How to Crash a Killer Bash

by Penny Warner

  Christine folded her hands thoughtfully on her pristine desk and sighed. “All I know is Mary Lee wasn’t well liked around here. She was always telling people what to do, as if she were Queen Nefertiti herself. A lot of people kissed her ass, but as soon as her back was turned, they wanted to kick it. She was a powerful woman, and everyone knew it. Any of us could have been out of a job if we got on her bad side.”

  “Were you on her bad side?” I asked, wondering if Christine had wanted to kick Mary Lee’s ass.

  She fiddled with one of the artifacts—the arrowhead—spinning the sharp-edged weapon around with her fingers. “No, of course not. I’m the curator here. She trusts—trusted—my judgment. And my background is impeccable.” While Christine’s words sounded determined, the woman kept her eyes on the spinning arrowhead, belying her confidence in them.

  What was behind her conflicting behavior?

  “So was there anyone at the de Young who might have had a reason to kill Mary Lee or her ex-husband? A disgruntled employee? A pressured donor? A person with a secret that Mary Lee—and Jason—might expose?”

  Christine gave a small laugh. “Probably all of the above, if you’re just talking about Mary Lee.”

  “No one in particular?”

  Christine glanced out the window again.

  “There was someone, wasn’t there? Who?”

  She set the arrowhead back in its spot along the edge of the desk, making sure it was perfectly aligned. “No one. I really have to get back to work. The loss of Mary Lee means more paperwork for—”

  The door to Christine’s office opened, and Dan Tannacito peeked in.

  “Oh,” Dan said, suddenly flushing. “Didn’t know you were still here, Presley.”

  “Just trying to figure out who might have killed Mary Lee,” I said to him, then glanced at Christine.

  I caught a look passing between them I couldn’t read.

  “I’ll leave you two alone. Talk to you later, Chris.” He shut the door.

  I turned back to Christine. Her jaw was set, and her dark eyes narrowed. Something was going on between the two of them, I was sure.

  I stood up. “Thanks for your time, Christine.” I reached over to shake her hand. She rose and met my hand with a cold, damp palm.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” She didn’t look a bit sorry. The expression on her face was something else.

  Like fear?

  Brad was nowhere in sight when I returned to the office.

  Standing me up?

  In spite of my growling stomach, I went straight to the computer and keyed in the name Christine Lampe. There was plenty of recent information to read. In the past ten years she’d become a highly respected curator at the museum. But I could find little about her before the last decade. I tried searching for the name “Christine” and “Lampe” separately, along with the word “museum,” and got several dozen links, but each led to a dead end—no connection to the Christine Lampe I was looking for.

  I was about to give up when I had a thought. I typed in “classmates.com” and waited for the site to fill the screen. I did a search for the University of Oregon and typed in “Christine Lampe.”

  Nothing. There was no record of that name during the years she was supposed to have attended. Had she lied about her credentials? If so, how had she gotten the job at the de Young Museum? Would Mary Lee have hired her without making sure she was legit?

  I clicked the word “Yearbook” for 1970 and checked for a picture of Christine. Still nothing. I did a search for “Mary Lee Miller” and found her photo right where it should have been.

  Christine and Mary Lee had supposedly been together at the U of O.

  So where was Christine Lampe?

  On a hunch, I began scanning the rest of the photos. My eyes were burning by the time I got to H. I almost missed the photo of “Judith Hofmann.”

  Judith Hofmann looked like a very young Christine Lampe.

  I stared at it. It had to be her. Why had she changed her name?

  I closed the site and typed in Judith Hofmann. Voilà. I found a Judith Hofmann employed at the Portland Museum as an assistant curator, soon after she’d matriculated from graduate school. I read the item and was impressed with the up-and-coming Judith Hofmann.

  So what had happened to her?

  I scrolled down the links and found a site that caught my eye. It read: “. . . museum curator Judith Hofmann was suspended after being suspected of acquiring questionable artifacts, a matter she denied at her hearing by the board of directors.”

