How to Crash a Killer Bash

by Penny Warner

  “Each of the masterminds will receive a weapon to defend themselves in case something happens during the evening.” Mary Lee continued to read her script as she handed out various replicated antiquities/weapons to the suspects—the dagger, the bow and arrow, the beaded necklace, and so on.

  She wrapped up her speech and announced a twenty-minute break, encouraging the amateur sleuths to question the suspects, hunt for hidden clues, and down more champagne. After waving at the crowd like a queen acknowledging her loyal subjects, she stepped off the stage to collect accolades from the guests.

  Twenty minutes later, I rounded up the suspects—all but Mary Lee, whom I hoped had taken her place on the floor in the mural room for the crime scene. She was to stay there and await the discovery of her “dead body” during the second act. I glanced around and saw no sign of her. Good.

  Meanwhile, Brad had finally arrived. He was chatting with Sam Wo in a far corner, and looked very official—not to mention hot—in his white Crime Scene Cleaners jumpsuit.

  About time, I thought, still annoyed.

  At my signal to Sam, the lights in the room flickered on and off, gathering the attention of the guests for Act II. The lights went out again, this time for nearly thirty seconds, alerting Delicia to scream from the mural room.

  Her scream was bloodcurdling. She’d been practicing.

  When the lights came on again, the crowd looked half amused, half puzzled.

  “A scream!” Christine called out as Agatha Mistry.

  “Coming from in there,” Dan’s Holmes said as he pointed toward the mural room.

  The crowd buzzed as they moved toward the doors of the waiting crime scene. I couldn’t wait to see their reactions when they found Delicia hunched over the body of the recently “murdered” California de Young.

  But before Dan could open the doors to let in the amateur sleuths, they burst open.

  Delicia stood at the entrance to the room, her face flushed.

  This wasn’t in the script. Was she ad-libbing again?

  Before I could shoot her a questioning look, she held up her trembling hand. It was covered in fake blood.

  I looked down at Dee’s flowered Nancy Prude dress. It too was stained red.

  Half the crowd gasped; the other half giggled.

  Brad appeared behind me, having elbowed his way through the crowd instead of being summoned. The whole second act appeared to be falling apart right in front of my eyes.

  Mary Lee was definitely going to kill me now.

  Brad stepped up to Delicia, took her arm, and gently lowered her upraised hand. Pulling out his cell phone from his pocket, he commanded, “Presley, get everyone back.”

  He took hold of Dee’s wrist and led her back into the mural room.

  “Presley!” he said, shaking me from my trance. None of this was in the script.

  “What? We’re supposed to go into the crime scene room and—”

  Brad reached out, grabbed my arm, pulled me into the room, and closed the door.

  Delicia stood frozen to her spot. Fake blood mixed with mascara was smeared on her face from wiping away her tears. What had that witch said to Dee that would make her so upset? I looked from Delicia to Brad, searching for answers.

  “Brad, what’s going on? What did Mary Lee do to Delicia?”

  Brad nodded toward Mary Lee, who lay facedown a few feet away.

  I stepped over. “Mary Lee?”

  The fake dagger in her back was encircled with fake blood.

  She wasn’t moving.

  I glanced back at Brad, the hairs on the back of my neck raised like a porcupine’s quills.

  “Mary Lee really has been stabbed,” he said gravely. “She’s dead. Seriously.”

  Chapter 4

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #4

  Choose a theme-within-a-theme for your Murder Mystery Party, such as a “Noir Soiree,” a “Cozy Conundrum,” or “Case of the Hardy Boys vs. Nancy Drew.”

  “We need an ambulance . . .” Brad was talking on his cell phone, but I went on asking questions, a wave of heat rushing through me.

  “What . . . what do you mean, dead? She can’t be . . . There must be some mistake . . . ,” I stammered, not comprehending what had just happened. My murder mystery was supposed to be fiction, not real life. Following the heat wave, a cold sweat broke out over my body. I shivered.

