How to Survive a Killer Seance (15 page)

“Whew, you’re here,” I said, relieved. “Uh . . . I’m looking for Jonathan. Or Lyla.”

“Yeah, well, they’re not here.” He started to close the door.

I pushed out my hand to stop him. “Wait a minute! What happened out there?” I pointed back to the séance room. “What was all that about Jonathan sleeping around? Or cheating on Lyla? Why did you have Sarah say those things?”

Levi left the door open and abruptly returned to his computer. Plopping into his chair, he began typing frantically on the keyboard.

I waited. When no explanation came, I said, “Levi?”

He whirled around, his face red, spittle on his lips. “What! Can’t you see I’m trying to figure out what happened! Now leave me alone!”

Whoa. This was a side I hadn’t seen from the quiet computer nerd. “So, you have no idea why the image started saying all those things?”

“No. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

“How was it meant to happen? And whose voice was it? It didn’t sound like Delicia.”

“I told you, I don’t know! I don’t know!” He was back at the keyboard, fingers flying.

I didn’t want to make things worse than they already were so I decided to stand down. “Okay, well, uh, will you let me know when you do?”

No response.

“Levi?”

“Yes! Okay!”

“And let me know if you see Jonathan or Lyla.”

He shooed me away with a single wave of his hand. I backed out of the room, leaving the door open a crack. I could hear him beating his fingers against the keyboard as I moved along and hoped he’d soon be able to explain to me what had happened. He seemed to be as clueless as we all were about the glitch that had ruined the party. But who else could have hacked into it and made such a change?

I headed for the kitchen and found Chef Rodney cleaning up his utensils and packing up his stuff. Two waiters were helping him with the cleanup, but the clumsy waiter—what was his name?—was nowhere in sight. The last time I’d seen him, he’d tucked himself into a corner of the ballroom and was watching the séance.

I returned to the ballroom where I found Mia talking with Raj about security. She wouldn’t meet my eyes, obviously embarrassed about what “Sarah” had said about her having an affair with Jonathan. Dee, Berk, and Brad were busy taking down decorations and packing them into boxes. Mother sat in a chair next to Stephen, her hand on his, obviously consoling him. I went over to them.

“Sorry about all this, Mr. Ellington,” I said, pulling up a chair. “It’s not what I’d planned—that’s for sure.”

He looked down at his knees and shook his head. “I knew this would happen one day.”

I glanced at Mother. She was as wide-eyed as I was. “What? You mean, you knew Lyla had a violent temper?”

“No, no, not that,” he grumbled. “Jonathan. All those women. He’s a sex addict, or whatever you call it.”

How about slimeball? I thought.

“Can’t keep his hands to himself,” Stephen continued, “even when married to a beautiful woman like Lyla.”

“You knew about the . . . affairs?” I asked Stephen gently.

He nodded slowly, not looking up. He seemed to be taking on Jonathan’s shame. “A couple of years ago, I caught him . . . you know . . . doing it . . . in the limo right outside my home. With his pretty young driver. I guess he figured no one would see them through the tinted windows. Nor did they expect anyone to come bursting in, like I did.”

“How did you know about the others?” I asked. Mother sat mutely in her seat, eyes as big as crystal balls. I was sure this wasn’t going over well with her. She was a serial monogamist—one man at a time—and she didn’t cheat.

“I caught him again, making out with his secretary in his office. For being such an intelligent guy, he was an idiot when it came to women. He could have at least been discreet.”

“And there were more after that?”

“I found a hotel bill in one of the jackets he’d lent me and confronted him. He tried to lie his way out of it, but he finally gave up. He knew I knew. He swore he was going to stop.”

“But he didn’t.”

I was surprised Stephen hadn’t caught on sooner. I guess people don’t see what they don’t want to see.

Stephen sighed. He seemed more defeated than embarrassed. Mother rubbed his arm. “Like I said, he’s whatcha-call-it—an addict. I know he loves Lyla, but he can’t keep his tool in the toolbox.”

I wanted to laugh at the metaphor but it just wasn’t the right time.

“Any idea where he is now?” I asked.

