by Penny Warner
“Guess I’m your basic renaissance man. I’ve been a car freak since I was sixteen and bought my first Mustang. Used. Ragtop. Raven black. I rebuilt the engine. Ran smooth as glass.”
“Well, maybe you could take a look under the hood. I think the battery is dead. It’s been sitting here for months.”
Brad opened the door and scooted in. Before he even tried the key, he gripped the marbleized steering wheel and ran his hands lovingly around it.
What was it with guys and cars?
Brad turned the key in the ignition. Not surprisingly, nothing happened. He sat back in the seat as if pondering some kind of presidential decision.
“Dead battery, right?” I asked, bringing him back to the problem at hand.
Reluctantly he climbed out of the car. “Most likely. I’ve got jumper cables in my SUV.”
While Brad spent the next several minutes doing battery stuff with a bunch of clips and cords, I went back to my condo and to get a thank-you beer for Brad. On the way back I called the museum and asked to speak to Sam. I was transferred to his voice mail and left a message for him to call me back. Brad was just wiping his hands with a disinfectant wipe when I handed over the beer.
“Did you fix it?”
“Hop in and give it a try.”
I sat down and turned the key. The engine croaked, sputtered, and roared to life. “Great! I owe you one.”
He tapped the top of the car. “How about a ride in this beauty?”
I pulled the driver’s door closed, powered down the window, and smiled sweetly. “Sure. As soon as I get back.” I backed the car out of the space, turned sharply onto the road, and took off, leaving Brad alone with his beer and the dusty car cover.
Like Brad said, the Caddy ran as smooth as glass. I felt like a kid playing in her parents’ car as I drove the city streets. The thing was huge, and I was sure I was straddling both lanes of the road, about to sideswipe any car that tried to pass me.
The sun was setting quickly, shadows replacing the light. The temperature had cooled considerably by the time I pulled the Cadillac up in front of Corbin’s place, my hand sweaty from the tension of flying this plane. Parking on the street would have been a challenge, so I drove into the oil-stained driveway. I hoped I wouldn’t get a ticket—the tail-fins stuck out beyond the sidewalk. But I didn’t plan to be there long.
Several newspapers littered the front walk. No house lights were visible from the street. I stepped onto the porch and glanced down at the bottom of the front door. A corner of the note I’d left Corbin still stuck out from under the door. I knocked, listened for any sound inside, and gave up after a few minutes. I wasn’t about to break in again. Besides, it was obvious he hadn’t been back.
Disturbing thoughts ran through my head. Was he on the lam? In some kind of trouble? Or worse . . . ?
I knew from reading murder mysteries and listening to Brad that the answer to the whodunit question lay in MOM—method, opportunity, and motive. So far I had no idea what the real methods were, I wasn’t sure about the opportunities, and I was still clueless about the motive or motives. But Brad had also recommended that I study the victims, the crime scenes, and the physical evidence if I wanted answers.
I sat in the car, locked the doors, pulled out my party-planning /crime-solving paper, and looked over the list of victims.
Victim number one: Mary Lee Miller, a wealthy socialite who’d raised a lot of money for the museum. Had she been skimming money off the donations? Blackmailing patrons for extra money? Or did it have to do with Christine and her biological son, Corbin?
Victim number two: Jason Cosetti, down-and-out ex-husband of Mary Lee’s, still waiting for his ship to come in. Maybe he was blackmailing Mary Lee about some deep, dark secret? Did he have some kind of museum scheme going on? Or did it have to do with Corbin’s recently discovered adoption?
Victim number three: Ed Pike, one of the security guards at the museum. What was his connection? Had he seen something he shouldn’t have? Or did he have something on Mary Lee? And Jason?
I turned the paper over and wrote “Crime Scene.”
All the murders had taken place at the de Young Museum. The first in the mural room off the main lobby. The second in or near the outdoor frog pond. And the third in the elevator.
Did someone have something against the museum? Was the killer trying to give the place a black eye? Or just get rid of key people?
