How to Survive a Killer Seance (32 page)

I nodded.

“You want us to take you to the hospital or do you have someone who can drive you?”

Brad raised his hand as if volunteering in class. “I’ll take her.”

Mia led us back to the gift shop, where my staff was anxiously waiting. They’d already packed up most of their gear and were just standing around for word from me. There were hugs all around, a few tears from Delicia; then Brad whisked me off in his SUV to San Francisco General. My hand still throbbed and I felt a little dizzy, but not so bad that I couldn’t keep talking the whole ride over.

“Will Melvin release Jonathan now?”

“I’m sure he will,” Brad answered.

“Mother and Stephen will be so happy. What’s going to happen to Stephanie?”

“Good question. She’ll need a smart lawyer. And maybe a straitjacket.”

“I just don’t understand why she went over the edge,” I said, mostly to myself. “She had a great job. She was smart. She was attractive, in spite of her birthmark. And women have survived being dumped before.”

“She wasn’t dumped. She was laughed at.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “One thing still puzzles me. George Wells. How does he fit into all this?”

“Luke has a lead he’s following on that.”

“Really? What? Did Stephanie kill him too? It wouldn’t have been easy hanging him! But she said Zachary refused to help her when it came to murder so he couldn’t have done it for her.”

“She didn’t kill him. He really did commit suicide.”

“You’re kidding. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“It’s not. He was a mole for Dane Scott, just like Jerry Thompson, who posed as a waiter at the party. George was paid a lot of money to pass Hella-Graphics intel over to Stereo-Scope. He was living large—the house in Pacific Heights, the boat, the exotic vacations, not to mention all the stuff he bought his wife and three daughters. But when George couldn’t give Dane the kind of information he wanted, Dane threatened to expose him as a corporate spy if he didn’t pay all the money back. George was caught between a rock and a hard place. He knew he was looking at twenty years easy. He couldn’t face jail, or the shame he’d be bringing to his family. So he hung himself, right there in his office.”

“Poor Teddi. I’m sure she had no idea he was mixed up in all this. I hope they get Dane Scott, too. What a cutthroat business.”

“Yeah, not much different from the event-planning business,” Brad said. “Meanwhile, Stephanie was planning to destroy Jonathan and take over. She was just waiting for Zachary to complete the 4-D technology, while learning all she could about it.”

“Like I said, smart lady. Too bad she used it for evil,” I said.

“I guess there will always be women who feel they need a man to fulfill their lives, even those with successful careers, like Stephanie and my mother.”

Brad looked at me. “What about you? Don’t you need a man in your life?”

I grinned. “Sure. Someone to bring me lattes and clean up after my parties and have hot sex with now and then.”

Brad smiled widely. “You think we have hot sex?”

I said nothing as he pulled into the parking lot of San Francisco General. I felt that familiar tingle rising and wondered if we could find a quiet linen closet or unused operating room for a few minutes.

My hand didn’t hurt at all now.

I woke up in my own bed to the smell of coffee and the sound of howling cats and kitchen noises. Bless that man, I thought, stretching out the sleeping kinks. I immediately regretted it, when my sore muscles, bruised hip, and fresh stitches in my hand protested.

I glanced at the time. Past nine! How had I slept so late? The drugs. Thank God for the drugs. Now that they had worn off, I was ready for more. Then I remembered I’d promised to meet Mother, Stephen, and Jonathan for breakfast at Mel’s Diner so Mother could make sure I didn’t look as bad as I sounded when I talked with her last night.

Rolling gently out of bed, I headed for the shower before Brad saw me in such disarray. I looked bad enough with all the cuts and bruises and didn’t need to subject him to hair fright. Finally clean, dressed in fresh jeans and a long-sleeved purple shirt that covered most of my wounds, I padded out to the kitchen. Brad was sitting at the table, sipping his latte and reading the paper. I wondered if we’d all made the news.

“Morning,” I said, then pointed to his coffee. “Got one of those for me?”

He set the paper down and looked me over. “It’s in the microwave, ready to be reheated. How you feeling?”

“I could use some more heroin, or whatever it was they gave me. But a good, strong intravenous latte might do the trick.”

He grinned and pulled out a chair. “Sit down. I’ll get it for you. Help yourself to a cranberry muffin there. Can you eat one-handed?”

“Nothing keeps me from a cranberry muffin,” I said, stuffing a bite into my mouth with my good hand.

Brad brought over the reheated latte and set it on the table, then leaned over and kissed me softly on the lips. That was about the only drug I’d need to get me through the day. Of course, I’d need a booster shot when it was bedtime.

 

The group had already assembled at the table when we arrived at Mel’s. Mother was dressed to maim, if not kill, in a silky purple suit that matched my blouse, and a pink blouse with a big fluffy ribbon tied under her chin. Her eyelids were dusted in a shimmery lavender, her champagne hair glinted under the lights, and her pink lipstick matched her blouse.

Stephen sat in his wheelchair, which was pushed close to the table. One side of his face seemed alert, the other lacked personality. But he brightened and gave a half smile when he saw me, and it felt good to add a little cheer to his day.

Jonathan, on the other hand, looked pale and distracted, as if his body was present but his mind was elsewhere. Instead of his usually enthusiastic, overbearing greeting, he simply smiled as he moved over in the booth to accommodate us. Was that remorse on his face? Embarrassment? Defeat? I couldn’t tell.

“Presley, darling! How are you?” Mother studied me, looking for signs of my encounter with Stephanie the night before. “Your face . . .”

I touched my cheek where I’d hit the floor when Stephanie attacked me. I thought I’d covered the bruise well with makeup, but my mother saw through my disguise.

