How to Crash a Killer Bash

by Penny Warner

  I glanced around at her walls, covered with theater bills from the local plays she’d been cast in—Grease, Cats, Wicked. She’d only had bit parts, and they were few and far between, but that didn’t matter to Dee. She loved everything about the theater, from being onstage to working behind the scenes.

  I got up and rifled through the boxes of mementos she’d saved from her various roles. I found a wand she’d snatched from Wicked and wished I could have waved it to get her out of this mess.

  “Whatcha doing?” a familiar voice startled me from behind me. I whirled around to face Brad, feeling as if he’d caught me with my hand in the Ghirardelli chocolate store.

  “Nothing,” I said, placing the wand back on the shelf. “Just thinking about Dee.”

  “Listen, Presley. Sorry about last night.” He hung his head. “I have no business telling you what you should or shouldn’t do. You’re a grown woman. I just have this thing . . . about wanting to take care of everything. You know, tidy up.”

  The ice around my heart melted a little. “It’s okay. I know I can become obsessive about things.”

  He sat on the corner of Dee’s desk. “Got some news.”

  “What?” My heart skipped a beat. “They found the killer? Is Delicia—”

  He held up his hands. “No, no. Hold on. There you go jumping to conclusions again.”

  I glared at him and started for the door.

  “Don’t you want to hear what I’ve got?”

  I turned to him, our faces less than a foot apart. I felt mine fill with color, being so close to him.

  “I talked to Melvin. He talked to the ME.”

  “And?”

  “The stab wound was almost a perfect match for the Styrofoam knife used for the play.”

  My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding. That fake dagger wouldn’t have penetrated her chest. It would have split, broken in half, or smashed the tip.”

  Brad had a wicked grin on his face.

  I eyed him. “What are you not telling me?”

  He kept grinning.

  Annoyed, I thought for a moment. “Okay, so the wound was made by something the same size and shape as the fake dagger. . . .”

  “Like . . .” he teased.

  “Like . . . the real dagger!” I gasped. “But how? How could it have been used to kill Mary Lee? It was in a cabinet on the second floor, under the eye of the camera. Whoever took it would have been caught on videotape.”

  “Yep,” Brad said simply. He was obviously enjoying this.

  “We have to see those security tapes!”

  “Been there. Done that.”

  “What? You went to the museum without me?”

  “Nope. Saw them in Melvin’s office.”

  My eyes widened. “Did they get it on tape—the person who took the real dagger from the case? That’s got to be our killer.”

  Brad pressed his lips together, then said, “Yeah, about that. First of all, they examined the dagger and found no prints or proof that it had been disturbed. Secondly, if someone did borrow it from the case, it wasn’t caught on camera, which is triggered when there’s movement.”

  “Maybe whoever it was figured out a way to outsmart the camera?” I thought aloud.

  “It’s possible. One of the security guards said someone could have sneaked along the wall to the camera, stood on something, and then covered the motion detector with something.”

  I felt my shoulders slump. “Crap. Back to square one.”

  Brad slid off Dee’s desk. “Not really. Whoever did it knew the security guards would be distracted by the party that night, and used the opportunity to ‘borrow’ the real dagger. Then once he—or she—stabbed Mary Lee, he returned it to the case and removed whatever was covering the motion detector, with no one the wiser. He was so quick, the guards watching the screen would have just thought there was a brief glitch.”

  “But why?” I asked, walking slowly to my office. “Why go to all that risk and trouble to use that dagger?”

  Brad followed. “Easy to hide the weapon, maybe? Or maybe it was some kind of symbolic statement.”

  I entered my office and sat down at my own desk. Brad stood in the doorway, his arms raised up to the doorjamb. God, he looked good in a simple T-shirt.

  “What about Jason Cosetti?” I said, trying to get back on track. “He was killed by a blow to the head. But they didn’t find the weapon.”

  “It was probably the same MO. Whoever did it may have taken a real statue, bonked him over the head, and returned it to its case.”

