the time, I’ve since found out
he destroyed our business and our reputations as investors. So yes, as shocking
as it might sound, the idea of him being battered a little doesn’t bother me in
the least. I’m sorry, Connie. But I imagine you’ve felt the same.”
Connie Wessex drew a shuddering breath. “I admit the shock of
his disappearance faded a bit under the shock of realizing why he’d
disappeared. That he could steal everything like that and just leave me
behind—” She broke off.
Her story had changed, I noted. Earlier she’d said her
husband must have been forced, that he’d never have left or stayed away from
her on purpose. Interesting.
Pete Norton stuck his head in the doorway. “There are people
arriving. Thought you’d want to know. We’ve put up arrow signs directing them
around to this side.”
“Right.” Gathering up Mazda and dislodging the poodle that
had been sitting on my feet, I stood. “If we don’t want a riot on our hands
we’d better get set up.” That’s what we should have been doing all this time but
I suppose we could be forgiven for getting sidetracked. I wondered how much
curiosity we were going to get from the hopeful amateurs and drill teams.
They’d be bound to notice the crime scene tape. It has such a jaunty way of
catching the eye.
First things first though. With the help of Theresa and
Lizzie I repositioned the tables. As planned, I placed the applications for the
talent show and the parade at either end of the first table and left Edward
Vanderveer sitting behind it, looking important, promising him it was only
until our volunteer reinforcements showed up. I scattered a few pens on the
second table then left Lizzie Mobley behind the third, ready to accept the
completed forms and make sure they went into the right stack. Ivan Janowski,
with Theresa delGuardia at his elbow, headed toward the seats to await the
first audition. Brian Quantrell and Connie Wessex, I noticed, had faded into
the background while I was passing out assignments but they both trailed after
Janowski and Theresa. That left me free to run interference in case of
problems—and try to sneak a few minutes with Sarkisian.
Fat chance of that. There’s nothing like the lure of an
amateur performance to bring people—talented and untalented—out of the
woodwork. One middle-aged woman gushingly told me she hadn’t played her
clarinet since high school band but when she heard about this wonderful
opportunity she got on the internet and looked up a number of her former
bandmates and they’d gotten six of them together to play a selection of old
marching favorites. Well, you never know. They might have practiced.
At any rate I enjoyed the excitement of the crowd as the
people waited their turns to hand in their applications and be given an
audition time—which would start in about twenty minutes. An all too familiar
plunging sensation in my stomach accompanied that realization. At least Edward
Vanderveer, our light and sound specialist, was here. As soon as our volunteers
showed up, I could chase Lizzie out front with the other committee members and
Vanderveer into the lighting loft.
I was a bit surprised the volunteers hadn’t arrived yet. I’d
rallied the assistance of a few old friends, members of the SCOURGEs—that’s the
Service Club of Upper River Gulch Environs, the tiny town where I live with my
aunt. That group tends to live up to their acronym but they mean well. And they
do turn out en masse when needed. I’d told them to report to Janowski
though—a diplomatic move I now regretted. I should have kept control of the
volunteers myself. Worried, I peered over the heads of the growing number of
people, trying to catch a glimpse of a familiar head. What time had he told
them to get here?
Someone grabbed my arm and the next thing I knew Sarkisian
had propelled me behind one of the stage curtains and kissed me soundly. It was
great having him back, even if I was working an event
he destroyed our business and our reputations as investors. So yes, as shocking
as it might sound, the idea of him being battered a little doesn’t bother me in
the least. I’m sorry, Connie. But I imagine you’ve felt the same.”
Connie Wessex drew a shuddering breath. “I admit the shock of
his disappearance faded a bit under the shock of realizing why he’d
disappeared. That he could steal everything like that and just leave me
behind—” She broke off.
Her story had changed, I noted. Earlier she’d said her
husband must have been forced, that he’d never have left or stayed away from
her on purpose. Interesting.
Pete Norton stuck his head in the doorway. “There are people
arriving. Thought you’d want to know. We’ve put up arrow signs directing them
around to this side.”
“Right.” Gathering up Mazda and dislodging the poodle that
had been sitting on my feet, I stood. “If we don’t want a riot on our hands
we’d better get set up.” That’s what we should have been doing all this time but
I suppose we could be forgiven for getting sidetracked. I wondered how much
curiosity we were going to get from the hopeful amateurs and drill teams.
They’d be bound to notice the crime scene tape. It has such a jaunty way of
catching the eye.
First things first though. With the help of Theresa and
Lizzie I repositioned the tables. As planned, I placed the applications for the
talent show and the parade at either end of the first table and left Edward
Vanderveer sitting behind it, looking important, promising him it was only
until our volunteer reinforcements showed up. I scattered a few pens on the
second table then left Lizzie Mobley behind the third, ready to accept the
completed forms and make sure they went into the right stack. Ivan Janowski,
with Theresa delGuardia at his elbow, headed toward the seats to await the
first audition. Brian Quantrell and Connie Wessex, I noticed, had faded into
the background while I was passing out assignments but they both trailed after
Janowski and Theresa. That left me free to run interference in case of
problems—and try to sneak a few minutes with Sarkisian.
Fat chance of that. There’s nothing like the lure of an
amateur performance to bring people—talented and untalented—out of the
woodwork. One middle-aged woman gushingly told me she hadn’t played her
clarinet since high school band but when she heard about this wonderful
opportunity she got on the internet and looked up a number of her former
bandmates and they’d gotten six of them together to play a selection of old
marching favorites. Well, you never know. They might have practiced.
At any rate I enjoyed the excitement of the crowd as the
people waited their turns to hand in their applications and be given an
audition time—which would start in about twenty minutes. An all too familiar
plunging sensation in my stomach accompanied that realization. At least Edward
Vanderveer, our light and sound specialist, was here. As soon as our volunteers
showed up, I could chase Lizzie out front with the other committee members and
Vanderveer into the lighting loft.
I was a bit surprised the volunteers hadn’t arrived yet. I’d
rallied the assistance of a few old friends, members of the SCOURGEs—that’s the
Service Club of Upper River Gulch Environs, the tiny town where I live with my
aunt. That group tends to live up to their acronym but they mean well. And they
do turn out en masse when needed. I’d told them to report to Janowski
though—a diplomatic move I now regretted. I should have kept control of the
volunteers myself. Worried, I peered over the heads of the growing number of
people, trying to catch a glimpse of a familiar head. What time had he told
them to get here?
Someone grabbed my arm and the next thing I knew Sarkisian
had propelled me behind one of the stage curtains and kissed me soundly. It was
great having him back, even if I was working an event
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