“More likely to give her the impression he wasn’t afraid of
me.
But I don’t think Xena was fooled.”
“Xena Osenika?” She was the new investigative reporter for
our local television station, as exotically beautiful as she was ruthless.
She
tended to use tabloid techniques mixed with thorough research and she was known
and hated by anyone with a secret to hide.
If Xena was on the prowl for stories
she’d find a gold mine here.
Murder, corruption, loan sharking—I wondered what
else might turn up.
“Has she figured out who you’re investigating?” I asked
suddenly.
He hesitated then admitted after a moment, “She’s got her
suspicions.
I didn’t confirm or deny and both Becky and John know better than
to drop information to a reporter but I gathered that just before I got there
Janowski was throwing hints around to sidetrack her from him.”
I caught his hand and squeezed it.
“Think she’ll find
anything juicy that you haven’t already learned?”
“I think I beat her to why Theresa delGuardia seems to crop
up everywhere I look.”
I stopped and pulled him around to face me.
“She murdered
Lee Wessex and Pete Norton?”
Sarkisian actually smiled.
“That’s still a possibility.
This
is a little more innocuous than that though.
She’s been doing a little job for
Edward Vanderveer.”
I opened my mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say.
Obligingly Sarkisian put a finger to my chin and pushed it
up.
“He’s been having her spy on her new boss.”
“But…” For a moment words failed me.
“Why?” I demanded at
last.
“I thought she just about worshipped Janowski.”
“True.
But Vanderveer apparently told her Janowski was
engaged in some criminal activity and didn’t deserve to be on the Board of
Supervisors so she was trying to find out the truth.”
“Criminal activity?” I tried to imagine it but couldn’t.
“What, taking bribes?
Misappropriation of funds?
Disorderly pompousness?”
He grinned at that last but shook his head.
“He never told
her what he suspected.
She had the impression he didn’t know, that he was just
hoping she’d unearth something he could use to get Janowski thrown off the
Board.
She’s decided he’s just a troublemaker.
But in case there was any truth
to his allegations she was determined to dig around and find out for sure.”
“Did she?
Find anything out, I mean?”
“Well she insists she never found any evidence.”
“You mean she didn’t uncover his dealings with that loan
shark?”
“I think,” Sarkisian said slowly, “she probably did.
She
just didn’t tell Vanderveer.
Or me.”
I considered.
“So why did she tell you as much as she did?”
“That’s what I’m wondering.
She said,” and he emphasized
that last word, “she started wondering why Vanderveer was so determined to get
Janowski into trouble and she thought I ought to know what Vanderveer was up
to.”
“So that explains a lot of Theresa’s activity.” I looked out
across the crowd.
Over all the noise of people hopefully having a good time I
could hear Lizzie’s little yappers in full voice.
“Now if we could only figure
out where Lizzie sneaks off to and who that man is—” I broke off.
“You don’t
think he could be another of Hank Kaufmann’s guys, do you?”
“If so he isn’t anyone we’ve identified.
And we keep pretty
close tabs on Hank and his gang.”
His phone rang.
He answered it, listened for a moment then
covered the mouthpiece.
“It’s Roberta,” he told me.
“More lab results.”
“I’d better get back to rounds,” I told him.
“Call me if you
get free for two whole seconds.” I kissed him quickly and headed off to prevent
any more trouble on which the enterprising Xena Osenika might report to our
discredit.
Chapter Seventeen
Amazingly everything seemed to be running smoothly.
Midday
faded to afternoon as I did my rounds of all the venues again.
Okay, so mostly
I was hoping to catch a few more minutes with Sarkisian but he remained
annoyingly nowhere to be found.
I could always call him but he was working on
solving the murders and I didn’t want to disturb him.
He knew how to get hold
of me when he had a chance.
I stood for a few minutes watching the breath-powered
sailboat race across the wading-depth fountain in the middle of the grounds,
where uniformed scouts cheered on all the contestants and handed out prizes for
a variety of creative categories before starting the next race.
The kids—and
their parents—all seemed happy and that was what was important.
I headed toward where the ice cream flavor contest was in
full swing.
At the moment the judges sampled offerings from the amateurs.
Some
of them were pretty creative and not necessarily good ideas, such as the
barbecue sauce ice cream, while others such as the triple chocolate chunk
raspberry had me drooling.
I was just envisioning a small scoop of that on top of one
of the berry cobblers when my phone alarm went off with “There’s No Business
Like Show Business”.
That was the signal to go to the auditorium to keep an eye
on the performers as they began to assemble, get into costume and set up to go
on stage.
It probably also saved my perpetual diet.
