How to Crash a Killer Bash (17 page)

I glanced at the name on the plate.

“Dan Tannacito? Christine’s assistant? You’re kidding. Isn’t he a little—”

“Young for her?” Sam said. “Sure, but she’s—she was—a powerful woman. Power and youth make a strong couple, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so . . .”

“I hear she was his sugar mama, but,” he added, “you didn’t hear this from me.” He zipped his lips with his fingers. “I’m just telling you in case it helps you find who killed her.”

I zipped mine. “Interesting,” I said, forgetting my lips were supposed to be zipped. Had Dan “invested” in Mary Lee? Was she the “antiquity” that had recently paid off? Enough with the museum metaphors. “Do you think Dan might have had something to do with her death? A lover’s quarrel, maybe? Maybe his bonus money had been cut off . . .”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I am, however, doing a little investigating of my own.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “If we work together on this thing and share information, I’m sure we’ll find the killer.”

“Just as long as I don’t lose my job,” Sam added.

I shook his hand. Sam was a virtual gold mine of information. And much like a party planner, who would know more about what goes on behind the scenes than a security guard?

“Anything else?” I whispered, even though the hallway was empty.

“I heard from one of the docents that there may have been trouble in paradise.”

Goose bumps rose on my arms. “What kind of trouble?”

“Apparently there were rumors of another woman. Of course, rumors abound in a place like this. But still . . . there’s often some truth to such things. . . .”

I heard a door open and spun around, letting go of the elevator door. Dan Tannacito stepped out from his office and closed the door behind him. He blinked in surprise when he spotted me.

Had he overheard us talking?

“Ms. Parker! What a nice surprise. I assume you’re here to talk about my daughter’s party plans. Did you get to see the Wax Museum?”

I glanced back at the elevator. The doors were closed. Sam was gone.

“Uh, yes. I just wanted to let you know that it’s all confirmed. No problem with hosting the party there.”

“Wonderful! Snuffy will be thrilled. Or ‘psyched,’ as she would say. Do you need anything more from me at this point?”

I was having trouble looking at Dan, knowing what I knew about his relationship with Mary Lee. “No, I’m good.”

“Are you headed down? Be glad to escort you. I’m on my way out.”

“Actually, I stopped by to try and see Christine again. I haven’t been able to connect with her.”

“Cool. I’ll let you go then. We’ll talk more soon. Snuffy’s really excited, as you can imagine. She already has her costume. She wants to dress up as the Bride of Chucky.”

“Yes, I’ll be in touch,” I said as he stepped into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, I walked down to Christine’s office and rapped on the door. No answer. I opened it and peered in. A secretary’s desk sat abandoned in the front part of the office. The door to the inner office was ajar. I was about to knock when I heard Christine’s concerned voice. I paused and listened, waiting for an appropriate moment to interrupt her conversation.

“You’re kidding!” Christine hissed.

Intrigued, I stepped closer. Silence. I guessed she was on the phone, listening to a response.

“Are you sure?” she said after a brief pause. “I see. Well, thanks for calling.”

I heard her hang up the phone. I tapped on the door, then peeked inside.

“Excuse me, Christine. Sorry for the interruption, but I wanted to ask you a few questions. Is this a good time?”

Although I didn’t know her well, I knew she didn’t usually look this pale. The times I’d seen her at rehearsal she’d been poised, confident, and professional. At the moment, sitting at her desk, she didn’t look any of these. Rather, she appeared a little confused, even drained.

I stepped inside. “Are you all right?”

She blinked rapidly, as if disoriented, then looked up from the phone she’d been staring at.

“That was the police,” she said softly, her face tight.

Oh boy. “What did they want?”

She hesitated, as if searching for words, then said, “The body in the pond has been identified.”

I broke out in goose bumps. “Who was it?”

She met my eyes. Hers were large, dark, and staring.

“Jason Cosetti. Mary Lee’s ex-husband.”

Oh my God.

My first thought was: Delicia would be released! She couldn’t have killed Mary Lee’s ex-husband, because she’d been in jail.

“Do they know when he died?” I asked, easing into a chair across from Christine’s desk. The surface of the desk was lined with small artifacts—a decorative bowl, a beaded necklace, a stone grinder, an arrowhead as long as my hand. The telephone sat in the middle.

She shook her head as she looked out a side window. “Not yet. He said it’s not easy to pinpoint an exact time on a floater.”

“A floater?”

“That’s what he called it. He said it’s affected by things like water temperature, degree of decomposition . . .” She stopped, grimacing. Too much information.

I sagged in the chair. Even assuming both murders were committed by the same person—which I couldn’t prove—Delicia wouldn’t be off the hook until the police could determine that Jason Cosetti died
after
Mary Lee did—and
after
Dee’s arrest. And even that didn’t necessarily clear Delicia for Mary Lee’s murder—there could be another killer. Meanwhile, my friend would remain in jail, with all the horrors that entailed—unless Andrew could get her released. Would she be eligible for bail?

I tried to return my focus to Jason Cosetti. Why had he been killed? Had someone disliked Mary Lee and Jason enough to want both of them dead? If so, what was the connection, other than they were once married—and had a son?

Corbin was the obvious link between them. Surely he wouldn’t murder both of his parents. Yes, it happened now and then, but what did Corbin have to gain by their death? I guessed he would inherit a great deal of money from his wealthy mother, but his father had supposedly fallen on hard times and had even asked Mary Lee for help. That must have been humiliating.

“Christine,” I said, interrupting her from her trance. She turned away from the window and met my eyes with little interest. “I’m came here to see if you could help me clear Delicia. She isn’t the one who murdered Mary Lee—or Jason. Is there anything you can tell me that would help? Do you know anyone who might have wanted her dead?”

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.