by Penny Warner
“That’s not my bed,” my mother said, her green face pulled back in a grimace as she pointed into her bedroom. “I don’t know where my bed is.”
Recognizing the symptoms of sundowner syndrome, I guided her back to her room and bed, reminding her about the party and that we were staying overnight with the Christophers. I covered her up, tucked her in like she used to do me, and stroked her hand until she closed her eyes.
When I thought she was asleep, I tiptoed into my room through the bathroom, slipped off my shoes, changed into my PJs, and joined Brad in bed.
“Your mom okay?” he asked groggily, wrapping an arm around me as I nestled next to him.
“She’s asleep,” I whispered. “Just disoriented. She’ll be okay. It’s been a long day for her too. Lots of excitement.” I relaxed into his heaving chest, closed my eyes, then remembered the conversation between Allison and Kyle. My eyelids popped up, my mind suddenly wide-awake.
“Brad, what do you think is going on between those two?” I asked.
No response other than some heavy breathing—and not the kind I had been looking forward to.
Brad was sound asleep.
Brad woke me at seven the next morning and made up for falling asleep on me the previous night. Then we both showered, dressed, and headed outside to clean up the mess. My crew arrived a little after nine. I’d let Mother sleep in and hadn’t heard a peep from her since tucking her into bed in the middle of the night. Nor had I seen any sign of Rob, Marie, Allison, or Javier this morning.
“Presley!” Brad called from the other side of the garden, where he’d been removing wine-stained tablecloths from the serving tables. He held an armful of wadded-up cloth and was staring at the table he’d just stripped.
“What is it?” I asked, approaching him. “The cloths are rentals. Don’t worry about the stains—”
I stopped midsentence. Brad wasn’t looking at the table. He was staring under the table.
A chill ran down my spine as I leaned in to see what had caught his attention.
I pulled back reflexively, my stomach clenched.
A body lay twisted on the ground underneath the table, a red wine stain circling the front of a once-green T-shirt.
Something protruded from the center of the stain.
I took a second look, immediately regretting it.
That was no wine stain. It was blood.
“Oh my God!” I managed to say as I recoiled. “That’s JoAnne Douglas! She’s been…stabbed. With a corkscrew!”
Chapter 7
PARTY-PLANNING TIP #7
To avoid making an embarrassing faux pas at your wine-tasting party by ruining the sensual experience, follow these basic tips: Don’t smoke, eat hard candy or mints, chew gum, or wear perfume or aftershave. You want to keep your palate and nostrils free from taste-altering substances. Chocolate, however, is perfectly acceptable.
“Stand back, everyone,” Brad commanded, extending his arms as my crew came running over to view the spectacle.
“JoAnne?” Marie Christopher said, appearing out of nowhere. Pale, eyes wide, Marie stared down at the bloody sight, her hands beginning to tremble.
“Don’t touch anything,” Brad called out to the gaping crowd. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. “Presley!” he said, yanking me out of my stunned silence. “Get everyone back.”
I immediately shifted into delegation mode. “Delicia, take Marie away from here. Get her some water.”
To Raj, I said, “Check the area. See if you find anyone—or anything—suspicious.” Raj saluted and marched off to search the grounds.
Glancing around, I noticed Rob wasn’t present; nor were Javier or Allison. “Duncan,” I said, “find Rob. And let me know if you see Javier or Allison.”
“Berkeley,” I whispered to my videographer, then waved my hand around the crime scene area. “Would you get your video camera and tape this, please? We may need it later.”
I heard the deep sound of a truck engine and saw a small tractor approaching in the distance. Moments later Javier pulled up near the garage, let the tractor motor idle a moment, then switched it off and jumped down. He must have seen the curious gathering because he headed over toward Marie, who now sat on a garden bench next to Dee, several yards away from the body. Her head was bent over and she held a wineglass filled with water.
“Javier,” I said, intercepting him. “We’ve got a problem here and I need you to stay back. Dee’s taking care of Marie.”
“What’s wrong?” he said, removing his hat.
