How to Crash a Killer Bash

by Penny Warner

  I muttered a few more F-bombs as I dialed Triple A and asked for a tow to the nearest MINI Cooper/BMW dealership. Next I called a cab, to first escort my mother home and then deliver me to my office.

  While we waited, we reentered the Hall of Justice to file a useless complaint form.

  “Any chance you’ll catch whoever did this?” I asked the watch commander.

  “Not likely,” the uniformed African-American woman said. “We get a lot of auto vandalism around here. The perps are usually visitors upset that their ‘innocent’ loved ones are in jail, and they take their anger out on the nearest vehicle. It’s a quiet crime, easy to pull off—even right in front of the building. Probably trying to send a message. Your insurance will cover it.”

  Insurance? Without the salary I’d once pulled down teaching at the university, I had taken the bare minimum in auto insurance—collision. And only because it was the law. If I didn’t collect my fee from the de Young event, I’d be screwed in more ways than one.

  I handed her the complaint form and waited outside with my mother, sulking, until my car was towed and the cab arrived. She chatted about her scrapbooking class on the drive back to her place, but I heard little she said, still pouting about my car. I made sure she got safely into her building.

  When I returned to the cab, I gave the driver my office address on Treasure Island. He knew the island, but had no clue where the barracks were, so I directed him once we passed the main gate. After he dropped me off, I started up the barracks steps, then stopped, struck by an idea. I spun around on my heels and marched over to Dee’s Smart Car, which had been idly collecting a thin layer of dust in the lot while Dee had been in jail.

  I tried the driver’s-side door. Locked up tight.

  With my MINI in the shop, I needed a car. With Delicia in jail, she didn’t.

  All I had to do was find her key and hope she didn’t put out an APB for a stolen vehicle—if you could call a Smart Car a vehicle.

  I rushed into the barracks, passed Brad, who had returned from delivering his brother, and entered Dee’s unlocked office. Nothing had been touched since Detective Melvin removed Dee’s computer.

  I pulled open each of the drawers in her desk and filing cabinet searching for her car keys. No sign of them.

  Duh, I thought. Women don’t keep their keys in desk drawers. They keep them in their purses.

  So where was Dee’s purse? Detective Melvin hadn’t found it when he searched her office. I would have seen him with it. Had the cops taken it when she was arrested?

  I visualized her arrest and was certain she hadn’t had her purse when they handcuffed her.

  The last place she would have put it was in the makeshift changing room adjacent to the crime scene room. It had to be there.

  Brad appeared in Dee’s office doorway.

  “What are you doing?”

  I smiled at him as seductively as I could. “I need a favor.”

  “You mean another favor.”

  “Whatever.” I told him what had happened to my car at the Hall of Justice and my urgent need for wheels.

  He made a face.

  “No, not your truck,” I said quickly. “I’m going to borrow Dee’s Smart Car for a couple of days. Just until mine’s fixed.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “A ride.”

  “Where to?”

  “The museum.”

  Brad’s eyes narrowed. His frown deepened. “Presley, you realize you could be in serious danger if someone thinks you’re sticking your nose into their business.”

  “You could join me,” I suggested. “After I’m done, I’ll buy you something at the museum café.”

  He sighed. “You’re offering me a bribe?”

  I knew I had him and gave him a warm smile. “Thanks, Brad.”

  “Okay, but don’t complain to me when you get helmet hair.”

  Helmet hair?

  I walked down the hall to the reception area and peered out the window. There was no sign of his Crime Scene Cleaners SUV. How had I missed that?

  In its parking spot was a big black BMW bike.

  Great. There’s only one thing I fear more than seeing clowns, getting leprosy, drowning in quicksand, going to the dentist, dying of rabies, or being hypnotized.

  Motorcycles.

