“Someone who didn’t like you very much?” I suggested.
He shook his head slowly.
“Damn.
Where’s Sarkisian?”
In the distance I heard a woman yelling and a renewed
yapping as more poodles headed in that direction, apparently fallowing the
trail of the dachshunds.
“I don’t know where he is,” I admitted and realized how much
I wanted him.
But he undoubtedly had his hands full.
“Why would someone want to
hit you?” I demanded.
By using a tree for support I made it to my feet and
staggered over to him.
He remained on the ground, both hands clutching his
head.
“You need a paramedic,” I said.
He gave a shaky laugh only to break off with a groan.
“Nothing crushed.
Just a hell of a lot of blood.”
I couldn’t see it through the dark.
I had a very inadequate
handkerchief in my pocket which would be next to useless.
I eased out of the
sling he’d given me only a couple of hours before and handed it over.
“Thanks.” He pressed it against his head and swore again.
The yapping drew closer and two of the poodles burst between
the trees into our clearing.
Someone broke through after them headed for the
path leading back to the parking lot.
Lizzie?
No, Theresa, I realized as two
more of the dogs raced across her path.
Theresa stumbled over a red one, cried out and fell flat on
her face.
The dogs pounced on top of her, yipping their excitement.
Sarkisian
was there a moment later, dropping to one knee and reaching to help her up.
No, I realized the next second.
He was handcuffing her.
“I’m arresting you for the murders of Lee Wessex, Pete
Norton and Edward Vanderveer,” Sarkisian told her.
“And the attempted murder of Brian Quantrell,” Quantrell
stuck in, still holding my sling to his head.
“And the attempted murder of Brian Quantrell,” Sarkisian
repeated agreeably.
“Sorry, I didn’t know about that.
Yet.
You have the right
to remain silent…” And he continued with her Miranda rights.
I stared, speechless, not believing what I was seeing.
“So it really was her,” Quantrell said when the sheriff had
finished at last.
Sarkisian looked up.
“I take it you’d figured it out?”
“Yeah.
Something about the barbecue and seeing her arguing
with Janowski.
It triggered a memory I couldn’t quite place.
Then suddenly when
the fireworks started it struck me.
She’d been arguing in much the same way
with Wessex at last year’s show.
I remember thinking how odd it was, the way
she worshipped him.”
“If she did, she wouldn’t have killed him, surely,” I said.
It had been a very long day and I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly but this made
no sense.
“I think,” Sarkisian said slowly, “she discovered Wessex was
stealing all the money and leaving with it.
I don’t think she’s one to take
kindly to her idol having feet of clay.
He disillusioned her.”
“So she killed him?”
“Struck out, more likely.
Then she realized he was dead.”
Theresa said nothing.
She just lay there, limp, no fight or
fury left.
I wondered briefly if she were glad it was over or merely resting up
for a serious effort at either escape or defiance.
“And the briefcase with the money?” Quantrell asked.
“Why
did she hide it?
She’s the type who’d return it to Merit County First.”
“That’s what made me start to think about Ms.
delGuardia in
the first place,” Sarkisian said.
“Anyone else would have taken the money and
doled it out to themselves in small, unnoticeable amounts.
But I don’t think
she could bring herself to do that.
Nor did she want people to find out what a
thief he was.
I think she just wanted people to believe he left his wife and
taken a plane, not that he’d stolen anything.
She couldn’t have known about the
company funds until late the following afternoon when Vanderveer discovered it.
She simply hid the briefcase with the Fourth of July money and hoped it
wouldn’t be found.
And it nearly wasn’t.”
Theresa turned her head, staring at him in surprise.
“You do
understand,” she breathed, speaking for the first time since she’d been caught.
“I was so afraid you wouldn’t.
I was so horrified when I discovered what he was
really like.
I just couldn’t bear it!”
“No,” the sheriff agreed soothingly.
“Of course not.
You’d
never steal.” If he felt any sarcasm that she could kill but not steal he
managed to keep it out of his voice.
“Why did you hide his body?”
She considered.
“It wasn’t panic,” she said at last.
It
was—” She broke off, frowning.
“I wasn’t thinking clearly.
I only wanted to
save his reputation.”
“Why did you attack me?” Quantrell demanded.
“You realized what happened last year, just like Pete
Norton.
I could see it in your face when you looked at me tonight.