Once again, I had more questions than answers. Underneath I wrote “Physical Evidence.”
After hearing what the ME had reported about Mary Lee’s wound—that the stab wound was almost a perfect match to the fake dagger—I had a hunch about the weapon, but it would take some snooping to find out if I was right. And it wouldn’t be easy, considering all the security at the museum. In fact, it could even be dangerous, bearing in mind that whoever was behind the murders was most likely now after me. My MINI had been vandalized. My brakes had been cut. My office had been invaded. I’d been getting crank calls. And someone had mugged my mother.
I started up the engine. It purred like a kitten. Backing into the street, I thought about hosting one of those drawing room parties where the sleuth gathers all the suspects in one room. Then, after a lengthy cat-and-mouse game of misleading information, she reveals the killer to the crowd. I could make of Clue-style invitations, with caricatures of the suspects on the cover and intriguing party details inside. After snacks were served—little Clue-shaped weapons made out of chocolate—I’d announce whodunit to gasps of shock and surprise: “It was Mr. Green in the Museum with the Ceremonial Dagger!”
But how did the list of names and numbers tie in?
I pulled the list out of my purse and scanned the names. I’d missed it the first time, skimming it so fast, but there it was—Ed Pike, along with the number 1,000. If it was a contribution, it was small by comparison. But perhaps it was a lot on a security guard’s salary.
There was something niggling at the back of my mind.
I entered the congested evening traffic on Fell Street and stepped on the gas. The car lunged forward.
It was time to return to the Scene of the Crime.
Chapter 25
PARTY PLANNING TIP # 25
Dim the lights at your Murder Mystery Party to put the amateur sleuths in an investigative mood. Plus, finding hidden clues is more challenging when the room is lit by candles or flashlights instead of chandeliers and fluorescents.
Golden Gate Park at twilight is another world. It’s a magical place, a serene contrast to the urban chaos beyond its borders. Not only does it hold one of the world’s foremost museums, but it’s also home to dozens of recreational activities. Growing up in the city, I never had much of a backyard, so my mother took me to the park often. I’d ridden horses at the stables, rowed boats on Stow Lake, stood on the giant lily pads at the Conservatory of Flowers, listened to Mozart at the Music Concourse, visited the sharks at the Steinhart Aquarium, and been to outer space at the Morrison Planetarium more times than I can count. But my favorite place was, and still is, the Japanese Tea Garden, with its nearly vertical bridges, lush vegetation, and winding paths. It’s got to be the most enchanting place on earth.
Each trip was accompanied by my mother’s mini-lectures on the history of the park. By the time I’d heard all her stories about the past, I could have gotten a job as tour guide at the park.
“Presley, did you know that Golden Gate Park was once nothing but sand dunes sculpted by Pacific Ocean winds, and now it has over one million trees?”
“Presley, can you believe approximately seventy-five thousand people visit the park on an average weekend?”
“Presley, I’ll bet you didn’t realize that the park was deeded to the people in 1870, and developed by Scotsman John McLaren around 1890 . . .”
Yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah. Back then I couldn’t have cared less. Now I was glad those trivial facts were stuck in my head. I loved learning more about the history of the city, mainly
because it came with a lot of fascinating stories of mayhem, muckraking, and of course murder.
I thought about one of my favorite stories on my way to the museum—the attempted murder of M. H. de Young, the museum’s namesake. He and his brother Charles had founded the Daily Dramatic Chronicle, a predecessor to the San Francisco Chronicle, back in 1865. When Michael printed a less-than-flattering article about Adolph Spreckels, the sugar magnate, he was shot by Spreckels in 1884. Luckily he survived. However, Charles wasn’t so lucky. A few months later, the son of a hellfire preacher running for mayor, unhappy with the newspaper’s lack of support for his father during the election, shot Charles to death. A jury declared the son not guilty by reason of “justifiable homicide.” In other words, the kid got away with murder.
That’s why I love San Francisco and its colorful past. You can’t make this stuff up.