“I’m fine, really, Mother,” I said, as I slid in next to Jonathan in the large semicircular booth. Brad squeezed in next to me. I deliberately sat by Jonathan in an effort to keep the two men apart. Jonathan shot a sideways glance at me as I settled in, nodded to Brad, then returned to studying the napkin he was folding and refolding like an accordion in front of him.

“Are you sure, dear?” Mother insisted. “Have you seen a doctor?”

She’d apparently forgotten where I’d ended up last night—at San Francisco General. Another sign of her short-term memory loss.

“Yes, Mom. Three doctors, in fact. They all said I’m going to be fine.” I tucked my bandaged hand in my lap so she couldn’t see it and ask more questions. “How are you, Stephen?” I asked, redirecting the conversation to Jonathan’s father.

“Much better,” he said, “now that Jonathan is out of jail.”

Although his speech was somewhat slurred, I heard what I wanted to hear.

Jonathan lifted his head and smiled. “Yeah, he’s doing great. Rehab begins tomorrow and that should do wonders for his mobility, right Dad?”

Throughout this whole ordeal, the love between father and son remained strong and was still evident. If nothing else, Jonathan and I had one thing in common: a close bond with an elderly parent.

Once we’d ordered, Mother peppered me with questions about Stephanie. I wasn’t hungry after my latte and muffin and just had orange juice, but Brad ate a he-man plate of bacon and eggs, while Jonathan just poked at his omelet.

I filled Mother and the others in on the details of Stephanie’s twisted reasons for killing Levi and Zach—they got in the way and knew too much. And why she’d tried to kill me—likewise.

“That poor thing,” Mother said, forgetting for a moment that the poor thing tried to silence me with a glass shard. But that was Mother—always rooting for the underdog, even if the person was a killer.

“She’ll get the help she needs in the psychiatric ward,” Brad said, wiping bits of breakfast off his mouth. “And then she’ll get her own private cell.”

Jonathan cleared his throat, set down his coffee cup, and wiped his own mouth with his napkin. “Presley . . . ahem . . . I don’t know what to say, other than thank you. You’re not only a great party hostess, but you essentially saved my life, and probably the lives of others as well. I owe you.”

I felt my face flush. “Oh . . . you really should thank my mother. If it wasn’t for her . . .”

Mother looked at me, a little bewildered, then said, “I told you she was San Francisco’s premiere party queen. I’m so proud of her.”

“Well, you were right, Ms. Parker,” Jonathan said to Mother, then turned back to me. “Presley, I have a check for you.” He pulled a folded prewritten check from his shirt pocket.

I opened it and read the amount. He’d doubled my fee.

“Oh, Jonathan, this isn’t necessary—” I started to say.

“Yes, it is. And by the way, I’m doubling the donation amount for the American Stroke Association as well.” He glanced at his dad. Was that a tear I saw in Stephen Ellington’s rheumy eyes?

I folded the check and thanked Jonathan.

“What are you working on now, dear?” my mother said, breaking the silence that had settled over the table.

I sighed, and shot a glance at Brad. “Well, Brad got me hired for a big event in exchange for discounted rent in my new office building. It’s not for another few months, but it looks like I’ll be planning a mini-Expo, a tribute to the one that was held on Treasure Island seventy years ago, only on a much smaller scale.”

“What fun!” Mother said. “Your grandmother Granny Constance was there, you know. She was a Pan Am Clipper Ship Hostess on the Magic City. Are you planning a Gayway?”

The fair’s “Gayway”—which had nothing to do with San Francisco’s Castro district—had been the most popular part of the Expo, especially Sally Rand’s Nude Ranch, a peekaboo adult playland featuring scantily clad women frolicking in little more than colorful ostrich feathers.

She didn’t wait for my answer. Instead, she said, “Did you know that the Expo was considered a financial flop, and closed early, over four million dollars in debt?”

Brad whistled.

Stephen raised an eyebrow.

Jonathan squirmed in his seat and grimaced. “Speaking of which,” he said, glancing at each of us in turn. “I’m selling what’s left of Hella-Graphics. ILM is interested in the 4-D projector and a couple of other companies are too. I think it’s time.” He glanced at his dad, who gave him a crooked smile.

I’d been wondering what Jonathan had planned to do after all this, but the news still came as a surprise. I knew he’d worked hard to create his innovative products and build his business.

“What will you do next?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe work on some kind of product that helps stroke victims like my dad. I’m pretty good at gathering talent and inspiring them to create something visionary.”

I hesitated, then asked the other question that had been on my mind. “What about Lyla?”

He shook his head. “That’s over. We were both cheating on each other. Hers was more from revenge, but still, that’s no way to be married. In fact, I’m off women for the time being. I just want to focus on my dad.”

“Now we’re both going to rehab,” Stephen said proudly. “Just not the same kind.”

I took a sip of orange juice and decided to bring up one last loose end. “So George Wells really committed suicide?” I said more than asked, confirming what the police had ruled.

Jonathan nodded solemnly. “You know, I sensed something was up, but I had no idea he was under such pressure. The whole idea of Hella-Graphics was to make it an enjoyable place to work.”

Apparently, having a personal trainer, a slide between floors, and a coffee barista wasn’t enough to keep the employees happy. Maybe a psychologist would be a better hire.

I thought about Teddi Wells and how hard it was for her to accept her husband’s death as a suicide. The guilt she must have been feeling for not knowing—or not seeing—how depressed he had been, how trapped he had felt. It would take time—and her own therapist—to cope with those unresolved emotions. I made a mental note to have coffee with her this week just to talk and let her know I cared.