How to Crash a Killer Bash (11 page)

“Presley!” a voice called from behind. “What are you doing here?”

I turned around to find Dan leaning out of his office doorway. “Oh hi, Dan,” I said. “Uh, I was on my way to see Christine.” I tapped my watch, implying that I had an appointment.

He stepped out into the hall, a wide grin on his chiseled face. He looked relaxed and casual, in spite of his perfectly pressed tailored suit and swank, stylish Rockports—the hybrid kind that combined cozy with cool. These shoes said he cared about his appearance, but his personal comfort came first.

His cheery face quickly turned sober. “You’re here about Mary Lee? What a loss. She did so much for this museum, for the city. She’ll be missed.” He sounded sincere, but his body language told another story. In his hand he held a pen that he never stopped flicking.

“Come in, come in.” He waved me over and gestured for me to enter his office. “I want you to meet my daughter.”

Reluctantly I backed up and peered in the doorway. I spotted a teenage girl sitting behind Dan’s desk, listening to music on her iPod. I waved at her.

“Come in, come in,” he repeated, more insistently.

I glanced at my watch. “I’m going to be late for my appointment.”

“I don’t think she’s there,” Dan said. “Her office is right next door, but she hasn’t been there much. I have a feeling she’s taking Mary Lee’s death pretty hard. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Oh, uh—”

“Please.” He gestured to a wooden chair opposite his desk. “Sit down. I’m sure this has been hard on you too, what with ruining your party and all. How are you doing?” Again, the voice sounded sincere, but the flicking pen was disconcerting.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m more concerned about my friend Delicia. I guess you heard she’s been arrested.” I glanced at Dan’s daughter, who was tapping her foot in rhythm to a beat. No doubt she hadn’t heard a word we’d said. Her hot pink hair was swept up like porcupine quills, defying gravity, and was the only color in her ensemble aside from black. Her lips were black, her nails were black, her eye makeup was black, and her T-shirt, sporting the word “Evil” in the shape of a skull, was black.

Dan caught me looking at her and turned to her. “Presley, this is Stephanie, my daughter. Stephanie,” he said loudly to compete with the music. “Say hello to Ms. Parker.”

She rolled her eyes at him, then glared at me.

“She prefers to be called Vampira,” Dan said quietly. “She’s going through a Goth phase. Last year it was pop star. The year before that was Harriet the Spy. She’s quite creative.” Then louder, to her, “Aren’t you, Snuffaly?” She either ignored him or didn’t hear him through the music. He lowered his voice again. “Snuffaly—that’s what she used to call herself when she was little and just learning to talk. Stephanie came out Snuffaly. Isn’t that cute?”

Stephanie hoisted herself out of the swivel chair as if she bore the weight of the world on her black-clad shoulders. Thin, maybe anorexic, she shuffled toward her father and held out her hand. I caught a glimpse of her torn leggings and lace-up boots—black, of course.

“I’m going to the café.”

Dan reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “I’ll meet you down there in a few minutes. Save me a seat, Snuffy.”

Snuffy left without a good-bye, thank-you, or even a whatever.

“She’s been having a tough time lately. Doesn’t like me dating, even though I’ve been divorced from her mother for a couple of years now. She probably thinks she’s going to lose me, but of course, that’s not going to happen. Still, it’s not easy, for either of us.”

I had a feeling there were a lot of women interested in the tall, well-built man with highlighted blond curls. I had to stop myself from picturing him in his Calvins.

I was about to head out too when Dan walked over and closed the door to his office. “Listen, Presley, can we talk?”

Surprised, I stopped and turned around.

“About Mary Lee’s death? Do you know something, Dan?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. Snuff is turning fourteen in a couple of weeks, and I want to surprise her with a party. Do you think you could put together something fun for her? I’d really appreciate it.”

Good heavens. He wanted to talk about a party? Now?

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“I know it’s short notice, but I’d pay you well.”

“I can’t even—”

“It would mean a lot.”

“But I have to—”

“I’ve already got the site reserved. I just need you to flesh out the details.” He got out his checkbook, leaned over the desk, and began filling in the lines. When he handed it to me, I did a double take. Whoa. How did a museum assistant have this kind of money to blow on a kid’s party?