I drove the Caddy alongside the park’s panhandle and wound around the curving roads, past the archery field, basketball court, golf course, lawn bowling, and bocce ball court, the children’s playground with the antique carousel. John F. Kennedy Drive, closed to cars on Sundays, was quiet as tourists and locals headed home from a day of biking, skating, running, bird-watching, playing Frisbee, or visiting the museums.
I passed a stone angel that reminded me of a game I used to play with my mother called Find the Statues. Horticulturist John McLaren hid several statues around the park, mainly because he didn’t like them, so my mother and I used to try to find them. It was a little spooky playing the game at night—sort of like being lost in a forest without bread crumbs, certain there was a witch around the next tree ready to capture more ingredients for her next evil concoction. I shuddered at the memory. I’d had a big imagination back then.
As I pulled into the parking garage in my mother’s big gold boat, I had that creepy feeling again—the one I used to get as a child. Of course, aside from an enchanted forest, there’s nothing scarier than a nearly deserted parking garage.
I drove the Caddy to a spot close to the entrance, got out, and checked to see if I was within the lines of the space. Hardly. I checked my watch. Good thing it was about closing time. With that in mind, I hustled toward the doors. Hordes of art admirers were streaming out as I handed over my bag at the security checkpoint.
I spotted Sam down the hallway. “Sam!” I hurried to catch up with him.
“Presley,” he said, looking surprised. He held his hat in his hand and was carrying a canvas satchel with a strap across his chest. “I was just on my way out. Done for the day. What are you doing here? It’s almost closing.”
“Sam, I need to talk to you for a minute.”
Sam glanced at his watch. “Uh, okay. In my office?”
“That would be great.” I was relieved that I’d caught him; I wouldn’t be able to enact my plan if I’d missed him. I followed him to the basement, waited for him to unlock the door, and entered behind him. He led me to his small office in the back and sat down behind his perfectly neat and tidy desk. Like his meticulous uniform, there wasn’t a proverbial hair out of place. No wonder he was good at his job.
I set my purse down, accidentally bumping my shoulder against the work schedule board on the wall next to me. It swung off kilter, then came to rest at an angle.
“Sorry!” I said, jumping up to fix it.
Sam beat me to it. “No problem.” He had the board back on its hooks and perfectly squared in seconds.
I leaned down again, carefully this time, and opened my purse. Withdrawing a set of the mysterious papers, I placed them on Sam’s desk. “Remember these?”
Sam’s face flushed with color. “You didn’t tell anyone I got them for you, did you?”
“No, no. Don’t worry.”
He visibly relaxed. “Did you find out what they mean?”
“Not yet. That’s why I needed to talk to you. I think you’re the only one who can help me figure this all out.”
Sam handed the set back to me. “Uh-oh. I have a funny feeling you’re going to ask me to do something I shouldn’t—again.”
I smiled sweetly.
“Presley, you’re going to get me fired! I told you. This job is all I have now. . . .” Sam grew uncharacteristically quiet and began rubbing the spot on his finger where his wedding ring had been.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t want to put you in a compromising position. I’m just trying to keep my friend from spending the rest of her life in prison for a crime she didn’t commit.” I stood up. “But I understand your reluctance. You’re right—I don’t want you to lose your job.” It was time to pull out the big emotional guns. “Neither would my mother. She’s grown quite fond of you. I heard you two had coffee together this morning.”
Sam sighed and finally waved me back into the chair. I sat stiffly.
“What do you want this time?”
I took a deep breath, fingers mentally crossed that he would help me again, in spite of the risks. After all, if I got caught, I’d be in big trouble too. And with what I had planned, it would be Big, Big Trouble.
“I need to get into Mary Lee’s office again.”
Sam sat back and rubbed his face. “Not that. Anything but that.”
“I think we missed something the first time.”
“And the police—you think they missed something too?”
I nodded.
“But they searched the place. If they found anything important, they probably took it with them. What good would it do to go in there now?”
