HotDogs

by Janice Bennett

“Why?” the man demanded, for once not wasting words.

  “There’s been a…slight accident. Ms. McKinley has been injured.”

  “What?” The word exploded from him. Then more quietly, “Is she alive?”

  Oh yes, alive and relatively well and lying under a corpse. I felt a hysterical giggle start to rise from deep inside and managed to squelch it. For now at least. Later, I promised myself, I’d indulge in a nice, loud screaming fit.

  “Quantrell.” Janowski’s voice boomed forth. “You’re a paramedic. Go be a damn hero again.”

  “Tell him to stay right where he is,” Sarkisian ordered but Janowski had apparently broken the connection. “I’d better get the light on,” he said with resignation. The beam circled the walls.

  “Foot of the stairs, then to the right,” I reminded him, dredging the directions up from the murky depths of memory.

  “Right.”

  Whether he was acknowledging what I’d said or repeating it I wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered. I concentrated very hard on what he was doing and not on what lay on top of me.

  Another light flashed from the top of the stairs. “Annike?” Quantrell called. “Can you hear me?”

  “Of course I can hear you,” I snapped.

  “Stay up there,” Sarkisian ordered.

  I heard the snap of metal as the fuse box opened then the soft thunks of several somethings being pushed. Behind Brian lights came on. A loud cheer rose in the distance as the stage apparently sprang back to life.

  “The basement light switch should be near the door,” Sarkisian told Quantrell.

  A moment later the steps, basement—and Vanderveer—all lit up.

  From the top of the steps I heard Quantrell’s sharp intake of breath. “My god. I thought you said it was Annike who was hurt.”

  “She is.” Sarkisian returned to my side.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor and Becky Deschler and John Goulding appeared, both out of breath. “You okay, Annike?” Becky called, with John echoing her words.

  “Great. Just dandy. Never felt better.” Never felt closer to screaming. I grinned manically up at them. “No need for you to hurry.”

  “That’s lucky,” John said dryly. “I don’t have a camera. Here, go back out front,” he told someone who pressed in behind him. “Nothing to see here, just a small accident.”

  “Then why do you need a camera?” asked a girl’s voice.

  “For later blackmail,” Becky said hurriedly. “It’s not often a department member gets caught in a ridiculous situation.”

  Ridiculous? Gruesome, more like. Nor was I technically a department member but as her ruse apparently worked and the inquisitive girl’s footsteps faded as she returned to whatever she’d been doing I had to applaud Becky’s quick thinking.

  “Are you okay, Annike?” Sarkisian took my hand.

  “You owe me for this one, mister,” I murmured.

  “Name it.”

  I savored the moment. But not for long. I wasn’t about to let it get away. “We’re flying to Reno right after the fireworks show, no matter what.” I kept my voice low so the deputies couldn’t hear my demand.

  “Annike, you know I can’t just leave in the middle of an investigation.”

  “You can take a few hours off. If we catch a one a.m. flight we can be married by three a.m. and you can be back here on duty by five.”

  That drew a reluctant grin from him. “Some honeymoon.”

  “We can take that later when you have a break from school.”

  “Marriage for a law enforcement officer is hard enough without me having school on top of it.”

  “And you think maintaining a non-marriage is easier?” It dawned on me how ludicrous the conversation was, taking place across Edward Vanderveer’s dead body but I wasn’t about to miss my chance.

  “Besides, I don’t think there are any flights to Reno that late,” he said, crushing my budding plans.

  “What’s going on?” I recognized Roberta Dominguez’s voice from just behind John’s large frame. “Chris called to say there’d been another murder.” She sounded skeptical.

  “Just take your pictures and measurements and whatever else you have to do and get me out of here,” I said.

  “Annike?” Roberta shouldered between Becky and John. “Oh my god. How badly are you hurt?” She rounded on Quantrell. “Why aren’t you helping her?”

