by Penny Warner
“So it’s murder, right?” I tossed out.
Detective Melvin shot me a look, then stabbed another piece of his cake.
I pressed on. “Either that or he bumped the back of his head on something hard, then staggered over to the frog pond, jumped into the cattails, and drowned.” Sarcasm and facetiousness are two of my best traits. Why waste them?
Brad put a hand on my wrist, like a parent shushing an errant child. I snatched my arm away and took another sip of my calming latte, hoping to stem my ire. Didn’t help.
“No one around here recognized him?”
Melvin downed another bite of cake, then glanced up at me and licked his lips. He was torturing me with the cake, and he knew it. I only hoped I wasn’t openly drooling.
“Not yet. Face was puffy, discolored.”
On second thought, the idea of eating anything at this point made me want to upchuck.
“Think it’s related to Mary Lee’s murder?” Brad asked.
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Melvin said.
I sat up. “What kind of shoes was he wearing?”
The detective’s next forkful of cake froze midway to his mouth. “Shoes?”
“She’s got some kind of shoe fetish,” Brad explained, with a smirk.
I slapped his arm. “I do not! I have a master’s degree in abnormal psychology, and I happen to know that shoes tell a lot about a person.”
Detective Melvin stuck a foot out from under the table and wiggled it. “Yeah? So what do my shoes tell you?”
I raised an eyebrow at his large feet. “You sure you want to know?”
“Bring it on.”
“Well, they’re Rockports, so you have good taste.” You spend too much on shoes. “You appreciate quality.” You’re covering a slight inferiority complex. “You hope to make police chief someday.” You think you’re smarter than you are.
“Huh.” He grinned at my superficial analysis, apparently pleased, and clueless that I was holding back lots more. “Okay, the dead guy was wearing Birkenstocks.”
Birks? That said artist, bohemian, or hippie.
“Authentic or knockoffs?”
“How would I know?”
“Sock or no socks?” I continued.
“No socks.”
“Pedicure?”
He rolled his eyes.
I thought for a moment while both men watched me.
“So?” Detective Melvin finally prompted.
“So, he could have been a hippie—with money, if they were real Birks. They usually run over a hundred dollars. Or maybe he was an aspiring artist and affected the starving-artist look. Then again, maybe he just wanted to be comfortable rather than stylish and didn’t care if they were brand name.”
“Well, that should narrow it down,” Melvin said, sticking his tongue in his cheek. He scooped up the last bite of cake, finished it off, and wiped his mouth. Slapping the table like a drummer, he stood up and brushed off his sleek pants. “Gotta run. See you at the Presidio course Saturday?” he asked Brad.
“Game on,” Brad said. They bumped fists, and Detective Melvin sauntered out of the café.
“Jerk,” I whispered into my cooling coffee.
“What?” Brad said.
“Nothing.”
Brad rubbed my shoulder, apparently aware of the tension the detective had created in me. “Hey, he’s just doing his job. Cut him some slack.”
I wasn’t going to disparage his friend—at the moment. There would be plenty of opportunities later, I was sure. I decided to change the subject before I said something I meant but didn’t want Brad to know.
“So tell me more about your brother.”
“Andrew?” He sighed. “Well, he’s two years younger than me. He’s got an IQ over 130. My mom homeschooled him after he was diagnosed, and I think that’s why he’s done so well, in spite of having Asperger’s. She recognized his knack for solving logic problems. He was obsessed with all the legal shows on TV and always deduced the outcome long before the show ended. Unfortunately, he doesn’t ‘play that well with others.’ ” He added finger quotes to the pop psychology phrase.
I took a moment, trying to decide how to phrase my next question, then asked, “Do you think he can really . . .”
“What? Handle Delicia’s case? I told you, I wouldn’t have brought him in if I didn’t.”