I walked down the gentle
slope to where I could already see a few people lining up at the stage door.
Vanderveer beat me to it by a nose.
“Let me through,” he
shouted though there was no need.
They good-naturedly moved aside to give him
room and I took advantage of it and followed him into the building.
Vanderveer frowned at me.
“Where are my helpers?”
“You said you didn’t need anyone,” I reminded him.
That had
been early on in the planning stages and judging by his annoyed expression he’d
forgotten.
“That was before—” He broke off and nodded toward the
barrier.
“Go round up a few people to act as escorts.
I don’t think anyone
should be wandering around alone back here.”
He had a point.
After showing several people to dressing
rooms I slipped onto the stage then down into the first row of seats and began
making phone calls.
Most of my usual helpers were already turning up for usher
duty though.
This time it looked like it would be up to me.
My alarm went off again, this time with “Thanks for the
Memories” which meant the picnic was officially over.
Damn, I’d have to leave
Vanderveer alone and he was not going to be pleased.
I braced myself to warn
him of my desertion and mounted the steps to the stage.
Theresa delGuardia hurried toward me armed as usual with her
clipboard and steno pad.
Sarkisian’s revelation about her immediately sprang to
mind but I didn’t see where it made any difference to drafting her to help
guard the backstage area.
“I’ve got to chase some of the Foodies out of the
fairgrounds,” I told her.
She frowned, her normal calm slipping a trifle.
“But we’ve
got to watch people back here.”
“You’ll have to do it or find someone else until I get
back.” I glanced around and spotted Neil Cartwright and Sue Hinkel.
“Hey!” I
called over the excited chatter of the first few acts who were now dressed and
milling around.
“You’re drafted.”
“Now where have I heard that before?” Neil commented dryly.
Not that he’d ever been drafted of course.
He’d volunteered by way of the Air
Force Academy.
“We thought you might need us,” Sue said, cheerful as
always.
It never ceased to amaze me how her good humor could last through all
the events she’s helped me with.
Neil walked carefully over to join me with Sue hovering—not
too obviously—at his side.
I explained what I wanted them to do.
It wasn’t
going to be easy.
People were beginning to crowd the area, calling for missing
props, arguing over turns in the dressing rooms, generally bordering on panic.
But Sue was a natural organizer and Neil, despite spending most of his Air
Force career in a fighter plane, was an experienced officer.
I felt fully
confident—and a little guilty—leaving them in charge.
Sue grinned.
“Don’t look so worried.
We’ll keep them in
line.”
“It’s probably them she’s worried about,” Neil told her.
“If you need me—” I began.
“We won’t.
We’ll be fine.” Sue gave me a push toward the
door.
“Now go out there and tame those lions.”
I went with gratitude.
Now all I had to do—for the moment at
least—was make sure the transition from Daytime Picnic to Evening Barbecue took
place as smoothly as possible.
It always amazed me when things went as planned.
Most of the
Foodies who weren’t staying for the barbecue had already packed up their vans
and trailers with only a few trying to make last minute sales.
I hurried these
along, shouting occasionally that the Talent Show was about to begin.
Whether
they wanted to attend or escape being herded in to watch I’m not sure but
things moved even more quickly after that.
In a very short time I watched the semi-orderly procession
of vehicles pull out of the picnic area and into the parking lot.
Here some of
them stopped—those who planned to attend the talent show and fireworks
exhibition even if they weren’t cooking for the barbecue—while the rest beat a
retreat for home.
What with the prep work, the cooking, the contests and the
crowds it must have been a long and exhausting day for them.
I returned backstage at last to be greeted by the echoing
sound of nine red, white and blue poodles yipping and howling their little
heads off.
Vanderveer had temporarily descended from his perch among the lights
to shout at Lizzie who was making ineffectual attempts to hush her troupe.
Vanderveer’s presence only served to excite the doglets even more.
Mazda,
tucked under Lizzie’s arm, kept up a low menacing growl.
“What’s happened?” I asked, trying to distract everyone.
“They don’t like the band,” Lizzie told me.
“And I’m sorry
but we’re on in about fifteen minutes.”
“I thought you were a dog trainer,” Vanderveer sneered.
“Can’t you train them to be quiet?”
Lizzie flushed.
“Call me when you’re ready,” she snapped at
him.
She strode toward the stage door, calling the poodles and Roomba as she
went.
They flocked after her though I had a suspicion they just wanted to get
away from the high-pitched twang of one of the electric guitars.
Vanderveer glared at me.
“You’d think she could keep them
under better control.”
“The music was hurting their ears,” I said.
