How to Crash a Killer Bash

by Penny Warner

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #20

  To add atmosphere to your Murder Mystery Party, assign each of the rooms with an intriguing label. For example, instead of “The Multipurpose Room,” “The Boys’ Locker Room,” or “The Powder Room,” use terms like “The Conservatory,” “The Billiard Room,” and “The Creepy Dark Basement.”

  As we approached Noe Valley, I gave Brad Corbin’s address. Then, figuring that Brad’s Crime Scene Cleaners SUV would stick out like a bloody thumb in front of the home, I asked him to park on a main street lined with bookstores, cafés, and clothing boutiques. We walked the block and a half to Corbin’s place, stepped up on the porch, and I knocked on the front door.

  After a few minutes and no answer, Brad said, “Looks like nobody’s home.” He shaded his eyes and peered into a front window.

  “Hard to say for sure,” I said. “He doesn’t have a car. Could be asleep.”

  I knocked again. This time I heard a noise coming from behind the front door.

  I whirled around to Brad. “Did you hear that?”

  “Sounded like a dog barking.”

  I moved to the window, cleaned the dusty pane with my fist, and peeked in the slit between the tie-dyed curtains. “It’s Chou-Chou, Mary Lee’s dog!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! I’d know that irritating yap and unnatural pink fur anywhere.”

  “I thought you said Corbin didn’t seem to like the dog.”

  “I did. He also said he had no idea where it was. So what’s it doing here?”

  Brad took a step back, straddling two steps. “He’s taking care of it, obviously.” He stepped off the porch.

  Instead of following Brad, I said, “We’ve got to get inside.”

  “What? No way! Not without the owner present. That’s unlawful trespass. I could lose my license.”

  “It’s an emergency! The dog is inside . . . and it sounds . . . upset. What if it’s hurt? Or what if Corbin’s in trouble, and the dog is trying to alert us? I think that gives us just cause to go inside.”

  I glanced around the ground, spotted a large rock, and held it up, ready to pitch it through a window.

  Brad grabbed my arm. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

  “Got a better idea?” I asked.

  He cursed under his breath. He knew I was determined to get inside, whether he helped me or not. “Wait here! Don’t do anything. I’ll be right back.”

  I reluctantly dropped the rock.

  He pointed a finger at me, as if I were a disobedient child. “Just wait—you hear me?”

  I crossed my arms and pouted like a disobedient child. “Okay, but hurry.”

  Brad jogged down the street and disappeared around the corner. I peered into the window I had almost broken. Other than the sound of yapping, there were no signs of life.

  Minutes later I heard Brad’s heavy footsteps racing up behind me. I turned around to meet him. In his hands he held a putty knife and a roll of duct tape.

  “Duct tape?” I eyed him as if he were the crazy one now. “With all the stuff you have in your SUV, you brought duct tape?”

  “Trick of the trade. You can use duct tape for just about anything.”

  “And the putty knife? Isn’t that what you use to scrape up blood?”

  “Among other things.”

  He glanced back and forth between the two front windows, pursed his lips, then moved around to the side of the house. I followed him behind the overgrown bushes that kept nosy neighbors from seeing much of Corbin’s place. Brad scanned the area, found an old gallon container of paint in some weeds near a couple of trash cans, and picked it up. I watched as he placed the container underneath one of the small side windows. Stepping up onto the can, he wiped off the grimy pane with the side of his arm and peered through.

  “See anything?” I whispered.

  “No bodies,” Brad said lightly. “Looks like a bedroom.”

  He pulled the duct tape from his wrist where he’d been wearing it like a bracelet, and ripped off an arm’s length, using his teeth to start the tear.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he looped the tape into a circle, sticky side out, stuck one end to the other, then pressed the tape onto the center of the window pane. He ripped off another length and placed that strip diagonally across the window pane, sticky side down, inserting it through the looped circle. Finally he placed a third strip crosswise, sticky side down, through the loop, forming an X on the glass.