I could feel myself blush. Shame on me. My prejudice was showing. I, of all people, knew that diagnostic tools couldn’t reliably categorize a person. Disorders were on a continuum, a spectrum, and we all fell along that line—some further out than others. Like lots of other people, I shared some characteristics of Asperger’s. I had my obsessions—coffee, chocolate, diagnosing people according to their shoes. I had a tendency to stay focused on a single element rather than look at the big picture. I sometimes had trouble with close relationships.
“It’s getting late, and I better get back,” I said abruptly, reaching for my knockoff bag and Delicia’s princess purse. “I have a few things to do at the office, a few errands to run, now that I have access to Dee’s car.”
We headed back to Brad’s bike, and I climbed on behind him, feeling that fear of motorcycles rear its ugly head again. I held on tight as he took me on a Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, up and down the hills of San Francisco to the flatlands of Treasure Island. I had a feeling he’d deliberately chosen the long way—was it really necessary to take twisty, touristy Lombard Street? Still, I had to admit, I liked seeing the city from the back of a bike. Everything seemed up close and personal, filled with a variety of sounds and smells.
And wrapping my arms around Brad hadn’t hurt the experience either.
I just hoped we didn’t die.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, returning his jacket and helmet after we pulled up in the barracks parking lot.
“My pleasure,” he said with his signature half grin. In the dusky light, his brown eyes sparkled with a hint of gold.
I hesitated a second, then turned awkwardly and headed to my office. Brad followed me in and entered his own office. I sorted through a few party requests and returned a few phone calls. There were three more unidentified hang ups, which gave me pause. Someone was either trying to irritate me—or scare me. Why?
I picked up the two purses, mine and Dee’s, locked my office door behind me, and waved at Brad, who seemed intent on his computer. He barely looked up from his glowing screen, and I found myself a little disappointed he hadn’t asked me to have dinner with him.
Once in the parking lot, I pulled Dee’s keys from her princess purse and pushed the UNLOCK button for her little yellow Smart Car.
This was going to be an interesting and no doubt bumpy ride.
I ducked my head and slowly slipped into the black leathery seat, concerned I wouldn’t fit. I needn’t have worried. Surprisingly, the inside felt larger than the interior of my MINI Cooper. Surrounded by oversized windows, I felt like a puffer fish in a goldfish bowl.
Although Dee had talked endlessly about her Smarty—“Shaq has one! And so does Dave Grohl from Foo Fighters!”—I was sure a single gust of wind coming off the bay would roll this yellow marble right into the water. The question was, would it float or sink?
I started the engine, searched for the clutch, and realized the car was some sort of word combination stick and automatic. I backed up jerkily, made a tight U-turn, and drove hesitantly down the quiet street toward the bridge. As I approached the incline that led to the bridge on-ramp, I felt sweat break out on my forehead. My shoulders were in knots.
Once I reached the entrance, I stopped, waiting for a break in the traffic. Watching the hundred-ton rigs lumbering by at top speed, I sensed it wouldn’t take much of a hit to knock this Smarty into the bay. Or be squished like a little yellow bug.
As soon as I exited the bridge, I relaxed my death grip on the steering wheel and tried to breathe normally. After a few blocks, I started to get the feel of the car.
Until I reached C
alifornia Street, one of San Francisco’s famous hills. Would the Little Engine That Could make good? Or would I go rolling back down the slippery slope like a roller-coaster car?
I reached the top, barely able to see over the steering wheel and into the abyss below. Either the car would make it over the steep hill—or launch into space like an airplane.
The car lurched as it automatically shifted into a higher gear, but by the time I was back on level ground again—and breathing normally—I was in love with the little thing. It was time to put it to the test—could I talk while driving? I punched in a number, illegally using my cell phone. Stupid law.
“Hello?” my mother’s cultivated voice said.
“Mom?” I said.
“Yes, honey? Are you all right?”
She always asked me that. What was she expecting?
“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine. I wondered if you were in the mood for another outing and dinner afterward.”
“With my favorite daughter? Sounds lovely. You’ll have to see what I made in my scrappers class. It’s a memory book of your big party last night! I think you’ll love it.”
Just what I wanted—a memento of my most recent disaster. “Sounds cool, Mom. Can’t wait to see it.”