  “She’s part of the crime scene,” Sarkisian said. “Come on, love. Say cheese so she can take your picture.”

  I glared at him and right then—naturally—I saw the flash of the camera.

  After that things moved surprisingly fast. Roberta performed her job with exceptional efficiency and at last Sarkisian and John moved Vanderveer off me and set him aside to await Dr. Sarah’s arrival. Quantrell descended the steps with extreme care and began asking me questions. I answered at random since I was trying to listen to what Sarkisian was saying as he and John examined the staircase.

  Quantrell switched on his radio and called for his partner who was apparently in the audience. “Immediate transport,” was all I heard.

  I focused fully on him for the first time. “What are you talking about?”

  Sarkisian also overheard and came to my side. “She needs to go to the hospital?”

  “Possible concussion.” Quantrell kept his voice low. “She’s not making sense.”

  “That’s because I wasn’t listening to you,” I snapped. “My arm hurts a bit but that’s all and I’m certainly not taking any ambulance ride. I’ve got work to do.”

  “She sounds normal to me.” Sarkisian gave me the special smile he reserves for giving me a bad time.

  “Then help me up.” I extended my good arm.

  His pull, gentle as it was, drew a sharp cry from me as pain shot through my neck and both shoulders. This prompted another argument about my going to the hospital. We finally compromised on my confining my arm in a sling until Dr. Sarah could give me clearance.

  When I was bound up to Quantrell’s satisfaction I turned on Sarkisian. “Why did I fall?” I demanded. “And I’m not in the mood for any cracks about clumsiness.”

  “How about comments about tripwires?”

  “Trip…” I trailed off. “It was a deliberate trap?”

  Sarkisian nodded.

  “Someone tampered with the fuse box to lure Vanderveer down here with the intention of making him fall,” I said slowly, taking it in.

  “Only you went first so they had to hit Vanderveer over the head. They were probably waiting close at hand since the fall wouldn’t necessarily prove lethal.”

  “Luckily,” I muttered.

  “How certain was it Vanderveer would be the one to take care of the power?” he asked.

  I considered. “Fairly certain. He was familiar with the setup back here, more so than any of the other committee members. And remember? He was the one who flipped the switch when something went wrong with the fuse box during the rehearsals yesterday.”

  “Were any of the others—” he didn’t specify he meant his suspects but he didn’t need to, “hanging around back here?”

  I tried to remember but I’d been outside when the lights went out. “Any of them might have been,” I admitted at last. “Janowski had Theresa call to see if Vanderveer was taking care of it,” I added.

  The many arguments between Janowski and Vanderveer loomed large in my mind. “But why kill him?” The memory of Vanderveer asking about Sarkisian suddenly flared in my mind. “Did he ever talk to you today?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was something he said. He was looking pensive then asked me where you were, said he wanted to ask you something. But I had the impression it was more than that.”

  Sarkisian shook his head. “He never approached me. Damn. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

  “And not a brownie in sight,” I murmured.

  “Too true.” He looked up as John approached us. “Time we clear out and let Robert
a finish her job. And hope the rest of the team isn’t far away.”

  He assisted me up the steps to the hall that was no longer dark. It was crowded though.

  Lizzie, for once without her dogs, worked her way through to us. “What happened?” She stared at my arm. “Did you fall?”

  “Bit of a mishap,” Sarkisian said smoothly. “Have you been down this hall any time during the last few hours?”

  “Of course I have.” She looked at me. “We’ve all been running all over the place, helping people with their costumes, finding lost props—”

  “Chasing ratty little dogs,” Quantrell put in. I hadn’t realized he’d joined us.

  Lizzie glared at him. “I’ve put them in the van, so lay off, will you?”

  “When did you put them out there?” I asked. I remembered them yapping earlier, then she’d taken them for a walk. But they’d been on stage not all that long ago.

  “Right after their performance. They were all on edge, poor dears. I thought they needed some quiet.”

  “And so did we,” Quantrell stuck in.

