by Penny Warner
“I tried to chase her, Presley, but she was too fast. . . . I got a little turned around. . . .” Looking befuddled, Mom took my arm, her hands trembling. “I’m tired, honey. Could you take me home now?”
“Sure, Mom.” I gave her a comforting hug.
“One last question, ma’am,” the guard said. “Can you describe the mugger?”
“I only caught a quick look at her. Reddish hair, medium length, partly covered with a scarf that looked Egyptian. Dark, oversized sunglasses—not brand-name. She was wearing a black sweatshirt and matching pants, sort of like a jogger.”
“Great job, Mom,” I said, truly impressed with her short-term recall. By tomorrow she would have forgotten most of the details, but at the moment, her ability to remember so much was impressive.
“What kind of shoes was she wearing?” I asked.
Mother thought for a second. I could almost see the wheels turning as her green eyes gazed out the bay. “That’s odd.”
“What?”
“She wasn’t wearing running shoes. They looked like just regular black dress shoes. But she ran so fast, I only got a glimpse.” Mom looked down at her slender, empty hands. “I feel so naked without my pocketbook.”
I left my contact number with the security guard on the chance Mom’s purse was found, but I had a feeling it was a lost cause. By now it was in a Dumpster and the contents in the thief’s pocket.
“It was a Coach bag. You gave me that purse, Presley.”
“It was just a knockoff, Mom. I can get you another one—a real one, next time.” I gave her a squeeze. “Did you have anything of value in it?”
“Of course. Everything. My identification, the keys to my building and my room, my cosmetics. Pictures of my old beaus. My pills. Address book. A letter from the mayor . . .” She continued to list the contents as we walked to Delicia’s Smart Car. Nothing of any real monetary value, but those personal items were priceless to her. How she held all that stuff in one bag was a mystery to me. The items that really concerned me were her ID and keys.
On the drive to her building, I asked her more questions about the woman who had grabbed her bag. Pickpockets and purse-snatchers often frequented heavily touristed areas in the city, but this thief seemed odd. Rather than the expected young guy in baggy pants and a dark hoodie, this woman sounded more like one of the many joggers who ran along the Embarcadero.
Except for the scarf and the shoes.
“Did you notice anything else unusual about her, Mom?”
“Not really. I think she was short—shorter than me. Not very attractive, but she had beautiful red hair, very silky looking. I wondered what kind of conditioner she used. . . .”
“Did she say anything to you?”
“No, not a word. I thought she was going to join me on the bench, but instead she just walked up, grabbed my purse, and ran. It took me a minute to realize what had happened.” She started to tear up.
“It’s okay, Mom. It’s just a purse. We can replace it, and most of the contents.”
She dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips. “It’s not that. It’s . . . the way people are these days. You used to be able to leave your front door unlocked, even here in the city. Now you can’t sit on a bench in a public place without worrying if someone is going to accost you. And a woman at that.”
I’d been burgled a few times on Treasure Island and knew how she felt. Shocked. Vulnerable. Invaded. But this theft bothered me even more. The thief had her address and keys. I could only hope the perp was after what little cash my mother had, rather than her personal information.
I used my key to get her into her building, then explained to a staff member what had happened. I requested that the lock on her door be changed and she be issued a new key. There wasn’t much I could do about the key to her building.
“ ’Bye, Mom,” I said, seeing her to her room and using my copy of her door key to let her in. She moved slowly, and I could tell she was exhausted from the emotional strain. “Get some sleep. I’ll call you in the morning.”
I left the building with a sense of dread and glanced around the dark street for anyone who might look suspicious. After I’d entered the Smart Car and locked the doors, my iPhone chirped, alerting me to a new IM. I rarely used the messaging system—not many knew my IM address—but I pulled out the phone to read the words on the screen:
How do you like the picture?
A chill of fear ran through me.
Picture? What picture?
Another chirp, this one signaling a new e-mail. I tapped the envelope icon, and the message popped up, along with a photo. Staring me in the face was a photo of my mother and me enjoying our seafood meals on the bench just an hour ago.
I glanced at the address information, my hand trembling. It read:
Anon-To: KillerParties.com.
Sender: [email protected].
Exhausted, I headed home to spend some quality time with my cats and catch up on my sleep.
The next morning, having overslept, I took a quick shower and had a quicker breakfast, then called my mom to see how she was doing. She didn’t answer her phone, so I left a message, asking her to call me back.
I spent a couple of hours at my office, catching up on party requests, then searched the Internet for information on “How to send an anonymous e-mail.” I found step-by-step directions from About.com. Although it sounded like an involved process, it must have been easy enough for any computer-savvy person to accomplish. According to the information, the anonymous sender uses a “remailer,” which forwards the message to the recipient without a trace of the sender’s return address.
Two hours later, there was no sign of Brad. Raj, Berk, and Rocco were in their offices working, but Delicia’s and Brad’s offices remained dark. I checked my watch. Ten o’clock. The museum would be open, and hopefully Christine would be at her desk.
