We didn’t get very far before we heard the sound of voices
coming from the arena.
I recognized Lizzie’s, ordering people to be quiet.
Then
Theresa’s announcing that the order for the performances had been finalized and
no changes could be made because the program had already gone to the printer.
I
silently blessed her for that.
It had gone to the printer.
Mine.
I had yet to
give it to her to take to the county office where it would be duplicated
en
masse
to be distributed at the show.
“A string quartet can’t play on dirt.” Connie Wessex, in a
calf-length navy blue chiffon dress, was looking appalled.
The other members of
her musical group clutched their instrument cases, worried expressions on their
faces.
Not surprisingly Connie hadn’t lugged the cello down here.
“We’ll get a portable stage if we have to,” I yelled over
the general hubbub.
Debra Carlisle, not far from me, laughed.
“You mean you
don’t want to see my kiddies trying to tap dance on dirt?”
I sighed.
“It might lack something of the traditional
tapping sound.”
More protests, more questions.
Everyone wanted to know what
was going on and what we were going to do about it.
The Hot Dogs—at least those
who had come along for the ride—bounced around, thoroughly enjoying the chaos.
Not for the first time I regretting not having a whip and a chair.
With Theresa’s aid I finally managed to get people calmed
down and ready to listen.
We were handing out copies of the performance order
when Sarkisian joined us, a half-eaten brownie in one hand.
I noticed a bulge
in the pocket of his uniform shirt with just a hint of a white napkin sticking
out.
He worked his way through the crowd to Ivan Janowski who stood removed
from the others, watching the milling group.
Janowski, I noted, held a
croissant and sipped from a cup of coffee.
Coffee sounded good at the moment.
I made my way over to one
of the pots and poured some then strolled back to where Sarkisian and Janowski
spoke in lowered voices.
“Just thanking him for staying so late,” Janowski was
saying.
“He was being a real trooper, wasn’t he?” He turned to me for
confirmation.
I blinked, trying to make rapid connections.
“You mean Pete?
Yeah, he’s—I mean he was.” The fact I now had to use the past tense hit me for
the first time.
Pete Norton was really dead.
He’d been such a great guy.
I’d
done a couple of events at the fairgrounds before and he’d always been good-natured,
putting up with all the nonsense and arguing my clients could produce, always
ready to help.
The only time I’d ever seen him get mad was over Lizzie’s dogs.
They’d had a real war going on—not that I thought Lizzie would kill him over
that.
I blinked again, trying to focus.
“We’re really going to miss him.”
Sarkisian nodded agreement.
As sheriff, he’d dealt with Pete
on a number of occasions too.
“Then what did you do?” Sarkisian asked, continuing the
questions I’d interrupted.
“Called a couple of the other county supervisors.
Having Lee
Wessex’s body found here—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“I was driving home
at the time.
My cell phone account should document the numbers I called and the
times of the conversations.”
“What did they have to say?”
Janowski’s lip curled.
“Not to let anything, especially a
year-old murder, get in the way of this year’s celebrations.”
Sarkisian nodded.
“That sounds like them.
Can’t blame them
either.
This is a big deal for the county.
And the funds it’ll bring in are
badly needed by Merit County First, especially since last year’s proceeds
disappeared.
So you drove straight home last night?”
Janowski hesitated then shook his head.
“It had been a bit
of an odd day.
I went to a bar, had a few drinks.” He provided the name which
Sarkisian jotted down.
“Got more sympathy from the bartender than I ever would
from that shrew of a wife of mine.”
Sarkisian shook his head.
“Rough having a wife like that,”
he said as if he’d ever been married to anyone, sweet or sour.
Janowski nodded.
“You know, she actually blamed me last year
for Wessex’s stealing all the funds?
Kept saying she’d told me to take charge
of them which she never did.
Hell, they weren’t my responsibility.
It was
Wessex’s assigned job to present them to Lizzie.”
Sarkisian rolled his eyes.
“Wives,” he said and carefully didn’t
look at me.
“Bet she gave you a hard time the whole way home last year.”
Janowski hesitated.
“We didn’t know about Wessex vanishing
with the money yet, just that he took charge of it.
She doesn’t need much of an
excuse to start an argument.”
Sarkisian shook his head.
“That’s rough.
All that fuss just
because you let someone else have a little limelight.”
Brian Quantrell, guitar case in hand, cast a sly look from
where he stood only a few feet away.
“Were you really fighting about that?
Not about
Connie?”
Janowski shot him a furious glare then recovered.
“What’s
that got to do with you, Quantrell?
Jealous?”
Quantrell gave a short laugh.
“You didn’t really think you
were the only one sleeping with her, did you?”
All expression faded from Janowski’s face.
“Why do you think
I dumped her?
I expect my women to be faithful.”
“Even the married ones?” came Quantrell’s retort.
Janowski looked him up and down.
“Yes.”
“You were also having an affair with Ms.
Wessex?” Sarkisian
asked the paramedic.
Quantrell nodded.
“Short but sweet.
And I’m only telling you
because this is a murder investigation.
Unlike some people,” and his gaze
flickered to Janowski, “I don’t go around bragging about my conquests.”
Janowski snorted.
