How to Crash a Killer Bash

by Penny Warner

  Corbin was right. Detective Holmes had been one of the most popular characters at the party. Note to self: View Berk’s videotape of the party and see if I could tell which Sherlock Jason might have been. I glanced around for a recent photograph of Jason and found one of him with Corbin, posing on the deck of the boat.

  “May I borrow this?” I asked Corbin.

  He answered in his usual manner: with an automatic shrug.

  “I think I’m done here. I’m going to hang on to the costume and see if I can match it to a costume in one of the party videotapes.” If I could tie the costume to Jason, it would prove he’d been at the event—and could have murdered Mary Lee. Since the costume had been returned to his closet sometime after the party, he must have come home and changed. That meant he was killed sometime after Mary Lee died.

  And that meant Delicia would be off the hook.

  Corbin hopped off his perch and followed me out without a glance back at his father’s nautical home. We exited the gate, which slammed shut behind us.

  I tried the handle.

  Locked up tight.

  “Hey, would you mind swinging by the museum?” Corbin asked as I started the car. “I need some stuff from my locker. Taking the bus is a drag.”

  Surprised, I asked, “You have a locker at the de Young?”

  “Yeah. Art supplies and junk like that. I don’t think I’ll be spending much time there anymore.”

  Lockers. At the de Young.

  Maybe Mary Lee had a locker there too.

  “Sure,” I said, looking over my shoulder for a chance to merge into traffic.

  We zipped along toward Golden Gate Park, me jabbering about whatever came to mind, Corbin saying very little. Once again I parked easily in the underground garage, and we headed into the museum.

  “Where are the lockers?” I asked Corbin as he started for the elevators.

  “Fifth floor.”

  “Don’t you need a passkey for the elevator?”

  He pulled out his wallet, opened it, retrieved a plastic card, and showed it to me.

  “Your mother got it for you?” I said, stating the obvious. “Does she have a locker too?”

  He nodded. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Mary Lee did have a locker here! I thought about going with him, then decided I didn’t want him to know that I planned to check it out.

  I called after him, “If I’m not here, wait for me at the front desk.”

  He waved without looking back and disappeared.

  I went over to the desk and asked them to page Sam Wo. He appeared five minutes later in his spiffy uniform.

  “Back again, Ms. Parker? We’ll have to get you a season pass.” He laughed at his own joke. “I suppose you have more questions for me—”

  “I do, but I don’t have time right now. I wondered if you could do me a favor? I need you to open one of the lockers on the fifth floor.”

  Sam pulled me aside. “What? No way! You really do want to get me fired.”

  “Sam, Corbin said Mary Lee had a locker here at the museum. I need to see if there’s anything important in it. Don’t you have a master key?”

  “Nope. They use combination locks, not keys. The only way to get in would be to cut it. And if the cops coming looking, they’d know someone broke in. Too risky.”

  I pulled a slip of paper from my purse. “I think I have the combination.”

  He looked at me, surprised. “Where did you get that?”

  I ignored his question. “All you have to do is find out which locker is hers, then try the combination. No one will know.”

  Sam shook his head in defeat. “You’re not going to stop until I’m on the unemployment line, are you.”

  I smiled devilishly at him. “By the way, my mother says hi. I think she’s looking forward to hearing from you.”

  With a sigh, Sam said, “Follow me.”

  He led me to the elevators, but instead of riding up to the fifth floor, he punched the basement button.

  “What are you doing?”

  He said nothing as the doors opened and he stepped out. I followed him to the security office. He unlocked the door and went inside. “Come on,” he said.

  I stepped into what would have been a spacious office if it weren’t for all the equipment. A guard sat at a computer console while another faced a wall of security cameras. The ambient light was dim, making the screens easier to monitor.

  “Wait here,” Sam said; then he entered his own office in the back and closed the door behind him.

  “This is fascinating,” I said, watching people move past the camera lenses in various rooms of the museum. “You can see everything from here.”

