How to Crash a Killer Bash (2 page)

I looked down at my outfit. “This is my costume,” I explained. “Tonight’s our dress rehearsal, and I’m going as Kate Warne, the first female Pinkerton detective.”

The guard surveyed the room—probably making sure I hadn’t stolen anything—then looked back at me. “So what are you doing up here? Isn’t that event taking place on the main floor?”

“Uh, I just wanted to see the dagger once more, to make sure the art department copied it accurately. After all, I can’t have six of the world’s most famous fictional detectives trying to murder the museum curator with a rubber knife, can I?” I gave a nervous laugh.

He didn’t crack a smile.

“And you are . . . ?” I reached out my hand.

Stone-faced, the guard shook it. “Sam Wo. Head of security.”

I took a moment to study—and diagnose—him, a habit I’d formed while teaching abnormal psychology at San Francisco State University. He was Asian, in his sixties, and shorter than me by several inches. His hand was small, dry, and ringless; I noticed a contrasting tan line around his wedding ring finger. He wore black faux-leather loafers, the discount variety from Target or Walmart popular with underpaid service employees. From his impeccable uniform and well-worn but polished shoes, I guessed he had a touch of OCD—obsessive-compulsive disorder—a trait well matched to this particular detail-oriented job.

“I wish Ms. Miller would tell me when people are going to be running around the museum after closing.” Eyeing me again, he added, “So you’re the one who’s putting on this mystery thing?”

“That would be me. And I’d better get back to the rehearsal. Make sure no real murders are being committed. Although I suppose if that happened, you guys could figure out whodunit pretty quickly.” I nodded at the nearest camera, watching us.

“True. This wouldn’t be the best place to kill someone. The cameras are motion-triggered—that’s how I knew you were here. Just be careful about touching the cases. You could set off an alarm.”

My eyes widened. “Really? Are the alarms that sensitive?”

“Sure. Especially the ones with priceless pieces inside, like that Dogon statue over there.” He gestured toward a nearby case.

I glanced at the piece he was referring to and grimaced. The grotesque three-foot statue looked to be carved out of wood. Shaped like a human body, the figure had long pendulous breasts that hung nearly to the waistline. But that wasn’t the disturbing part. Dangling from just under the waist—and nearly reaching the feet—was an equally pendulous penis.

The guard broke into a grin, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. We don’t have alarmed exhibits here. That’s an East Coast thing. But I love to tease the schoolkids when they come. They couldn’t care less about the art. All they want to know is whether anything’s ever been stolen and if we have alarms.”

“You’re quite the kidder, Sam Wo,” I said, forcing a friendly laugh. A little surprised at the low-level security, I glanced back at the case holding the ceremonial dagger. “Seriously, has there ever been a theft?”

“No, ma’am. Surprising, perhaps, since we have more than twenty-five thousand works of art from around the world. Top names, too—Homer, Cassatt, Frank Lloyd Wright. But we still manage to keep an eye on things.”

I scanned the room filled with incredible artifacts from Oceania, Mayan, African, and Andean cultures. “So you’ve never had a problem?”

“Not on my watch. At least, not with thefts. This is a friendly museum, a museum for the people, not like some of those hoity-toity ones back east. The biggest problem we have are the transients who come to the Friday-night open house for the wine parties and end up drunk and lying on the marble floor.” Sam Wo chuckled. His stiff official manner had softened, replaced by an easy manner and a contagious laugh. Being in charge of these irreplaceable objects insured for more than $90 million would have made me nervous, but Sam Wo appeared relaxed.

“What about fakes?” I said, lowering my voice to sound conspiratorial. “I mean, does the museum have any art scandals I could include in the script?”

“You mean like questions of provenance?”

I made a face. Museum-speak was a whole new language for me.

His face lit up. I had a feeling he got pretty bored on the job and loved the opportunity to share his authority and expertise with the public.

“Provenance means where the objects come from and whether they’re authentic.”

“That’s a concern in this day and age?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Some museums take a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ attitude. But not the de Young. Our curator only works with reputable dealers.”

I sensed his feeling of pride about the objects that surrounded him.

“There are museums that don’t?” I took a sip of my now-cold latte. It was my third today, but I needed regular doses to help control my ADHD—attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. It was either triple the caffeine or go back to Ritalin, which pretty much turned me into a zombie. Old psychology secret: While caffeine is a stimulant for most people, for those of us with ADHD, it does the opposite and calms us down.

Sam Wo shone his flashlight around the room while he talked, as if it were habit. “I guess you didn’t hear about the Getty or the Met scandals. They made the news a few years ago. There were questions about how they acquired some pieces.”

“You mean they had fakes?” I stole another glance at the encased dagger, wondering how one could tell a replica from an authentic piece. I’d been impressed with how much the Styrofoam stage dagger looked like the real thing, right down to the dried-blood effect.

“More like they were ‘taken without permission,’ ” he said, making finger quotes. He stepped over to another display and shone his flashlight inside the case. “See these ceramic bowls and whatnot? They’re authentic. We have the documentation to prove their provenance. But similar ones were recently acquired illegally at another museum.”

Surprised, I asked, “How does that happen?”

“Some museums aren’t as careful as the de Young. They’ll deal with the black market.”

“Where does the black market get them?”

Sam tucked his thumbs into his black leather belt. “Professional thieves usually steal them from the country of origin and sell them to questionable curators who think art should be ‘shared with the world for the greater good.’ But if you think about it, it’s like taking pieces of the Statue of Liberty and displaying them at, say, a museum in Egypt.”