“That’s because you don’t have any besides
Connie.
That woman would sleep with anyone.”
“But she wouldn’t leave her husband,” Sarkisian stuck in.
“I
understand, Mr.
Quantrell, that you had an argument with her about that the
night her husband died.”
Quantrell cast him an uneasy look but Sarkisian’s air of
sympathetic interest seemed to reassure him.
Even after all this time, that
still amazes me.
“Not about her sleeping around,” Quantrell explained.
“About
her leaving her husband.
Yeah.
I was pretty naïve.
For a brief time there I
actually thought she might marry me.
I found out the hard way what she was
really like.” He shrugged.
“I got over it and learned a valuable lesson.”
“And what were you talking to Pete Norton about last night while
everyone was leaving?”
“Damn, poor Pete.” He shook his head.
“Just about making
sure we had an emergency vehicle lane all the way into the arena in case of an
accident with the fireworks.
But he said he had it all arranged.” His frown
deepened.
“I wonder who’ll take over organizing things like that for us.”
“I’ll have someone call the fairgrounds committee,” Janowski
decided and started off, presumably to pass the order along to Theresa.
Quantrell caught him.
“Look, I think it might be better if
you got another Grand Marshal for the parade.
How about the sheriff?”
Janowski glared at him.
“It’s already been announced.
We
can’t possibly make a change at this date.”
“I’ve been telling you all along I don’t want to do this.
Now less than ever.”
“Well you’re going to.
I don’t know about you but I don’t
want all the gossips speculating about why you backed out the day before the
parade.” And with that he stalked off.
Quantrell remained where he stood, his expression bleak.
“No,” he muttered at last.
He glanced around, his gaze fell on Sarkisian and me
and he hurried away, probably eager to get out of the sheriff’s sight—and
thoughts.
So why didn’t Brian Quantrell want to be Grand Marshal?
And
what—if anything—might he have to fear from the speculation of the gossips?
Before I could voice these thoughts to Sarkisian, Edward
Vanderveer disentangled himself from the upset performers and came to my side.
“How much longer are you going to be inside that auditorium?” he demanded of
Sarkisian.
“What are you doing now?”
“We need to establish when Pete Norton was seen last,”
Sarkisian said.
He fixed the man with his encouraging smile.
Vanderveer frowned.
“He was waiting to lock up after we all
left last night.” He considered a moment then shook his head.
“I don’t remember
who was the last out of the building.” He turned to me and raised his eyebrows.
I shook my head.
“I left before you did,” I told Sarkisian.
He nodded and a slight twitch of his lip assured me he
remembered our lingering parting in the parking lot.
“So wouldn’t that make you the last to see Pete?” Vanderveer
asked the sheriff.
Sarkisian shook his head.
“The auditorium wasn’t of interest
to us at that time.
When I left I remember seeing you and Theresa delGuardia.
You
were talking to Pete Norton.”
Vanderveer hesitated, frowning as with an effort of memory.
“That’s right.
Just before I left I asked him where the workers could park
their cars.
Last year it was beside the storage building where we found Lee’s
body.
I didn’t think you’d want us leaving our cars there again this year, not
considering it’s a crime scene.”
Sarkisian nodded encouragement.
Vanderveer rushed on.
“That’s it.
I mean Pete said we could
park beside the auditorium, that he’d have an area roped off just for us and
assign one of the parking attendants to keep everyone else out.
He was really
helpful.” His brow furrowed.
“I just hope whoever replaces him will be half as
good.”
“And what was he doing when you left?” Sarkisian prompted.
Vanderveer shook his head.
“No idea.
No, wait.
I think he was
talking to Theresa.
I remember seeing them in my headlights and wondering what
she wanted him for.”
“And then what did you do?”
“Then—” He broke off.
“You can’t think I killed him.
Why
should I?”
“Just trying to eliminate people,” Sarkisian told him in that
reassuring voice that calmed the fears of the uninitiated.
“It’s so much easier
when I can prove you had nothing to do with it.
The more people I can
eliminate, the easier it becomes.”
“Oh.” Vanderveer’s anger abated as abruptly as it had arisen.
“Last night,” he muttered as if he had trouble remembering that far back.
“I
just went home.
And no, no one saw me.
I live alone.
Someone in one of the
other condos might have heard me come in or moving around.
I went straight to
work and kept at it for quite awhile.
You can see what I got done if you’d
like.
I was on my computer for part of the time though I can’t remember exactly
when.
I’m sure it documented times though.” He shook his head.
“Sorry, no
alibi.”
Nor, as I remembered, had he had one for the approximate
time when Lee Wessex must have been killed last year.
And as someone had
pointed out earlier, even though Wessex’s theft had stolen the company funds
and forced their brokerage into bankruptcy, Vanderveer had come out of it with
over a million dollars of “personal” money.
Had he killed his partner to
recover what had been stolen from the clients’ accounts—and keep it for
himself?
If so, offhand I could think of at least half a dozen ways he could
have hidden his windfall.
Sarkisian thanked him and looked around.
He moved from my
side and I, curious as always, followed him.
He didn’t disappoint me.
He
approached Theresa delGuardia where she stood with a clipboard talking to
Connie Wessex.