“So where are we going?”
“How about Fisherman’s Wharf? I have to research the Wax Museum for a party site, and I thought we could have a sidewalk crab cocktail and clam chowder in one of those sourdough bowls. Sound good?”
“Oh! I haven’t been to the Wax Museum for years! I wonder if Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler are still there. I used to have lavish garden parties like they had at Tara, with mint juleps and croquet and corseted gowns. Honey, you should have a Gone With the Wind party! I could help you!”
“Great idea, Mom. But right now, I’ve already got enough on my party platter. You remember Dan Tannacito, one of the museum assistants who was in the play? He wants to have his daughter’s next birthday party there.”
“How . . . unusual,” my mother said, clucking. “So how shall I dress?”
“Oh, casual, Mom. We’re just checking out the place. Then we’ll have dinner with the tourists at Pier 39. Wear something warm and tacky. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Tacky?” I heard her repeat before she hung up.
I reached her place fifteen minutes later, zipping around traffic in the smart little Smart Car. I felt a little naked without my MINI wrapped securely around me, especially with all the stares I got. The car certainly attracted attention.
“What is that?” my mother said, as when she spotted the car in front of her building. I’d parked it on the sidewalk, leaving plenty of room for pedestrians to maneuver around it.
“It’s a Smart Car. Belongs to Delicia. I’m borrowing it, since mine’s in the shop. What do you think?”
She pulled her fake-fur coat around her as if chilled. “That’s not a car. It’s more like an outfit. We can’t both fit in there!”
“You’d be surprised. Hop in.”
I opened the passenger door, and she grimaced as she maneuvered herself inside. “Put on your seat belt,” I said before closing her door. It took me three steps to reach the driver’s side. I got in, put on my belt, checked for pedestrians and cars, then pulled onto the street. Mother held on to the sides as if she were riding a rickety stagecoach.
On the way to the Wax Museum, we passed a dozen other Smart Cars in a rainbow of colors. This was apparently the car to have in the city. By the time we arrived intact at Fisherman’s Wharf, Mother had visibly relaxed. I found a parking spot barely large enough to fit a bicycle and slid in easily.
Amazing.
I just hoped no one came along and lifted the tiny car onto the back of their truck.
As we headed to the Wax Museum in search of Frankenstein, Dracula, and the Wolfman, I was excited at the thought of seeing my childhood horror movie favorites again. A rotating wax figure of the president greeted guests as they passed by, enticing tourists to pay the admission and “see the stars.”
I met briefly with the manager whom I’d called earlier, a friendly, thirtysomething blond woman named Colleen Casey, who proudly showed me around. Her father had owned the place, and passed it on to her. It had been her idea to rent out the museum for parties, everything from horror and sci-fi gigs to political and historical themes. As I followed her through the old building that had been there since my childhood and listened to her commentary, I grew nostalgic about the powerful political figures, brave war heroes, brilliant scientists, and glamorous Hollywood stars that were long gone, replaced by their waxen replicas.
It was all I could do to drag my mother along the tour. She kept stopping at each figure, awestruck by Marilyn Monroe, tearful at John F. Kennedy, and swooning over Elvis, from whom she’d purloined my name.
My heart skipped a beat when we reached the infamous creatures in the Chamber of Horrors. There they were, baring their teeth, howling at the moon, and hiding in the bushes ready to scare the crap out of unsuspecting visitors.
“We clear this area,” Colleen said, “so there’s plenty of room to dance, while all the monsters look on.” Clearly she enjoyed her work. I was sold. This was going to be a fun event after all.
As I turned to go, I realized my mother was no longer with me.
“Mother?” I called, then called again, louder, with more urgency. On a hunch, I backtracked and, sure enough, found her staring at Vivien Leigh. This had truly been a trip down memory lane for both of us, but in different ways.
“Is she still alive?” Mother asked, looking disoriented as she gazed at the beautiful woman in the hoop skirt and flowered hat.