  “Meanwhile, we’re no closer to knowing who did it, are we,” I said.

  I got out my iPhone and punched Corbin’s number. He was the key to this, I was sure.

  No answer.

  I checked my watch and stood up.

  “Where are you going?” Brad asked, dropping his arms from the doorjamb.

  I bit my lip, then said, “Errands . . . I’m so far behind in my work. This mess has taken up most of my time.”

  “How about we meet for lunch? I may have more for you by then.”

  “Sure. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  As I headed for Dee’s Smart Car, I could feel Brad watching me from the barracks doorway. I slid into the car, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot without a backward glance, eager to reach my destination.

  It wasn’t until just after I reached the peak of Macalla Road and began my descent onto the Bay Bridge on-ramp that I realized I had no brakes.

  Chapter 19

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #19

  When hosting a Murder Mystery Party, be sure to throw in an occasional unexpected twist to stimulate the sleuths’ little gray cells. There’s nothing duller than a predictable solution to a puzzling crime.

  “Holy crap!” I shouted, pumping the foot brake frantically as the car began picking up speed. The pedal offered no resistance. I stomped on it at least a dozen times before I accepted the inevitable.

  Someone had tampered with the brakes.

  With my heart thumping and my palms slick with sweat, I glanced at my rear and side mirrors, praying I wouldn’t be hit by an oncoming car as I careened into the bridge traffic. I knew if I pulled the emergency brake, the car might come to a halt too quickly and roll or skid.

  I braced myself as the car merged onto the far right lane of the bridge.

  I’d learned by driving the Smart Car that it was a hybrid of sorts—half automatic and half manual. Since the car was unfamiliar to me, I’d been using the automatic mode, but I quickly switched to manual mode and downshifted, hoping I wouldn’t strip the gears. The engine whirred loudly. The car jerked, and then it began to slow a bit. Cars zipped around me as I tried to control the speed.

  Frantic to get off the bridge, I strained my neck and eyes trying to spot the exit sign. I needed a ramp that wouldn’t careen me downhill into the traffic like a disengaged roller-coaster car.

  Gears screaming, the car reached the exit. I swerved onto the curving off-ramp, praying I wouldn’t roll over. Shifting down to second, I guided the car down the ramp and made a wide turn onto the street, with only a little screeching of the tires. Hugging a yellow-painted curb, I waited until the car slowed enough for me to pull the emergency brake.

  The car jerked, throwing my head against the steering wheel, then jumped the curb and came to a final rest on the sidewalk.

  Gripping the wheel with two sweaty hands, I looked up. A handful of pedestrians stood gawking. A small crowd had gathered around my car. A homeless man in layers of tattered clothes shuffled over to the car window. He wore a knitted cap, fingerless gloves, and a filthy peacoat.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. I could barely see his mouth for all the scraggly facial hair.

  I rolled down the side window. “I think so. The brakes went out,” I said breathily.

  He scrunched up his face and scratched his bearded chin. “I can change a tire, but I don’t do brakes. Better call Triple A.”

  I took
a deep catch-up breath. “Will do. Thanks.”

  I pulled out my phone, and the man moved along. I pressed Brad’s number and tried to slow my heartbeat with deep breaths while I waited for him to answer.

  “Crime Scene Cleaners,” Brad said.

  I almost melted into tears when I heard his voice, but managed to stay under control. “Brad!”

  “Presley?” he answered. “What’s up? You sound breathless.”

  “I . . . the car . . . I think someone cut the brakes.”

  “Where are you?” he said firmly.

  I glanced around for a street sign. “Uh . . . off Folsom and First. On the sidewalk, actually.”

  “You sure you’re not injured?”

  I felt my forehead where I’d bumped the steering wheel and winced at the pain. There was going to be an ugly bruise. “I’m okay.”

  “I’ll be right there. Stay put,” he commanded.