“Someone’s been killed,” I said. “The police will be here soon.”
Javier’s eyebrows peaked. He shuffled back but strained his neck to see what I was talking about. “I’ll go get Mr. Rob.”
“No need,” I said, spotting Rob and Allison as they entered the party area from the front door of the house, followed by Duncan. Rob was dressed in his casual jeans, a button-down yellow shirt, and slip-on loafers. He frowned when he saw the crowd—or maybe it was the early-morning sun in his eyes. Meanwhile, Allison, dressed in a short silky bathrobe and pink ostrich-feathered slippers, her hair tousled, had a blank look on her face.
“What’s going on?” Rob said, striding over to me. Allison, behind him, held her hand up to shield her face from the bright sunlight.
“Uh…,” I said, “I…have some bad news.”
“What is it? What’s happened now?” He glanced around as if checking for clues to the bad news.
“It’s JoAnne Douglas…,” I began.
Rob ran his hand through his hair. “Not again! What is it this time?” Apparently he’d expected to see more vandalism.
I turned toward the spot where JoAnne lay. With the tablecloth pulled up, she was clearly visible, one ratty tennis shoe–covered foot sticking out from under the table like the Wicked Witch of the Valley. The other shoe appeared to be missing. But this witch had not been killed by a house. It had taken a corkscrew to do that.
Nearby, also hidden under the table, I noticed a gallon can of green paint.
Had JoAnne brought the paint? Was she planning to use it somehow to ruin the party?
I watched Rob for his reaction as he squinted at the body a few feet away, then started to walk over. I held on to his arm.
“Don’t,” I said. “Brad called the police. They’ll be here any minute.”
Rob shook his head, mesmerized by the sight of JoAnne’s dead body. “What…what happened?”
“Looks like somebody killed her,” Allison said, stating the obvious. “In fact, it looks like she got screwed.” A small smile played at the corner of her mouth.
Rob glared at his sister-in-law. “Allison! Don’t be vulgar.”
“What? She’s dead. You should be glad about that. I’m just saying…”
“Have a little consideration for your sister, will you?” he snapped, then rushed over to be with his wife, who seemed to be taking JoAnne’s death the hardest. Dee let him have her seat next to a tearful Marie.
“Corkscrew,” Allison said to me, having lost Rob as her audience. “Poetic, don’t you think?”
I ignored her. The young woman obviously craved attention, but she wasn’t going to get it from me.
“Excuse me,” I said. The word “corkscrew” had triggered a sudden memory of last night. I walked to the front door of the house and ducked inside.
Pausing in the entryway, I listened for a few moments. Noises came from the kitchen, where I assumed Rocco and Gina were still cleaning up their cooking items. Apparently they hadn’t heard the news. I started down the dimly lit hallway, stepping slowly and carefully, until I reached the first of Rob’s wall displays. I remembered hearing a crunch as I’d walked down the hall last night—a noise that sounded like broken glass underfoot. Eyeing the display, I studied the framed set of antique corkscrews.
The glass that covered the collection of wine openers was intact.
I moved on to the next one. Nothing unusual there either.
I reached up to touch the glass.
Bingo.
No glass.
I peered inside, studying each corkscrew. None appeared to be missing. And there were no jagged glass edges on the inside of the frame.
Hmmm.
And then I saw it, even in the minimal light. The corkscrew on the lower left-hand side of the case looked out of place among the antiques—and oddly familiar. I pulled out my cell phone, touched the flashlight app, and held the light up to the corkscrew. Inscribed in fine print were the words “Killer Parties.”
Oh my God! Someone had taken one of Rob’s antique wine screws and replaced it with one of my party favors!
I looked at the floor, then knelt down and shined the light on the Italian tile beneath the frame. Scanning the area, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. If there had been any shattered glass on the floor, it had been swept away.
I ran my fingers over the cold tile, along the crevices and where the floor met the wall, wondering why the killer appeared to have stolen Rob’s corkscrew and used it to kill JoAnne Douglas. Did he—or she—really think replacing it with one of mine would fool anyone?