“No, Mom, she’s been gone a while.” I wondered if this visit to the past had been a mistake for her. Befuddled, she stepped back and let me lead her back to the lobby.
After thanking Colleen, my mother and I were back on the street in search of San Francisco’s iconic food. I bought a sidewalk shrimp cocktail from Alioto’s, while Mom ordered clam chowder in a sourdough bowl. We sat on a bench and enjoyed the classic fare while watching the mass of tourists pass by. I listened to the attraction barkers compete with the sea lions for attention, and inhaled the fishy smell of the bay.
When we’d finished our meals, I collected the trash and headed for the nearest can. My cell phone rang just as I’d dumped the paper containers, and I pulled it out of my purse. “Number blocked” appeared on the screen.
“Hello?” I said.
Criminy. Not another hang up. The recent spate of crank calls was really beginning to get on my nerves.
I was about to hang up when I heard a low voice say, “Is your mother there?”
I laughed. I hadn’t been mistaken for my mother for years. Must be a salesman.
“I’m sorry. I’m not interested.” I hung up the phone, returned it to my purse, and headed back to the bench.
My mother was nowhere in sight.
Chapter 12
PARTY PLANNING TIP #12
Don’t forget to take pictures at your Murder Mystery Party. You’ll want to capture your guests as they investigate the crime scene, gather hidden clues, search for telltale evidence, or commit a party foul . . .
“Mom!” I screeched like a lost child into the crowd of tourists. Only she was the one who was lost. And with Alzheimer’s, that could turn into a serious situation very quickly.
“Mom! Mother!”
With rising panic, I scanned the immediate vicinity for a woman in a fur coat, with a French twist and knockoff Coach handbag. The blur of people passing by made me dizzy as I tried to spot my mother’s familiar face.
She couldn’t have gotten far—could she?
I glanced over at the bay and saw a sprinkling of lights in the darkness—boats heading back to their docks. I shivered as I realized how close the water was. My skin broke out in goose bumps at the thought that she might have—
“Stop!” I said aloud, forbidding more morbid thoughts from taking over.
<
br /> Find her! I commanded myself.
She hadn’t just vanished into thin air.
The phone call! The one I’d received when I threw away the trash.
The caller had asked about my mother. And seconds later she was gone.
My heart pounding, I grabbed a man walking past. “Have you seen a woman . . .” I stopped. From the wide eyes and disturbed look, I guessed he didn’t speak English.
I gave up and moved on, questioning half a dozen other tourists who either shrugged, shook their heads, or looked at me as if I were a crazy person. Beads of sweat broke out along my forehead and my armpits tingled.
Where the hell had she gone?
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a kiosk manned by a security guard and ran over.
“Can you help me?” I asked breathlessly through the opening in the glass window. “I’ve lost my mother . . . ,” I panted. “She has Alzheimer’s. Do you have some kind of PA system or some way to help me find her?”
The young man looked fresh out of security guard school. His mustache was sparse, his uniform ill-fitting, and his look eager. “You mean like a Code Adam?”
“What?”
“Code Adam. When a kid is lost, we radio-contact security guards and police in the area. Unfortunately, we can’t seal the area, since it’s outdoors, but—”
“Yes!” I said, cutting him off. “Please! Do a Code Adam or whatever. My mother is about five eight, around a hundred and fifty pounds, wearing—”
“I want to report a crime!” came a strident voice, interrupting me from behind. I turned around, irritated at her rudeness, and caught my breath.
“Mother!”
“Presley!”
“Where were you? I’ve been looking all over for you! I thought you were—”
“I was robbed!” she said to me, then turned to the security guard. “Mugged! Violated! Purse snatched!”
“Calm down, lady,” the guard said, resting his hands on his hips. “Can you describe the man?”
“Oh, it wasn’t a man. It was a woman. I was sitting on the bench over there.” She pointed to the spot where we’d had our chowders. “She came walking over, and all of a sudden she grabbed my purse and starting running—that way.” She indicated the interior of the pier. The area was swarming with a multicultural crowd illuminated by old-fashioned street-lamps.
