How to Crash a Killer Bash (30 page)

The note was unaddressed and unsigned, but it was obvious who it was meant for and who wrote it. “Jason was blackmailing Mary Lee.”

“Sure looks that way,” Sam said. “You going to turn that over to the police?”

I nodded absently, not sure what I was really going to do with the note. Something was bothering me about all this, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The handwriting could easily be verified by an expert, but I had a feeling it was authentic. And Jason’s need for money—and revenge—were motives enough to blackmail his wealthy ex-wife.

But it didn’t prove that he’d killed Mary Lee. In fact, he would have wanted her alive to get the blackmail money. It also didn’t explain who killed him. Was it someone who knew about the scheme? Someone who wanted in on the deal? Like Ed Pike? And when Jason wouldn’t share, Ed was killed? But then, who killed Ed?

What about Christine Lampe? With Mary Lee dead, Corbin’s secret birth and adoption would be safe. And Dan Tannacito? Was his clandestine relationship with Mary Lee something more? Something that threatened his climb up the museum pyramid? Would he have killed anyone who got in his way—like Jason—or anyone who might have stumbled onto his secret—like Ed Pike?

As much as the idea troubled me, I had to admit that the one person who seemed to gain the most from all this was Corbin. He stood to inherit a fortune—unless someone proved he wasn’t Mary Lee’s biological child.

I took another look at the note, written in a different hand from the one used in the ledger.

How had it ended up in the ledger—a ledger that Mary Lee had obviously hidden under her desk?

Sam looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got to go,” interrupting my thoughts. He started for the elevator. “It’s mah-jongg night.”

“Oh, Sam. Sorry. I’m so wrapped up in this, I forget other people have normal lives. You play mah-jongg?”

“Over in Jackson Square, with a bunch of old-timers like me. It’s one of my few pleasures now. And it’s free.”

I felt for the man. We rode the elevator down to the main floor in an awkward silence.

“Thanks for everything, Sam. You’ve been beyond great.”

He tipped his hat. “Keep me posted,” he called as he stepped out and headed for the nearest exit.

I waved, then checked my watch. I had only minutes before the museum closed. Tucking the ledger under my arm, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, feeling like a salmon swimming upstream as visitors made their way down.

I hoped my hunch about the murder weapon would prove right. Neither the police nor Brad had found it in the crime scene room. That had got me thinking. How had it been smuggled out of the room? And where had it been hidden?

That’s what I was hoping to find out.

I was so deep in thought, I tripped on the top stair step and dropped my purse and the ledger. Cursing under my breath, I gathered up the few items that had tumbled out of my purse—a handful of balloons (I never went anywhere without them), my Pinkerton Detective badge from the party, a couple of promotional “Killer Parties” pens.

Finally, I bent down to retrieve the ledger that had fallen open to the so-called last page. My eye caught on something as it lay in the indirect spotlight. Inside the back cover I could see soft indentations.

Whoever had written in the journal had pressed hard enough to leave impressions on the back page.

I dug in my purse for the only writing tool I had—a “Killer Parties” pen—and began to move the tip over the indentations as lightly as I could. Names began to appear—Wellesley. White. Wilson. Wo—

“The museum is now closed,” a voice called over the PA system.

I cursed. I was out of time. I stuffed the pen in my purse, tucked the ledger under my arm, and hurried to the African exhibits. On my way, I pulled out my cell phone and called Brad.

No answer. I hung up and returned the phone to my purse.

The second-floor exhibits were now deserted. Alone in the dimly lit room, I felt a sudden chill and rubbed my arms. Glancing at the security camera, I saw the yellow light, indicating my presence. It gave me little comfort in the room filled with frightful masks, obscene statues, and deadly weapons.

A jumble of dark thoughts fought for attention as I headed for a specific exhibit. Had Jason figured a million in cash was enough and killed Mary Lee after she paid him to ensure her silence? Had Corbin discovered the truth and been so overwhelmed by the news, he’d killed his adoptive mother and father? Had the security guard discovered the motive or incriminating evidence and threatened to expose the killer? Or was he just an innocent bystander, caught up in someone’s misguided plan?

And why had the last page been torn from the ledger and all the copies?

“The de Young Museum is now closed,” came the announcement again. “Thank you for visiting. We look forward to seeing you again soon. The de Young Museum is now closed . . .” The message repeated several times, then went silent. The security guard on duty would soon be around to whoosh me out.

Time had run out.

I located the case that held the infamous dagger—the one that had been replicated for the murder mystery—and felt like I was right back where I started. Peering into the case, I was still amazed to see how closely the fabricated weapon resembled the authentic one.

Right down to the desiccated blood.

I heard a sound. Footfalls.

The security guard.

There was something odd in the step, a hesitation, and a shiver passed through me. The hairs at the back of my neck stood up like porcupine quills.

It sounded as if someone was trying
not
to make any sound. As if they were sneaking rather than simply walking into the room.

“Hello?” I called. If it was a security guard, surely he would answer.

I listened. The footfalls stopped.

I pulled out my cell phone and tried Brad’s number again. No answer. I hung up and slid the phone back into my purse.

Another creak, barely audible. Coming my way and getting closer. The de Young is a maze of adjoining rooms. I tiptoed into the next room, trying not to squeak myself, and searched for a place to hide until the intruder passed. I only needed a few minutes to carry out my plan. And if I was right, my being caught after hours in the museum would not be an issue.