  He hung up before I could argue—not that I would have. I didn’t have a lot of options other than to wait for him. I glanced around at my surroundings. People passed by, hardly noticing the car parked on the sidewalk. Enticed by the aroma of coffee wafting from a nearby café, I got out of the car and headed over, my legs still shaky from what seemed like a possessed car.

  I ordered my usual, then returned to the car to wait for Brad. Leaning against the front fender, I reflected on what had happened. The wait gave me time to think about what had happened. Had the been brakes cut, or did they just suddenly go out on their own? If they were cut, who had access to the car? And if someone did this on purpose, were they trying to kill me? Why? Or did they think Dee would be driving the car?

  Brad parked, hopped out, and jogged over. Grasping my cold hands, he looked me over. Spotting the lump on my forehead, he reached up and was about to touch it. I winced and pulled back. “That’s quite a bump,” he said, dropping his hand.

  “I’m okay, honestly.” My shirt was still damp from sweat, and I shivered in the cold wind. I was just glad my pants weren’t wet. It wouldn’t have been sweat.

  Brad took off his leather jacket and wrapped it around me. Then he turned his attention to the car, parked at an angle on the narrow sidewalk. “What the hell happened?”

  “I don’t know! I was driving up Macalla, heading for the bridge, and when I started downhill, I hit the brakes to enter the on-ramp and they were gone! If it weren’t for Nancy Drew, I’d have been a goner too.”

  “Nancy Drew?”

  “Yeah, someone tampered with her brakes in one of the books, but she kept her head and got away safely. I learned a lot from reading her mysteries.”

  Brad rolled his eyes at me as if I were crazy. With a shake of his head, he opened the side door of his SUV and retrieved a flashlight. Bending down, he shone the light under the car. When he straightened up, he didn’t look happy.

  “So, were they cut?” I asked.

  “They were cut, all right.”

  “I knew it!”

  “I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you,” Brad added. “You realize what that means, don’t you?”

  “Someone doesn’t like Smart Cars?”

  “Very funny. You’re lucky to be alive, especially driving a toy like this in a roller-coaster city like San Francisco.”

  That sobered me up again. Someone was trying to kill me. But why? I had no idea who the killer was. Maybe, however, I was getting close.

  “How hard is it to cut the brakes? I mean, doesn’t it take some knowledge about cars or some kind of special tool?”

  “Not really. All you need is a pipe cutter—seven bucks at Home Depot—and an Internet connection to look up the information.”

  “But wouldn’t it take some strength to cut something like that?”

  “Nah. You put the cutter on the brake line, tighten the knob, then spin it around the pipe a couple of times. If you keep doing that, eventually the line will break. Takes five minutes, tops.”

  “And you would know this, how?” I raised a suspicious eyebrow.

  “Auto shop?” He grinned innocently.

  “Yeah, just like I learned how to insert a knife between the fourth and fifth ribs in Home Ec.”

  He blinked, then said, “So you need a ride?”

  I almost said “Duh,” but changed my tone and replied, “Yes, please. I called Triple A. They’ll tow the car to the shop. Meanwhile, I’m running out of cars.”

  The Triple A guy pulled up a few minutes later in a yellow tow truck. He laughed out loud when he saw the Smart Car. “What happened? Did the hamsters get tired?”

  I forced a smile at his joke, then gave him my information. He hooked up the car with one hand—show-off—and drove off with it in tow.

  “Hop in,” Brad said when the tow truck driver was gone. He opened the passenger door of his SUV.

  I stepped up, sat down, then leaned over the side of the seat to peek at the stuff Brad had stored in his vehicle.

  Brad climbed in the driver’s side. “Where to, m’lady?”

  “Noe Valley?” I said in the form of a question.

  “You got it.” He started up the engine and pulled out into traffic.

  I nodded toward the back of the SUV. “So what is all this stuff, anyway? Anything dangerous, like explosives or toxic chemicals?”

  “You’re safe. Don’t worry.” Brad winked. “As long as my brakes keep working and I don’t crash into anything.”

  I glared at him. “Seriously.”

