How to Crash a Killer Bash (25 page)

I wondered how these topics tied into his art.

I stood up and pulled open the desk drawers and found them all empty—except the top drawer. Inside was a plain white envelope.

It was addressed to Corbin Cosetti.

The flap had been ripped open.

I lifted it and pulled out the single sheet of paper. It read:

Hardly believing my eyes, I reread the mother’s name.

Judith Hofmann had given birth to a son named Corbin.

Before I had time to ponder this new development, I heard a tapping on the bedroom window. I peeked out.

“Presley!” Brad mouthed. After making my latest discovery, I’d almost forgotten about him. Brad gestured for me to come out. That’s when I heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Not that that wasn’t unusual in the city. But then I wasn’t usually breaking and entering.

I nodded and darted out of the bedroom, into the living area, the yapping dog on my heels.

Chou-Chou!

My first thought was to leave it. Corbin was apparently taking care of it. A quick glance indicated differently. The dog’s water and food bowls were empty. And Corbin had never really liked the dog. So what was it doing here?

I bent down to scoop up the little yapper and noticed a hand-addressed envelope visible under several bills and some junk mail, lying on the floor by the front door. I picked it up, turned it over—no return address. On a hunch, I stuffed it in my pocket, then snatched up the dog. Grabbing a black marker lying on the counter, I wrote a quick note on another envelope, asking Corbin to call me. Heading out, I pulled the door closed behind me and shoved my note under the door, with just a tiny corner peeking out.

I fled to the sidewalk where Brad waited.

The sirens grew louder. Brad took my arm and walked me hastily down the street toward his SUV. “I think a neighbor saw me standing around and probably called the cops. We gotta get outta here. I knew this was going to happen.”

As we approached the corner, a cop car appeared, lights flashing, but no siren. Brad shoved me along, the dog in my arms, and I kept walking to the SUV, while we waited on the corner. He unlocked the door with his remote, and I hopped into the passenger side, closing the door behind me. I watched as the cruiser pulled up next to Brad. I rolled down the window a crack to hear.

“Hey, Matthews,” one of the cops said. “You got a cleanup around here?”

“Not this time, Sarge. Just going for coffee. S’up?”

The cop nodded toward Corbin’s house. “Got a call about a prowler. Male, Caucasian, over six feet, wearing a blue shirt, sort of like yours. Seen anyone who fits the description?”

“No,” Brad said, “but then, I just got here. I’ll keep an eye out, though.”

While Brad chatted with the cop, I stroked the dog to keep it from yapping. At the moment it was giving my hand a tongue bath. As long as it stayed quiet, I’d have let it eat my hand off.

“Okay, see ya, Matthews.” The cop tipped his hat at Brad and the car moved on down the road toward Corbin’s place, sirens silent and lightbar dark.

Brad got into the SUV, turned to me. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

He nodded toward the dog, which was looking up at him with big glassy brown eyes.

“You’re dognapping!”

“This isn’t dognapping! I’m rescuing it. There was no sign of Corbin anywhere. The mail had piled up on the floor, and the dog had no food or water. I think something’s happened to Corbin.”

“He’s probably staying with a friend or something. Meanwhile, you’ve stolen his only reminder of his mother—that dog!” He glared at Chou-Chou.

“Well, obviously it’s starving. It tried to eat my hand while you were chatting with your cop buddy. I’ll keep trying Corbin’s cell, but he hasn’t been answering. I left a message at his place that I’ve got the dog.”

Brad shook his head in frustration. “Where are you going to keep it? You have three cats.”

I hadn’t thought that far. “True. They’d use it as a chew toy. Maybe you can take it.”

“No way! I’m not having that crazy mutt in my house. Not only is it incriminating evidence of dognapping, it’s . . . pink!”

“Bigot,” I said, lifting the dog onto my lap as we drove on toward the museum.

“You’re impossible, Presley. You don’t think things through. It’s that ADD you keep saying you have.”

“It’s ADHD. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. So now you’re making fun of my disability?”

“Disability? What a crock! You just toss that out to cover your impulsive decisions.”

“That’s what ADHD is, Brad. Impulsive decision-making, among other things. What about your brother? You wouldn’t accuse him of having Asperger’s so he can behave any way he wants?”

Brad was silent as we pulled up to the loading zone at the de Young Museum. “I’ll wait here,” he said, not looking at me. “Try not to steal any works of art. I don’t think ADHD is a strong enough defense.”

I set the dog down, got out of the car, and slammed the door shut. I heard yapping as I stomped toward the museum entrance. I only hoped I didn’t return to find a bloody crime scene filled with pink fur in Brad’s Crime Scene Cleaners van.

When I arrived at the front desk, I was informed that Sam Wo wasn’t available. Great. Without him, I wouldn’t be able to sneak upstairs and surprise Christine with a visit. I suspected Christine knew why Corbin had that birth certificate and wanted to confirm my hunch. I certainly couldn’t ask his parents, and he seemed to be AWOL.

Nuts. How did they sneak into places on TV? By delivering pizzas? Flowers?

Balloons!

I slipped into the nearest restroom and pulled out from my purse the pack of balloons I always carry with me. It had become a habit ever since I started this business. Balloons came in handy at any party. And lying was coming easier and easier. What was up with that?

