How to Crash a Killer Bash (28 page)

Brad looked at me quizzically. “Wait a minute. I thought you gave those papers to Melvin.”

“I gave him a different copy.”

“You have two copies?” He picked up the papers and gave them a quick glance, then shrugged.

I explained how I came by the second copy.

“But that’s not the point. See the corner with the staple.” I pointed to the tiny scrap of paper. “I think this proves there’s another page.”

“The last page was ripped off,” Brad said, grinning as the light went on.

“Yes! But what’s odd is, I think someone broke into my office and—”

He held up a hand to cut me off. “Wait a second. Someone broke into your office?”

“I think so.”

He glanced around. “How can you tell? Looks okay to me.”

“When I tried my key, it didn’t fit easily. And then I opened the top drawer and found my papers all neatly stacked.”

“Yeah, that’s conclusive.”

I wadded up a sticky note and threw it at him. “Anyway, whoever was in my office handled the papers I gave to Melvin.”

“Well, just look for a neat freak then.”

I stood up and crossed my arms. “I thought you were going to help me.”

Brad laughed. “I am. I just don’t see what a pile of neat papers has anything to do with anything.”

I grabbed my purse and rushed past him to the door. He caught my wrist. “Hey, where are you going?”

“I . . . have a party to plan,” I said haughtily.

“Am I invited?” He released my arm.

“Sorry. You’re not on the guest list.”

Walking back to my condo, I tried to come up with a viable transportation plan. With two cars in the shop, I was running out of transportation. I didn’t want to keep asking Brad to drive me around, but what options did I have? Raj drove a white Chevy SUV with the words “Treasure Island Security” printed on the sides. Berk had a VW, but he—and it—weren’t around at the moment. I could try to get one of those share-cars so popular in the city—like a Zipcar or City CarShare.

But then I remembered Mother.

I’d nearly forgotten. She owned a car—an old Cadillac that one of her ex-husbands had given to her as part of a divorce settlement. She’d kept it as a souvenir rather than as transportation. Being a city girl, she’d rarely driven it, and now, with her illness, it was unlikely she’d ever drive again.

Mother had stored the monstrosity at a city parking garage, but when I moved to the island, she asked me to keep it there. I warned her that TI had a substantial auto burglary problem, but she insisted, so I had agreed to park it in one of the extra spots at the far end of the condo complex. I’d covered it with a car cover to keep it safe from the salt air and essentially forgotten about the thing.

Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead driving the humongous, not-even-close-to-green machine. But I was desperate.

Would it still run? I wondered, as I unlocked the front door to the condo and greeted my cats. After feeding them a hearty meal and chatting briefly with them in kitty talk, I did a quick search of my junk drawer and found my mother’s disco-ball key ring and keys. After kissing my kitties good-bye, promising them massages when I returned, I locked the door securely. I headed over to the car with one lingering question on my mind, the one that bothered me more than the missing last page.

Where was Corbin?

He’d virtually disappeared, leaving behind his mother’s precious pup. And tracking down the answer to that question was enough to make me get inside my mother’s boat of a car, start driving, and find out.

I could see dust collected on the car cover from several feet away as I approached. The thing hadn’t been touched since I’d parked it there months ago. I peeled back the cover and stood for a moment, marveling at what was once an en-viable status symbol, but now would be considered a gasguzzling clunker. How dramatically the whims of automobile drivers had changed over the years.

Mother had selected this one because it was her favorite color—gold. One of her former husbands, a car buff, offered her a choice from his collection in the divorce settlement. Naturally she picked the most expensive one of the bunch. The car cover had done its job. The gold paint was as shiny as the day we’d driven here. It was hard to believe the car hadn’t just come off the lot.

Unlocking the driver’s side, I pulled open the squeaking door. The gold leather interior was pristine and the quilted seats luxurious as I slithered in. This wasn’t a car. This was a coach meant for a king. A throne for royalty. A second home. What a contrast to the claustrophobic Smart Car! I snuggled into the seat, took in the scent of leather, then stuck the key in the ignition and twisted it.

Nothing. Absolutely dead.

“Nuts!” I said, and then sighed. There was only one thing I could do at this point, short of calling a cab. I got out my iPhone and tapped a familiar number.

 

Brad arrived in less than five minutes. As he drove up, I saw his mouth drop open, then lip-read the words, “Holy crap!” His SUV jerked to a stop next to me, and he hopped out, grinning like he’d found gold. And in a way, he had.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, practically drooling over my mother’s Caddy. He’d never looked at me like that.

“It’s my mother’s. She doesn’t drive anymore, so she asked me to keep it here.”

Brad ignored me as he circled the car. “Whoa. This is a 1960 Coupe de Ville! Convertible! Look at those fins. Do you know how much this is worth?”

I couldn’t care less about the value of the car at this point. I just needed it to get me from point A to points B, C, and D.

“Look at that grille! The chrome! This thing has 340 horsepower, with a V-8 engine. Must weigh two and a half tons . . .” He poked his head inside and gasped. “Gold carpeting. Gold dashboard. Pearlized steering wheel. Power windows, steering, brakes.” He pulled his head out. “You know what this Mac Daddy Caddy sold for back then? Less than six thousand. This one, in such cherry condition, gotta be worth over forty.”

“Is there anything you don’t know?” I said crossing my arms.

Brad caressed the bumper. I got shivers.

“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.