  “Just about,” the man at the console said. “There are a couple of blind spots—hallways and the like—but we’ve got the important stuff covered.”

  One of the dark screens lit up as a young couple neared an exhibit. I remembered Sam telling me about the motion sensors. I glanced at the other screens, and one caught my eye. The dagger we’d copied for the mystery play. It was amazing how well the art department had replicated it.

  Where was the missing blade that had been used on Mary Lee?

  “Stay here,” Sam said, holding a ring of keys. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I can’t go with you?” I whispered.

  “Not a chance.”

  “Okay, but watch out for Corbin. He may be up there, and I don’t want him to know I’m looting his mother’s locker.”

  “Be right back, guys,” he said to the two other guards. “Hold down the fort, will you? Don’t let any art thieves steal my lunch.” Sam seemed to have a natural camaraderie with nearly everyone.

  Sam closed the door on his way out. I returned to the computer screens and watched the crowd shuffle by.

  “Is there any way someone could sneak around without being caught on camera?” I asked the guard.

  “Nope. Not unless the system broke down. And it never has.”

  “Could someone cut one of the wires?”

  The guard turned to me with a grin. “I suppose that’s possible, but the system is so protected, I can’t even turn off a camera without it being documented. Why? You planning to steal something?”

  I laughed, too loudly. The other surly guard shot me a concerned look. I recognized him from my attempt to get Delicia’s purse. Ed something.

  I sat down in a nearby chair and watched the screens, wondering how Sam was making out. He appeared ten minutes later, empty-handed. I couldn’t hide the disappointment I felt. He waved me back to his private office and closed the door.

  “Nothing?”

  He opened his jacket, pulled out some papers, and set them on his desk.

  I leaned over and flipped through them. There were five pages of alphabetized names with numbers alongside them.

  I looked at Sam. “What do you think this is?”

  “I don’t know, but that’s all that was in there, except for some makeup and dog treats. I have to return them, of course.”

  “Can you make copies?”

  “I suppose.” He stood up and set the papers on a copy machine. Seconds later I had copies of the five pages in my hand. “You think they’re important?”

  “I don’t know. I need time to look them over. Thanks. I owe you.”

  “About that. I was thinking of asking your mother to dinner some night.”

  “I’m sure she would love that.” Oh boy. There I went again, pimping out my mother for information.

  Sam smiled, baring his crooked teeth. I think he may have even blushed. “Well, whatever you do, just keep me out of it. With those two murders, I’m not feeling particularly secure in this job.”

  I gave his shoulder a pat. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect my source, even if they send me to Alcatraz.”

  I rode the elevator back to the main floor and spotted Corbin waiting for me by the front desk. In his hand he held a backpack about the size of a turkey.

  What was insi
de his locker—and now the bag—that he needed so badly?

  And what was the significance of those papers from Mary Lee’s locker?

  Glancing in the reflective glass I passed on the way to the front desk, I caught myself frowning so intensely, I’d need Botox before my next birthday.

  Chapter 16

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #16

  Give the guests at your Murder Mystery Party related favors to take home as memories of a good time, such as a mini-magnifying glass, some chocolate handcuffs, or clues to your next Murder Mystery Party . . .

  I walked over to the front desk. “Sorry, Corbin. Hope you haven’t been waiting long. Did you get your stuff?”

  He pulled the cord on the bag and hoisted it over his shoulder.

  “Yeah. Just some art junk. I figured with Mom gone, I might lose my access privileges. Art supplies aren’t cheap, you know.”

  I headed for the doors with Corbin lagging behind. As we approached the museum gift shop, I turned to him. “Can you wait a second? I want to pick up something from the shop.”

  When he looked puzzled, I realized it was an odd request.

  “I want to get a map of the place,” I explained.

  He nodded silently and sat down on a nearby bench to wait for me. He looked tired.