  I retreated into my office to wait for Brad to finish up whatever he was doing and sat down at my desk. Time for a shot of chocolate to fortify me for the windy ride over to the museum. I opened my chocolate drawer to retrieve some Ghirardelli squares and pulled out a couple of dark chocolate with raspberries. Ripping one open, I popped it into my mouth. As the smooth rich flavor melted over my tongue, I woke up my sleeping computer to check my e-mail. The screen flickered on, I pushed a key, and my screen saver—a picture of the San Francisco skyline—melted into what looked like an Internet search for “Presley Parker.”

  I leaned into the screen. Yep, that was me, all right, Googled, with links to all kinds of personal information—how long I’d taught at SFSU, what subject I taught, where I’d gotten my degree and credentials, who my mother was, what parties I’d given recently, and other details about my business, Killer Parties.

  One of the sites even included my address and phone number.

  A tingle of fear ran up my spine. I stood up and backed away from the machine as if it were possessed. Someone had been in my office and used my computer to find out information about me. Recently. I scanned the room for other signs that an intruder had been in my office. Nothing seemed stolen, disturbed, or broken. Nothing was out of place.

  I glanced back at my desk more carefully this time, to see if my papers were still there.

  Another rush of heat warmed my body.

  The guest list from the museum party was missing, including my suspect list.

  “Brad!” I called across the hall.

  “Okay, okay. I’m ready,” he answered, feigning exasperation. He appeared in my doorway and saw my face. “What’s wrong?”

  I pointed to my desk. “Did you take my guest list?”

  “What guest list?”

  “I left it here on my desk, and it’s gone!”

  “So?”

  “So. Don’t you get it? Someone was in my office.”

  “You’re going too fast,” I screamed at the back of Brad’s helmet. We were practically flying across the Bay Bridge toward 101 South. Either he didn’t hear me or he chose to ignore me, and may have, in fact, sped up just to taunt me. I grabbed him tightly around the waist and shut my eyes, missing the views along the way. No matter. I’d seen it all many times before. It wasn’t until we’d passed Golden Gate Park’s panhandle that I opened one eye.

  Most of the things I’m afraid of, like quicksand, rabies, and clowns, came from watching movies. But I don’t like motorcycles because I had a boyfriend in high school who skidded off the road and hit a tree. He died instantly. Another close friend in college was paralyzed when his bike was cut off by a truck. I swore I’d never ride on one—or date anyone who did. And here I was, on the back of a death machine. I prayed as we roared along that this would be my last motorcycle ride—by choice.

  Brad, on the other hand, was in his element. He took the corners at an angle, whipped through traffic lanes as if the other cars were standing still, and occasionally revved the loud motor more than he really needed to.

  “Show-off,” I yelled, when we pulled into a parking space at the de Young, my ears still buzzing from the noise. I yanked off the bug-spattered helmet and tried to fluff my hair.

  “You loved it,” Brad said, ruffling his own hair, which fell into place perfectly. I unzipped the black jacket he’d lent me—a woman’s jacket—and handed it to him. He stuffed it, along with his own, into a side compartment, locked them up, then secured the two helmets to the handlebars—if that’s what you call them—with a bike lock.

  “Lead the way,” he said, gesturing toward the museum entrance.

  I marched ahead, h
eld open my purse, and passed through the security checkpoint easily, in spite of the bag of deflated balloons I always carried with me.

  “So where do you think Delicia’s purse is?” he asked, trailing my quick step.

  “I’m hoping it’s still in the changing room, off the mural room. That’s where everyone stored their stuff during the play.”

  We stepped into the mural/crime scene room. Empty. I walked over to the far door that led to the small anteroom and tried the knob. The door opened. I stepped in, crossing my fingers Dee’s purse would still be there.

  That room was also empty.

  I stepped out and looked at Brad, unable to hide the disappointment on my face.

  “Try lost and found,” he said.

  I perked up. “Great idea.” When he didn’t follow me out of the mural room, I asked, “Aren’t you coming?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll stay here and have another look around.”

  “For the weapon?”

  “That too.”