  I still had no idea what he was doing.

  Pulling the putty knife from the pocket where’d he stuck it, he began chipping away at the aging trim that surrounded the window.

  “Now what are you doing?”

  He grunted, digging at the trim with the blade. “These windows are held in by this old beading. The new ones have the beading on the inside, so people like me can’t do something like this. But this is an old house.”

  He stopped talking and kept chipping away at the strip around the window. In a few minutes I saw the pane loosen. He grasped the duct tape circle he’d made into a handle and pulled gently. The window came out into his hand without a crack.

  “How did you learn to do that?” I asked.

  He stepped down from the paint can. “You pick up all kinds of tricks in this business.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t get much more information from him. So far I’d learned how to break into an old house without using a brick, how to cut a brake line with a pipe cutter from Home Depot, and how to open a lock when you don’t have a key.

  How sure was I that Brad Matthews was on the right side of the law?

  “Well, you’re certainly handy with duct tape.”

  “Couldn’t do my job without it. If you’re ever in hurricane country, make Xs on your windows to keep them from shattering.”

  “I’ll remember that. Unfortunately, we live in earthquake country. Got a duct tape remedy for that?”

  “Not yet. But I saw this show once where a girl made her prom dress out of different colors of duct tape. I imagine there’s a use for it during a quake as well.”

  I looked up at the hole in the wall where the windowpane had been.

  “Now what?”

  Brad brushed his hands down the side of his jeans to clean them. “That’s up to you.”

  I glared at him. “You don’t expect me to climb through there, do you?”

  He gave a half shrug and matching half smile. “I certainly won’t fit.” He was right about that, with those broad shoulders, wide chest, and muscular arms.

  “Crap.”

  Wondering if I should rethink this, I stepped up on the paint can and put my arms through the opening. The bottom of the window came to my waist. There was no way I would be able to hoist myself through.

  I felt a pair of hands on my butt.

  I pulled my head out and glared down at Brad.

  He withdrew his hands and raised them up like a criminal surrendering to the cops. “What? I’m just trying to help.”

  I narrowed my eyes, then stuck my head back in.

  I felt hands on my butt again. This time they lifted the rest of me up and into the opening. As I headed over the windowsill, I reached forward to support myself on the cluttered desk beneath the window and slowly slid onto it.

  It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  “I’m in!” I called.

  “Quiet!” Brad hissed.

  “Okay!” I hissed back.

  A pink ball of frenzied fluff appeared in the doorway, yapping.

  “Nice doggy,” I whispered to it. Chou-Chou snarled and gave a guttural growl. “Pipe down, you pip-squeak. My cats would have you for a snack.”

  To my surprise, the dog sat down and wagged its tail.

  “Good dog.”

  I slid off the desk and took a look around. “Corbin?” I called out. “It’s Presley. Are you here?” I headed out of the room, trying not to step on the fur ball. Wasn�
��t easy. The thing was right on my heels.

  Within minutes I’d checked all the rooms in the house. No sign of Corbin. It was still a mess of art comics, pizza cartons, and paint-spattered clothing. Unopened mail lay on the floor under the front door flap. No sign of a body. Or blood. Or a murderer.

  Where was Corbin?

  I returned to Corbin’s bedroom and found that the window had already been replaced. That was quick. I walked over to my landing desk, knelt down, and glanced through a few papers that had fallen during my entry. Nothing suspicious—just excerpts from articles printed from the Internet on DNA testing and genealogy.

  I wondered how these topics tied into his art.

  I stood up and pulled open the desk drawers and found them all empty—except the top drawer. Inside was a plain white envelope.

  It was addressed to Corbin Cosetti.

  The flap had been ripped open.

  I lifted it and pulled out the single sheet of paper. It read:

  STATE OF OREGON DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH SERVICES

  Office of Vital Statistics—

  Certificate of Live Birth

  Child’s Name: Corbin Hofmann

  Date of Birth: April 11, 1980

  Sex: Male

  City/County: Eugene/Lane

  Place: Eugene Hospital

  Mother’s Name: Judith Hofmann

  Year of Birth: 1950

  Father’s Name: Unk

  Hardly believing my eyes, I reread the mother’s name.