  “I’ll be right back.” I went inside and walked directly to the cashier counter in the center of the room. “Do you have any—” I started to say to the woman, then stopped when I saw a familiar face among the store crowd. Brad’s brother Andrew was flipping through one of the coffee-table-sized art books.

  Abruptly I left the cashier, who stood waiting for me to finish my sentence.

  “Andrew!”

  He looked up slowly from the book and flushed. “Ms. Parker.”

  I reached my hand out to shake his, but he had a white-knuckled death grip on the big book. I dropped my hand.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He blinked rapidly and hugged the open book to his chest. “I wanted to learn more about the artifacts here.”

  I frowned, wondering why he was browsing through an art book instead of getting my friend out of jail. “Really? But what about Delicia? What about bail?”

  “No bail,” Andrew said simply, then returned to the page he’d been studying. “Judge said not in a murder case.”

  I stared at Andrew. This guy wasn’t getting it. What had Brad been thinking when he gave him the job of representing Dee? After Andrew said nothing more, I asked, “What are you doing, Andrew?”

  He lowered the open book for me to see and pointed to one of the artifacts on the page. I looked at it.

  “Yes, it’s a dagger,” I said.

  He bit the inside of his lip as he continued to examine the photograph.

  And then it dawned on me. It was a picture of the dagger we’d replicated for the mystery event.

  “I have to go,” he said suddenly, closing the book and replacing it on a nearby table. Before I could say anything more, he sped out of the museum shop and vanished.

  “Well, that was weird,” I said aloud. A woman glanced at me, and I smiled at her to show her I wasn’t entirely crazy. Returning to the cashier, I snapped up the detailed map of the de Young Museum, paid her, and went to join Corbin.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  As I drove him home, Corbin gazed out the side window. I thought about Andrew’s appearance at the museum and his odd interest in the dagger, and wondered what was going through his mind. People with Asperger’s syndrome tend to notice details that others might not. Maybe the picture of the dagger was some kind of clue.

  Corbin continued to look out the window. I tried a few conversation prompts, but again got little more than “Yeah,” “Nah,” and “Whatever.” I pulled up to his place and turned to him. “Corbin, are you all right?”

  He reached for the door handle. “Yeah.”

  “I know you’re depressed. You’ve lost both your parents, and that’s going to have a traumatic effect on you. Are you seeing anyone who can help you through this?”

  “Nah. I’m okay.”

  No way was he okay. Clinical depression wasn’t something he could control. I placed my hand on his arm. “Listen, if you want to talk about anything, I have a background in psychology . . .”

  He opened the car door.

  I tightened my grip on his arm. “Corbin . . .”

  He turned back. “What?” he snapped. Instead of his usual blank look, his face grimaced in anger

  I released my hold. “Um . . . just . . . be careful . . .”

  Corbin got out of the car, grabbed his duffel, closed the door, and headed for his front door.

  I waited until he was inside, then pulled into traffic, determined to find out more about the moody son of Mary Lee Miller. I had a gut feeling he was involved in this mystery—but how?

  If he didn’t have anything to do with the deaths of his parents, maybe he knew who did. Maybe he was being blackmailed?

  Or maybe he was afraid he’d be next.

  Back at my desk, I pulled out the papers Sam had found in Mary Lee’s locker. Flipping through the five sheets, I tried to make sense of them—a list of names with numbers next to them. Surprisingly I recognized a few of the names, mostly well-known society people. But one name jumped out at me:

  Christine Lampe.

  Next to her name was the number 10,000.

  Was it a sum of money? A donation? Why would Mary Lee have a separate—and hidden—list of donors and amounts?

  Corbin had also retrieved something from his locker. What was in his backpack that was so important, he needed me to drive him to the museum?

  I kept coming back to Corbin.

  I typed the name Corbin Cosetti into my computer. The screen lit up with several links.

  “Corbin Cosetti, son of philanthropist Mary Lee Miller . . .”

