by Penny Warner
Sam rolled the body over. I recognized the short, dark-haired man who looked so much like Sam from behind. It was Ed Pike, the surly guard who had given me so much attitude. I felt a rush of guilt.
“Don’t touch him!” Brad said, too late. “SFPD is on the way.”
Although Pike resembled Sam in color and stature, I noticed now that he wore glasses. They were twisted and clinging to his face. They’d been obscured moments ago when he lay on his chest.
“Are you sure he’s . . .” Sam’s voice caught. He didn’t finish the sentence.
Brad nodded. “What’s his name?”
Sam looked down at the man, his face pale. “Pike. Ed Pike.” He turned to me with anguished eyes. “What happened?”
“I . . . don’t know, Sam,” I stammered, and looked helplessly at Brad for a better answer. Brad said nothing.
Sam returned his attention to his deceased coworker.
Seconds later the police arrived via the second elevator. Detective Melvin stepped out and took in the scene. When he spotted me, he rolled his eyes as if I were somehow involved. He assigned one of the other cops to question me, while he huddled with the young clerk who had discovered the guard’s body lying half in and half out of the elevator.
After my brief interrogation, I was left alone on a nearby bench to wait for news from Brad. Meanwhile, I interrogated myself. How had this happened? Had he fallen or been hit over the head? And who would want to kill him?
I’d been with Christine and Dan just before the body was discovered. They couldn’t have killed him—or could they? I supposed it depended on when the guard had been killed.
Meanwhile, where was Corbin Cosetti?
Was he in hiding? If so, why? Had he run away? Or had something happened to him?
I watched as the paramedics took the body away. Had Ed Pike seen something, known something, that would expose the killer? Or did he have secrets of his own?
Tired of my own questions, I stood up and walked over to Brad, who was still engaged in conversation with Detective Melvin. “Brad, I have to get back to the office,” I said, interrupting them.
Detective Melvin gave me one of his condescending smiles. “Got a party to go to, Ms. Parker?”
I ignored him. “I have some . . . paperwork . . . to do.”
Brad frowned. “You mean reviewing the ones from the locker?”
“What papers?” Melvin asked, perking up. “Whose locker?”
Crap. Did Brad know nothing about subtlety!
“Just some papers from Mary Lee’s locker . . .”
“How did you get into her locker?” Melvin pressed.
“I . . . uh . . .”
“Do you know what the term ‘obstruction of justice’ means, Parker?”
“I’m not obstructing justice, Detective Melvin,” I snapped. “I’m trying to ensure it. May we go, Detective?”
Melvin raised an eyebrow at Brad. I thought I saw Brad wink. I’d slap him later, to avoid being arrested for assault at the moment. The two of them were thick as thieves, and I suspected Brad was supplying the detective with everything I’d discovered, while keeping Melvin’s info to himself.
“I’m going to want to see those papers,” the detective added.
I gave a barely perceptible nod. Brad took my arm, as if he were escorting a little old lady across the street, and led me into the second elevator—the one that hadn’t contained the body.
It wasn’t until we descended halfway that I suddenly remembered the dog.
“What did you do with little Puffy?”
“He’s fine. He’s in the SUV. I cracked the windows and filled an empty container with water. Left him a few snacks too.”
I wrinkled an eyebrow. “What kind of snacks?”
“Some beef jerky. Had some in the glove compartment. For emergencies.”
I smiled. “That was sweet of you.”
“Yeah, I’m a sweet kinda guy.” He winked.
“One more question. How did you know about the dead guy in the elevator?”
“Heard it on the police scanner. I was here, so I thought I’d check it out.”
Brad really had a knack for right time, right place. I, on the other hand, would need an alarm clock and GPS to end up at the right time, in the right place.
My office door was locked when Brad and I returned, just the way I’d left it. But when I inserted the key, it didn’t go in smoothly. I had to jiggle it to unlock the door. Once inside, I scanned the room. Everything looked normal—semichaotic with intermittent organization that only I would recognize.
I sat down at my desk and pulled open the top drawer, where I’d hidden the papers copied from the ones in Mary Lee’s locker.
They were still there.
Only something was different about them. I’d thrown them in the drawer, and now they were neatly stacked, one on top of the other. It was as if someone with profound obsessive-compulsive disorder had been compelled to align the papers perfectly. My OCD was mild compared to most.
Someone had been in my office—and in my desk.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. “Raj?” I called out for the security down the hall. No answer.
I started to pull out my cell, then stopped. There was something odd about all this. The intruder had seen the papers, arranged them neatly, but hadn’t taken them. Maybe those names and number meant nothing after all.
I dug in my purse for the birth certificate and found it, along with the envelope I’d picked up from the pile below Corbin’s front door. The envelope was sealed, with no postage, no addressee or return address, only the words “Marina Yacht Club” embossed on the back. Someone had slipped it through the mail slot.
Jason?
If so, when? It had to have been sometime before he was killed.
Feeling a tinge of guilt about opening someone else’s mail, I reminded myself that Corbin was missing, his father and mother were dead, and that precluded any hesitation on my part.