  And so did Lizzie maybe? If she’d tried to set a trap on the basement stairs with her whole troupe of performing dogs in tow, everyone would have known where she was. I shivered and tried to rid myself of that thought. If Vanderveer’s murderer really had been on hand to make sure he was dead after the fall, he—or she—would have known I’d started down those booby-trapped steps first. And hadn’t done anything to stop me. I felt a bit ill knowing someone cared so little for my life and limbs.

  “Annike?” Sue pushed forward, all concern. “What’s going on back here?” Her eyes widened as she stared at me. “What happened to you?”

  “Sue.” Sarkisian focused on her. “The show’s going to be over soon isn’t it?”

  “Only two more acts. Looks like we’ve survived—” She broke off. “We have survived it, haven’t we?”

  Sarkisian didn’t answer her question. He considered a moment then nodded. “Right. You and Neil go to the front doors and don’t let anyone out until John and Becky get there.”

  She stared hard at him. “All right. But I’ll want a full explanation and soon. And you’d better be wearing that as a fashion accessory,” she told me, nodding at my sling. With that she turned around and strode off on her mission, calling for Neil.

  Was Sarkisian considering the entire audience as potential witnesses? At least we already had names and addresses for all the performers and the backstage helpers.

  The rock song that had been playing suddenly stopped and applause sounded from the audience. The band trooped into the wings and the next act took the stage.

  Becky emerged from the stairwell and beckoned Sarkisian. He joined her, they spoke for a minute with the rest of us staring at them and she handed him something. He returned with a travel mug in a plastic evidence bag.

  “When did you see this last?” He held it up for Lizzie to look at. It had “Hot Dogs” emblazoned across it along with Lizzie’s logo—a picture of a poodle jumping through a hoop.

  “There it is. I was looking for it.” She reached out then hesitated. “Why’s it in that bag?”

  “Evidence,” he said. “When did you see it last?”

  “This afternoon. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Pete’s death. Or Wessex’s for that matter.” Her eyes narrowed. “You found it in the basement? I have no idea how it got there—or why it should matter. Something’s happened again, hasn’t it?” She looked at me. “Were you pushed or something?” Now her eyes widened. “Did someone try to kill you?”

  “Try to remember where you put the mug down last.” Sarkisian kept his voice calm but compelling.

  Lizzie shook her head. “I don’t know. I had it filled with lemonade in the picnic area then I came back over here. The dogs were nervous with so many people around and I needed both hands to deal with them. I must have set it down fairly soon. Yes, I know I didn’t have it when I was helping that little baton twirler with her costume.”

  “And you didn’t have it when you were talking to that man outside,” I said.

  “Uncle Martin? I guess I didn’t.”

  Uncle Martin? If he was her uncle why did she act so mysteriously about meeting him?

  Sarkisian signaled to Becky and John. “Keep all this as quiet as possible. But I also want you to stand at the exit and get the names and addresses of everyone in the audience. Sue and Neil are standing guard and they can help you. And while you’re at it find out if anyone noticed someone leaving toward the end of the program.”

  He turned back to me as the two deputies departed on their mission. “Why don’t you sit down?” It wasn’t a suggestion.

  “And miss all the fun?” I wasn’t about to admit I was feeling a bit dizzy from the pain and shock.

  “Sarkisian.” Quantrell edged over to him. “Want me to do anything?”

  “Try to clear this area of people?” he suggested.

  That took considerable time. Before he’d managed to herd more than a few back toward the wings Janowski’s voice came across the loudspeaker, thanking everyone for attending the First Annual Merit County Talent Extravaganza.

  I cringed. “First Annual” implied they intended to perpetrate a second one.

  A minute later Janowski, followed by Theresa, arrived and demanded to know what was going on. Sarkisian filled them in.

  I didn’t listen. I leaned against the wall and thought about that tripwire.