  He shrugged. “I have just about everything you need to clean up filth, debris, fecal matter, bodily fluids, expired food, moldy stuff, and hazardous materials.” When he’d finished the list, he glanced at me to check my reaction.

  I made a face. “Yuck.”

  “Plus I’ve got protective gear, latex gloves for bodily fluids, shoe covers, respirators, stuff like that.”

  “Bet you look cute in all that.”

  “Then there’s the usual cleaning supplies,” he continued, apparently on a roll. “Mops, buckets, spray bottles, sponges, brushes. And lots of chemicals and disinfectants to clean up blood and vomit.”

  He grinned as I squirmed. “Enzyme solvents to liquefy dried blood. Putty knives to scrape dried brain matter—that stuff dries like cement.”

  “I can imagine,” I said flippantly, not daring to imagine.

  He wouldn’t let up. “Shovels, for large amounts of blood when it turns to Jell-O. You can just shovel it into bags.”

  I quit listening and focused on a couple of cameras I’d spotted on one of the shelves. When he was done trying to spook me, I asked, “Why cameras?”

  “To take before-and-after shots—for insurance purposes.”

  I thought a moment. “So do you have pictures of Mary Lee’s crime scene?”

  “Yep. You can see them if you want, but I doubt they’ll tell you anything.”

  “You never know,” I said, facing forward. I was getting carsick, either from the motion or from listening to Brad’s list of job supplies. “You like the work?”

  “It pays the bills.”

  “Really?”

  “I make about six hundred an hour.”

  My jaw dropped open. “Whoa, I’m in the wrong business. Need a partner?”

  “Not sure you’d like it. It’s not as fun as hosting a party.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “So what’s the actual work like?”

  Brad took a deep breath. “Okay, well, I’m called a secondary responder. I get there after the cops, techs, fire fighters, paramedics, and coroners are done. Most of the victims’ families are surprised to learn they’re responsible for cleaning up the scene. They figure the cops are going to do it. Not the case. That’s when I come in. I do what’s called CTS Decon—Crime and Trauma Scene Decontamination—which covers everything from cleaning up after a violent death—homicide, suicide—to decomp—a decomposing body—to meth labs, to anthrax exposure.”

  “Anthrax?” I shivered.

  “There’s not much of that. Mostly it’s bodily flui
ds. They’re considered biohazards—a potential source of infection. If there’s blood, I have to make sure there’s no trace to pass along HIV, hepatitis, herpes, and hantavirus.”

  Hantavirus? I’d heard about that. Rats carried it, didn’t they? I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to touch Brad again.

  “How do you manage to do work that would cause most people to throw up?”

  “Gotta have a strong stomach. Plus some emotional detachment mixed with a little sympathy.”

  “Sympathy?”

  “For the grieving family members. They’re often around when I’m cleaning.”

  There was a lot about Brad I didn’t know. I tried to picture him cleaning up blood while consoling family members—not an easy task for anyone.

  “You okay?” Brad asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “I just never realized how involved it all was. No wonder you have an SUV full of stuff.”

  “Couldn’t do the job without it. This one’s specially outfitted. Holds everything safely, including biohazardous stuff, like bodies.”

  A chill ran through me. “You mean, you haul . . . bodies in here?”

  “Part of the job is disposal. Can’t just put them in a Dumpster.”

  “Don’t you burn out? I’d think all this gore would get to you eventually.”

  “Sure, there are days when I wonder why I do this. Especially since I’m on call twenty-four/seven. Some guys in the business suffer from stress, depression. You know, the kinds of things you’re familiar with as an ab-psych instructor.”

  “So how do you cope?”

  “Well, lately by getting involved in your problems. You’ve kept me pretty distracted.” He shot me a look; there was a sparkle in his eyes

  “Sorry about that,” I said, sighing.

  He patted my leg. “Look, the only thing you need to worry about right now is your own safety. Keep in mind—someone cut those brakes.”

  I had to admit he was right. And if I wasn’t careful, I just might be his next Crime Scene Cleanup.

  Chapter 20