  Brad covered the mouthpiece. “Parker!” he commanded. Then he lowered his voice and spoke to me slowly, as if I were a child. “Get. Those. People. Away. From. Here. Now.”

  I nodded, zombielike, hoping the feeling would return to my wobbling legs.

  “But don’t let them leave!” he added.

  “What about Delicia?” I looked at my friend across the room. Tears streamed down her flushed, mascara-streaked cheeks.

  Brad moved over to her and wrapped his free arm around her. “I’ve got her. Go!”

  With a last glance at the bloodied body lying on the floor, I slipped out of the room to face the puzzled crowd gathered near the doorway. Granted they were supposed to be puzzled, but not like this. What now? I didn’t relish canceling the event, but obviously the fictional murder mystery couldn’t continue, not with a real murder mystery in the second act.

  I stepped up on a nearby granite sculpture, no doubt a priceless piece of art, even though it just looked like a big rock. Waving my hands at the murmuring crowd, I shouted, “May I have your attention, please?” I repeated the words several times until the raucous noise quieted to simmering whispers.

  “Thank you.” I took a big breath and ad-libbed my lines. “Thank you all for coming tonight and . . . uh . . . supporting the museum. Unfortunately, there’s been . . . an accident, and I’m going to have to ask you to return to the main court.”

  People glanced at each other, clearly puzzled. A man channeling Charlie Chan yelled, “It’s a clue!” Several others giggled at his outburst.

  “No, seriously!” I said, trying to be heard over the excited conversations. “I need you to—”

  Before I could finish, half a dozen uniformed San Francisco police officers flooded into the room, hands on their sidearms, ready to draw their weapons.

  “Awesome!” a young Dick Tracy called out. I recognized Ed Kaufman from the mayor’s office.

  “Real cops!” a Perry Mason look-alike shouted. Rodney Worth from the Board of Supervisors.

  “Hey, they do look real!” yelled Judy Wheeler, well-known philanthropist, dressed as another Nancy Drew.

  The police spread out, surrounding the crowd, weapons ready, waiting for orders. From behind them stepped a tall, good-looking man with slicked-back hair, an Italian suit, and black wing tips.

  My nemesis, San Francisco Police Department homicide detective Luke Melvin.

  He moved forward, spotted me standing on top of the big expensive rock. He covered his mouth with a hand and shook his head.

  Uh-oh.

  Meanwhile the crowd watched the action, mesmerized. Apparently they believed the police invasion was part of the script.

  Corbin Cosetti, still wearing a London Fog overcoat, shouldered his way through the mass of people. He glanced at the police surrounding the crowd, then frowned at me, clearly confused at this latest turn of events. He—aside from the other cast members—was the only one who knew we had veered far from the original story. And he also knew who was in the next room—his mother. He started for the door and was blocked by a uniformed officer.

  “Excuse me, but I’m going in there!” Corbin shouted loud enough to be heard by nearly everyone in the room. The crowd hushed, eyes wide. I heard the scratch of pencil on the mini-notebooks we had provided.

  Detective Melvin, who’d reached the door to the crime scene room about the same time as Corbin, recognized Mary Lee’s son. “Hold on, son. You don’t want to go in there—”

  Corbin forced his way around the detective, causing a uniformed officer to raise his weapon. Detective Melvin held up a hand to stop the cop as Corbin ducked in
side. Melvin mumbled something to the officer, then followed Corbin into the crime scene room. All eyes stared at the door, anticipating the next scene.

  Seconds later I heard an agonized “No!” from inside the room.

  Corbin.

  My skin broke out in goose bumps at the heartrending sound.

  Detective Melvin reappeared at the door, alone. He motioned for an officer to enter, said something to him, then headed for the rock, where I still stood frozen to the spot. Offering a hand, he helped me down, then stepped up and took my place.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention? I’m Detective Luke Melvin from the San Francisco Police Department.” He flashed his badge.

  A woman dressed in something “tart-noir” said, “He looks too cute to be a real cop. They should have got someone who looked like Bogey to play the part. That guy should be on Male Runway Models.”

