her mouth but Sarkisian
intervened smoothly before she could utter whatever scathing remark occurred to
her. “I’d like each of you to remember what you can about that night. When you
last saw Mr. Wessex, what he was doing, what you were doing. That sort of
thing.”
“That,” stated Edward Vanderveer, “was a long time ago.”
“True. But considering what happened and the uproar that
followed the next day I imagine you can all remember a great deal. Would you
like to begin, Mr. Vanderveer?”
The man hesitated. “I left early,” he said at last. “I never
liked fireworks, they’re much too loud.”
Sarkisian nodded. “So where did you go?”
Again Vanderveer hesitated. “Home and straight to bed, I’m
afraid. I wanted to get up early to call clients on the east coast.”
“Unprovable alibi,” muttered Lizzie just a touch too loudly.
Sarkisian turned to her and smiled. “And you, Ms. Mobley?”
Lizzie colored. “I skipped the fireworks,” she said shortly.
“Poor Mazda had been badly hurt—as you can see—so I spent most of the time at
the emergency vet clinic waiting for his surgery to be completed. By the time I
got back here, that—” She broke off. “The ticket booth told me that weasel
Wessex had collected all the money about half an hour before. At the time I was
just glad someone had it safe. I didn’t know he intended to make off with it.”
Sarkisian’s gaze moved around the room. “Ms. delGuardia?”
Theresa tilted up her chin as if facing an unpleasant duty.
“I saw him take his place in the stands with the other committee members. But
then all the lights were turned off for the fireworks and when they came back
on again he’d gone. Then I discovered I’d lost my keys so I called for a taxi
and went to meet it at the Main Gate.”
The sheriff turned to Janowski. “And you?”
“My wife and I had to sit with him during the show. He made
some excuse about halfway through and left. Didn’t see him again but I wasn’t
exactly looking for him. Then my wife and I went home.”
Sarkisian’s gaze shifted to Brian Quantrell and he raised
his eyebrows.
“Me?” Quantrell grinned. “Let’s see. I wasn’t on duty but I
was helping out. Keeping an eye on the fireworks, that sort of thing. Then
afterward I was supervising the clean-up in case there were any accidents or
burns. I left right about the same time as the ambulance.”
The sheriff nodded. “And Ms. Wessex?” He turned to her at
last.
She’d remained silent since her initial acrimonious greeting
of Vanderveer but that was hardly surprising. It couldn’t be pleasant to know
her husband had stolen everything he could get his hands on including her
jewelry, planned to run out on her, then gotten himself killed. Though come to
think of it, that sounded like a damn good motive for her to have been the one
who killed him.
She reached out to stroke Mazda’s head. The little hound
retreated, sinking lower into my lap. “I didn’t feel like sitting with the
organizers—it was Lee’s project, not mine—so I strolled around a bit, watched
the fireworks, talked to a few people—no, no one I actually knew, just people I
bumped into—then went home before it was over. We’d brought separate cars, you
see. So I guess the last time I saw him was when he made his way to the stands
and I went to see if I could find anyone interesting to talk to.”
So it didn’t sound as if any of these people had a definite
alibi for the time Lee Wessex picked up the money and checks and headed to his
car—and was murdered.
“How was he killed?” Vanderveer asked.
Sarkisian studied him. “We won’t know for certain until
after the autopsy.”
“Then there wasn’t any outward sign? No bullet holes or
knife wounds or his head bashed in?”
“You sound like you’d like it if there was,” Sarkisian said
mildly.
The man flushed. “It would make it simpler, wouldn’t it? And
even though I had no reason to be mad at him at
intervened smoothly before she could utter whatever scathing remark occurred to
her. “I’d like each of you to remember what you can about that night. When you
last saw Mr. Wessex, what he was doing, what you were doing. That sort of
thing.”
“That,” stated Edward Vanderveer, “was a long time ago.”
“True. But considering what happened and the uproar that
followed the next day I imagine you can all remember a great deal. Would you
like to begin, Mr. Vanderveer?”
The man hesitated. “I left early,” he said at last. “I never
liked fireworks, they’re much too loud.”
Sarkisian nodded. “So where did you go?”
Again Vanderveer hesitated. “Home and straight to bed, I’m
afraid. I wanted to get up early to call clients on the east coast.”
“Unprovable alibi,” muttered Lizzie just a touch too loudly.
Sarkisian turned to her and smiled. “And you, Ms. Mobley?”
Lizzie colored. “I skipped the fireworks,” she said shortly.
“Poor Mazda had been badly hurt—as you can see—so I spent most of the time at
the emergency vet clinic waiting for his surgery to be completed. By the time I
got back here, that—” She broke off. “The ticket booth told me that weasel
Wessex had collected all the money about half an hour before. At the time I was
just glad someone had it safe. I didn’t know he intended to make off with it.”
Sarkisian’s gaze moved around the room. “Ms. delGuardia?”
Theresa tilted up her chin as if facing an unpleasant duty.
“I saw him take his place in the stands with the other committee members. But
then all the lights were turned off for the fireworks and when they came back
on again he’d gone. Then I discovered I’d lost my keys so I called for a taxi
and went to meet it at the Main Gate.”
The sheriff turned to Janowski. “And you?”
“My wife and I had to sit with him during the show. He made
some excuse about halfway through and left. Didn’t see him again but I wasn’t
exactly looking for him. Then my wife and I went home.”
Sarkisian’s gaze shifted to Brian Quantrell and he raised
his eyebrows.
“Me?” Quantrell grinned. “Let’s see. I wasn’t on duty but I
was helping out. Keeping an eye on the fireworks, that sort of thing. Then
afterward I was supervising the clean-up in case there were any accidents or
burns. I left right about the same time as the ambulance.”
The sheriff nodded. “And Ms. Wessex?” He turned to her at
last.
She’d remained silent since her initial acrimonious greeting
of Vanderveer but that was hardly surprising. It couldn’t be pleasant to know
her husband had stolen everything he could get his hands on including her
jewelry, planned to run out on her, then gotten himself killed. Though come to
think of it, that sounded like a damn good motive for her to have been the one
who killed him.
She reached out to stroke Mazda’s head. The little hound
retreated, sinking lower into my lap. “I didn’t feel like sitting with the
organizers—it was Lee’s project, not mine—so I strolled around a bit, watched
the fireworks, talked to a few people—no, no one I actually knew, just people I
bumped into—then went home before it was over. We’d brought separate cars, you
see. So I guess the last time I saw him was when he made his way to the stands
and I went to see if I could find anyone interesting to talk to.”
So it didn’t sound as if any of these people had a definite
alibi for the time Lee Wessex picked up the money and checks and headed to his
car—and was murdered.
“How was he killed?” Vanderveer asked.
Sarkisian studied him. “We won’t know for certain until
after the autopsy.”
“Then there wasn’t any outward sign? No bullet holes or
knife wounds or his head bashed in?”
“You sound like you’d like it if there was,” Sarkisian said
mildly.
The man flushed. “It would make it simpler, wouldn’t it? And
even though I had no reason to be mad at him at
Similar Books
