How to Crash a Killer Bash (22 page)

“Sorry about that.” I pulled back and blotted my tears on the bottom of my shirt. “I’m not usually a crybaby.”

“Hey,” Brad said, his voice low and comforting. “Don’t apologize. You’re under a lot of stress. And you feel frustrated. But we’re going to figure this thing out.”

I grabbed a tissue from my purse and blew my nose. “And just how are we going to do that?”

“Okay, now you’re whining.”

I gave him a soft punch on the arm.

“Let’s start by reviewing everything we know so far, over a nice relaxing glass of wine and some food. I know just the place.”

“Brad, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but—”

He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Get your purse. We’re getting off this island. No argument. And no more whining.”

I wanted to slap him and hug him at the same time. Mostly hug him. The idea of a glass of wine—or three—sounded beyond wonderful. And I was starving, now that I thought about it. I grabbed my purse and jacket and let him lead me out of the office.

 

Brad parked his van in the lot off Ellis Street and we jaywalked to John’s Grill across the street. The restaurant is a landmark in the city, famous for being Dashiell Hammett’s hangout while he wrote
The Maltese Falcon
. Sam Spade ordered chops there, in a scene from the movie.

“Are you here for the meeting?” a waitress asked as we entered.

I gave her a blank look.

“MWA. Mystery Writers of America. They’re meeting upstairs.”

Brad spoke up. “No, we just want a table for two.”

The waitress led us to a spot near the window. It had been a while since I’d had a steak at John’s Grill. I glanced around at all the fictional detective’s paraphernalia, fighting for space with photos of famous diners. The dark wood walls, green leather booths, and white tablecloths captured the spirit of old San Francisco. I had a feeling not much had changed over the years, except for the prices.

While Brad scanned the wine list, I asked the waitress about the falcon itself. I’d heard it had been stolen some time back.

“It’s back,” she said, ready to write up our order. “Upstairs. Bolted down and in a glass case this time.” Bet she answered that question several times a day.

To my surprise, Brad ordered a bottle of Tournesol cabernet from Napa Valley. I’d pegged him as strictly a beer drinker, but after hearing him ask the waitress some questions about the wine, I realized he knew a lot more about it than I did. I could tell red from white, and that was about it.

While we waited, I pulled out the papers Sam had found in Mary Lee’s locker and copied for me. I unfolded them, pressed them flat, and turned them for Brad to see.

Before he could look them over, the waitress brought our wine. After Brad approved the wine and the waitress poured us each a glass, he said, “What’s this?”

I took a sip before answering. The burgundy liquid felt like an anesthetic as it slid down my parched throat. I didn’t know jack about “bouquet” or “woody” or “nosey,” but this stuff was totally “drinkable.”

I licked the purple from my lips and said, “I’m not sure. Sam found these in Mary Lee’s locker at the museum and made copies for me.”

“So?” Brad said, glancing at them. “Why would she keep a list of names with numbers next to them in a locker at the museum?”

Brad took another sip of wine, then studied the list.

“Some of the names are familiar,” he said.

“I know. I suppose it could be a list of patrons and their donations.”

Brad flipped through the five pages. When he reached the last page, he flipped it over, then looked up at me. “Where’s the rest?”

“What do you mean?”

“The names stop at ‘Watson.’ There aren’t any Xs, Ys, or Zs.”

I thought a moment. “Maybe nobody named Young or Zachary made a contribution.”

“Possible,” he said. “But unlikely.”

“So . . . you think there’s a missing last page?”

The waitress appeared again to take our dinner orders. I hadn’t yet opened the menu.

“You order for us,” I said to Brad. “At this point, I’ll eat anything. Except roasted falcon.”

The waitress didn’t laugh at my joke. Brad ordered two rib-eye steaks and baked potatoes, then glanced at me for my approval.

It was a lot for me, but I wasn’t about to pass up a steak dinner. I nodded, then poured us both another glass of cabernet.

“I’m just saying, I think it’s odd,” Brad said when the waitress disappeared.

I took another sip of wine. At this rate, with no food in my stomach, I’d be wasted in a matter of minutes. Best to get my clear thinking done quickly.

“All right,” I said, “suppose you’re right. What do we know? Number one: Mary Lee apparently hid the list in her locker. Number two: The last page may be missing. Number three: The numbers next to the names may be donation amounts.”

“But why hide the information if they’re just donations?” Brad asked.

I glanced through the pages again. “They’re obviously something incriminating,” I announced, as if I had just solved the Da Vinci Code.

The waitress reappeared with our steaks. I was practically drooling when I took my first bite. Sleuthing seemed to make me ravenous.

“Delicious!” I said to Brad.

“It’s one of my favorite places,” he said.

I ate a few more bites of meat and potato, then set down my fork and took a sip of wine. “Brad, what if there’s another set somewhere? Maybe the ones in Mary Lee’s locker were copies too. I didn’t really pay attention. If there’s an original set, maybe it contains the last missing page.”

Brad took another bite of steak.

I went on. “Where do they usually keep information about donations?”

“Accounting?” Brad offered.

I pulled out my Killer Parties pen and party-planning notebook and made a note to follow up on that possibility.

“I think you’re going off track, Presley. This probably doesn’t have anything to do with her murder.”