“It’s just a hunch . . .”
“Oh, a hunch.” He stiffened. “Great. I’m supposed to risk my job for a hunch?”
I stood up again. “Okay, look. Mary Lee obviously liked to hide things, like the papers in her locker. I’ll bet there’s something hidden in her office that the cops didn’t find. I know, it’s a lot to ask.”
Sam said nothing, just kept shaking his head.
I kicked it up a notch, playing on his interest in my mother. “Mother’s been asking about you,” I said. I was going straight to hell, using Mom like that.
“All right, all right. But this had better be the last time, Presley. Understand?” He stood up, grabbed the satchel he’d been carrying, and pulled a set of keys from another board. I followed him past the multiple computer screens, monitored by a female guard in a uniform similar to Sam’s. I paused when I saw one screen light up with the image of the ceremonial dagger. An art lover had entered the room and triggered the camera before moving on. The monitor went black.
As expected, Mary Lee’s office was locked. Sam inserted a key, opened the door, and gestured for me to enter.
“What are you hoping to find that wasn’t found by the police?” Sam asked, standing by the desk as I scanned the room.
“Not really sure,” I said. I headed for the filing cabinets against the far wall, pulled open each drawer, and hunted through the files, hoping a clue would jump out at me. Nothing did.
I heard Sam yanking at the top desk drawer behind me.
“It’s stuck,” he said.
Something hit the floor with a quiet thud. We looked at each other; then I bent down and looked under the desk.
A small leather-bound ledger lay on the carpet. I reached over, grabbed it, and stood up. “I knew it! She’s probably got stuff hidden all over this museum.”
“What’s that?” Sam asked.
I flipped open the cover—and gasped. The small ledger contained the same handwritten list of names and numbers we’d found in Mary Lee’s locker. Only this one appeared to be the original document.
I flipped to the last page. It, too, ended with the name Watson. I ran my finger down the inside of the spine and felt the jagged edges of paper.
The last page had been carefully torn out.
I closed the book. “Sam, is there an accounting department here?”
“Sure.” He checked his watch. “But they may have all gone home. It’s past six.”
“Can you call and see? I need t
o ask them a question.”
“Okay, but let’s get out of here before we’re caught.” Sam led me out, locking the office behind him. He pulled out his cell and punched in a number. After a brief exchange with a voice on the other end, Sam hung up.
“Barbara’s still there. She said she’d wait for us.”
“Barbara, this is Presley Parker,” Sam announced when we arrived at the accounting department on the fourth floor. “She’d like to ask you something.”
The accounting office looked nothing like most of the other rooms in the museum. Instead of artifacts, it was full of computers, faxes, printers, and a half dozen other office machines. What did I expect—artfully placed statues and priceless paintings?
I reached out my hand. “Hi, Barbara. Thanks for seeing me so late. I wondered if you could take a look at this ledger.” I handed it to her.
Barbara smiled, releasing the twinkle in her eyes. Her curly graying brown hair seemed to be in constant motion. She took the ledger with freckled hands, slipped on her heart-decorated reading glasses, and opened it.
After flipping through it a few minutes and muttering several “Hmms,” she removed her glasses. “Well, it’s not one of our ledgers. But many of the names are familiar. Donors, museum members, and whatnot. The amounts—if that’s what they are—seem to be unusually high. More like investment numbers rather than donations. But other than that . . .”
She started to hand the ledger back to me, but apparently misjudged the distance and fumbled it to the floor between us.
“I’m so sorry!” she said. We both knelt down to retrieve it, and as she picked it up, I noticed that the back of the ledger had broken loose. Odd for what looked like a newly purchased ledger. “Oh my heavens, I’ve cracked the spine. I’m so, so sorry!”
She was trying to close the dislodged back when a small sheet of paper fluttered down. The three of us stared at it. It had obviously fallen loose when the spine was broken.
Had it been hidden inside the back cover? Why not? Mary Lee seemed to have an affinity for hiding things.