How to Crash a Killer Bash

by Penny Warner

  “Literally,” I said, referring to his crime scene cleaning business.

  He laughed. Apparently I was becoming his main source of entertainment. I sighed. “Okay, but I don’t want anything I tell you to go to your BFF Melvin.” His close relationship with the detective could be a serious problem this time.

  He shook his head and crossed his heart. “Your secrets are safe with me. We crime scene cleaners are like doctors. What happens in Presley’s World, stays in Presley’s World.”

  “All right. I’m going to see Corbin Cosetti.”

  “Mary Lee’s spoiled son? Delicia’s secret lover?”

  “First of all, how do you know he’s spoiled? And secondly, how did you know they were secret lovers?”

  “Because he does whatever mommy tells him to get what he wants. And everyone knew about Corbin and Delicia. You think he killed his mother?”

  “No! Of course not. But he may know someone who had a reason to kill her. Like his father . . .”

  “Hmm,” Brad said, pondering my statement. “So, you want company?”

  “I . . .” Standing so close to him was making me nervous. I was tempted to take him along, but he was too distracting, and I needed to think.

  “Maybe next time. I think he’ll open up to me more if it’s just the two of us.” I took a step back and looked him over in his white jumpsuit. “Besides, don’t you have a crime scene you need to clean up?”

  “I’m between jobs right now,” he said, shrugging. “Finished the museum late last night. But if you want to do this yourself, go for it.”

  He glanced back at my office. I followed his gaze. Through his eyes, with killer party props strewn around from last night’s murder mystery event, the place must have looked like a violent death had recently occurred there. I wondered if a crime scene cleaner would help.

  Brad reached into his pocket, pulled out a small roll of yellow plastic tape, stretched a piece across my door, and stuck a thumbtack in both ends. The words on the tape read: “Crime Scene—Do Not Enter.”

  “LOL,” I said, and left the building.

  Chapter 7

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #7

  For those guests playing suspects at your Murder Mystery Party, remind them to stay in character, even if something unexpected happens. Otherwise, the other guests may become confused, irate, or even violent.

  I pondered my reservations about Brad Matthews as I drove to the Bittersweet Café in the Fillmore near lower Pacific Heights. Brad was a nice guy, attractive and sexy as hell, and had seemed sincere when he offered to help me. But he had lied to me in the past, and I couldn’t get beyond my mistrust of him. Something lurked beneath that tight white jumpsuit—and I didn’t mean just his hot body.

  Thoughts of said body distracted me, and I missed the turn on Fillmore. The trouble with San Francisco streets is, there are too many one-ways and no-left-turns and not enough through streets. Not to mention the lack of parking. After circling around, I found a space between a big black Cadillac and a big white Lexus—both parked over their lines. Luckily the MINI just fit. Of course, if I’d had Delicia’s Smart Car, I wouldn’t have tapped both the front and rear bumpers pulling in.

  I entered the narrow, high-ceilinged café, decorated in shabby chic, with distressed tables, mismatched chairs, and wall-sized art. I found Corbin at one of two window tables. He was hunched over an espresso, his hair disheveled—on purpose?—and his clothes splotchy—was that paint? He didn’t look up when I entered, so I stepped over to the counter, ordered a double latte with a shot of chocolate, and watched him texting on his cell phone while I waited for my drink. I retrieved my drink and sat down opposite him in a wooden chair.

  He looked up, touched his cell phone screen one last time, and slipped the BlackBerry into his pocket. “Hey,” he said in a gravelly voice.

  “How’re you doing, Corbin?” I asked, searching his face. His eyes were red, but I couldn’t tell if that was from crying over the loss of his mother, allergies, or some kind of drug use. The smell of chocolate brownies wafting through the café would disguise any telltale aroma of marijuana. There was no sign of Mary Lee’s little dog.

  He ran his fingers through his wild hair. “Okay. You know. Kinda hard to believe she’s really gone. She was such a . . .”

  I wait for him to finish, then suggested, “Strong person?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. Whatever.”