I stared at Brad. Self-conscious, he wiped his mouth and chin. My eyes narrowed. It suddenly dawned on me—he looked different.

“What?”

“Your soul patch! It’s gone.” I tapped the space under my chin.

He scratched the spot. “Yeah, shaved it off a week ago. Saw one on Billy Ray Cyrus and decided mine had to go.”

I liked his new look, although the patch had been sexy on him.

“You’re still staring,” he said. “Shall we get back to the problem at hand?”

Was he blushing?

“Sorry, ADHD. Where were we?”

He tapped my notebook.

“Oh yeah. I had another thought. Can you get Melvin to let you see the police tapes from the museum that night?”

“Already done.” He signaled the waitress for the tab.

I sat up. “Really? Have you seen them?”

“Yep.”

“And?”

“You can’t see anything but the tops of people’s heads.”

I slumped in my seat. “You’re kidding. Why? The camera should have captured the whole room and everyone who came in and out.”

“Something must have knocked it crooked.”

“What?”

Brad waited until the waitress cleared out dishes, then said, “It was aimed too high.”

“So someone moved it? Obviously it was the killer! Can I see the tape?”

“Nope.”

The waitress arrived with the bill, Brad glanced at it, then handed her his credit card.

“Why not?”

“Police evidence.”

“What a crock. You’re not a cop, but you get to see this stuff and I don’t.”

He grinned smugly.

“So what else did you see?”

“Like I said—tops of heads. Some hats—a few fedoras, police helmet, Sherlock Holmes caps . . .”

As he listed the hats, I jotted them down in my notebook, and tried to put a name next to the ones I remembered seeing.

Those were mainly the actors. Most of the audience members wore hats as well, many the same as my suspect/actors. Great. Now I had a bunch of hat-wearing suspects. But one hat in particular had stuck in my mind—the other deerstalker cap I’d found in Jason Cosetti’s closet.

Shit, Sherlock, I thought, as I downed the dregs of my wine.

 

Brad drove me back to my condo with a promise we’d start fresh in the morning. Sitting next to him in his SUV, under the influence of wine and a long dry spell since my last relationship, I was mustering up the courage to invite him in to see my etchings. But before I could get the slightly slurred words out, he put a hand on my knee. His intimate touch shot a bolt of electricity through me. Maybe I wouldn’t have to do the asking, I thought as he parked at my condo building.

“Listen, Presley,” he said. “I’m sure the police are doing all they can to find out the truth. Melvin is—”

Uh-oh. He’d just pushed the wrong button.

I tried to keep my voice steady. “Your friend Melvin isn’t doing anything, Brad. He’s convinced Delicia is the murderer. You’re blind when it comes to him—don’t you get it?” I jerked open the door and put a leg out.

Brad gripped my arm.

“Presley. You can’t do this yourself. Remember what happened last time when you took off on your own? You almost got yourself killed. I said I’d help you, and I meant it.”

I shrugged out of his grip, got out of the car, and slammed the door. After fumbling with my keys for what seemed hours, I finally jammed the right one into the lock and went inside, slamming yet another door behind me. My three cats darted for safety at the loud sound.

A little overreaction, Presley, don’t you think? Where had all that anger come from? Frustration at the thought of my friend spending another night in jail for something she didn’t do? I couldn’t imagine what she was going through. My mother had been arrested numerous times over the years, mostly for disturbing the peace, and I’d been to the jail plenty of times to bail her out. But she’d never spent a night there. And so far, neither had I.

Or was I upset that Brad sometimes treated me like a . . . a
girl
? And not the way I’d been fantasizing about lately.

Then again, it could have been your basic sexual frustration. In the back of my mind I’d been imagining a romantic end to the evening. And Brad had ruined it.

I threw my purse down and picked up the nearest cat—Thursby. I petted him so hard I was giving him rug burns.

To hell with Brad Matthews. Time to focus—and step it up. Even if it meant I’d be joining Dee at her new residence. Because what mattered now was freeing Delicia, and the only way to do that was to find out who’d killed Mary Lee and Jason.

Could be worse. I could end up where Mary Lee was headed—Colma, also known as Cemetery City. That’s where many well-known San Francisco citizens ended up in permanent lockdown. Wacky Emperor Norton. Baseball legend Joe DiMaggio. Architect Julia Morgan. Lawman Wyatt Earp.

And Charles de Young.

I pushed the thought out of my mind. No distractions. I had a “mystery event” to solve. Only this time, I didn’t know the ending.

The next morning, in a slightly better mood after dreaming about a giant marshmallow man, I dressed in black jeans, a Treasure Island Yacht Club T-shirt, and my black Doc Martens Mary Janes. I went by my office, hoping I wouldn’t run into Brad. I was more confused about my feelings than annoyed, but didn’t feel like psychoanalyzing myself at the moment.

I gave a sigh of relief—or was it disappointment?—when I saw no sign of his truck or bike in the parking lot. Entering my office, I sat at my desk, whirled around in my chair a couple of times, then left, locking the door behind me.

“Screw it,” I said. I was about to leave the building when I had a thought. Spinning around in my tracks, I doubled back, bypassing my own office, and entered through Delicia’s unlocked door.

Planting myself in her chair, I tried to channel Delicia. What had she seen in Corbin that she hadn’t in all the other men who’d pursued her?