I slid my thumb under the flap and opened it. Inside were several sheets of paper stapled together. I withdrew them and spread them out in front of me.
I blinked. It was the same list of names as the ones from Mary Lee’s locker
I crossed the hall to Brad’s office. There was no sign of Mary Lee’s dog.
“Where’s Chou-Chou?”
Brad pointed under his desk. I leaned over and peeked. Sure enough. The curly-haired ball of fluff was curled up next to Brad’s feet. My heart melted.
“Be careful you don’t step on it,” I said, grinning. What was it about big guys and little dogs?
Brad’s cell phone rang.
“Could you come to my office when you’re done?” I asked quickly.
He nodded as he answered the call.
I returned to my desk, sat down, and held up the two sets of papers—the copy of the ones from Mary Lee’s locker, and the ones I’d found at Corbin’s that appeared to have come from Jason Cosetti—and examined them. There had to be some significance to them.
I heard footsteps in the reception room and quickly shoved the papers back in my desk. Detective Melvin appeared at the entryway, looking more GQ than PD.
“Detective!” I sat up, surprised to see him again so soon after leaving the museum.
“Ms. Parker.” He turned and nodded to Brad, who was still on the phone, then stepped into my office.
“What brings you here?” I asked nervously.
“You mentioned some papers you found in Ms. Miller’s locker. I’d like to see them.” He eyed me. “And I’d like to know how you got into her locker.”
I didn’t want to get Sam into trouble, so I lied. “I . . . uh . . . from Corbin,” I stammered. With Corbin missing, I might get away with avoiding the truth. I pulled the top drawer open a couple of inches and withdrew one set of papers, leaving the second set in the drawer.
“Here they are.” I handed them to the detective.
He looked them over for a few seconds. �
��Any idea what they mean?”
“No, but I haven’t had a chance to really study them. I’m guessing your staff will have them analyzed in a matter of minutes.”
“You got these from Corbin, you say?”
I nodded.
He shook his head. He knew I was lying.
I smiled sweetly at him.
He pressed his lips together, tucked the papers into an inside jacket pocket, and crossed over to Brad’s office.
My heart beating like a hummingbird, I pulled open the drawer, slipped the second set of papers into my purse, and headed out of my office.
Detective Melvin leaned out. “Going somewhere, Ms. Parker?”
“The women’s room, if that’s all right with you, Detective.”
I could feel his eyes follow me down the hall to the office restroom at the back of the barracks. Slipping into a stall, I locked the door, sat down on the toilet seat, and pulled out the duplicate set.
I glanced over the alphabetized names and their accompanying numbers for the umpteenth time. Like before, I recognized a few names—Christine Lampe, Dan Tannacito, a couple of San Francisco city supervisors, and some of the more well-known guests who’d attended the Murder Mystery Party. The rest were unfamiliar. Each name had a number by it—5,000, 10,000, 20,000 and more.
Were they just donations? Made at the party? Above and beyond the thousand-dollar-a-plate fee?
Then why had Mary Lee hidden them? And why had Jason dropped them off at Corbin’s?
I returned to my desk with the papers stuffed deep into my purse and found Detective Melvin and Brad gone from the office.
Working quickly before the detective returned, I pulled out a file from the cabinet marked “de Young—Murder Mystery Party,” sat at my desk, and flipped it open. Inside I found a note handwritten by Mary Lee. Placing it next to the list of names, I compared the handwriting. Her note was written in a delicate script with a light touch. The list had been noted with a heavy hand, bold script, with a slightly backward slant. A lefty? I was no graphologist, but these samples weren’t written by the same person.
If not Mary Lee, then who? Jason? A secretary?
I’d need to get a few more handwriting samples to identify the writer, from Jason, Christine, Dan, and maybe everyone on that list.
Including Corbin.
I looked over the names and numbers again.
ANDERSON, Charles—5,000. City supervisor
BRIEN, Sansa and Dennis—20,000. Well-known philanthropists. . . .
I skimmed down the list, stopping when I spotted a familiar name.
GREEN, Davin—20,000. Mayor of San Francisco . . .
LAMPE, Christine—10,000. Museum curator . . .
TANNACITO, Dan—5,000. Assistant curator . . .
“Watson,” I said aloud, reaching the last name on the list. Like Brad said, there were no names beginning with the letters X, Y, or Z. I turned the paper over in case there was something written on the back. Nothing there, except a tiny piece of paper stuck in back of the staple.
“Hey,” Brad said, peeking his head in. “S’up?”
“Where’s your BFF?”
“He took off.” Brad stepped inside. “You wanted to talk to me about something?” He pulled up a chair and sat down, leaned back, legs akimbo.
I held up the last page of the list of names and numbers for him to see. “Notice anything odd about this page?”
Brad looked at me quizzically. “Wait a minute. I thought you gave those papers to Melvin.”
“I gave him a different copy.”
“You have two copies?” He picked up the papers and gave them a quick glance, then shrugged.
I explained how I came by the second copy.
“But that’s not the point. See the corner with the staple.” I pointed to the tiny scrap of paper. “I think this proves there’s another page.”
“The last page was ripped off,” Brad said, grinning as the light went on.
