How to Crash a Killer Bash

by Penny Warner

  “Inside or outside?”

  The detective stopped drumming and frowned.

  “Was it locked from the inside or the outside?”

  “Inside.”

  Uh-oh. That would make it look like Dee locked it after she entered.

  Detective Melvin waited.

  “Look,” I said, leaning in. I felt like a passionate prosecutor trying to convince a skeptical jury. “Anyone could have locked that door after Dee entered—to make it look like she was the last person in there. They could have reached in and locked it without her knowing. And that means anyone could have come in there and stabbed Mary Lee—before Dee even went in there.”

  Detective Melvin blinked. I could see the wheels turning and thought I had him. Then he said, “But the killer stabbed her with something sharp, then replaced the weapon with the Styrofoam knife. Delicia Jackson was the last one in that room. And her hands were covered in blood.”

  Chapter 5

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #5

  When it’s time to reveal the killer at your Murder Mystery Party, have him or her confess. Otherwise you may hear a number of inappropriate accusations hurled at several of your other guests.

  After Detective Melvin dismissed me, I found Brad just leaving the crime scene room. He’d just ducked under the yellow police tape in the entryway that the police had used to cordon off the area.

  I ran up to him. “Brad!”

  “Not now, Presley,” he said abruptly, brushing past me.

  I backed up, taken by surprise at his change in mood. What the hell was up with him?

  I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay. Could you at least get me in there to see Delicia? I’m sure she’s upset and needs a friend.”

  Brad glanced back at the police officer standing guard, hands folded across his crotch. He stepped over, said something to the cop, then returned. “He’ll let you in to see her. But don’t do anything—”

  “Stupid,” I said, finishing his sentence. “That’s what you were going to say, right?” I glared at him.

  “Not now, Presley,” he said, and took off across the vast, empty room.

  I looked at the officer, wondering briefly what a crime scene cleaner could say to an officer that would get me inside. Heading over, I smiled sweetly at him, then ducked under the tape before he could change his mind.

  Delicia sat in a folding chair, near where a small table had been brought in. She was shaking her head and mumbling to herself as I approached her. She jerked her head up the moment she saw me. I expected her to stand up and hug me. Instead, she stiffened and returned her gaze to the table.

  Something was seriously wrong.

  “Delicia, are you all right?” I pulled out another folding chair next to her, sat down, and put my hand on her shoulder.

  She shook it off. “What do you think is wrong?” she snapped and pulled off her titian wig.

  This was not the Delicia I knew and loved.

  “It’s going to be okay, Dee. They’ll find out who did this and—”

  Her head whipped around to face me, her tearstained face filled with hurt and rage. “Don’t you get it? They think I did it! I was in that room with her, alone. And I have her blood on me.”

  “That’s just circumstantial—”

  She cut me off. “They know about my relationship with Corbin.”

  “That doesn’t mean you—”

  “And someone conveniently overheard me say I wanted to kill her and told the cops!”

  I had a feeling the word “someone” was meant for me.

  “No, Dee. I didn’t tell Detective Melvin that. I didn’t tell him anything that would incriminate you. I know you didn’t do it.”

  She said nothing as more tears welled in her eyes.

  “Besides,” I continued, “the knife you handled was made out of Styrofoam. There’s no way it could have killed her.”

  She blinked back the tears. “He said I switched the knives, that I used the real one to kill her and then hid it somewhere and replaced it with the fake one.”

  “But why would you do that?”

  “Good question—although that hasn’t stopped Melvin.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. You had no reason—”

  She interrupted me again. “You were the only one who heard me say that about Mary Lee. It was just an expression, but you had to tell him, didn’t you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  Startled, I whirled around in my seat. Detective Melvin and an African-American female officer stood at the door. I hadn’t heard them come in.

  Delicia shot a look at me.

  Melvin’s face tightened.

  I turned back to Delicia. “I didn’t say anything, Dee, I swear.”

  “Well, somebody told him I threatened her,” Delicia hissed. “And you were the only one close enough to hear me.”

  I was about to argue that there were several others milling around when Detective Melvin strode into the room, shadowed by the young officer. He nodded to the officer, and on cue, she pulled out a small card and began reading: “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  A sudden buzzing in my ears kept me from hearing the rest. I grabbed Delicia’s hand and felt her trembling, just before she jerked her hand away.

  “Don’t say anything,” I said. “I’ll find you a lawyer.”

  I turned to Detective Melvin and pleaded, “You can’t be serious! She didn’t do anything!”

  He ignored me as he waited for the cop to finish her speech. Where the hell was Brad? Maybe he could talk some sense into his by-the-book Melvin. After all, they were friends, weren’t they?

  When the female cop finished her not-yet-memorized recitation, she pulled out handcuffs.

  “Seriously! You’re not going to take her out in handcuffs!” My voice reached a fevered pitch. Delicia, on the other hand, said nothing—in words, that is. Her face told another story as tears streamed down her smeared face.

  I stood up. “Delicia, don’t worry. I’ll take care of this. I’m coming with you.”

  Delicia shook her head. “No, thanks, Pres. You’ve done enough.” She stood and wiped away tears with the shoulder of her Nancy Drew costume. But her eyes filled again as the cop handcuffed her.