And you were
going to tell him.” She jerked her head toward Sarkisian.
“I couldn’t let you do
that.
He might have been suspicious but he couldn’t prove anything.
Could you?”
she challenged the sheriff.
“Oh I wouldn’t say that.” Of course he wouldn’t.
It might be
true but he wouldn’t say it.
“Come on, let’s go down to the office and we’ll
get all this straightened out.”
“Can we?
Oh good.” She smiled, apparently under the
misapprehension that everything was going to be fine.
Some twenty minutes later we watched John Goulding drive off
with Theresa delGuardia safely handcuffed in his car.
He’d never gotten around
to arresting Brian Quantrell but I guessed that could wait until tomorrow.
It
still didn’t seem real to me.
Nothing did, except the throbbing pain in my
shoulder.
“Why did she talk so freely back there?” I asked, still
staring after the car.
Behind us, the fire had long since been extinguished and
the show resumed.
Another rocket burst in the air.
Sarkisian put his arm around my waist.
“She was convinced
she’d done the right thing and she wasn’t ashamed of it.
Proud of it even, I’d
guess, once she learned just how much Wessex stole.”
“And now we go to the office so you can begin the
paperwork?” It had already been a long day and it didn’t look to be over any
time soon.
“Not we.
Me.
You need to go home and get some sleep.”
“Not without you.”
He shook his head.
“It’s going to take me a long time.
I’d
like to get the rest of her story from her if I can.”
I fixed him with as steely an eye as I could manage
considering how tired I was.
“That’s fine.
I’ll borrow a bed in a holding cell.
You can wake me up when you’re done.”
“You should go home,” he repeated.
“I am not,” I informed him, “letting you out of my sight.”
“I’m not driving back to school until the day after
tomorrow, you know.”
I draped my good arm around his neck and kissed him.
“It’s
already almost tomorrow and I’m not taking any chances.
I’m following you over
to the department.”
He eyed me thoughtfully for a minute but apparently he could
see a lost cause when it was glaring him in the face.
I called Aunt Gerda and filled her in, both on what had
occurred and where I was going.
She promised to gather Sue, Neil, Faith and
Paul and together they’d tidy up any loose ends from the event.
I thanked her,
climbed into Freya and set off after Sarkisian.
I arrived at the department less than twenty minutes later.
After arming myself with my laptop I went inside.
Sarkisian, who had gotten
there only a couple of minutes before me, was fighting back a yawn.
Our gazes
met for a moment then he went to talk to first John then Theresa.
That left me
facing a grinning Chris.
As soon as she’d settled me behind bars with a fresh sling
to support my shoulder, a cup of tea—surprisingly drinkable, considering—and a
generous supply of her emergency chocolate chip cookies, I flipped open my
computer and got to work.
I needed to know a few things.
At this time of night
there wasn’t much else I could do but I wasn’t about to make any mistakes that
might ruin what I had planned.
Satisfied at last I switched it off and curled up to get
what sleep I could.
I was going to need it.
Epilogue
It was almost four-thirty in the morning when the squeak of
the hinges woke me.
Sarkisian, looking more tired than I’d ever seen him, held
the door wide.
“You’re free to go,” he said.
I eyed him with suspicion.
“
You’re
free to go?” I countered.
“I’m taking about twelve hours to sleep then I’ll have to be
back here.”
That should work.
“Come on,” I said.
“I’ll drive you home.”
It spoke volumes for his exhaustion that he didn’t argue.
I
led the way through the office, waved at the night crew and guided Sarkisian
outside to where Freya waited, rusting patiently.
As he climbed into the
passenger side I grabbed a water bottle from the backseat and surreptitiously
swallowed another of the pain pills supplied by Sarah.
Sarkisian didn’t seem to
notice.
He leaned back and closed his eyes.
“How did Theresa manage it?” I asked.
“I mean getting Lee
Wessex’s car to the airport?
Did she tell you?”
“Mmm?” He sounded half asleep already.
“Oh.
After she hid
his body she ran back to the bleachers and tossed her keys underneath.
Then she
drove his car to San Jose and left it in long term parking.
Took a bus most of
the way home then walked the last mile so no one she knew would see her getting
off.
The next morning she took a taxi out to the fairgrounds, located Pete Norton
and had him help her find her supposedly lost keys.
Told him she’d just taken a
taxi home the night before, knowing it would be impossible to find the keys at
night.