“Is everything
all right up there?” I pointed to the loft he’d deserted.
“Damn.” He scrambled for the stairs that led back to his
aerie.
I couldn’t blame the dogs.
The music was a bit hard on the
ears.
I wanted to get a look at the house to assure myself that hordes of
people attended the talent show but the need for a moment of quiet won out.
I followed Lizzie outside and to my surprise she wasn’t
alone.
The same man I’d glimpsed twice before stood with her, gesturing.
Not
angrily, I was glad to see.
Patiently.
The dogs frolicked around him except for
Mazda who sat on his shoe and gazed up at him with a besotted expression on his
pointed face which reminded me distinctly of the way Boondoggle gazed at
Sarkisian.
The man took one of the hoops Lizzie held and raised it.
Immediately three of the poodles—one red, one white and one blue—lined up
before it.
He snapped his fingers and the doglets jumped through, one after the
other.
He handed the hoop back to Lizzie and the dogs repeated their trick on
her command.
Her companion said something else and Lizzie nodded, gave him a
quick hug and turned back toward the door only to freeze as she saw me.
I waved.
I’ll swear she blanched.
She hesitated, waved back, grabbed the man by the elbow and
the two of them took off at a brisk pace, surrounded by poodles and the two
dachshunds.
Interesting.
She obviously hadn’t wanted me—or possibly
anyone?—to see that exchange.
So what if she was teaching someone how to get
the dogs to perform?
Her reaction made no sense.
Unless the dog trick was only to convince anyone who might
happen to see them that what they talked about was related to the dogs and not,
for example, to the murders?
I considered following them but couldn’t see where I’d have
anything to gain.
They weren’t likely to lead me to anything important nor say
anything incriminating that might be overheard.
I sighed.
I made a lousy
detective.
I returned indoors to where the Seniors Barbershop Quartet
was just finishing off their number and receiving enthusiastic applause.
They
ran off the stage, laughing in their excitement and triumph, then returned to
take another bow.
Grinning from ear to ear, they hurried out the stage door,
not even bothering to take off their costumes, so eager were they to take their
seats in the audience.
The lighting changed—Vanderveer at his post—and another
senior dressed in flowing purple robes and a turban wheeled his cart of magic
onto the stage for his turn in the spotlight.
He was greeted by a round of
clapping, a sure sign people were having a good time.
His performance proved to
be as flamboyant as it was flawless and he managed to squeeze in three curtain
calls before Connie’s string quartet took his place.
I did some quick calculations.
Lizzie’s Hot Dogs would be on
right after Connie’s group.
If I made a really quick trip down to the arena I
could check to see how the fireworks were coming then get back here in time to
watch the little beastlies perform.
I hurried.
My arrival was not greeted with appreciation for my concern.
The foreman of the crew glared at me.
“We’re doing fine,” he
snapped despite the fact only two and a half hours remained before the first
rockets were due to go up and a lot of the sets had yet to be secured into
position.
“Just came to see if you needed anything,” I assured him not
in the least bit truthfully.
“Not to be interrupted,” he said though this time there was
less animosity in his tone.
I took the hint and left.
Before I reached the auditorium one of the Foodies who was
setting up for the barbecue caught me.
The departing lunch crew it seemed had
left a mess.
She wanted it cleaned up.
As I’d overseen the evacuation of the
departing Foodies myself I knew the mess would be minimal but I accompanied her
back to the picnic area.
It looked relatively clean to me.
To oblige her I
picked up a few stray plates and threw them into trash cans but there honestly
wasn’t much point in doing more before the end of the barbecue.
The woman
sniffed, reluctantly agreed and returned to check the ribs she had simmering in
their sauce.
The incredible aromas made me realize how long it had been
since my early lunch.
Problem easily solved.
I headed to Charlie’s booth where
he and my Aunt Gerda were busy with their own preparations.
I didn’t bother
them.
I knew where he kept his stash of chocolate chip macadamia cookies.
I
just helped myself to one, waved and took off.
As I neared the auditorium again it dawned on me it was
extremely quiet.
I knew I’d missed Hot Dogs but I couldn’t remember what came
on after them.
Apparently not anything loud.
I opened the door and paused.
It
was not only quiet except for the murmur of conversation from the audience, it
was dark.
Odd.
I didn’t remember any act calling for a blackout.
Then a voice
rose from the stage, shakily at first, singing an
a capella
version of
“You Light Up My Life”.
“Everyone join in,” called a young woman’s voice.
“They’ll
get the electricity back on in just a few minutes.”
People, amazingly agreeable, did as they were bid though
without strict adherence to the words—or even the tune—as they’d been written.