  “If you’re still trying to figure out how the killer got in, it had to be through that side door. And it was locked, remember? The killer had to have had a key.”

  “True, but it wasn’t locked just now, when you went in to look for the purse.”

  He was right—that was odd.

  “Okay, I’ll be right back,” I said. “Would you keep an eye on this?” I handed him my knockoff bag.

  He frowned as he took it. “This really isn’t my color,” he said, holding it out as if it were filled with toxic waste.

  I laughed, then headed for the front desk. The docent there directed me to the security office where they kept the lost and found articles, tucked downstairs in the basement.

  “Can I get there without a passkey?”

  “Oh yes. The security office is always accessible.”

  I rode the elevator to the basement and, when the doors opened, stepped out into a dimly lit hallway. The office was located directly across from the elevators. I rapped on the door and waited only seconds before it opened.

  “Yes?” said the uniformed man. He was probably in his seventies, with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses. Surely this was a part-time, semiretirement job for him. His nametag read “Ed Pike.”

  “Uh, hi. I, uh, left my purse here last night, in that little room off the mural room. I wondered if you’d found it. The volunteer at the desk directed me here.”

  His chest puffed up, and he put on his hat, which he’d been holding in his hand. “What’s it look like?”

  I knew Dee’s purse well. It was easy to describe in a nutshell. “It’s beaded, about the size of a lunch pail, with Cinderella on the front.”

  He nodded, closed the door, and reappeared a few minutes later with a small bag covered in rhinestones, the Disney princess prominently featured. It fit Dee to a tee.

  Thank God it hadn’t been confiscated by the police.

  I reached for it. He pulled it back.

  “Got any ID?”

  Think fast, Presley, I told myself. “Uh, my ID is in my purse.” I pointed to the bag.

  He opened the purse, pulled out Dee’s wallet, and looked at the picture on her driver’s license. “Don’t look like you,” he said, glancing back and forth between me and Dee’s picture. We were both dark-haired, but that’s where the resemblance ended.

  “I know. I was so sick that day, and my hair was long back then, and I had colored contacts . . .” I rambled on. The frown deepened. I tried another tack. “Check my birthday. It’s June seventeenth, 1980.” As a party hostess, I knew a lot of my friends’ birthdays, including Dee’s. “And inside you’ll find my car keys attached to Tinkerbelle.”

  He eyed me suspiciously; although I could see the keys in his hand, he wasn’t going to relinquish the purse easily.

  “Listen, is Sam Wo here? He knows me.”

  The guard turned around and yelled Sam’s name. Seconds later, a familiar face appeared. He grinned when he recognized me. “Ms. Parker! Nice to see you again.”

  The other guard frowned at me. “I thought you said your name was—”

  I cut him off. “Sam, my friend Delicia left her purse here last night. I was just trying to get it back for her. I thought—”

  “Give it to her,” he commanded Ed Pike.

  To my surprise, Pike handed it over, although with a protesting grunt. “Try not to lose it again,” he grumbled, and disappeared inside.

  “Thanks, Sam. Once again, you’re a lifesaver.”

  His face flushed magenta, and he smiled sheepishly. “How’s it going for your friend?”

  I filled him in on the latest, which wasn’t much. “Have you heard anything more?” I asked, figuring if anyone was in on the museum gossip, a security guard would be the one.

  His bright smile fell. “Not really. Everyone here thinks your friend did it. They all heard about the big fight. And they knew about Ms. Miller’s attempts to stop Corbin from seeing the girl.”

  “Was there anyone else having a problem with Mary Lee lately?”

  His eyes narrowed. There was something Sam wasn’t telling me.

  “Sam?”

  He looked at his watch. “I gotta get back to work. Maybe later?”

  “Sure,” I said, then thanked him for Dee’s purse and headed back to the elevator. I pushed the button for the main floor and returned to the scene of the crime.

  “I got it!” I said to Brad, holding up the princess bag.

  He nodded distractedly, as if he hadn’t heard me.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Look at this.” Brad waved me over to the side door where he stood.