  Whoever set it up must have done it at a time when they weren’t likely to be seen. Of course they could also have done it at a time when so many people were running around back here looking for things that the presence of one evil-intentioned person wouldn’t be noticed. Which meant just about any time.

  “We need to find out who went into the basement last and when,” Sarkisian said, echoing my thoughts.

  Quantrell, who had managed to complete his task, frowned. “I went down right after the first act went on to look for a possible replacement prop for one of the jugglers. I certainly didn’t trip over anything.”

  “Vanderveer went down, didn’t he? To check something?” Janowski asked.

  “Yes,” confirmed Theresa. “He was complaining about it the whole time. I stood up here and waited for him then after he came back up he realized he’d left the keys down there and told me to fetch them for him while he went back to the light loft.” Her eyes widened in dismay. “That was about twenty minutes into the program. Does that make me the last person down before the tripwire?” She shuddered. “What if it had already been up?” Her gaze strayed to me. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

  “I went down after that,” Lizzie admitted.

  We all turned to stare at her. “It was still too hot to put the dogs in the van,” she explained. “I was hoping it might be a quiet safe place for them to wait where they wouldn’t get overexcited. But the vibrations from the bass amplifiers got them howling.” She glared at Quantrell. “We’d only just come back up when I saw you.”

  And, as I remembered, they’d argued about the Hot Dogs and their yapping.

  “What about Ms. Wessex?” Sarkisian asked.

  Everyone looked at each other and began a chorus on variations of “No, I haven’t seen her.”

  “What’s going on?” Connie herself pushed into our little group. “Where’s Mr. Vanderveer? I want to thank him for the wonderful job he did with the lighting.” She looked up toward the loft as if expecting to see him there.

  “Did you go into the basement for anything this afternoon?” Janowski demanded.

  His presumptuousness didn’t seem to bother Sarkisian. If anything he enjoys watching his suspects get involved. He says he learns more by watching and listening than he ever does by direct questions. Now he watched Janowski even more closely than he did Connie.

  She stared at the supervisor. “Of course not. Why should I?”

  “The rest of us did,” Theresa said.

  “Well it’s your j
obs to take care of things back here. I spent my time with the other members of the string quartet, trying to stay in the proper mood for our performance.”

  “And they’ll be able to say you never left them?” Sarkisian asked.

  She stared at him. “Of course,” she said coldly and turned to stride away.

  Quantrell frowned after her. “Better catch the other members before she warns them what to say.”

  “You performed but you were still helping other people,” Theresa told him.

  Quantrell shrugged. “In my job you get used to helping people all the time.”

  “Did anyone else notice she didn’t ask why we wanted to know?” Lizzie asked.

  Janowski stared at her. “You mean you think she already knew Vanderveer is dead?”

  “She didn’t ask about Annike’s sling either and that’s pretty obvious,” Lizzie pointed out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lizzie’s mentioning my arm only served to remind me about it and somehow increased its throbbing. I hadn’t thought that was possible.

  Fortunately—for me at least—Dr. Sarah strode down the hall looking more harassed than anyone should. “I’ve just been going over the lab reports on Pete Norton,” she told Sarkisian. “I—” She broke off and stared at me. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Who me? Nothing. Why?”

  “Not today, Annike,” she sighed. “I’m not up to it. How badly are you hurt?”

  I resisted the urge to tell her she was the doctor. She really looked exhausted. “Brian Quantrell put a temporary patch on me. I’ll hold together until you’ve got time for a quiet cup of coffee.”

  “And your emergency chocolate stash?” she asked, the light of hope in her eyes.

  “I’ll dig it out for you,” I promised. “But first go ahead with your report.”

  “Oh. Right. Norton’s lab work.” She took a deep breath, refocusing. “There wasn’t much. He had a moderate amount of alcohol in his system but not enough to be a contributing factor in his death. Other than possibly slowing down his reaction time. That’s about it. But Chris said you had another body for me. Did you mean Annike?” Her tone made it clear she was not feeling amused.