He grinned, revealing ice white veneers. “I’ve invested well in antiquities, and they’ve paid off recently. I want to spend on my daughter. So, do we have a deal?”

Recovering quickly from the shock of seeing the amount, I slipped the check in my purse. “What kind of theme—”

“She’s really into vampires and horror movies and stuff like that. Can you come up with something freaky? Maybe with bloodsuckers and zombies and whatnot?”

I swallowed. That was a new one. “I guess so. Where’s the venue? You said you’d reserved a place.”

“The Wax Museum, down by Fisherman’s Wharf. They do private parties and they have this big room with all the characters from the great horror films—
Frankenstein
,
Dracula
,
The Wolfman
. Remember them? Plus some of the popular ones today—Jason, Michael, Freddy. It’s perfect!”

Perfect.

“I’ll call you for details,” I said, reaching for the door-knob. I paused. “Dan, do you know anyone who might have wanted Mary Lee dead?”

His eyebrows shot up. “I thought they had the killer. That girl who played Nancy Drew—what’s her name?”

“Delicia. No, she didn’t do it. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to find out who really killed Mary Lee. Do you know anyone who could have had a reason to do it?”

He rubbed a manicured hand on his sharp jaw, almost as if he was trying to appear thoughtful. How did a guy like this make it all the way to “museum exhibitor,” or whatever he called himself?

“Hmmm,” he finally said. “Mary Lee did step on a few toes in her Manolos on her climb up the social and financial ladder. I know she and her son clashed a lot. I used to hear them arguing in her office down the hall when I passed by.”

Passed by? I wondered. Or eavesdropped?

“And Christine had a problem with her recently, although I don’t know why. I think they used to be good friends, but something must have happened.”

He hadn’t overheard what it was, even though his office was next door to Christine’s?

“Then there was the staff,” he continued. “They talked about her behind her back. You know how they can be.”

Goodness. Sounded like Dan spent more time keeping track of Mary Lee than he did of the exhibits.

“Oh, and that sleazy ex-husband of hers. He’d been dropping by a lot.”

Great. The list of suspects was increasing exponentially.

“But that’s about it. So you really don’t think that Nancy Drew gal did it? Remember that big fight they had during the dress rehearsal.”

“No, she didn’t do it,” I said firmly. “But thanks for—”

He cut me off. “Say, I just had an idea!”

More, I thought. Now who? The docents?

“Why don’t we make it a Nancy Drew theme at the Wax Museum! Snuff could play Nancy, and all her friends could try to figure out who was turning people into wax figures—like that Paris Hilton movie!”

“You mean
House of Wax
. The original was with Vincent Price,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.” I opened the door before he could come up with another twist to the party theme and pulled out my business card. “Would you give this to Christine when you see her, and ask her to call me?”

Dan palmed the card. “Will do. And let me know what you need from me for the party. I’ll text Snuff’s friends and let them know it’s a surprise. She’ll be blown away!”

I nodded. What had I gotten myself into? Hey, it was his money—and he apparently had a lot of it. I got into the elevator, pushed the button for the ground floor, and pulled out the check, rereading the amount.

So Dan Tannacito had recently come into some money?

Had he won the lottery? Won big at a casino? Inherited from a rich—now deceased—relative?

Hmmm.

 

Lunchtime, my stomach said. I’d only had a latte and bagel for breakfast and needed some real food. I called my mother before pulling away from the museum to see if she was up for a roast beef dip from Tommy’s Joynt. It was her favorite place and right around the corner from her assisted-living facility.

On the drive over, my cell phone rang three times. All three calls were “Caller unknown.” I answered the first one—illegally, now that talking on a cell phone while driving is not allowed in California. No one was on the other end. After the third time, I shut off the phone. I didn’t have time for silly crank calls.

When I arrived to pick up Mother, she was dressed in her San Francisco best, right down to the white gloves and pill-box hat. Mom was old-school when it came to being out and about in the city, a tradition passed on to her by her mother, a San Francisco native.