I suddenly felt something sting my finger and pulled back my hand. Ouch!
Raising the tip of my middle finger, I saw a dot of blood form on the pad.
I touched on the iPhone light and held it up. A small shard of glass stuck out from the center of the red dot. I pulled out the shard, wincing like a baby stuck by a diaper pin, and pushed my bleeding finger into my mouth.
Outside, I heard the screams of sirens.
“Fire! Fire!”
My mother appeared at her bedroom door and rushed into the hallway, sans robe but still wearing her silk nightgown, thank God, and her green beauty mask.
“Calm down, Mother. It’s just the police.”
Just the police? What was I saying?
Clearly disoriented, she scanned the area. “No fire?”
“No, Mom. You’re safe. Everything’s okay.”
Except for the dead body in the garden.
“What’s happening? Why are the police here?”
I walked Mother back to her room and reassured her as I helped her remove her makeup mask and get dressed. Brad would handle the cops. Right now, my mother needed me.
“There’s been an incident,” I said, buttoning her floral blouse.
Mom’s eyes narrowed. I could tell she had become her old self again. “Oh no. Presley. Not another dead body.”
“Mother!”
“Well, you do have a penchant for finding a body or two after one of your big parties. Who is it this time? Not Larry, I hope.”
I almost laughed at her matter-of-fact response to the incident—and the thought that it might have been her paramour. I filled her in as she applied her makeup, correctly this time, and answered her questions as best I could. Of course, at the moment, I had questions too, and not many answers.
“Are you sure you want to go outside?” I asked her. “The police are there and—”
“Oh yes. If you’re involved in this—and no doubt you are—I want to be there to help. I am your mother, after all.”
I nodded helplessly. I knew there was no stopping her. Perhaps my tenacity was genetic. I had a feeling I might need it with this latest development.
“Presley,” Mother said, suddenly staring at my fresh white Killer Parties T-shirt. “You’re bleeding.”
I looked down. Sure enough, a streak of blood ran diagonally across the bold red letters of my self-promoting T-shirt. I checked my middle fingertip. It had begun to bleed again.
“Oh, that. I must have brushed my finger against my shirt while I was helping you dress. Hope I didn’t get any blood on you.”
Mother’s frown deepened. “Where did the blood come from?”
“I cut my finger on a piece of glass. Long story. Honestly, I’m fine. Let’s go on outside. I’d like to see what’s happening.” I stuck my finger in my mouth again to try to stop the bleeding.
“Don’t do that, Presley. It’s not ladylike, and very unsanitary. You need a Band-Aid.” She dumped out her Coach bag onto the unmade bed and sifted through a colossal collection of what she called emergency items—traveling makeup, mini-flashlight, address book, mirror, scarf, tissues, medications, chocolate, crossword puzzle book, hand sanitizer, toothbrush, nail file, sunglasses, coupons, mints, nail polish, herbal tea, a picture of me at my first big event—Mayor Davin Green’s surprise wedding party—and her medic-alert ID information tag noting her Alzheimer’s condition, which she refused to wear. Somehow in the vast pile of stuff, she located a Band-Aid, ripped off the paper, and pressed the thing around my middle finger.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, feeling myself revert back to childhood. I was surprised she didn’t just kiss it and give me a cookie. “Now let’s go.”
I led the way down the hall, shooting a quick glance at the Killer Parties corkscrew inside the broken frame along the way, then outside to the garden area, where we’d held the party. Two cop cars were parked in the driveway, and four uniformed officers were scattered around, talking with Brad, Rob, and Marie. An ambulance with paramedics pulled up moments later and checked the body, then stood back, making no attempt at resuscitation. Finally, a police van drove up and four crime scene techs got out and went to work, taking pictures, investigating the scene, collecting samples, and whatever else they did on CSI-type shows.
Mother headed over to comfort Marie, who was still sitting on the bench, looking pale and drawn, while Rob, standing next to her, talked to one of the officers. Mom had a knack for comforting people, so I left her to it. I made my way over to Brad, who was talking with a beefy, red-faced man in a dark suit that had stopped fitting the man several pounds ago.