I saw his point. Not only was I unaware that this kind of looting occurred, I was impressed that a security guard knew so much about art. More than I did, anyway. My walls tended to display classic posters for movies like
The Maltese Falcon
, and my “display cases,” aka table- and desktops, showcased party props and event catalogs. I guessed Sam Wo had absorbed a lot just by osmosis.

“There’s a lot of competition between museums to build a world-class collection,” he added. “And the de Young—”

His words were suddenly cut off by the echoing click of razor-sharp heels and the yapping of a small dog coming from down a shadowed hall. As if he recognized the sounds, Sam Wo jerked to attention, pulled down the front of his jacket, and adjusted his hat.

Mary Lee Miller stepped into the dim light. The woman who’d hired me to produce a murder mystery at the museum was the de Young’s major fund-raiser and philanthropist. She was a petite blond woman in her fifties, trying to look under forty. Tonight she wore a pink Chanel suit and matching stiletto heels that would have made killer weapons. Peeking out of her pink Coach bag was a teeth-baring, pinkribboned purse-pooch. A pit bull wrapped in a poodle’s clothing? The metaphor fit both the dog and the woman.

“Oh God, Sam. Do hush!” Mary Lee said to the security guard. She waved him away with a whisk of her manicured hand. Sam nodded, tipped his hat to both of us, and shuffled off into the darkness, waving his flashlight from side to side like a blind man with a cane.

“Sam’s a character. The older he gets, the more he talks. We only keep him around because his father was my father’s gardener.” Mary Lee patted her poodle with a diamond-riddled hand. “No doubt he was telling you one of his exaggerated stories? I do believe he’s a frustrated Indiana Jones.”

I smiled. “Well, a museum can always use a little mystery.”

Mary Lee Miller raised a perfectly designed eyebrow. “Yes, but it can’t afford a real scandal. See that Dogon figure over there?”

Oh God, not that piece again.

“Superb, isn’t it? We paid over one million dollars for this truly incredible piece. The de Young would rather have one great object than a hundred ordinary ones. We strive to make sure our museum is
not
your dowager grandmother’s provincial museum. It’s contemporary, user-friendly, and with my name on it, it has to be the best. Believe me, I have the scars to prove it.”

She was referring to the controversy that had dogged the museum since she first took on the job of major money-raiser a decade ago. Everyone in the San Francisco Bay Area knew about the frequent arguments over everything from the architecture and location to the financing and environmental impact. But somehow Mary Lee Miller had managed to overcome these obstacles and raise more than $200 million worth of funding in the process.

“Blockbuster art brings in millions of visitors—that’s a fact. And we now rival the Met, the Louvre, and the British Museum with our collection. Plus the art-related trinkets we sell in the gift shop make great mementos for tourists. When the Tut exhibit was here, we made more money selling Tut shirts and bags than we did on admission.”

Remembering what Sam Wo had said, I asked, “Is it difficult making sure all the objects are legitimate?”

“Absolutely not,” she snapped, petting her purse pooch vigorously. He . . . she . . . it panted in response. “We trust our dealers implicitly. When we acquire something like the Dogon statue, we make sure it has a reliable provenance.”

I nodded my understanding, but she continued as if I were a schoolchild on a field trip.

“Provenance, Presley, is the documentation of an object’s origin and ownership.”

I tried to ignore her condescending tone, but it irritated me. “Sam said there’s still a black market for things like the Dogon statue?”

Her eyes narrowed. I knew I’d offended her as soon as the words “black market” tumbled out of my mouth. It was like saying “plastic surgery” to a trophy wife.

“Certainly there are still looters, smugglers, unethical dealers, and desperate collectors who will turn a blind eye to the origins of some art,” Mary Lee said. “Not to mention the occasional forgery. But our staff is top-notch, impeccable. I personally recommended Christine Lampe, who was hired as our curator. And that’s why this fund-raiser is so important. If it’s got my name on it, it’s sure to bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars we need for the new wing and collection. And it has to be perfect.”

Her mini-speech reminded me how pompous Mary Lee really was. When she hired me for this gig, she insisted she be given full credit for the fund-raiser. I’d agreed, as long as a percentage of the money went to the Autism Foundation. My friend and part-time assistant, Delicia, had a sister with the disorder, and I wanted to do something to help stem the puzzling rise in cases.

“Now, shall we return to the main court, Chou-Chou?” Mary Lee said to her dog in a nauseating baby voice. The dog licked her fingers as if they were covered in gravy.

She spoke to me in a normal voice. “Do I have to remind you, Presley, that I hired you to do an event, not wander around the museum unescorted? The rehearsal is not going well, and you won’t see a dime for your company or your charity if this event isn’t perfect.” Her face tightened.

I stole a last glance at the bloodstained ceremonial dagger, safe in its plastic case. Good thing it was inaccessible, I thought, or I might have “borrowed” it to use on Mary Lee. Instead, I followed her down the stairs, her stilettos tapping out a strident beat as she led the way. Her threats had been repeated so many times over the past couple of weeks that they no longer struck terror in my heart like they had initially. Still, I wasn’t above the occasional dagger-in-the-back fantasy.

But before I could picture shoving the blade between her pink shoulders, I heard a scream echoing up from the stair-well ahead.

A scream so loud, it could have shattered Plexiglas.

Keeping up with Mary Lee’s swift step wasn’t easy—the woman had the energy of a cheerleader on crack—but the scream momentarily stopped her in her tracks. She glanced back at me, her heavily lined eyes underscoring her look of horror.