She says she made sure Pete was the one who found them.”
I considered.
Theresa had certainly lived up to her
reputation of being efficient.
And she’d nearly gotten away with three murders.
“Did she have Connie’s jewelry?”
He yawned.
“That and the rest of the money Wessex stole.” He
yawned again.
“He’d put it all in a duffel bag in his trunk.
She says she just
buried it in her back yard for safekeeping until she could figure out how to
return it to the owners without incriminating herself.”
“And all those pranks?
Were they Theresa too?”
“Mmm.
Trying to confuse things, make me think things like
changing the damn program order and switching the lights and upsetting things
at the parade were important clues.” He mumbled the last few words.
We both fell silent while I digested this.
After a little
time had passed I glanced at Sarkisian.
“Owen?” I asked softly.
He didn’t answer but it was possible he couldn’t hear me
over Freya’s ear-splitting decibel level.
His head seemed to be propped
somewhere between the window and the rest on the back of the seat.
If I were
lucky he’d be asleep before we reached the freeway.
The less he guessed, the
better for me.
I was lucky.
In spite of the engine noise he never woke
until we were well into the Sierras.
Then he merely repositioned himself,
muttered something I couldn’t hear over Freya’s racket and went out again like
a light.
It was almost ten o’clock in the morning when we at last
pulled onto the main drag in Reno.
Freya isn’t exactly capable of breaking
speed limits and we had some serious trouble on some of the steeper climbs, not
to mention the stop to refill the gas tank.
I was just relieved the poor old
girl had been able to make it.
Both of us poor old girls.
I needed another of
Sarah’s pills.
Sarkisian straightened, opened his eyes and looked around.
“This isn’t Upper River Gulch.”
“Really?
I must have taken a wrong turn.”
“Quite a few of them, by the look of it.
Annike—”
“You don’t have any say in the matter,” I informed him.
“You’ve been kidnapped.”
He was silent for a long minute.
“Your aunt is going to kill
us.
Not to mention everyone in the department.
And the whole damn town.”
“Would you really want half of Merit County at your wedding?
It was either that or this.”
“Mmm.” He stared out the window as I drew up in front of the
county office that housed the marriage license bureau.
The woman behind the counter who received our application
eyed us with barely hidden amusement.
“Do you have reservations at a chapel
yet?”
I shook my head.
None of them had been open when I’d done my
quick research on Reno.
“Here.” She handed Sarkisian a card.
“This should be exactly
what you’re looking for.”
He passed it to me.
“Chapel of Memories” it read.
I looked
up at Sarkisian.
He shrugged.
“This seems to be your show.
Go ahead and
call.”
I did.
They were open.
They could take us at once.
That
settled it.
A short time later we arrived at the chapel on the outskirts
of town.
It looked nice.
Simple.
Just what I wanted.
I’d staged so many
elaborate weddings since starting in the event coordinating business I couldn’t
bear the thought of having one for myself.
Inside we were met by a middle-aged man wearing a neat
business suit and a pleasant smile.
It broadened at sight of us.
“Oh.
You
didn’t say you wanted our specialty theme,” he said.
“Just give us ten minutes
and we’ll have everything set up.”
“We don’t want anything fancy,” I said quickly.
He winked.
“Of course not.
Don’t worry, we have exactly the
thing to suit you.” He hurried away, leaving us staring at each other.
Slowly, through my exhaustion from the event and the drive,
the light dawned.
“You’re still in uniform.”
“Oh my god.” His hand went to his holster where his gun
still rested.
“I should at least put this in the trunk.”
“Don’t.” I was having trouble not laughing.
“You’ll ruin the
effect.”
The man returned, beaming.
“We’re almost ready.
Oh, I see
you brought your own handcuffs.
What a marvelous costume.
It almost looks
real.”
I choked.
“Almost,” I agreed.
“But you’re not dressed to match.
Don’t worry, you can rent
the perfect gown.
You’ll find them on the rack by the restrooms.
Now, where are
the Witness for the Prosecution and the Witness for the Defense?”
“We didn’t have time to round them up,” Sarkisian said.
The man shook his head.
“You won’t have much of a case
without them.
Not legal at all.
But don’t worry, we can provide them as well.”
“Sounds rigged to me,” I managed.
“How will I get a fair
trial?”
“You’re going to do hard time,” Sarkisian assured me.
