained a belly dancer.

  I rounded on her. “Closed?”

  The rest of her troupe gathered around her in a flourish of sequins and filmy fabric and clinking coins but she shushed them and turned back to me. “There was a sign redirecting us here. What happened? And why didn’t you let us know? The change,” she added darkly, “was not on the website.”

  The leader of an equestrian group, garbed in black velvet trimmed with silver sequins, complete with a massive sombrero, waved another paper under my nose. When I was able to grab hold of it to keep it still long enough to read, I could see someone had replaced the sheet I’d printed with a new and very different one.

  “There’s nowhere for the horse trailers,” the man shouted at me over the din of other irate voices.

  I checked where he was jabbing his finger and sure enough, his group had been reassigned to a place big enough to hold possibly two cars if they parked with extreme care and didn’t mind being sideswiped by large trucks.

  “Quiet everybody,” I shouted.

  As usual no one followed orders. I spotted what I needed through the crowd and forced my way through until I reached a bugler from a drum and bugle squad or whatever they were called. I shouted at him and he grinned, raised the instrument to his mouth and let loose with a blast that sent several horses—fortunately being held at a distance from the crowd—skittering sideways. The noise subsided.

  “Go back to your original assigned positions,” I yelled. “Someone’s been playing games so ignore anything new. If you can’t remember where you were supposed to go, see me—in an orderly manner,” I finished desperately as sev
eral people began to converge on me.

  Janowski elbowed his way to the front to the annoyance of several of the marchers.

  “What’s going on?”

  I explained and he swore with an inventiveness that surprised me. “Why?” he demanded at last.

  I wanted to know the answer to that as well. And I bet Sarkisian would be interested. Did someone have a reason—beyond causing chaos—to shift things around like this? Like the murderer perhaps? I’ve never been a big believer in coincidences though I know they do happen. If someone played fast and loose with our parade though I was willing to bet it had to do with Lee Wessex’s and Pete Norton’s deaths. But what could the killer possibly gain by this? Extra time? And if so, for what?

  Theresa delGuardia pushed through the chaos. “You,” she said, snagging a young woman in a dental coat and carrying a giant inflatable toothbrush. “You’re from the Hygienists Association’s precision drill team.” She made it a statement.

  “Gee, how did you guess?” the hygienist asked.

  Theresa ignored her sarcasm. “Go back to…” she looked it up on her own clipboard of papers, “Staging Area Four. And take those tubes of toothpaste with you.” She waved toward a group of women dressed in the appropriate costumes. “Now you,” she zeroed in on a woman in a wheelchair. “You’re part of a drill team, aren’t you.” This time she made it sound like an accusation. “You’re set for Staging Area Two.”

  Four years ago the county supervisors, in their never-ending search to bring more fame and at least a little fortune to our tiny county, had added a new feature to the Merit County Fourth of July parade—the Trophy of Merit. Each year they awarded it to the most innovative unit. The result was it had become a status symbol to march as part of one of the drill teams and the participants vied with each other for the most unique costumes and routines.

  This year we not only had the hygienists but another drill team consisting of dentists carrying—appropriately—giant inflatable drills. And yes, they made sure we all caught the pun of drills and drill teams. I admit I was looking forward to seeing their routine. We also had a group of optometrists with oversized glasses, doctors with stethoscopes, nurses with blood pressure cuffs, lawyers in the long gowns and wigs not usually seen on this side of the Atlantic, accountants with large inflatable calculators, pharmacists with giant pill bottles, firemen with hoses and paramedics with stretchers. And each had an appropriate routine with which to entertain the crowd as they marched down Meritville’s Main Street. Even one of the high schools had gotten into the spirit, sending their drill team armed with Dremels to accompany their marching band. I think my favorite though was the tractor precision drill team. I could only hope they didn’t lose control and plow their way through the crowd.