  She was quoted as blaming her staff for falsifying documents and framing her as the fall guy. In the end, she had left the museum with a healthy severance pay, and her whereabouts were “unknown.”

  The knock on my office door startled me.

  “Hungry?” Brad stood in the doorway in his soft blue jeans, a red “Life Is Good” T-shirt stretched across his chest. A cartoon stick figure lying in a hammock was featured prominently on the front of the shirt. Naturally he wore his favorite shoes—cushy white New Balance Zips.

  “Beyond hungry,” I said, rubbing my tummy. I tagged the site, shut down the computer, and gathered my purse and notebook. Giving the office one last glance, I locked the door and headed for the parking lot. Brad was right behind me, his hand barely touching my back as if leading me out. It was a comforting—and sexy—gesture, and I suddenly felt self-conscious about this “date.”

  I hadn’t been on a real date since I dumped my cheating boyfriend, an associate professor at the university. I’d caught him sleeping with one of his TAs—what a cliché. A thought jumped to mind. Had the look that passed between Christine and Dan been something romantic? If so, why had they looked guilty? Both were single, weren’t they?

  Or was I just horny and making a romance out of a friendship?

  Brad and I walked the few blocks to the Treasure Island Bar and Grill, the only restaurant currently on the island. The fog had lifted, and although there was a chill in the air, the walk kept me warm. I filled Brad in on my computer sleuthing, and he told me more about the “floater,” aka Jason Cosetti.

  “Why do they call them floaters?” I asked, and then wished I hadn’t. It didn’t make for a good prelunch conversation.

  “Floaters are corpses found floating in water, and it’s harder for the ME to determine their time of death. They decompose more slowly in water than on land.”

  My stomach lurched. I tried to think of another topic to change the subject. Brad apparently felt the need to share his knowledge.

  “If the body is in there a long time, say a couple of weeks, first the body sinks. When it starts forming gas, it rises again. Jason hadn’t been in that pond long enough for his body to swell much and the skin to separate.”

  “So they can’t tell how many hours he’d been dead, only how many days?”

  “Like I said, it slows down the process. But they’ll figure out a ballpark figure.”

  By the time we reached the restaurant, I’d lost my appetite. But the smell of burgers and fries brought it back, and I led the way into the double-wide trailer. We sidled up to the bar, placed our orders, and carried a couple of beers onto the attached glass-enclosed patio to watch the colorful windsurfers.

  “So Christine was married, divorced, and lost her job at another museum,” Brad said, summarizing my latest information, his upper lip damp with beer.

  “Which proves nothing, really.” I took a deep pull from my own beer. “I feel like I take two steps forward and I fall back three. Either that, or I’m going around in circles.”

  He leaned back in the wicker chair. “You need a specific game plan.”

  “I have one,” I countered. “Except it’s a party plan.”

  He frowned, puzzled.

  “I’ve been using one of my party planning sheets to try to solve this. Planning a party and solving a mystery have a lot in common. The problem is, I’m a newbie at this event planning career, and not even close to bein
g a detective.”

  Brad sat up to welcome the burger plates from the waiter. He immediately decorated his bun with heavy dollops of catsup, mustard, and relish. When the waiter asked if we needed anything more, I almost suggested he bring Brad a hose, but instead I shook my head and dove into my own lightly seasoned burger.

  “I know you’re no detective,” Brad said as soon as the first bite had cleared his mouth. “But like a detective, a party planner is a problem-solver.”

  Grabbing a napkin, I wiped away a drip that had made its way down my chin. I was sure I looked adorable with hamburger juice all over my face.

  “A detective gathers details—clues—to discover whodunit,” Brad continued after a swallow of beer. “The party planner—”

  “Event planner,” I corrected him.

  “Event planner,” he said, enunciating the words, “gathers details—props and stuff—to provide the perfect party. It’s all in the details.”

  I set my burger down and wiped my greasy fingers on two napkins, then pulled out an annotated party-planning sheet from my purse. “Okay, here’s what I have so far: the victim, Mary Lee, aka guest of honor, is dead. She was stabbed to death with a sharp instrument like a dagger, aka the theme. The weapon wasn’t missing from the crime scene, aka the party venue. And one of the guests, aka my-primary-suspect-slash-her-ex-husband, is also dead. That’s about it.”