“That’s the spirit,” the man said.
“Now, if you’d like to go
over the music?”
Sarkisian shot me a glance.
“I’ll take care of that.
Why
don’t you see what kind of ‘costume’ you can find?”
“Yes.” The man eyed me critically.
“And I’m sure you’ll want
to freshen up a little for the mug shots.”
I nodded weakly.
What had I gotten us into?
Sarkisian seemed to be getting into the spirit of the thing
though so I left him to it and made my way to where several racks of dresses
and suits, arranged by size, stood along a hallway wall.
Most of them, I noted,
were either prison garb or uniforms.
I couldn’t bring myself to wear a bright
orange jumpsuit or even a straight-hanging gown with wide gray and white
horizontal stripes.
If Sarkisian could get married in the clothes he’d been
wearing for the last twenty-seven plus hours then so could I.
I washed my face,
applied a touch of lipstick, did what I could with my hair—Sue would have a fit
when she saw the photos if I ever dared show them to her—and returned to see
what Sarkisian had been up to.
He grinned as I approached.
“Probably a good choice.
You
look absolutely beautiful.”
Which only went to prove I was right not to let him get
away.
Still I did have a conscience.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
He stared somberly at me—except for the corner of his mouth
that kept twitching.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?
I seem to remember being
kidnapped.”
“You can back out.”
“After all the trouble I just went to?
Not on your life.”
That roused my suspicions but I never got a chance to voice
them.
The door to the chapel opened.
“We’re ready,” the man announced and stepped aside.
“If you
would like to attach the handcuffs?”
Solemn-faced, Sarkisian snapped one side of the metal
bracelet around my wrist and the other around his own.
He raised his arm,
bringing mine with it.
Our gazes met and I felt a besotted grin spreading
across my face.
The interior chapel looked like a miniature courtroom.
A
judge dressed in a black robe and white wig sat behind a large wooden desk.
The
man who had initially greeted us took up a position at the judge’s side, picked
up a staff and beat the end of it against the floorboards.
“Hear ye, hear ye.
Court is now in session.
Will the
arresting officer escort the prisoner to the bench?”
Sarkisian and I stepped forward which was apparently the cue
for the processional to begin.
The Pirates of Penzance sang forth about it
being a first-rate opportunity to get married with impunity and I almost
collapsed.
“They actually had that?” I demanded.
Sarkisian struggled to keep his face straight.
“I downloaded
it while you were getting cleaned up.
They usually offer a choice of themes
from TV cop shows.”
We reached the bench and the volume of the music lowered as
it segued into the rondele from the same operetta, “He Loves You, He Is Gone”.
“Will the witnesses take their places,” the clerk called and
a man and woman stepped forward.
The judge fixed me with an accusing stare.
“You are charged
with kidnapping with intent to commit matrimony.”
They had me there.
Guilty as charged.
But he didn’t give me
a chance to enter my plea.
“You may read the prisoner her rights,” the judge went on,
this time addressing Sarkisian as he handed him a large card.
The sheriff took my hand and read, “You have the right to
tell me off in no uncertain terms whenever you think I need it.
Anything you
say can and will be taken with all the seriousness with which it was meant and
may be used as evidence in all future discussions…”
It went on with a lot of nonsense that had us both laughing.
There were also serious moments, ones I knew we’d both treasure and words we
meant with all our hearts.
We were gazing into each other’s eyes, our hands clasped,
momentarily beyond words, when the judge cleared his throat.
“The rings?”
It took a moment for his words to penetrate and another for
the dismay to set in.
I, who planned events like this for a living, I, who
prided myself on never forgetting the smallest detail, had forgotten my own
wedding ring.
Sarkisian grinned.
“Can we get a picture of that
expression?” he asked of the assembly in general.
“I want it for later
blackmail.
And don’t worry, love.
We’ll get real rings on our way home.
But for
now…” He reached into the pocket of his uniform shirt and drew out a small box.
“Part of our package here,” he told me.
He flipped it open and there, nestled in satin, lay a pair
of rings—halves of a set of handcuffs to be exact.
We exchanged rings and vows,
the judge pronounced our life sentence as husband and wife and the witnesses
fastened balls and chains to our ankles.
“We did it,” I managed, not quite believing it yet.
“We certainly did,” Sarksian said.
“And you know what?”
When his voice took on that tone I knew better than to trust
him.
“What?”