  I took a sip of my chocolate-rich latte while he stared into his tiny cup, still full of espresso.

  “Thanks for meeting me, Corbin. I know it’s a hard time for you, but I’d like to do what I can to help Delicia. You knew her. You know she didn’t have anything to do with your mother’s death, but the police seem convinced by the circumstantial evidence. And they aren’t doing much to find the real killer. I thought maybe you could help.”

  I wasn’t sure he was listening as he continued to stare into his cup. Then he raised his head and said, “How?” He shuffled his feet under the table, and one foot bumped into mine. He stretched his lanky legs out to the side. I glanced down at his shoes. They were frayed, laceless, and paint-spattered Doc Martens athletic shoes. I guessed Corbin couldn’t care less about brand names. His mother had probably supplied the black designer shoes. Or perhaps the starving-artist look was affected.

  I tried again.

  “Corbin, a lot of people went into that crime scene room last night. I can vouch for my office mates, Raj and Berk. They had no reason to harm Mary Lee. But I don’t know Christine Lampe or Dan Tannacito that well. I thought you might give me some insight into the museum staff. Can you think of any reason they might want your mother . . . out of the picture?” Bad choice of words, but I found it difficult to discuss this with him.

  Two girls entered the café, dressed in glittery BeBe tees and tight jeans, with rhinestones decorating their derrieres. Corbin followed them with his eyes, then took a sip of his drink. Was he thinking about something? Avoiding my question? Or just interested in the two girls?

  He set the cup down and met my eyes. “Actually, there were lots of people who didn’t like my mother. I mean, everyone acted as if they liked her, but she could be really abrasive and controlling. I’m not saying it was enough to make someone want to kill her, but still . . .” He glanced again at the girls as he took another sip.

  When he didn’t continue, I asked, “Did you get along with your mother, Corbin?”

  He smiled, but there was no joy in his eyes.

  “Sure. As well as any kid with a mother who—” He stopped. The smile faded, and his handsome face clouded over. “Wait a minute. You don’t think I had anything to do with my own mother’s death, do you? Is that why you’re here?” His voice rose as he spoke, anger building quickly.

  “No, no, of course not,” I said hastily. “I’m just trying to get a sense of her.” Perhaps it was time to change the subject. “Tell me about your father, Jason. Did he get along well with your mother after the divorce?”

  Corbin visibly relaxed.

  “They got along fine, you know, for divorced parents.”

  “I read somewhere that it was quite a bitter divorce. Your father resented the fact that he didn’t get anything in the settlement. And he was upset that your mother got full custody of you.”

  Corbin drummed his fingers on the small wooden table. Was he bored? Anxious? Or just ADHD like me?

  “That was like years ago,” he finally said. “Lately they’d been talking more. He had some ideas about fund-raising that he’d been pitching to Mother. In the past few years he’d gotten good at charming old ladies out of their money to fund his art-finding treks.”

  “Really?” I leaned forward. “They were getting along pretty well?”

  “Yeah. He was finally getting his act together.” Corbin’s eyes brightened.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know. When I was a kid, I used to hear people talking about them. They said Mother only married him because she thought he was
going to be a great artist. And that he only married her for her family inheritance. They called him her trophy hubby behind her back. But he got nothing in the divorce, thanks to a prenup. And after a couple of bad reviews, he quit painting and started dealing in art and artifacts. Thought there was more money in it.”

  “How did he do?”

  “Not so well. After a kind of shady deal he tried to make with MoMA, none of the museums would trust him. Including the de Young. Word spreads fast in the art world. He was always looking for ways to make money.”

  “Not all of them legit, I gather.”

  Corbin glanced at the two girls, who had taken the other table window.

  “Do you think he might have . . .” My question trailed off.

  He jerked his attention back to me. “What, kill her? No way. Like I said, they were getting along better lately, talking and stuff. No, no way would he kill her. He didn’t have any reason to, after all these years.”

  “Corbin, I’d like to talk to him. Can you tell me how I can contact him?”