  Judith Hofmann had given birth to a son named Corbin.

  Before I had time to ponder this new development, I heard a tapping on the bedroom window. I peeked out.

  “Presley!” Brad mouthed. After making my latest discovery, I’d almost forgotten about him. Brad gestured for me to come out. That’s when I heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Not that that wasn’t unusual in the city. But then I wasn’t usually breaking and entering.

  I nodded and darted out of the bedroom, into the living area, the yapping dog on my heels.

  Chou-Chou!

  My first thought was to leave it. Corbin was apparently taking care of it. A quick glance indicated differently. The dog’s water and food bowls were empty. And Corbin had never really liked the dog. So what was it doing here?

  I bent down to scoop up the little yapper and noticed a hand-addressed envelope visible under several bills and some junk mail, lying on the floor by the front door. I picked it up, turned it over—no return address. On a hunch, I stuffed it in my pocket, then snatched up the dog. Grabbing a black marker lying on the counter, I wrote a quick note on another envelope, asking Corbin to call me. Heading out, I pulled the door closed behind me and shoved my note under the door, with just a tiny corner peeking out.

  I fled to the sidewalk where Brad waited.

  The sirens grew louder. Brad took my arm and walked me hastily down the street toward his SUV. “I think a neighbor saw me standing around and probably called the cops. We gotta get outta here. I knew this was going to happen.”

  As we approached the corner, a cop car appeared, lights flashing, but no siren. Brad shoved me along, the dog in my arms, and I kept walking to the SUV, while we waited on the corner. He unlocked the door with his remote, and I hopped into the passenger side, closing the door behind me. I watched as the cruiser pulled up next to Brad. I rolled down the window a crack to hear.

  “Hey, Matthews,” one of the cops said. “You got a cleanup around here?”

  “Not this time, Sarge. Just going for coffee. S’up?”

  The cop nodded toward Corbin’s house. “Got a call about a prowler. Male, Caucasian, over six feet, wearing a blue shirt, sort of like yours. Seen anyone who fits the description?”

  “No,” Brad said, “but then, I just got here. I’ll keep an eye out, though.”

  While Brad chatted with the cop, I stroked the dog to keep it from yapping. At the moment it was giving my hand a tongue bath. As long as it stayed quiet, I’d have let it eat my hand off.

  “Okay, see ya, Matthews.” The cop tipped his hat at Brad and the car moved on down the road toward Corbin’s place, sirens silent and lightbar dark.

  Brad got into the SUV, turned to me. “What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He nodded toward the dog, which was looking up at him with big glassy brown eyes.

  “You’re dognapping!”

  “This isn’t dognapping! I’m rescuing it. There was no sign of Corbin anywhere. The mail had piled up on the floor, and the dog had no food or water. I think something’s happened to Corbin.”

  “He’s probably staying with a friend or something. Meanwhile, you’ve stolen his only reminder of his mother—that dog!” He glared at Chou-Chou.

  “Well, obviously it’s starving. It tried to eat my hand while you were chatting with your cop buddy. I’ll keep trying Corbin’s cell, but he hasn’t been answering. I left a message at his place that I’ve got the dog.”

  Brad shook his head in frustration. “Where are you going to keep it? You have three cats.”

  I hadn’t thought that far. “True. They’d use it as a chew toy. Maybe you can take it.”

  “No way! I’m not having that crazy mutt in my house. Not only is it incriminating evidence of dognapping, it’s . . . pink!”

  “Bigot,” I said, lifting the dog onto my lap as we drove on toward the museum.

  “You’re impossible, Presley. You don’t think things through. It’s that ADD you keep saying you have.”

  “It’s ADHD. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. So now you’re making fun of my disability?”

  “Disability? What a crock! You just toss that out to cover your impulsive decisions.”