  “What? I told you, that door was locked after Dee entered. She was the last one in here.”

  “But like you said, maybe someone had a key. Who else would have that type of key?”

  “The security guards, I assume.”

  “And perhaps the staff? Including Mary Lee herself.”

  “I . . . suppose. Did they find a key on her . . . body? And what would that prove anyway?”

  “That Delicia wasn’t the only one who had access.”

  He was onto something. “Then we’ll have to find out who among the staff also had access to this room,” I said, stating the obvious. “That could be quite a list. Besides, someone could have just reached in and turned the lock before shutting the door.”

  He took my hand and pulled me over a few steps. “Stand here.” He turned me around so I faced the interior of the room, with my back to the anteroom door.

  “What?” I said.

  He glanced up at the camera in the corner. A yellow light was lit up.

  “It’s motion activated,” I said. “The security guard told me.”

  He smiled at me, waiting for me to read his mind.

  Seconds later I did. “There must be videotapes!”

  “Yep. Melvin’s already reviewing them. I’ll see if he saw anything, but with everyone in costume, that might be a problem.”

  “Brad, I have to see those tapes—”

  The thud of heavy, running footsteps and shouts from outside the room cut me off. We dashed to the front entry. I spotted Sam Wo rushing past, with Ed Pike following him to the exit doors. Their faces were tight and earnest.

  “Sam!” I yelled after him. “What’s going on?”

  He dashed out of sight.

  I glanced at Brad, then ran after Sam, with Brad at my heels. Following the shouts and footfalls, I sped out the main entrance and around to the gardens to a circular frog pond. By the time we caught up, Sam, Ed, and a female guard were pulling at something heavy that was caught in a thicket of reeds in the middle of the pond.

  It only took a second to realize what it was.

  A human leg.

  Chapter 11

  PARTY PLANNING TIP # 11

  Make the refreshments easy to eat by serving finger foods at your Murder Mystery Party. Not literally, of course. Although snacks that look like fingers might be a nice touch . . .


  Brad and I sat in the museum café sipping lattes—his as stimulant, mine as sedative—waiting to talk with Detective Melvin. At the moment, the detective sat at another table talking with Sam Wo, Ed Pike, and another security guard, the African-American woman I’d seen earlier. Apparently she’d been the one who’d discovered the leg protruding from the pond and called the others.

  The leg was attached to a body.

  Whose body remained a mystery.

  After dismissing the two guards, Detective Melvin sauntered over, interrupting our attempts to come up with possible suspects. So far I’d listed Christine Lampe, Jason Cosetti, and his son, Corbin, if I didn’t count the two hundred plus party guests.

  “I need a coffee. You two want anything?” Melvin said, being uncharacteristically thoughtful.

  Brad shook his head; I held up my coffee mug to indicate I had plenty. The detective strolled over to the counter and returned with a coffee and a slice of chocolate cake. Brushing imaginary crumbs from the arty metallic chair, he sat down.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my hard, cold chair.

  “What’s up?” Brad said to Melvin while I sipped my latte.

  Detective Melvin leaned back and stretched his lanky legs under the table. Even during a murder investigation, he looked impeccable. “Dead man in a frog pond,” he said simply.

  “Wow, you cops are sharp,” I said, hoping my voice dripped with sarcasm. I couldn’t help myself.

  He tossed me a smirky smile and took a big bite of the four-layer, triple-chocolate cake. I felt my mouth watering at the sight of the thick, rich icing.

  “Any ID?” Brad asked.

  “Nope. No wallet, nothing.”

  “Any idea when he died? Or how?”

  Melvin shook his head. Not a hair moved. “Looks like he hadn’t been in the water long. No blistering, skin slippage, that sort of thing.”

  Yuck.

  Melvin continued. “ME thinks he drowned. Had a pretty deep contusion on the back of his head. He may have been knocked out, then dragged to the pond after the blow. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”