  “He’s houseboat-sitting right now. At the marina. You could try him there, although it’s tough to catch him. He’s gone a lot.”

  I took down the location of the boat and Jason’s cell number. Before I’d talked to Corbin, I thought Jason was a real possibility as a suspect in Mary Lee’s death. But after hearing he and Mary Lee were friendly again, his motive had vanished like city fog in the afternoon.

  Still, maybe he continued to harbor a lot of resentment from the past. And he could easily have been at the party. Could he have smuggled in a knife, sneaked into the crime scene room where Mary Lee was waiting, and killed her? Sure, except he didn’t seem to have a motive. At least, not an obvious one.

  I filed the thought away for future consideration and moved on.

  “Is there anything you can tell me about Christine, the museum curator? Or her assistant, Dan?”

  Corbin took a deep, sorrowful breath and let it out slowly. “Not really. Mother and Chris were tight years ago, when I was a kid. They went to the same college, up in Oregon. Chris was my godmother, and Mother got her the job at the de Young. But they had some kind of falling-out recently. When I asked about her, Mother just shook her head and changed the subject. My mother didn’t confide in me much.”

  A falling-out? Motive?

  “What about Dan Tannacito? Did he have anything against your mother? Any deep, dark secrets?”

  “Ha. He’s a joke,” Corbin said, looking disgusted, as if he smelled something bad in the air. “But that’s no secret around the museum. Calls himself an ‘exhibit developer,’ but he’s just another assistant. A wannabe curator who thinks he’s Indiana Jones. Recently he’d been hanging around Mother a lot, no doubt trying to get her to fire Chris so he could take over her job. At least, that was the gossip. He’s a total phony.”

  Whoa. That was harsh. Did Corbin have a grudge against Dan for some hidden reason?

  “Was there anyone else who might have been at the party who might have . . .” I couldn’t finish my sentence.

  “Murdered her?” Corbin sat up, cupped his espresso in both hands, and downed the dregs in one swallow. Setting the cup down, he ventured, “How about everyone?”

  My eyebrows shot up.

  “Seriously,” Corbin continued. “It could have been anyone. Like I said, a lot of people acted as if they liked her. But she didn’t have many true friends. And those she did have didn’t seem to last long.”

  Corbin squirmed in his chair. It was time to wrap this up.

  “Corbin, are you planning to see or talk to Delicia?”

  He looked down at his empty cup. “Nah. I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not until all this is . . . over.”

  I felt the muscles in my neck tighten. “You don’t believe she did it, do you?”

  He didn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he shifted, then pulled out his cell phone and began checking his messages. I got the hint and collected my purse.

  Did he really think Delicia might have killed his mother?

  Clearing Dee wasn’t going to be easy without Corbin in her corner.

  I stood up, thanked him, and offered my hand. He shook it limply.

  “Oh. One last thing,” I added. “Where’s your mom’s little dog?”

  Corbin kept his eyes on his cell phone as he said, “I have no clue.”

  I drove the short distance to the marina near Fort Mason, hoping somehow to catch Jason Cosetti. He hadn’t answered his cell phone, but I figured, since I was in the neighborhood, it was worth a try. Corbin had warned me that I wouldn’t be able to get past the locked gate at the pier—and he was right. As soon as I found the East Harbor, aka “Gashouse Cove,” I parked the MINI, got out, and located G-4, where the No. 90 boat slip was moored. Unable to get inside without a key, I stood on the dock for a few minutes waiting for someone to exit the gate so I could sneak in, while watching the colorful sailboats, kites, and tourists enjoying the unseasonably warm November day. Warm for San Francisco, that is, where weather usually ranges from overcast to fog to cloudy.

  After a few minutes, a guy in white shorts and a blue-and-white-striped shirt appeared from within a nearby boat and stepped onto the dock.

  But instead of coming my way, he began fiddling with some ropes.

  “Excuse me!” I called and waved.

  He looked up, squinting. “Yes?”

