by Penny Warner
“There’s a lot of competition between museums to build a world-class collection,” he added. “And the de Young—”
His words were suddenly cut off by the echoing click of razor-sharp heels and the yapping of a small dog coming from down a shadowed hall. As if he recognized the sounds, Sam Wo jerked to attention, pulled down the front of his jacket, and adjusted his hat.
Mary Lee Miller stepped into the dim light. The woman who’d hired me to produce a murder mystery at the museum was the de Young’s major fund-raiser and philanthropist. She was a petite blond woman in her fifties, trying to look under forty. Tonight she wore a pink Chanel suit and matching stiletto heels that would have made killer weapons. Peeking out of her pink Coach bag was a teeth-baring, pinkribboned purse-pooch. A pit bull wrapped in a poodle’s clothing? The metaphor fit both the dog and the woman.
“Oh God, Sam. Do hush!” Mary Lee said to the security guard. She waved him away with a whisk of her manicured hand. Sam nodded, tipped his hat to both of us, and shuffled off into the darkness, waving his flashlight from side to side like a blind man with a cane.
“Sam’s a character. The older he gets, the more he talks. We only keep him around because his father was my father’s gardener.” Mary Lee patted her poodle with a diamond-riddled hand. “No doubt he was telling you one of his exaggerated stories? I do believe he’s a frustrated Indiana Jones.”
I smiled. “Well, a museum can always use a little mystery.”
Mary Lee Miller raised a perfectly designed eyebrow. “Yes, but it can’t afford a real scandal. See that Dogon figure over there?”
Oh God, not that piece again.
“Superb, isn’t it? We paid over one million dollars for this truly incredible piece. The de Young would rather have one great object than a hundred ordinary ones. We strive to make sure our museum is not your dowager grandmother’s provincial museum. It’s contemporary, user-friendly, and with my name on it, it has to be the best. Believe me, I have the scars to prove it.”
She was referring to the controversy that had dogged the museum since she first took on the job of major money-raiser a decade ago. Everyone in the San Francisco Bay Area knew about the frequent arguments over everything from the architecture and location to the financing and environmental impact. But somehow Mary Lee Miller had managed to overcome these obstacles and raise more than $200 million worth of funding in the process.
“Blockbuster art brings in millions of visitors—that’s a fact. And we now rival the Met, the Louvre, and the British Museum with our collection. Plus the art-related trinkets we sell in the gift shop make great mementos for tourists. When the Tut exhibit was here, we made more money selling Tut shirts and bags than we did on admission.”
Remembering what Sam Wo had said, I asked, “Is it difficult making sure all the objects are legitimate?”
“Absolutely not,” she snapped, petting her purse pooch vigorously. He . . . she . . . it panted in response. “We trust our dealers implicitly. When we acquire something like the Dogon statue, we make sure it has a reliable provenance.”
I nodded my understanding, but she continued as if I were a schoolchild on a field trip.
“Provenance, Presley, is the documentation of an object’s origin and ownership.”
I tried to ignore her condescending tone, but it irritated me. “Sam said there’s still a black market for things like the Dogon statue?”
Her eyes narrowed. I knew I’d offended her as soon as the words “black market” tumbled out of my mouth. It was like saying “plastic surgery” to a trophy wife.
“Certainly there are still looters, smugglers, unethical dealers, and desperate collectors who will turn a blind eye to the origins of some art,” Mary Lee said. “Not to mention the occasional forgery. But our staff is top-notch, impeccable. I personally recommended Christine Lampe, who was hired as our curator. And that’s why this fund-raiser is so important. If it’s got my name on it, it’s sure to bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars we need for the new wing and collection. And it has to be perfect.”
Her mini-speech reminded me how pompous Mary Lee really was. When she hired me for this gig, she insisted she be given full credit for the fund-raiser. I’d agreed, as long as a percentage of the money went to the Autism Foundation. My friend and part-time assistant, Delicia, had a sister with the disorder, and I wanted to do something to help stem the puzzling rise in cases.
“Now, shall we return to the main court, Chou-Chou?” Mary Lee said to her dog in a nauseating baby voice. The dog licked her fingers as if they were covered in gravy.