Stephen shook his head. Without looking up, he began wheeling his electric wheelchair toward the exit.

“Wait, Stephen,” Mother said, running after him. “I’ll go with you.” She turned to me and said softly, “Jonathan’s driver brought us. She’s waiting outside in the limo.”

I gave her a sympathetic smile and a little wave, and headed over to face Mia.

“Listen, Presley, about what you heard . . .”

I waved her words away. “That’s none of my business, Mia. What’s important is that we find Jonathan and Lyla.

They could be anywhere in this house, and you’re the one who knows it best.”

“I’ll do whatever I can,” she said, biting her lip. “I’m sorry . . .”

“Just take a look around. Maybe get your security guard to look for them. I checked the room where Dee changed clothes and where Levi was manning the computer. And the kitchen. No luck.”

“Will do,” she said, then paused. “Presley, honestly, I didn’t know he was married. That first day you both came to see me? He came back to the office, said he forgot to ask something. We got to talking and . . . he was so charming and good-looking. When I found out he was married, I broke it off. . . .”

In the short time I’d known Jonathan, I knew how charming he could be—but also what a player he was. How could she have not seen that? “Just see if you can find him—or Lyla—all right?”

She nodded, signaled the security guard, and together they left the ballroom.

What a mess, I thought, surveying the pile of decorations, the overturned chair, the empty wineglasses, the appetizer skewers.

Literally and figuratively.

 

“Let’s call it a night,” I said to my tired staff after they’d removed and packed away most of the decorations. “I’ll finish the rest of the cleanup tomorrow. Hopefully Jonathan will have turned up by then and I can get the money he owes me. And then I’ll pay you all,” I added.

For the last fifteen minutes we’d all been sitting around talking about the unexpected twists and turns of the event, waiting to see if Jonathan turned up, and eating as many of Rocco’s leftover meringue ghosts as we could stomach. We told ourselves we didn’t want his carefully crafted goodies to go to waste—and I wanted to appease Rocco for the last-minute rush. But mostly I needed something to go with the several glasses of wine I’d consumed while lamenting the upcoming end of my career. I mean, how many party fouls can an event planner make before her business balloon bursts?

Mia and her security guard returned moments later, after searching most of the house, including the sections that weren’t locked to the public. They’d found no sign of Jonathan or Lyla anywhere—not even a candlestick. Brad and I headed for his SUV, while the others drove off in their cars. I checked for Jonathan’s Mercedes but by the time we left, it was gone, along with most of the other cars in the lot, except two cars parked in reserved spots and a red Prius badly in need of a car wash. I figured Mia and the security guard had the prized parking spots. But it was the license plate that had caught my eye. It read HELAGEK.

“Brad, look.” I pointed to the car.

“What?”

“I wonder if that’s Levi’s car. Do you think he’s still here, working on that glitch?”

“Don’t know. I didn’t check on him before we left. Did you?”

“Not after I saw him the first time. He must still be there.” I thought a moment. “Do you think Jonathan would leave without making sure his precious and expensive 4-D Projector was safe?”

“Maybe he told Levi to take it with him,” Brad suggested.

I trailed him to his car, stealing a last glance at the Winchester Mystery House as it loomed in the shadows of moonlight—the classic haunted house.

I shuddered.

Maybe raising the dead wasn’t such a good idea for a party theme after all.

 

Although it was late, I invited Brad in for sobering lattes—his decaf, mine caf, which took my excitement down a notch. Exhausted but wired, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while, and caffeine actually soothed me. We rehashed the party again while sitting on the couch, discussing how it had gone so horribly, horribly wrong, and what I could do to salvage my Killer Parties reputation if word got out.

After we’d concluded that Jonathan was a liar, a cheat, and a scoundrel (my words), that Lyla had to be an airhead not to see past Jonathan’s false charm (Brad’s assessment), and that someone—who? Levi?—had taken the opportunity to expose Jonathan’s peccadilloes in the most embarrassing way possible, we declared the party officially over. The fat lady had not only sung, but probably had been choked to death.

“So,” Brad said when we reached the end of our analysis. He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late.” He made no effort to get off the couch. Instead he put his arm around me, sending a jolt of electricity through my tired bones.