Light-headed from blowing up a dozen balloons, I tied them off with lengths of ribbon I kept just for this purpose and gathered them into a bouquet. Holding them slightly over my face, I returned to the main desk and told a different volunteer that I had a delivery for Christine Lampe.

“Sign here,” she said, pushing a sign-in log at me. I scribbled “Nancy Drew” along the line, then asked where to go. She sighed, then led me to the elevator. Once I was inside, she waved her key card over the small square and punched “4” before ducking back out.

I held on to the balloons until the doors opened on the fourth floor. I stepped out and glanced up and down the hallway. No one in sight. I tucked the balloons behind a large fake plant, then headed for Christine’s office to make my surprise appearance.

As I approached the closed door, I heard voices. Raised voices. I recognized Christine’s strong, strident tone and paused outside the office door, straining to listen.

“. . . how could you? I thought we had something . . .” Christine was saying.

A man’s voice, much more soft-spoken, mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

I leaned in to hear better. Christine was coming in loud and clear. Her partner in conversation, not so much.

“. . . at the same time? . . .” Christine said.

Low, indecipherable mumbling followed.

“. . . now she’s dead . . . killed her!”

Her words startled me, and I bumped against the door.

Seconds later, the door swung open.

“May I help you?” Christine said, pulling the door wide. “Presley! What are you doing here?” Clearly she was surprised to see me.

Dan Tannacito stepped out from behind her.

“Dan!” I said, staring at the museum assistant.

“Presley?” Dan said, then looked at the museum curator.

I looked back and forth between them. They glanced at each other, red-faced, then looked down at the floor. It suddenly dawned on me why they were so embarrassed.

“You . . . and Dan?” I said, my eyes wide with surprise.

Christine crossed her arms and shook her head. “I . . . It’s not . . .”

Dan laughed a little too loudly. “No, no. You’ve got this all wrong. We were just—”

Christine glared at him. “Shut up, Dan. It’s too late. It’s obvious she heard everything.” She turned to me. “Didn’t you, Presley. You nosy little snoop.”

Whoa. Where had the venom come from?

She apparently assumed I knew more than I did.

She stepped around me and closed the door, blocking it with her body.

Trapped.

I glanced around in search of something to use as a weapon, in case I needed to defend myself. I spotted a sharp arrowhead on the desk, about the length of my hand. I rushed over and snatched it from its resting place, ready to stab anyone who lunged for me.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dan asked, no longer laughing.

“Have you lost your mind?” Christine said, reaching out a hand. “Give me that! It’s priceless.”

Neither one of them appeared frightened by my weapon. What was wrong with these museum people?

“If you’re planning to murder us with that thing,” Christine said, “you’ll slice your fingers off first. Even the edges are sharp.”

“Murder you?” I said, dumbfounded, and lowered the weapon. “Why would I murder you?”

Christine and Dan looked at each other.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Christine said, nodding toward the arrowhead still in my hand.

I set the stupid thing back on the desk. “I’m not a murderer!” I said, exasperated by the whole scene. “What’s going on around here?”

“Nothing!” they said in unison.

“Give me a break,” I said. “You two are up to something. Tell me, or I’m calling the police.”

Christine nodded toward Dan. “This jerk was—”

“Christine! Shut up!” Dan interrupted, his smooth exterior gone.

“—having an affair!” she finished.

“Yeah. With you!” Dan’s voice boomed at her.

“And with half the women at the museum!” Christine screeched.

I blinked.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Christine said. “Just because women work in a museum doesn’t mean we’re all relics.”

I wasn’t as shocked by the fact that they were coworkers having an affair as I was by their age differences. Like Mary Lee, Christine was in her sixties, while Dan was only thirtysomething.

“Apparently being Dan Tannacito doesn’t preclude you from having affairs with multiple women at the same time,” Christine spat.

Dan tried to hide a grin, but he looked more like a kid who’d hit a ball through a neighbor’s window—sorry for the inconvenience, but proud of the hit.

“So that’s what you were arguing about? Another woman?” I asked them.

Christine spoke up, her jaw set. “Not just another woman. How about my best friend?”

“Mary Lee?” My jaw nearly hit the floor at that revelation.

So Dan was seeing two cougars—who happened to be best friends—at the same time. What kind of player was this guy? Was he after money? Not in Christine’s case, but possibly in Mary Lee’s. Was he after a promotion, which Christine could probably grant him? Or maybe he just couldn’t keep his priceless artifact in his khaki pants.

“Wow.” It was a lot to take in. But what did it have to do with Mary Lee’s death?

“I heard you say ‘killed her’ before you caught me listening. Were you accusing Dan of killing Mary Lee?” I asked Christine.

Dan interrupted. “I didn’t kill Mary Lee. I had no reason. But
she
did.” He thumbed Christine.

“I didn’t kill her, you jerk! She was my best friend!”

Okay. Time to pull a rabbit out of my hat. I withdrew the birth certificate I’d found at Corbin’s place, opened it, and held it up for her to see.

“What do you know about this?”

Christine’s face lost all its color. “Where did you get that?” She reached over and tried to snatch it away from me.

I pulled it back. “I found it at Corbin’s place,” I said, returning the paper to the envelope. “I thought it was strange that it had his first name, but not his last name.”

“I think it’s time you leave.” She crossed her arms and nodded toward the door.