  Now what? I couldn’t tell him I’d forgotten my key. These people all knew each other. I tried another tack. “I came to see a friend of mine, but can’t seem to get him on his cell. Could you let me in so I can check on him?”

  “What’s his name?” the man called.

  “Uh, Jason Cosetti.”

  “Never heard of him. You must have the wrong dock.”

  Nuts! Of course he hadn’t heard of Jason Cosetti. Jason was boat-sitting for some other guy—and I didn’t know the boat owner’s name.

  “Actually, I think he’s staying on the boat and keeping an eye on it for a friend.”

  The man looked down at his ropes and shook his head.

  “Nope. Not here. No one’s allowed to live on their boats in the harbor. Most you can stay is seventy-two hours.” With that he leaped back onto his boat deck and disappeared inside.

  Well, that trick didn’t work. And I had more questions than answers.

  So was Jason living on the boat illegally?

  Or was Corbin lying to me about where his father was staying?

  I checked the time—a little after ten—and figured I’d go on over to the de Young Museum to see if I could find out anything new. Two other names kept rearing their ugly heads—Christine Lampe and Dan Tannacito. Maybe they could shed some light on Mary Lee’s untimely death. Both were personable people, at least superficially. But I’d barely gotten to know them in the short time they’d served as suspects in my murder mystery play. After Corbin had filled me in on their “backstories,” I was intrigued.

  Maybe they’d open up their secrets to me, a simple, non-threatening party planner. Event planner, I corrected myself.

  I parked in the lot and headed for the museum. In spite of last night’s murder, the place was open to the public, although I guessed the crime scene room had been cordoned off. After opening my purse to the guard at the door, I walked to the mural room. Instead of a “Do Not Cross” police tape across the door, a discreet sign read “Temporarily Closed to the Public.”

  I moved on to the front desk, showed my membership card to the docent, and lied, “I have an appointment with Christine Lampe.”

  The nice thing about docents, besides the fact that they donate their time and knowledge to the public, is that they’re usually kindly older volunteers who work part-time and don’t really get involved with administrative staff. I hoped my air of authority would allow me access upstairs.

  The elderly woman paused for a moment and frowned, clearly befuddled. Then looked up the curator’s office number on a plastic chart. “It’s on the fourth floor,
but you can’t get there without a passkey. She’ll have to come get you. I’ll dial her extension.”

  I placed my hand on her wrist to stop her. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary.” I patted my purse. “I have a passkey. Thanks.”

  I turned and headed for the elevators. I didn’t want Christine to know I was coming, preferring to take her by surprise, but I had to figure out a way to get up to the fourth floor.

  I got on the elevator and spotted the button for the fourth floor. Underneath the buttons was a metal box with a blinking light. Apparently I needed to swipe a passkey to access the administrative upper floors. I rode to the seventh floor—the tower—and got off. Ignoring the breathtaking view from the panoramic windows, I walked over to a staircase on the other side of the room and well hidden from the gift kiosk. Strung across the entrance was a rope with the sign: “No admittance.”

  If I could just get past that rope . . .

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re not allowed in there,” came a voice from behind me.

  I spun around, startled, until I recognized the security guard from the other night, Sam Wo.

  “Sam! Hi, it’s me, Presley Parker, from the party . . .”

  He stared at me blankly.

  “The event planner? For the mystery fund-raiser?” I reminded him.

  Sam broke into a grin and nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, I remember you. And your delightful mother.” The smile abruptly faded. “Terrible thing, what happened to Ms. Miller. Terrible.”

  I nodded, commiserating. “Yes, actually that’s why I’m here. I’m trying to find out who might have had a reason to kill her.”

  Sam raised his eyebrows. “I thought the police had arrested someone.”

  “That’s just it. Delicia is my friend, and I know she didn’t have anything to do with it. I want to help clear her.”

  “She didn’t do it?” he said, lifting his cap to scratch his head.

  “No, no way. And I need to talk to Christine Lampe and Dan Tannacito, but I don’t want them to know I’m coming. Can you get me onto the fourth floor?”