Spotting a camera high on the wall, I ducked behind a large case with a stone base and pulled myself into a tight ball. I held my breath. If the intruder was a security guard, explaining myself at this point, without actual evidence, would be awkward to say the least. And if it wasn’t. . . .

I didn’t want to think about that.

I listened to the footfalls move across the floor and into the next room. Letting out a breath, I tried to relax my tense muscles. I glanced at the camera. No light. So far, so good. But as soon as I moved, the camera would catch my presence. What did the thieves do in those heist movies? Cut the camera wires? Turn off the electricity? Tape a fake picture over the lens? I wished I’d done a little Internet research on “museum theft,” but it was too late for that.

I’d just have to hurry before the security cameras caught me and sent a guard—or worse. I hustled back to the last room and over to the case that held the dagger, watching for cameras as I went.

Odd. The lights on both remained dark. The camera hadn’t picked up my movement.

Was something wrong with the security system? Or did they shut the cameras down after hours?

Either way, I couldn’t believe my luck.

As I reached the exhibit, I wrapped my arms around the Plexiglas case and tried to lift it. It wouldn’t budge. I bent over to examine how it was secured and couldn’t find anything obvious, like clamps or bolts or screws. Was it Super-Glued onto the pedestal? Sam had mentioned that the museum wasn’t overly concerned about thefts.

I glanced back at the camera. Still dark.

Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I wiped it off with the back of my hand. If I messed up, I’d not only be in trouble, I’d lose all credibility with Detective Melvin. And this was a long shot. Praying I didn’t get caught, I pulled out a “Killer Parties” pen from my purse.

I stabbed the pen into the base of the case and tried to pry it open. No luck. I moved around to the other side and noticed a small lock.

Now all I needed was a key, and I’d be able to prove my hunch right—that whoever killed Mary Lee somehow got ahold of the antique weapon, stabbed her with it, and then replaced it with no one the wiser.

Only a handful of people would have had that kind of access. And the name I recognized on the last page was one of them.

“Looking for this?” a voice came from behind.

I spun around and slapped a hand on my chest. “Sam! You scared the crap out of me!”

Sam, still in uniform, dangled a ring of keys in one hand. In the other hand he held some kind of small statue.

My voice grew hoarse as I tried to speak. “I’m so glad to see you! I thought you were gone, playing mah-jongg.”

“I figured you might come here,” Sam said evenly as he offered his charming smile.

I had to come up with something fast. “You’re amazing, Sam. You always seem to know when I need you.”

“I have my job to thank for that. I get the run of the place while practically being invisible. Too bad the pay is so low.”

I frowned at Sam’s words. He sounded friendly, but there was a false note behind his tone. “Are you all right, Sam?”

“I’m fine, Presley.” He stuffed the keys in his pocket and lifted the two-foot statue. He slapped it into his other hand, like a cop with a threatening billy club. Only this was no ordinary statue. I immediately recognized the Dogon figure—the grotesque half-man, half-woman artifact he’d shown me when I’d first met him.

He slapped the statue in his palm again, illustrating its obvious heft.

I had to find a way to distract him. “Is that the real statue?”

“The real thing.” He exposed a cold smile, and a chill ran down my back.

“Where . . . where did you get it?”

He leaned his head in the direction of an exhibit behind me. The Plexiglas case that held it had been removed and set on the floor.

“What are you doing with it, Sam?” I began backing up until I was stopped by the sharp edge of an exhibit case poking against my spine.

In the flash of an eye, Sam raised the statue and swung it at me.

The corner grazed my temple. The glancing blow knocked me flying.

Blood from the gash in my head ran into my eyes, blinding me.

The room spun around like the Golden Gate Park carousel as I hit the floor.

With the side of my face pressed against the cold marble floor, I forced my eyes open and saw blurred shapes fading in and out of darkness. Nauseated, I pushed myself up to sitting and felt my pounding forehead. My hand touched a slick, sticky gash. The coppery smell of blood stung my nostrils and I gasped for breath.

It took me a second to realize where I was.

And how I got there.

I looked up at a shadowy figure looming over me. He held a heavy-looking object in his hand.

I wiped the blood from my eyes. As my vision cleared, the object came into view.

The Dogon statue.

I almost wet my pants from fear.

“S-Sam . . . ?” I stammered, still not absorbing the truth in front of me.

“Don’t get up,” he said, almost politely. Underneath his even tone, I sensed a bitter, controlled anger. His eyes glinted in the dim light.

Understanding flooded through me, temporarily blowing away the pain. Sam had just tried to kill me.

“What . . . what are you doing?” I said, half demanding, half pleading. I pressed my hand against my bloody head wound.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he snorted. He slapped the statue into the palm of his other hand.

I had to keep him talking. “Seriously, Sam! Why did you hit me? I thought we were friends.” Still woozy, I felt blood trickle from between my fingers and into my eye. I wiped it out with the back of my bloody hand.

“I had to, Presley. Things have already gone too far.”

I didn’t like the way he said my name. He had always referred to me formally, as Ms. Parker or ma’am.

“Sam, what are you talking about?” I started to push myself up to standing, but Sam kicked my arm out from under me, and I fell back down on my side.

I looked up at him incredulously. It was as if Santa had just turned into Satan.

“First I’m going to finish what I started.” He held up the statue. “Then I’m going to return the Dogon to its exhibit case, turn the cameras back on, and wait for one of the other guards to find your body.” He spoke evenly, no sign of emotion.