She spoke to me in a normal voice. “Do I have to remind you, Presley, that I hired you to do an event, not wander around the museum unescorted? The rehearsal is not going well, and you won’t see a dime for your company or your charity if this event isn’t perfect.” Her face tightened.
I stole a last glance at the bloodstained ceremonial dagger, safe in its plastic case. Good thing it was inaccessible, I thought, or I might have “borrowed” it to use on Mary Lee. Instead, I followed her down the stairs, her stilettos tapping out a strident beat as she led the way. Her threats had been repeated so many times over the past couple of weeks that they no longer struck terror in my heart like they had initially. Still, I wasn’t above the occasional dagger-in-the-back fantasy.
But before I could picture shoving the blade between her pink shoulders, I heard a scream echoing up from the stair-well ahead.
A scream so loud, it could have shattered Plexiglas.
Chapter 2
PARTY PLANNING TIP #2
Ask your guests to come to your Murder Mystery Party dressed as their favorite sleuths. Then give them clues to costuming, so you don’t end up with a bunch of lame Scooby-Doos.
Keeping up with Mary Lee’s swift step wasn’t easy—the woman had the energy of a cheerleader on crack—but the scream momentarily stopped her in her tracks. She glanced back at me, her heavily lined eyes underscoring her look of horror.
After that momentary pause, the heels began clacking double time. I picked up the pace and followed her tap dance down the stairs to the first floor. Moving past the main court, she headed for the adjacent mural room, then froze, squeezing her purse-pooch in a stranglehold. Standing next to her, I saw her inhale sharply at the scene in front of us. She covered her glossy pink mouth with glossy pink fingernails.
“Oh my God!” she whispered between fingers.
Lying in the middle of the marble floor was the lifeless body of a woman, and my friend and part-time coworker, Delicia Jackson, one of the actors in the play, was kneeling by her side.
The woman’s legs were twisted at an impossible—and indiscreet—angle, her arms akimbo. Blond curly hair masked her face. Her pink polyester skirt was hiked up high enough to reveal a matching pink thong.
But it was the hilt of a dagger jutting from the woman’s back that held both Mary Lee’s and my attention. A circle of blood surrounded the ornate handle.
Delicia gave another bone-chilling scream that echoed throughout the main court, causing the hairs on my unshaved legs to stand at attention. Delicia bent down in her vintage floral frock and chunky black heels, circa 1940s Nancy Drew, and hesitantly touched the pool of blood with her fingertip. Recoiling in horror, she cried, “Oh. My. God. She’s totally dead!”
Dee glanced up and spotted Mary Lee staring at her.
She licked her bloody finger.
Then she grinned.
Mary Lee, still frozen to the spot, finally released her death grip on her little dog Toto—or whatever. Before she could sic the little pooch on Delicia, I shouldered past her and called out, “Stop tape.”
My videographer and fellow office worker, Berkeley Wong, lowered his video camera, a look of exasperation on his youthful face. Costumed as Kutesy Millstone, the Alphabet Detective, he wore a simple black dress that fit him perfectly. He finished the look with a “Santa Teresa” baseball hat covering his normally spiky hair. The only accessories
that didn’t fit his role were the purple Chuck Ts on his feet.
I moved closer to the body, then said, “Delicia, you sound more like Miley Cyrus than Nancy Prude.”
Acting as if she was offended, Delicia stuck out her tongue at me. But then, Dee was almost always acting. She’d had bit parts in every local production from Beach Blanket Babylon to Teatro ZinZanni, but her dream was to be on Broadway.
Berk shuffled over, giggling. “Presley’s right, dude. You’re not a Disney tween—you’re the World Famous Valley Girl Detective. Try it like this.” He put a hand on his waist, stuck out his hip, and spoke in a falsetto. “ ‘Oh. My. God! She’s like totally dead!’ ”
“And, Dee,” I added, “try not to lick the blood off your finger during the real performance tomorrow night.”
“Good God!” came a screeching voice behind me. “What are you people doing?”
Remembering Mary Lee, the constant thorn in my balloon, I turned around to explain the crime scene to her. While Botox kept her from frowning, it didn’t prevent her face from turning the color of her pink outfit.