  “Corbin Cosetti, a graduate of the San Francisco Art Academy . . .”

  “Corbin Cosetti, up-and-coming artist . . .”

  I scrolled down, looking for something beyond the routine announcements and brief mentions. My eye caught on the name “Christine Lampe” in one of the references.

  Odd. Corbin’s name linked to Christine’s?

  I pulled up the article from ArtNews, dated five years ago, and began reading.

  “The de Young Museum is proud to announce the hiring of our new curator, Christine Lampe,” said Mary Lee Miller, a primary fund-raiser for the de Young museum. “We’re thrilled to have her and share her vision for our vibrant and growing museum.

  “An alumnus of the University of Oregon, with a PhD in anthropology, Lampe held the position of assistant curator at the Portland Museum in Portland, Oregon,” Miller continued.

  “I’m honored to be a part of the city’s most influential and progressive museum,” Lampe said. “And I’m a longtime fan of Mary Lee. I’m godmother to her talented son, Corbin, an up-and-coming artist in his own right. Mary Lee’s done great things for the city of San Francisco with her philanthropic efforts and I plan to take full advantage of her generosity to make this a world-class institution.”

  “Christine brings a unique perspective to the museum, with her longtime experience working and studying in the Dogon region of Africa,” Miller added. “She’ll be working closely with me on the design for the remodeled museum, expected to be completed within the next five years . . .”

  I skimmed the rest of the article, which offered more praise-singing and little fact-giving. But the article itself had me wondering if Christine Lampe was in fact Christine Lampe.

  I did another search on Lampe, pairing up her name with such words as “expedition,” “Africa,” and “Dogon,” and found no reference to any trips she was supposed to have taken in the years between her position at the Portland museum and her hiring at the de Young. Had she really been doing anthropological research among “lost civilizations”? Or were those just “lost years”?

  As for Christine’s claim of being Corbin’
s godmother, something didn’t jibe. Corbin hadn’t seemed especially fond of Christine, and she hadn’t paid particular attention to him either, during the mystery rehearsals. In fact, I didn’t recall them exchanging two words, let alone a hug or a smile.

  Once again I kept coming back to Corbin. He had to be the link in all of this—but I still had no idea how. I couldn’t accept the idea that he’d murdered both his parents. He was depressed, not homicidal. And even if I bought the inheritance motive, he had no reason to kill his father.

  Did he?

  “Solve it yet?”

  Brad stood in the doorway of my office, one hand behind his back. His white jumpsuit had dirt on the knees and dark streaks down the front of the chest.

  Blood?

  “Yeah. Professor Plum did it. In the conservatory. With the candlestick.” I nodded at his chest. “Got blood?”

  He looked down at his jumpsuit.

  “Chocolate. Spilled a mocha frap on my way here.” He pulled out another from behind his back and handed it to me.

  Grinning from the surprise, I took the drink. “You’re a saint. This is just what I needed.” The first sip sent a chill through my body. A brain freeze wouldn’t be far behind. I set the frosty drink on my desk. “So, how’s your brother doing on Delicia’s case? Any progress on getting her out of jail? I can’t stand the thought of her being in there with real criminals.”

  “Let me get out of this suit, and I’ll fill you in.” He slipped into his office, and I surreptitiously watched through the office window as he wriggled out of his jumpsuit, revealing a sky blue T-shirt and easy jeans. I had to stop myself from picturing the rest of the striptease.

  Unfortunately, he caught me staring and grinned.

  “Shoot,” I whispered under my breath. Feeling my face fill with color, I turned back to my computer screen. I Googled “Asperger’s syndrome” to find out the latest on the disorder and watched as the screen filled with links. Skimming the choices, I pulled up the official site and began to read. I was surprised at how much was now known about the disorder. For years it had been a little-known mystery, with little information beyond the fact that it was a mild form of autism under the category of Pervasive Developmental Disorders.