Her grandparents, Bryson and Lanneau Parker, had immigrated from England and started their own business—a flower stand on the corner of Powell and Sutter streets back in the 1950s. More curbside stands followed, in Union Square, on Market, at Gumps, even at the Naval Exchange at the Treasure Island Navy Base, all offering nosegays, corsages, and bouquets. Through Bryson and Lanneau’s hard work and determination, the business blossomed into a brick-and-mortar florist and flourished, until flower shops had nearly become a thing of the past, thanks to flower boutiques in big-box stores and supermarkets. Luckily San Francisco is old-school, and you can still find stands around the city. But none of them are Parkers.

In their day, these unique and colorful kiosks captured faithful customers from local society. Delivering flowers to gala events had inspired my mother to nurture her own café life. I, on the other hand, was in the party business only because I’d lost my job teaching abnormal psychology at San Francisco State University and couldn’t think of anything else I was qualified to do. When I hit upon combining hosting events with raising money for charities, I settled in somewhat comfortably, albeit naively.

I had a feeling this latest murder would do nothing to enhance my career.

I parked the MINI in a tight spot along the street and entered the care facility using my key. Mother was waiting for me in the lobby.

“Mom! You look beautiful.”

And she did.

In spite of her age and her encroaching Alzheimer’s, she’d kept her Katy Keene cheekbones, her Veronica Lodge hair, and her Wonder Woman legs. Not only was she queen of the comic-book heroines, she was my real-life superhero.

She wrapped me in her arms in welcome. “Hello, sweetheart. Do you like the shoes?” She stepped back and pointed the toe of her alligator pumps.

“I love them! Where did you get them?”

“The Haight, of course. They have so many wonderful vintage stores. These are hard to come by, you know. I was lucky to find them.”

The stores in the Haight-Ashbury were also lucky. They had benefited from many of my mother’s discards over the years, remnants from her partying days.

We headed for Tommy’s Joynt on the corner, placed our orders for drippy roast beef dip sandwiches with the meat carvers behind the sneezeproof glass, and sat at our usual table under the stairs. From this vantage point, my mother could see everyone who entered, as well as all the memorabilia tacked to the walls. I checked to see if her signed photograph was still in its prime location—under the neon “Miller’s” beer sign. Although I couldn’t read the words from where I sat, I had them memorized: “Veronica Parker—Your ‘Afternoon Delight’ Movie Hostess.” That had been her slogan during her five-year stint as a local TV personality.

“So have they caught the real killer yet?” my mother asked as we waited for our sandwiches to arrive.

“So you agree with me. Delicia didn’t do it.”

“Of course she didn’t. She’s one of your best friends. Best friends don’t murder people.”

“Finally! Someone who believes me.”

“Have you seen her?”

I shook my head while sipping my overly creamed coffee, nearly spilling it down the front of my T-shirt. My attempt to turn black coffee into a latte hadn’t worked. “I’ve been putting it off—I’m not sure she wants to see me. Thought I could do more good trying to find out what really happened. But I want to get her a lawyer as soon as possible.”

“Maybe I can help,” she said, eyeing the sandwiches that had just arrived. I was so hungry, I planned to wolf mine down as quickly as possible. “I know plenty of attorneys in this town,” Mother continued. “Slept with half of them.”

“Mother!”

“Sorry, dear. Anyway, I’ll call Mel and see if he can take the case.”

I blinked, my sandwich halfway to my mouth. “Mel? You mean Melvin Belli?”

“Of course. We were very close at one time.” She actually fluttered her eyelashes.

“Mom,” I said, gently placing a hand on her bracelet-covered arm. “Melvin Belli died several years ago.”

She looked confused for a moment, a look I was becoming familiar with. “Oh dear. Poor man. Did somebody shoot him?”

“No, Mom. Natural causes.”

“Oh good, because a lot of people wanted to shoot him at one time or another. Never mind. I know other attorneys. I hear Bob Arns is good. And Sheldon Siegel. I’ll call them.”

“Actually, I think Brad has someone in mind. But thanks anyway.”

We chatted between bites of roast beef au jus, mostly about the plethora of activities at my mother’s center—her scrapbook class, bridge group, yoga workouts, Sudoku tournaments. We didn’t return to the topic of Mary Lee’s murder until the food was gone.