He paused as I approached. “Ma’am, could you wait over there until I’m finished here?”
Ma’am?
Brad intervened before I snapped the man’s head off and stepped on it like an overinflated balloon. “Presley, this is Detective Kelly. Ken, this is Presley Parker, the party planner I told you about. She’s the one who put the event together. You’re going to want to talk to her. She may have seen the vic last night, snooping around the premises.”
Was that true? Had I possibly seen JoAnne Douglas sneaking around the Purple Grape in the dark?
The detective squinted at me, as if looking at a disturbing X-ray. I realized he wasn’t looking at my eyes; he was staring at my chest. Men.
“Ma’am, is that blood?”
I glanced down. Oh, it wasn’t my boobs that had attracted his attention. It was the streak of blood on my shirt. I tried to brush the stain off, then gave up and held up my bandaged middle finger.
“Uh, I caught a piece of glass in my finger—,” I said, hoping he didn’t think I was flipping him off. Which I might have been.
Detective Kelly turned over a page in his notebook and wrote something down. Probably something like, “Presley Parker: murderer. Evidence: blood on shirt.”
“When was this?” he asked.
“Uh, just a few minutes ago, actually. I was—”
“I’m going to need your shirt, ma’am” he said, cutting me off again.
“Seriously?” I said, stunned at his request. “Wait a minute. You don’t think—”
“I don’t think anything, ma’am. Just doing my job.”
Again with the interruptions and the “ma’ams.” I really wanted to hold up my bandaged middle finger again.
“Well, I assure you, I had nothing to do with the death of that woman—JoAnne Douglas. I only met her once. But if you’ll listen for a moment, I might know where the murder weapon came from.”
The detective looked up from his notebook in anticipation.
“I’ve been trying to tell you—that’s how I cut my finger. When I went down the hall last night, I heard a crunching sound under my shoe. I forgot about it until this m
orning, when I saw the corkscrew in JoAnne Douglas’s chest. So I went back to the hall and started checking Rob’s collection of corkscrews. That’s when I noticed that the glass covering one of them was gone, and an antique corkscrew was missing. I think the killer took it and replaced it with one of mine.”
“Why didn’t you tell us, Pres?” Brad said, frowning at me like an irate father.
The detective didn’t give me a chance to respond. He asked, “You say you cut your finger on a piece of glass? Did you break the glass, ma’am?”
“Good heavens, no!” I nearly screeched in defense. I took a deep breath to calm myself. “No. I was feeling around on the floor and that’s when I got stabbed with a shard of glass.” To Brad I said, “I was on my way to tell you when my mom came out of her room in a panic, after hearing all the sirens. She thought the house was on fire.”
My explanation didn’t relax Brad’s frown. Meanwhile the detective made a note in his little book that was probably not flattering. Before I could explain myself better, a thirtysomething woman in a white coat holding a clipboard approached the detective. Her dark hair was twisted into a spiky knot, her brown eyes were outlined in kohl eyeliner, and one of her eyebrows was pierced. The name tag on her coat read, “Dr. Overholt, Napa County Coroner.”
“You got something, PattyJo?” Detective Kelly asked her.
“Not much, not until I get her back to the lab. From her temp, lividity, and lack of rigor, I’m guessing time of death was somewhere between six p.m. and midnight.”
“What?” I said. “Are you saying she could have been lying under that table during the entire party?”
“Was the party held between six and midnight?”
“Seven and midnight,” I said.
“Then, yes,” Dr. Overholt said.
Oh my God. JoAnne Douglas’s dead body could have been there the whole time—and no one noticed, thanks to the long white tablecloth.
“What about the weapon?” Detective Kelly asked.
“It’s an odd wound. It looks as if she was stabbed with the corkscrew—which wouldn’t be easy to do—but after seeing that handle on the thing, I suppose anyone could have gripped it well enough to shove it into the middle of her chest. She also had a head injury, but that may have happened in a fall. I’ll know more when I examine her.”