  Her partner, apparently Magnum PI in a Hawaiian shirt, replied, “You know, I think I’ve seen him somewhere. In a commercial or something.”

  The crowd gradually quieted, waiting to hear the detective give his lines.

  “I’m afraid the party’s over,” Melvin announced.

  Everyone looked puzzled for a moment.

  “There’s been a homicide . . .”

  The crowd broke into mirthful murmurs and nodding heads.

  “I’m afraid Ms. Miller, your host tonight for the de Young Museum fund-raiser, has been . . . killed.”

  A few exaggerated gasps. A few inadvertent chuckles.

  “You mean California de Young, don’t you, Officer?” a Dick Tracy shouted.

  They still didn’t get it.

  “No,” Melvin continued. “I mean Mary Lee Miller. She’s . . . been stabbed. I’m going to have to ask you not to leave the premises until one of my officers has taken your statements. They’ll escort you into the adjoining auditorium, where you’ll be sequestered until we can interview each of you.”

  Chuckles turned to grumbles.

  “What?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’ll get to you as quickly as we can,” he continued. “Please, just—”

  The door to the crime scene room opened. All eyes left the detective and focused on the door. Corbin Cosetti staggered out, head down. In his hand, he held his mother’s yapping dog. Its pink-dyed fur was spattered with blood.

  “Mother . . . ,” Corbin stammered, his face pulled back in a pained grimace. “She’s . . . dead. Someone murdered my mother.”

  That’s when the serious screaming began.

  While surprises can be great fun at a party, this wasn’t the kind I had in mind. The surprise was supposed to be the revelation of the “killer,” followed by the anticipated gasps of delight from the amateur sleuths. What now pounded against my eardrums were screams of terror.

  Luckily my cast took direction well, even off script. Along with the San Francisco police officers, they helped herd the large, nearly hysterical group into the large auditorium to await their turn to be questioned. I cooled my heels while the cops began interviewing guests. The VIPs were released sooner than you could say “Where’s my lawyer?” while the rest talked on cell phones or to each other, anxious to be set free.

  It was nearly an hour before I was called into a small classroom where Detective Melvin, ever the party pooper, waited for me.

  “Ms. Parker, we meet again,” the detective said, after I’d been escorted into one of the museum’s educational classrooms. He sat behind a desk, his manicured hands folded, his silk tie perfectly aligned. While the room lacked the hot lights of a police station interrogation room, the Mayan murals depicting human sacrifices did nothing to put me at ease.

  “So . . . you wanted to see me?” I said innocently, avoiding meeting the detective’s eyes. I fiddled with the buttons on my costume.

  When I finally glanced up, he smiled. Sort of.

  “Look, Detective Melvin. I don’t know what I can tell you. Everything was going fine until—” I broke off.

  “Until your ‘victim’ became real.” He sat back in his chair, hands behind his head, and gestured for me to sit. I took the front-and-center chair and reluctantly sat down.

  “So tell me what happened,” Melvin said.

  “I have no idea. We were about to herd the guests into the mural room—the crime scene room—for the second act when suddenly Dee came out . . . her hands all bloody. I thought it was fake blood . . .” I shook my head. Poor Dee. What she must be going through now.

  Melvin sat up and placed his hands flat on the desk. “Let’s back up a little. The rehearsal last night. I heard there was a confrontation between Ms. Jackson and Ms. Miller.”

  I smushed my lips together before answering. Nearly everyone at the rehearsal had heard Dee’s idle threats. Who had blabbed? “Where did you hear that?”

  He ignored my question. “What happened at the rehearsal?” He eyed me, as if he knew something I didn’t and was trying to trap me. But I knew Detective Melvin better than he thought, having “worked” with him on a previous case involving the death of one of my party guests. Although good at his job, he was quick to jump to conclusions. And he overcompensated—that was clear from his intricately embroidered wing tips. I knew from teaching abnormal psychology that this was a classic sign of narcissistic personality disorder.

  “Sounds like you already know,” I said, crossing my arms.