  My eyes brimmed too, as I watched the young officer lead her out of the room like a common criminal. My chest ached with the pain I felt for her. I stood there a moment, a combination of dumbfounded and enraged at what I had just witnessed, before turning to Melvin.

  “How can you arrest her? You know her! She works with me. She has an office in my building. She wouldn’t hurt anyone. This is crazy!” I practically screamed the words at him. Surely anyone left in the museum heard me. But Detective Melvin acted as if I hadn’t said a word.

  I started for the entryway.

  “Actually,” Melvin said, “I need to ask you a few more questions, Ms. Parker. Have a seat.” He indicated one of the folding chairs.

  I crossed my arms in a show of resistance. “No, thank you, Detective. I’m busy. I have to figure out a way to get my innocent friend out of jail for a crime she didn’t commit.”

  “I’m afraid there’s a little matter in your statement I need to review.”

  “Oh, what’s that? You haven’t paid much attention to anything I’ve said so far.”

  “It’s what you didn’t say that interests me.” His piercing eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to see through me.

  “What do you mean? I told you everything I know. There’s nothing left to say.”

  “You can tell me what she did with the weapon.”

  Speechless, my mouth dropped open.

  “I thought I could trust you to tell me the truth, Ms. Parker,” the detective said. “After the last time—that incident with the mayor, remember? Keeping things from me didn’t help you much then. If you do the same this time—if you’re helping her cover up this crime in any way—I’ll charge you with aiding and abetting.”

  “This is
total bullshit, and you know it.”

  “Did you or did you not overhear Ms. Jackson say she wanted to kill Ms. Miller?”

  I dropped my arms in exasperation. “She didn’t mean it!”

  “But you did hear her say something to that effect.”

  I stonewalled him. It’s no use arguing with a narcissist who thinks he’s always right.

  His jaw tightened. “Thank you, Ms. Parker. I’ll be in touch.” He flipped his notebook shut, stuffed it inside a pocket, and ducked out of the room.

  Oh my God. Melvin thought I was helping Delicia conceal some kind of evidence. Meanwhile, Delicia thought I’d ratted her out. Now neither one of them trusted me.

  But the biggest issue here was the fact that my friend Delicia was headed for jail on suspicion of murdering Mary Lee Miller.

  Un-frigging-believable.

  I dropped into a chair, a gazillion questions about the murder competing in my head with a gazillion to-dos regarding the party. Cleanup on aisle de Young . . .

  I mentally went over the questions popping to mind like balloons.

  Question: Who wanted Mary Lee dead? According to her popularity rating around the museum, quite a few people.

  Question: Who had the opportunity to enter the crime scene room and kill her? With all the replica weapons left behind, it seemed as if all my costumed suspects had become real suspects.

  Question: Mary Lee had been stabbed with—what? The Styrofoam knife certainly hadn’t done the job.

  Question: How was I going to clear Delicia of murder when I had no clue what had really happened?

  Answer: Use my party planning guide. The simple form, borrowed from my mother’s bestselling handbook, How to Host a Killer Party, had actually helped me figure out who had killed the guest of honor at my last big event.

  I pulled a reprinted sheet from my bag and jotted down what I knew in the spaces provided, substituting crime details for party info.

  Step 1. Start with a Theme

  Party Plan—What’s the occasion? Murder Mystery Party at the museum.

  Investigation—What’s the crime? Real murder, real mystery.

  Step 2. The Guest of Honor

  Party Plan—Who is the GOH? Mary Lee Miller.

  Investigation—What was the Victim hiding? No clue.

  Step 3. Timing Is Key

  Party Plan—Plan the party from start to finish.

  Investigation—Note the events before and after crime.

  Step 4. Location, Location

  Party Plan—Set the stage.

  Investigation—Check out the crime scene, the mural room at the museum. Two ways in and out, second door locked.

  Step 5. Greet the Guests

  Party Plan—Welcome the attendees.

  Investigation—Interview the guest lists/suspects. Anyone else?

  Step 6. The Element of Surprise

  Party Plan—Expect the unexpected.

  Investigation—No shit, Sherlock.

  I looked over the list and added a few more party/crime details.

  Decorations & ambience, aka weapons & clues. Faux artifacts and real weapons, plus Dee’s fingerprints on the Styrofoam dagger. What became of the real dagger?

  Games & activities, aka What really happened? Suspects entered the crime scene through the side room during the break so they wouldn’t be spotted by the guests, then set down their faux weapons and left. Last person to enter was the killer?

  Refreshments, aka drugs. Champagne—anything else?

  Favors & mementos, aka Who took away the most from the party? Check cell phone snapshots and videotape of guests.

  Not much there—at least not enough to start a party. I folded the paper, stuffed it back into my purse, and headed out of the room to look for Brad. Most of the guests were gone, finished with their interrogations by the officers. A few of the cast members were downing the remaining champagne. I located my mother, who was chatting—flirting—with one of the security guards. Upon closer look, I recognized Sam Wo from our encounter upstairs the day before. He stood close to her, laughing and talking. I wondered if he was truly amused at her stories, or was he hoping to find a wealthy dowager at a charity event? Little did he know, she hadn’t a cent to her name.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I spun around.