“It’s okay, Mary Lee. They’re just rehearsing.”
I turned to Delicia and whispered, “Better leave out the scream until showtime.” I rolled my eyes toward Mary Lee.
Delicia grimaced, displaying teeth tinged pink from licking the fake blood. “Where did you get this stuff?” She spat. “Tastes like cherry cough syrup. Yuck.”
I glanced down at the weapons strewn about the “deceased” mannequin. All the red herrings were there—various artifacts copied from authentic museum pieces that doubled as murder weapons. The dagger, a nearly perfect replica of the one encased upstairs, protruded from the mannequin’s back, supported by a hunk of clay hidden under the “victim’s” pink polyester blouse.
“Berk, can you do a sweep of the crime scene so we can—” I started to say.
The shrill voice behind me cut me off. “Excuse me. But is that supposed to be me?” The sound of clicking heels and yapping dog started up again as Mary Lee closed the gap between us.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Because I have no intention of lying on the floor in my Chanel suit. Especially not like that!” She indicated the obscene way in which the corpse was lying—the hitched-up skirt and glimpse of pink thong—another one of Delicia’s many pranks to further irritate the woman in charge.
Mary Lee, thinking it was the starring role, had insisted on playing the soon-to-be-deceased museum curator California de Young. Once she realized she only had a few lines before her “death,” she’d promptly glammed up her meager role with expensive designer clothes, heavily insured jewelry, and movie-star makeup. I could hardly argue with her, since she was running the show, so to speak. I just hoped she’d play dead for most of the evening.
“Don’t worry, Mary Lee,” I said, biting my tongue before I said something more that I’d regret. I knew if I opened my piehole and spewed every time Mary Lee annoyed me, I’d be left with a mouthful of mincemeat and no job. A small price to pay, I thought momentarily, then remembered I needed the money, after being downsized from my college teaching job.
After taking a deep breath, I explained the logistics of the play and her role once again. “We’ll have a nice cashmere throw on the floor so you don’t get your clothes dirty. And you won’t have to stay there long. We’ll replace you with the mannequin.”
Mary Lee stomped closer to the corpse for a better look, brushing past Delicia as if she wasn’t there. Sticking out her razor-sharp Manolo toe, she gave the mannequin’s torso a little kick.
“That doesn’t look anything like me. Where did you get that hideous plus-sized outfit—Walmart? I’m a size one, for God’s sake. Those shoes are a disgrace. I wouldn’t be caught dead in those thrift-store knockoffs. And that wig—it looks like someone combed it with the dagger. My hair doesn’t look anything like that. Not at my salon’s prices. Is this supposed to be some kind of a joke?”
While Mary Lee ranted, Delicia had risen like a ghost from her kneeling position, the bloody dagger in hand. Slowly drifting back, she slipped behind Mary Lee, raised the phony knife, and brought it down to within millimeters of Mary Lee’s back.
Repeatedly.
The “Eee—eee—eee” from the Psycho shower scene screeched in my brain. Good thing that dagger was made of Styrofoam. This was supposed to be a make-believe murder.
While the weapon might not have been real, the murderous expression on Delicia’s face looked authentic. I didn’t blame her for her lethal thoughts. Delicia and Mary Lee had been at odds since the first rehearsal a couple of weeks ago. I had a feeling that was when Mary Lee began to suspect there was something going on between her son, Corbin, and Dee.
According to Delicia, the young man had been coerced by his strong-willed mother into playing the part of Sam Slayed, Hard-Boiled Gumshoe. An aspiring artist and son from Mary Lee’s first marriage to Jason Cosetti, Corbin had been raised with a silver paintbrush in his hand. He’d reluctantly agreed to participate in the museum fund-raiser in exchange for some help from his influential mother in getting a sponsor for his own art show.
In spite of her sharp tongue and pit-bull personality, I felt for Mary Lee. Her relationship with her son seemed to be the only real human connection she had—and she apparently felt threatened by Dee.
No wonder. Petite, curvy, with long dark hair, Delicia was a natural flirt. More than one man who’d crossed her path had fallen for her. But unlike other romantic adventures she’d had, this time she seemed truly interested in the scruffily attractive urban-chic artist, in spite of the fact that at twenty-five, he was five years her junior.