  “Think about who had something to gain by killing Mary Lee,” Brad said.

  “Everyone?”

  “That narrows it down,” he said sarcastically. “Seriously, who?”

  “Her ex, for one—before he got himself killed. I suppose her son, Corbin, but that seems like a long shot. I just don’t think he has it in him to kill both parents. And now I think there’s something going on between Christine and Dan. But I can’t tell if it has to do with Mary Lee, or it’s just personal.”

  “Okay, you now have three viable suspects. Who else?”

  I took another bite of my burger and thought while I chewed. Was I overlooking someone? Someone at the party who had a hidden agenda? Someone in Mary Lee’s social circle? Someone, someone . . .

  “Cherchez la femme,” Brad said, interrupting my circling thoughts.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Cherchez la femme,” Brad repeated. “Only, instead of looking for the woman, how about looking at the woman’s home? You learn a lot by studying the victim’s home.”

  I took a sip of beer. “I doubt I can get into Mary Lee’s house. Don’t the cops have it secured?”

  “Maybe not. It wasn’t the crime scene. I’m sure they’ve been there looking for clues, but I’ll bet you could get her son to let you in.”

  I sat up, suddenly energized, either by the burger or by the ideas Brad had suggested. “Good idea. And maybe I could get into his dad’s place too. I’m sure there’s a connection between the two murders.”

  We finished up our meals and drinks. Brad pulled out a few dollars for a tip from his leather wallet.

  “You got the tab,” I said, pulling my wallet from my purse. “I’ll leave the tip.”

  “Next time,” he said, standing up. He pulled out my chair.

  The walk back to the office building was leisurely, no doubt due to our full stomachs. We strolled back in silence. I was pondering my options; I had no idea what Brad was thinking.

  He stopped abruptly in the office parking lot and glanced at his motorcycle. “I’m got some errands to run.”

  I turned to face him, a little surprised he wasn’t returning to his office. “Oh, sure. Uh . . . Actually, I meant to ask if you could take a look at that anonymous e-mail I got. Do you have a minute?”

  Brad looked alarmed. “So that’s why you were asking about the remailer? What did the e-mail say?”

  “Not much. Whoever it was just sent a picture and asked how I liked it. It was a cell phone snapshot of my mother and me at Fisherman’s Wharf.” I filled him in on the purse-snatching and the fact that the snatcher now had my mother’s address and room key.

  The frown deepened. “Did you call Melvin?”

  “I . . . meant to. I will. I figured it was a random purse-snatching, and there wasn’t much they could do. Until I got the e-mail. So can it be traced?”

  Brad followed me inside my office. I sat down and called up the e-mail. He leaned over my shoulder and read it. I could feel his chest brush against my back and smell his lime-scented aftershave.

  “Like I said, a hacker could probably do it. And the police may be able to trace it, with probable cause. It’s pretty easy these days to send this kind of stuff, with all the Web sites available. The sender can make the e-mail look like it came from any address he wants—if he knows what he’s doing.” He straightened up. “Call Melvin. Now. This is a credible threat.”

  I pushed back my desk chair. Brad extended his hand and pulled me to my feet, just inches from him in the crowded office space.

  “I will. I promise. Thanks for lunch. And for your help.”

  He raised his hand and started to reach toward me.

  I froze.

  Oh God.

  Was he going to kiss me?

  He touched the side of my mouth. “You have a little something . . .”

  I let out a breath, partly disappointed that he didn’t kiss me, and completely mortified that I’d been wearing some kind of food on my face the whole way back to the office.

  I reached up to wipe it away, but Brad caught my hand. “I’ll get it,” he said. “It’s catsup. You’ll smear it all over.”

  He placed his hand on my cheek, I assumed to steady my head while he removed the hideous red blob from my lip.

  He leaned in—to get a better look?

  And kissed the catsup right off my face.