  “That’s what ADHD is, Brad. Impulsive decision-making, among other things. What about your brother? You wouldn’t accuse him of having Asperger’s so he can behave any way he wants?”

  Brad was silent as we pulled up to the loading zone at the de Young Museum. “I’ll wait here,” he said, not looking at me. “Try not to steal any works of art. I don’t think ADHD is a strong enough defense.”

  I set the dog down, got out of the car, and slammed the door shut. I heard yapping as I stomped toward the museum entrance. I only hoped I didn’t return to find a bloody crime scene filled with pink fur in Brad’s Crime Scene Cleaners van.

  Chapter 21

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #21

  If you’re sleuthing at a Murder Mystery Party, learn to eavesdrop. You may overhear an important clue that will help you undercover the murderer. Then again, perhaps the information will be useful for blackmailing purposes at a later date.

  When I arrived at the front desk, I was informed that Sam Wo wasn’t available. Great. Without him, I wouldn’t be able to sneak upstairs and surprise Christine with a visit. I suspected Christine knew why Corbin had that birth certificate and wanted to confirm my hunch. I certainly couldn’t ask his parents, and he seemed to be AWOL.

  Nuts. How did they sneak into places on TV? By delivering pizzas? Flowers?

  Balloons!

  I slipped into the nearest restroom and pulled out from my purse the pack of balloons I always carry with me. It had become a habit ever since I started this business. Balloons came in handy at any party. And lying was coming easier and easier. What was up with that?

  Light-headed from blowing up a dozen balloons, I tied them off with lengths of ribbon I kept just for this purpose and gathered them into a bouquet. Holding them slightly over my face, I returned to the main desk and told a different volunteer that I had a delivery for Christine Lampe.

  “Sign here,” she said, pushing a sign-in log at me. I scribbled “Nancy Drew” along the line, then asked where to go. She sighed, then led me to the elevator. Once I was inside, she waved her key card over the small square and punched “4” before ducking back out.

  I held on to the balloons until the doors opened on the fourth floor. I stepped out and glanced up and down the hallway. No one in sigh
t. I tucked the balloons behind a large fake plant, then headed for Christine’s office to make my surprise appearance.

  As I approached the closed door, I heard voices. Raised voices. I recognized Christine’s strong, strident tone and paused outside the office door, straining to listen.

  “. . . how could you? I thought we had something . . .” Christine was saying.

  A man’s voice, much more soft-spoken, mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

  I leaned in to hear better. Christine was coming in loud and clear. Her partner in conversation, not so much.

  “. . . at the same time? . . .” Christine said.

  Low, indecipherable mumbling followed.

  “. . . now she’s dead . . . killed her!”

  Her words startled me, and I bumped against the door.

  Seconds later, the door swung open.

  “May I help you?” Christine said, pulling the door wide. “Presley! What are you doing here?” Clearly she was surprised to see me.

  Dan Tannacito stepped out from behind her.

  “Dan!” I said, staring at the museum assistant.

  “Presley?” Dan said, then looked at the museum curator.

  I looked back and forth between them. They glanced at each other, red-faced, then looked down at the floor. It suddenly dawned on me why they were so embarrassed.

  “You . . . and Dan?” I said, my eyes wide with surprise.

  Christine crossed her arms and shook her head. “I . . . It’s not . . .”

  Dan laughed a little too loudly. “No, no. You’ve got this all wrong. We were just—”

  Christine glared at him. “Shut up, Dan. It’s too late. It’s obvious she heard everything.” She turned to me. “Didn’t you, Presley. You nosy little snoop.”

  Whoa. Where had the venom come from?

  She apparently assumed I knew more than I did.

  She stepped around me and closed the door, blocking it with her body.

  Trapped.

  I glanced around in search of something to use as a weapon, in case I needed to defend myself. I spotted a sharp arrowhead on the desk, about the length of my hand. I rushed over and snatched it from its resting place, ready to stab anyone who lunged for me.