Once Mary Lee realized what was going on between her prized son and a “common out-of-work actress,” she had shown her dislike and disapproval of Delicia every chance she got, often referring to her as “the help,” “that little girl,” and “what’s-her-name.” Naturally, this did not bode well for the overly dramatic Dee.
At the moment, Mary Lee stood hands on hips, shaking her head at her “deceased” doppelgänger. Behind her back, Delicia quietly picked up another bogus weapon—a bow and arrow—and pretended to shoot it through Mary Lee’s head. By the time Delicia lifted the fake statuette and mimed clobbering Mary Lee, it was all Berkeley and I could do not to laugh. Good thing Mary Lee was oblivious to the pantomimes behind her back.
Pressing my lips together, I glared at Delicia and shook my head sharply, hoping she’d get the hint and knock off the theatrics.
Mary Lee caught me out signaling Dee and said, “What’s going on?”
I shrugged like a student caught passing notes in class. “Nothing . . . I . . . we—”
Mary Lee spotted the thickly beaded mock necklace Delicia had just retrieved from the floor—perfect for strangulation.
“I was just cleaning up . . . ,” Delicia began, looking as innocent as Jack the Ripper.
“That’s it!” Mary Lee screeched, startling all of us. She turned to me, but kept her eyes on Delicia. “I’ve had it. I want her out of here. Now!”
Before I could defend Dee, a voice called out from across the court.
“Mother!”
Mary Lee whirled around, her face twisted with rage. Corbin Cosetti strode into the room, wearing a trench coat and snap-brim fedora, à la Sam Spade. He looked better in the costume than in his usual torn-and-paint-splattered shirt and jeans, and I could see how Dee might be attracted to him. With dark hair and eyes, he was a quite a contrast to his fair mother.
“This is none of your business, Corbin,” Mary Lee hissed. “Please don’t interfere.” She turned back to me and pointed to Delicia. “That woman has done nothing but disrupt the play, distract the others, disrespect my authority, and . . . and . . .” she sputtered.
Poor woman. Her controlling attachment to her son was threatening to ruin the fund-raiser. I had to do something to ease the tension. But before I could reassure her, Delicia stepped forward—and into Mary Lee’s face
. She looked dumbfounded at Mary Lee’s outburst and accusations.
“What are you talking about, lady?”
“Don’t act innocent with me, missy,” Mary Lee said. “I know your game. And I refuse to have you ruin this important event!”
“Listen, lady,” Dee said. “I don’t work for you. I work for Presley. And you and I both know what this is really about. You’re not worried about your stupid-ass fund-raiser. You’re trying to control your twenty-five-year-old son!”
Before Delicia could do something stupid with the fake knife she still held in her hand, Corbin moved in between the two women and pushed them apart. At nearly six feet, he towered over them.
“Knock it off! Both of you!” He turned to Mary Lee. “Good God, Mother. Dee’s right. Stop interfering in my life! I’ll see whomever I want, when I want, and you have nothing to say about it.”
He spun around to Delicia, who was gripping the knife handle so hard, her knuckles were white. “And you. For God’s sake, stop baiting her. You know how she is.”
I frowned at the mini-drama playing out in front of me. This was way better than the little murder mystery I’d prepared. Unfortunately, while there might not be the sudden appearance of a dead body, there would certainly be a dead career if I didn’t take charge of this imploding situation.
I looked at Delicia. “Dee? What’s this all about?”
She shrugged like a pouty teenager.
I turned to Mary Lee’s son. “Corbin?”
He continued to glare at his mother.
“Mary Lee?” I finally said.
She snarled. “This tramp you’ve hired is trying to get her hands on my money.”
“What?” I said, almost laughing.
“Oh, don’t be so naive. I know her type. She’s digging her hooks into Corbin to get at my money. She might be fooling you, Corbin, but she doesn’t fool me. And I should know, since it’s happened to me more than once.”
“Mother!” Corbin shouted. “That’s crazy. Dee’s . . .” He looked at Delicia. “She’s just a friend.”