I jumped into the Smart Car and made it to the de Young in record time, passing over a dozen other Smart Cars in a rainbow of colors along the way. Half of the other drivers waved at me, as if we were all in some secret club. Apparently this was the car to drive in the city. I parked easily, turned off the motor, and took several deep breaths to help me relax, nearly hyperventilating in the process. I locked the car and headed for the museum entrance. On my way I punched Brad’s cell phone number. He answered just as I reached the security checkpoint.
“Hey, Presley.” He knew it was me from his caller ID.
“Hold on,” I said, as the guard searched my bag. She waved me on. “Brad, if someone sends an anonymous e-mail, is it airtight, or can it be traced?”
“You got a remailer?”
Why was I not surprised that he was familiar with an anonymous mailing program? “Yeah. At least, that’s what the return address says. Is there any way to find out who it’s from?”
“It’s not easy, but a hacker could probably do it. If the sender uses two or three remailers, and sends the message in an encrypted form, it can be tough. You have to have a GnuPg, PGP keys, know the steps. But it’s possible. What’s up?”
“I’ll explain later. Thanks.”
“Wait! Presley, what’s going on?”
“I can’t talk now. I’m at the museum. I’ll tell you everything when I get back. Any news on the dead guy?”
“Haven’t heard back from Melvin yet. Listen, Presley . . .” He paused.
I waited. “Yeah?”
“Nothing. See you when you get back. Maybe we can grab a burger and beer at the Grill, talk about all this.”
Was this a date? The Treasure Island Bar and Grill isn’t the most romantic place on the island—it’s the only place—but they serve great garlic fries, and the view of the yachts, Bay Bridge, and city skylines makes up for the limited menu.
And what was he not telling me?
“Brad, what aren’t you telling me?”
“It can wait.”
“Fine, but at least tell me how your brother’s doing with Delicia’s cas
e.”
“Like I said, we’ll talk. I want to know more about this anonymous e-mail.”
I hung up, puzzled at Brad’s lack of candor and hesitant manner. Something was up. Whatever this “date” was about, it would have to wait. I already had a date—with the elusive curator of the de Young museum. Only problem was, she didn’t know it.
“I’m here to see Christine Lampe,” I told the volunteer at the desk, deciding on another ruse.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, a thin smile crossing her well-worn face.
“Yes. Well, not exactly. But I’m Presley Parker. I hosted the event here the other night. Christine was in the play, and I have some museum things to return to her.” Some of us with ADHD are quick on our feet when it came to making stuff up. I learned it in school when the teacher asked questions and I didn’t have an answer. Great deflector.
“I’ll have one of the security guards see you up. Please wait over there.” She nodded for me to move over to the side of the large desk so paying patrons could slap down their money to view the latest art and artifacts. Five minutes later a security guard appeared.
“Sam!” I said, happy to see his pleasant face.
“Ms. Parker! You’re back again? They’re going to have to name a wing after you if you keep showing up. You’re our most frequent visitor these days.”
Sam nodded to the volunteer and gestured for me to follow him to the elevators. The doors opened, and I stepped in, followed by Sam. He passed his security card over the sensitive panel, then pushed number four.
“So, have you learned anything about the murders?” he said, after the doors closed.
“I was about to ask you the same thing. Not much. How about you?”
“Nothing. And we’re under a lot of pressure here, as you can imagine. Especially me, since both happened on my watch. To tell you the truth, I read a lot of detective stories, but this mystery has got me stumped. I mean, why would anyone want to kill our most productive benefactor? Sure, she wasn’t the most popular person in town, but she did so much good for the de Young, raising all that money when the city wouldn’t come through.”
“Any idea who the guy in the frog pond was?”
He shook his head. “So far he’s a mystery man. There are a lot of homeless people in the park. Although . . .”
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped out. I paused outside and held the doors open. “Although what?”
He looked up and down the hallway, then leaned toward me and whispered, “Well, people are talking, you know?”
My eyes widened. “About what?”
“It’s just gossip, but a lot of the staff are whispering about Mary Lee’s ‘friend,’ ” he said, adding finger quotes.
“What friend?” I said, puzzled. Then it dawned on me. “You mean, a lover?”
He peered around again, then nodded to a closed office door a few steps away.
I glanced at the name on the plate.
“Dan Tannacito? Christine’s assistant? You’re kidding. Isn’t he a little—”
“Young for her?” Sam said. “Sure, but she’s—she was—a powerful woman. Power and youth make a strong couple, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so . . .”
“I hear she was his sugar mama, but,” he added, “you didn’t hear this from me.” He zipped his lips with his fingers. “I’m just telling you in case it helps you find who killed her.”
I zipped mine. “Interesting,” I said, forgetting my lips were supposed to be zipped. Had Dan “invested” in Mary Lee? Was she the “antiquity” that had recently paid off? Enough with the museum metaphors. “Do you think Dan might have had something to do with her death? A lover’s quarrel, maybe? Maybe his bonus money had been cut off . . .”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I am, however, doing a little investigating of my own.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “If we work together on this thing and share information, I’m sure we’ll find the killer.”