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  I glanced at one of the murals on the wall. Four scantily clad men held down a bleeding victim on some kind of round altar. One of the men gripped a dagger in one hand and the victim’s heart in the other. I shuddered. Was Detective Melvin about to cut out my heart and have it with a little Chianti?

  “Okay, sure, there was a little tension between Dee and Mary Lee at the rehearsal. That always happens during rehearsals. They’re stressful. But we worked it out.”

  He flipped a page of his notebook and scanned the chicken scratch that was supposed to be his handwriting. “According to my source, Ms. Jackson actually threatened to kill Ms. Miller last night.” He read from his notes: “ ‘Bee-otch, I should have stabbed her when I had the chance.’ ” He glanced up, eyes narrowed on her. “Is that about right?”

  I leaned forward. “She didn’t mean she would really have done it! It’s just something she said, you know, like we all do during times of stress. You know, like, ‘I’m going to kill that paper boy if he doesn’t stop throwing my newspaper in the sprinkler.’ ” I sat back in my chair, wondering who had felt the need to repeat Delicia’s meaningless threat.

  Detective Melvin glanced back at his notes. “According to my source, Ms. Jackson picked up several weapons—a knife, gun, and rope, to be exact—and enacted Mary Lee’s virtual death behind her back.” He looked up at me for my reaction. He got what he wanted.

  I sat openmouthed, unable to speak. My only thought was: Who was this so-called source? Was someone out to get Delicia?

  “I assume from your silence that this is correct? Do you want to tell me why Ms. Jackson might have wanted Ms. Miller dead?”

  “She didn’t!” I said and stood up to leave. This was getting Dee nowhere.

  The detective pushed another button. “I understand your friend was having an affair with Corbin Cosetti, Mary Lee Miller’s son. And Miller wanted him to break it off.”

  I glared down at him. “So? Delicia wouldn’t kill her for that. Ridiculous.”

  “Not really. If she were to marry Miller’s son, she’d find herself among the city’s wealthy elite, wouldn’t she?”

  I could feel the color rise in my face in fury. “Look, Detective. As a former abnormal psychology instructor, I don’t use this term loosely, but you’re nuts. Once again you’re jumping to conclusions, based on hearsay.”

  “Actually, we have motive, opportunity, and means.” He ticked off his fingers as he listed his “evidence.” “Motive: Jackson had threatened to
kill Miller for trying to end her relationship with Corbin. Opportunity: She was in the room alone with the victim—and all those weapons. Means: When we find the real weapon, no doubt hidden somewhere in that room, I’m pretty sure it will have her bloody fingerprints all over it. Not exactly hearsay.”

  I thought for a moment. The Styrofoam copy of the dagger obviously couldn’t have killed Mary Lee. It wasn’t strong enough or sharp enough.

  “So you don’t have a weapon?”

  “Not yet. But we’ll find it. With all the security, no one can get in or out of the museum without something like that being discovered. Like I said, it’s most likely in that room. My officers are searching for it now.”

  I felt another wave of heat rise up from my toes. This wasn’t happening. My friend and coworker was not a murderer. But if I’d written this as a play, even an amateur sleuth would convict her on this damning evidence.

  “How do you know she was alone in there? All of my actors entered the room at some point to place their weapons. Any one of them could have done it.”

  I stopped abruptly. What was I saying! That Raj or Berkeley could have murdered Mary Lee Miller? Not a chance. That left one of the museum staff, or even Corbin . . .

  “The room is only accessible from two points,” the detective said. “From the front, where the guests were to enter. And from a side door where the suspects supposedly made their covert entrances.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “Once Delicia entered—she was supposed to be the last suspect to drop off her weapon—she was to discover the dead body and then scream to alert the guests, cueing the second act. But”—I was thinking out loud here, visualizing the possible scene—“when she discovered Mary Lee had really been stabbed . . . she must have freaked out . . . and screamed for real.”

  “That doesn’t explain why that side door was locked. Which it was, according to the security guard.”

  That stopped me for a second. While Detective Melvin drummed his fingers on the desk, I tried to come up with an explanation.