  Chapter 14

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #14

  Decorate the party room in keeping with your Murder Mystery Theme. Set the stage for a fake wake in a funeral home, a premature burial in a cemetery, or a surprise body in the parlor.

  I sat in my office staring at a blank screen, unable to focus. I’d just been “cleaned” by a crime scene cleaner. And that kiss had sent an electric current from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair.

  Crap.

  I tried to shake the feeling away, but it kept coming back. I really didn’t need anything demanding more attention in my attention-deficit life. What did I really know about this man who’d moved into my life via the office across the hall? Only that there was something more to him than simple crime scene cleaning. I hadn’t even known he’d had a brother until today.

  Why did he have to go and kiss me like that?

  “Enough!” I said aloud, slamming my hands down on my desk.

  Raj Reddy appeared in my office doorway. “You okay, Ms. Presley?”

  “I’m fine, Raj. Sorry about that.”

  “Enough working for today?” he said, his head bobbing side to side. “I’m down to that.”

  “I’m down with that,” I said, breaking into a grin. I loved it when Raj tried to be hip with the English language. While well schooled in English, he’d only lived in the United States a few years and was trying hard to pick up the current slang. His malapropisms always cheered me up.

  “It’s a little early for quitting time,” I said. “Been busy today?”

  “Oh yes. Lots of tourists trying to sneak into the film set. Anytime Robin Williams is making a movie here, it’s giving me a headache.”

  Raj was such a sweetheart. In fact, he reminded me of Sam Wo. Both men were conscientious, polite, and there to help out beyond the call of duty. They were almost father figures. I wouldn’t have minded if my mother dated either one of them. At the moment, it looked like Sam was heading that way. He’d mentioned that his wife had recently left him. No doubt he was lonely, much like my mother. The thought of him becoming my next “father” was kind of weird, but if it made my mother happy, I could live with it.

  I tried to work on party planning for the next cou
ple of hours, then gave up. Brad hadn’t returned, and I figured if he had more news, he’d let me know. Maybe I could focus better at home. I rose from my desk and gathered my things.

  “ ’Bye, Raj,” I called down the hall. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He peeked his head out. “Good-bye, Ms. Presley. Have a nice night. And please say hello to your kind mother for me.”

  Hmmm. Maybe Sam would have a little competition after all.

  I drove the Smart Car the short distance to my condo and parked in the carport. I unlocked the front door and went inside to greet my cats. The place looked as if it had been vandalized, but then, it always looks like that. Makes it hard to know when I’ve actually had an intruder. Luckily, that had only happened once, a few weeks back, when I stuck my nose into the death of the mayor’s unsuspecting bride-to-be. Since then I’d added a new lock, secured the windows, and tried to train my three cats to attack anything that moves—other than me. So far they preferred to ravage couch pillows, coffee table legs, and my feet.

  I fed all three, filling their separate bowls, then snuggled up with Thursby and a glass of wine to watch the evening news. The de Young double murders were headliners, and Detective Melvin looked pretty hot during his interview, with his slicked-back hair and charming grin. The gorgeous female reporter was practically drooling for him.

  Unfortunately, Melvin had nothing new to offer. He quickly fell back on the usual cop clichés—“We can’t discuss an active investigation,” “We have no further information at this time,” blah, blah, blah. When the segment ended, I roamed the channels looking for something to take my mind off the endless whodunit loop playing in my head. I surfed past a romantic comedy on Lifetime, a romantic suspense on AMC, and a romance with zombies on Sci-Fi. When I realized I couldn’t escape all the romance, I turned off the TV and went to bed.

  Naturally I dreamed about a romantic crime scene cleaner.

  Brad was just about to rescue me from a museum mummy who had come to life when my cat alarm went off. Cairo was kneading my stomach, digging in with his sharp little claws, while Fatman licked my cheek. Only Thursby slept in; he still lay across my ankles. Snoring. I knew cats purred, but I never knew they snored. Maybe he had a deviated septum. Maybe he needed rhinoplasty. Maybe I needed to get up.