“Yes! But what’s odd is, I think someone broke into my office and—”
He held up a hand to cut me off. “Wait a second. Someone broke into your office?”
“I think so.”
He glanced around. “How can you tell? Looks okay to me.”
“When I tried my key, it didn’t fit easily. And then I opened the top drawer and found my papers all neatly stacked.”
“Yeah, that’s conclusive.”
I wadded up a sticky note and threw it at him. “Anyway, whoever was in my office handled the papers I gave to Melvin.”
“Well, just look for a neat freak then.”
I stood up and crossed my arms. “I thought you were going to help me.”
Brad laughed. “I am. I just don’t see what a pile of neat papers has anything to do with anything.”
I grabbed my purse and rushed past him to the door. He caught my wrist. “Hey, where are you going?”
“I . . . have a party to plan,” I said haughtily.
“Am I invited?” He released my arm.
“Sorry. You’re not on the guest list.”
Chapter 24
PARTY PLANNING TIP # 24
Appropriate props add authenticity to your Murder Mystery Party, so don’t overlook them. Park a vintage car in the driveway, hang a sparkly chandelier overhead, or install a secret doorway that leads to a hidden passageway.
Walking back to my condo, I tried to come up with a viable transportation plan. With two cars in the shop, I was running out of transportation. I didn’t want to keep asking Brad to drive me around, but what options did I have? Raj drove a white Chevy SUV with the words “Treasure Island Security” printed on the sides. Berk had a VW, but he—and it—weren’t around at the moment. I could try to get one of those share-cars so popular in the city—like a Zipcar or City CarShare.
But then I remembered Mother.
I’d nearly forgotten. She owned a car—an old Cadillac that one of her ex-husbands had given to her as part of a divorce settlement. She’d kept it as a souvenir rather than as transportation. Being a city girl, she’d rarely driven it, and now, with her illness, it was unlikely she’d ever drive again.
Mother had stored the monstrosity at a city parking garage, but when I moved to the island, she asked me to keep it there. I warned her that TI had a substantial auto burglary problem, but she insisted, so I had agreed to park it in one of the extra spots at the far end of the condo complex. I’d covered it with a car cover to keep it safe from the salt air and essentially forgotten about the thing.
Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead driving the humongous, not-even-close-to-green machine. But I was desperate.
Would it still run? I wondered, as I unlocked the front door to the condo and greeted my cats. After feeding them a hearty meal and chatting briefly with them in kitty talk, I did a quick search of my junk drawer and found my mother’s disco-ball key ring and keys. After kissing my kitties good-bye, promising them massages when I returned, I locked the door securely. I headed over to the car with one lingering question on my mind, the one that bothered me more than the missing last page.
Where was Corbin?
He’d virtually disappeared, leaving behind his mother’s precious pup. And tracking down the answer to that question was enough to make me get inside my mother’s boat of a car, start driving, and find out.
I could see dust collected on the car cover from several feet away as I approached. The thing hadn’t been touched since I’d parked it there months ago. I peeled back the cover and stood for a moment, marveling at what was once an en-viable status symbol, but now would be considered a gasguzzling clunker. How dramatically the whims of automobile drivers had changed over the years.
Mother had selected this one because it was her favorite color—gold. One of her former husbands, a car buff, offered her a choice from his collection in the divorce settlement. Naturally she picked the most expensive one of the bunch. The car cover had done its job. The gold paint was as shiny as the day we’d dri
ven here. It was hard to believe the car hadn’t just come off the lot.
Unlocking the driver’s side, I pulled open the squeaking door. The gold leather interior was pristine and the quilted seats luxurious as I slithered in. This wasn’t a car. This was a coach meant for a king. A throne for royalty. A second home. What a contrast to the claustrophobic Smart Car! I snuggled into the seat, took in the scent of leather, then stuck the key in the ignition and twisted it.
Nothing. Absolutely dead.
“Nuts!” I said, and then sighed. There was only one thing I could do at this point, short of calling a cab. I got out my iPhone and tapped a familiar number.
Brad arrived in less than five minutes. As he drove up, I saw his mouth drop open, then lip-read the words, “Holy crap!” His SUV jerked to a stop next to me, and he hopped out, grinning like he’d found gold. And in a way, he had.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, practically drooling over my mother’s Caddy. He’d never looked at me like that.
“It’s my mother’s. She doesn’t drive anymore, so she asked me to keep it here.”
Brad ignored me as he circled the car. “Whoa. This is a 1960 Coupe de Ville! Convertible! Look at those fins. Do you know how much this is worth?”
I couldn’t care less about the value of the car at this point. I just needed it to get me from point A to points B, C, and D.
“Look at that grille! The chrome! This thing has 340 horsepower, with a V-8 engine. Must weigh two and a half tons . . .” He poked his head inside and gasped. “Gold carpeting. Gold dashboard. Pearlized steering wheel. Power windows, steering, brakes.” He pulled his head out. “You know what this Mac Daddy Caddy sold for back then? Less than six thousand. This one, in such cherry condition, gotta be worth over forty.”
“Is there anything you don’t know?” I said crossing my arms.
Brad caressed the bumper. I got shivers.