He leaned over and kissed me, practically electrocuting me with his tongue.

“I sure don’t want to make that long drive home . . .” he said, when the lingering kiss ended.

“You mean all the way back to Yerba Buena Island? It’s, what—five minutes from here?” Flat, man-made Treasure Island connected to naturally hilly Yerba Buena Island in the middle of the Bay Bridge. They reminded me of fraternal Siamese twins, which I think is an oxymoron.

He laughed. “Yeah, I might fall asleep at the wheel, take a wrong turn, and end up in the Bay.”

I elbowed him. “Thanks for reminding me.” One of my competitors had ended up doing just that, after taking a bite of a poisoned chocolate I had served her.

He grabbed his rib cage in mock pain. “Oops. Sorry about that. But at your parties, people do have a way of ending up . . .”

“Dead?” I stood up. “Not this time.”

He stood and wrapped his arms around me.

He wasn’t going to get off teasing me so easily. “I think I have some of those leftover chocolates . . .” I gave him an evil grin.

“I’ll pass.” He kissed me again, longer, deeper this time.

“What about your cat allergies?” I whispered, noticing he hadn’t sneezed once.

“Took drugs,” he whispered.

I couldn’t respond. My voice had lost its capacity for speech. All I could do was nod mutely, then drag him, not exactly kicking and screaming, into my bedroom.

As I lay on the bed, looking up into Brad’s glistening brown eyes, I melted like chocolate in his arms.

This party wasn’t quite over. The fat lady was about to sing an encore.

 

I woke up with a cozy, warm body next to my back. I rolled over. The body turned out to be Cairo, my orange scaredycat. Meanwhile Fatman, the fat white cat, had draped himself over my legs, and Thursby, my black attack cat who mostly attacked my feet, had slept at the head of the bed and was attacking my hair.

No Brad.

I bolted up and glanced at the clock. Eight fifteen! Damn.

I threw the covers off and jumped into the shower. The smell of lattes took over the scent of soap as I toweled off. Was there anything better than a night with an attractive crime scene cleaner? Yeah, a latte the morning after.

Brad sat at my little table, sipping his coffee and reading the
Chronicle
.

“Any news?” I asked as I joined him. Two blueberry bagels sat on a plate between us, one partially eaten. I snatched the other and took a big bite.

“Nothing about the party, if that’s what you mean,” he said, licking the coffee ’stache from his lips.

Those lips.

He folded the newspaper closed. “You going over to the Winchester House this morning?”

“Yeah,” I said, then took a curative sip of my latte. “I’ve got a few things to finish up. I wanted to get there early before they open the place to the public but I overslept. I hope anything I left behind is still there.”

“I’d join you but I’ve got a cleanup on aisle five this morning. Elderly couple found in Hunters Point, buried under a pile of their own floor-to-ceiling trash.”

“Dead?” I asked, horrified at the thought that someone could have so much crap, it might actually cause their death. I glanced around my living room at the party catalogs, discarded clothes, empty bags of Cheetos, and stained coffee mugs, and recognized the beginnings of a similar fate if I wasn’t careful. My three cats would only add to the frightful end I envisioned.

“Yep. Cops said it looked like the woman fell into the debris, and then, when her husband went to help her, he also fell. That caused a major landslide of old magazines, books, and other junk. They hadn’t been seen for a week, but nobody bothered to check on them.”

“That’s awful!” I shivered. I promised myself that when I returned home this afternoon I’d do a thorough decluttering of my place. No way was I going to let Brad find me in a heap of stale chips, dirty underwear, and cat puke.

“Okay, well, I’ve got to run,” I said, shaking off the image and remembering my priorities. I handed him an extra key I kept in my kitchen junk drawer. “Lock up when you leave. And thanks for the latte and bagel.” I gave him a quick kiss, like a housewife headed for the dry cleaner, and flew out the door.

On the hour-long drive over to the Winchester Mystery House, my thoughts ping-ponged between memories of last night with Brad and visions of last night at the party. By the time I arrived at the mansion, Brad was winning the match.

I parked, dashed inside the front door of the gift shop, and knocked at Mia’s door.