“Just as long as I don’t lose my job,” Sam added.
I shook his hand. Sam was a virtual gold mine of information. And much like a party planner, who would know more about what goes on behind the scenes than a security guard?
“Anything else?” I whispered, even though the hallway was empty.
“I heard from one of the docents that there may have been trouble in paradise.”
Goose bumps rose on my arms. “What kind of trouble?”
“Apparently there were rumors of another woman. Of course, rumors abound in a place like this. But still . . . there’s often some truth to such things. . . .”
I heard a door open and spun around, letting go of the elevator door. Dan Tannacito stepped out from his office and closed the door behind him. He blinked in surprise when he spotted me.
Had he overheard us talking?
“Ms. Parker! What a nice surprise. I assume you’re here to talk about my daughter’s party plans. Did you get to see the Wax Museum?”
I glanced back at the elevator. The doors were closed. Sam was gone.
“Uh, yes. I just wanted to let you know that it’s all confirmed. No problem with hosting the party there.”
“Wonderful! Snuffy will be thrilled. Or ‘psyched,’ as she would say. Do you need anything more from me at this point?”
I was having trouble looking at Dan, knowing what I knew about his relationship with Mary Lee. “No, I’m good.”
“Are you headed down? Be glad to escort you. I’m on my way out.”
“Actually, I stopped by to try and see Christine again. I haven’t been able to connect with her.”
“Cool. I’ll let you go then. We’ll talk more soon. Snuffy’s really excited, as you can imagine. She already has her costume. She wants to dress up as the Bride of Chucky.”
“Yes, I’ll be in touch,” I said as he stepped into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, I walked down to Christine’s office and rapped on the door. No answer. I opened it and peered in. A secretary’s desk sat abandoned in the front part of the office. The door to the inner office was ajar. I was about to knock when I heard Christine’s concerned voice. I paused and listened, waiting for an appropriate moment to interrupt her conversation.
“You’re kidding!” Christine hissed.
Intrigued, I stepped closer. Silence. I guessed she was on the phone, listening to a response.
“Are you sure?” she said after a brief pause. “I see. Well, thanks for calling.”
I heard her hang up the phone. I tapped on the door, then peeked inside.
“Excuse me, Christine. Sorry for the interruption, but I wanted to ask you a few questions. Is this a good time?”
Although I didn’t know her well, I knew she didn’t usually look this pale. The times I’d seen her at rehearsal she’d been poised, confident, and professional. At the moment, sitting at her desk, she didn’t look any of these. Rather, she appeared a little confused, even drained.
I stepped inside. “Are you all right?”
She blinked rapidly, as if disoriented, then looked up from the phone she’d been staring at.
“That was the police,” she said softly, her face tight.
Oh boy. “What did they want?”
She hesitated, as if searching for words, then said, “The body in the pond has been identified.”
I broke out in goose bumps. “Who was it?”
She met my eyes. Hers were large, dark, and staring.
“Jason Cosetti. Mary Lee’s ex-husband.”
Oh my God.
Chapter 13
PARTY PLANNING TIP #13
While hosting a Murder Mystery Party, try not to slip and accidentally expose the murderer’s identity. Not only does it ruin the party, but you might find yourself the next victim.
My first thought was: Delicia would be released! She couldn’t have killed Mary Lee’s ex-husband, because she’d been in jail.
“Do they know when he died?” I asked, easing into a chai
r across from Christine’s desk. The surface of the desk was lined with small artifacts—a decorative bowl, a beaded necklace, a stone grinder, an arrowhead as long as my hand. The telephone sat in the middle.
She shook her head as she looked out a side window. “Not yet. He said it’s not easy to pinpoint an exact time on a floater.”
“A floater?”
“That’s what he called it. He said it’s affected by things like water temperature, degree of decomposition . . .” She stopped, grimacing. Too much information.
I sagged in the chair. Even assuming both murders were committed by the same person—which I couldn’t prove—Delicia wouldn’t be off the hook until the police could determine that Jason Cosetti died after Mary Lee did—and after Dee’s arrest. And even that didn’t necessarily clear Delicia for Mary Lee’s murder—there could be another killer. Meanwhile, my friend would remain in jail, with all the horrors that entailed—unless Andrew could get her released. Would she be eligible for bail?
I tried to return my focus to Jason Cosetti. Why had he been killed? Had someone disliked Mary Lee and Jason enough to want both of them dead? If so, what was the connection, other than they were once married—and had a son?
Corbin was the obvious link between them. Surely he wouldn’t murder both of his parents. Yes, it happened now and then, but what did Corbin have to gain by their death? I guessed he would inherit a great deal of money from his wealthy mother, but his father had supposedly fallen on hard times and had even asked Mary Lee for help. That must have been humiliating.
“Christine,” I said, interrupting her from her trance. She turned away from the window and met my eyes with little interest. “I’m came here to see if you could help me clear Delicia. She isn’t the one who murdered Mary Lee—or Jason. Is there anything you can tell me that would help? Do you know anyone who might have wanted her dead?”