  “A little jumpy, aren’t you?” Brad said.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  He shrugged. “Around. Where’ve you been?”

  “Your friend has arrested Delicia!” I said, ignoring his question.

  Brad glanced away, as if he couldn’t meet my eyes. He was keeping something from me.

  “Brad . . . what do you know?” I demanded.

  He stared down at his well-worn New Balance Zips—the ones he wore for work. “Nothing, really.”

  “Brad!”

  “Look, I haven’t had a chance to talk with Melvin yet. But it doesn’t look good. They have a pretty strong case. Has she got a lawyer?”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t. She hasn’t needed one—until now. I need to find her a good one.”

  “I know someone. Let me handle it.”

  “Did you find anything in the crime scene room?”

  Brad’s pocket began playing the “Clean Up” song from that purple dinosaur TV show. I stared at him as he withdrew his phone.

  “Yeah?” he said; then his eyes widened. He turned around and stepped away, out of my range of hearing.

  Suddenly feeling chilly in the vast grand room of the museum, surrounded by symbols of murder and mystery, I hugged myself. Mary Lee Miller was dead. Delicia was in jail for murder. And Brad seemed distant. What was up with him?

  Deciding not to wait, I headed over to the table that held mostly empty bottles of champagne to check on Mom and drag her away from another future ex-husband. After chugging the dregs of a less-than-cold glass of bubbly, I put my tipsy mother to work gathering party paraphernalia while my hired staff packed up the big stuff.

  It was past midnight by the time the two of us headed down to the underground parking lot to my red MINI Cooper, both exhausted from the long and trying evening. It would be an expensive night, not only in materials but also emotionally.

  Driving past the Golden Gate Park panhandle toward my mom’s care facility, I half listened to her excited talk about the party and the “new man in her life,” while I tried to come up with plausible suspects for Mary Lee’s murder. By the time I reached her place off Van Ness Avenue, I couldn’t wait to get back to my condo on Treasure Island and collapse.

  “Thanks again for helping out with the play, Mom,” I said, walking her inside the facility. A security guard had let us in after recognizing my mother. “Hope you’re not too upset about . . . you know . . . the incident . . .” With early-stage Alzheimer’s, my mother seemed cognizant most of the time, but I never knew when she left reality for another dimension.

  “Oh, you mean the murder! That was quite exciting! I never liked Mary Lee Miller anyway. She was too . . . bossy. I had a dog like hers once. Lhasa-poodle mix. I named her Pumpkin, remember? Anyway, I’m not at all surprised. Sam said she wasn’t terribly popular around the museum.”

  “Mom!” I said, stunned at her response.

  “Oh, not that she deserved to be stabbed to death, but I doubt very many will be saddened by her loss. Of course, the museum is going to need a new person to take over fund-raising. Maybe I could step in. I’ve had a lot of experience raising money over the years for good causes—the Union Square Pigeon Shelter. The Pier 39 Seal Birth Control Project. And don’t forget my Save the Historic Tenderloin campaign.”

  At the late hour, the lobby was empty, aside from the guard. I signed her in and gave her a hug.

  “We’ll see, Mother. I’ll call you soon, okay.”

  She headed for the elevator to her room, then looked back and said, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help free your friend Delinda.”

  “It’s Delicia. And I wi
ll, Mom.”

  “I could have a thousand ‘Free Delinda’ T-shirts ready by tomorrow, you know. I’ve got connections.”

  I thanked her again, blew her a kiss, and headed out, hoping my mother didn’t do anything more than toss out wild ideas. I wouldn’t put it past her to get involved in her own creative way. If the number of times I’ve picked her up from SFPD was any indication, I’d have my hands full.

  I got in my MINI, turned on the ignition, and sat there for a moment, thinking. What was that my mother had said as we’d driven back to her place: “I never liked Mary Lee Miller . . .”

  Nah. She couldn’t have.

  But it was the mention of her dog Pumpkin that left me wondering where Mary Lee’s little dog Chou-Chou was. The last I’d seen it, it was with Corbin. Had he taken it home? I recalled from one of the rehearsals that he hadn’t cared much for the pooch. Was he transferring his feelings to the dog?

  Or did he have other plans for little Chou-Chou?

  The drive from the city onto Treasure Island reminds me of sailing on ocean whitecaps into a glassy lake. I could feel the tension of the evening melt as I took the sharp exit ramp, down twisty Macalla Road to the flatlands. As I drove past the tall palm trees, the Art Deco World’s Fair building, and the deserted navy barracks, I felt my shoulders relax and my breathing slow. I glanced back at the city I’d left behind, now a showcase of blinking lights, then headed for my neighborhood, where I rented a renovated condo that had once been military housing.

  Pulling my MINI into the carport, I gathered as many party props as I could hold, grabbed my purse with the only finger I had left, and walked to the door. Juggling arms full of party crap, I inserted my key into the lock, opened the door, and tripped over Thursby, lying in wait for me. Cairo and Fatman meowed and ran for their lives.