How to Crash a Killer Bash (4 page)

“Take five, everyone,” I said, and plopped myself down on a nearby bench in the main court to think about my next move. This was another fine mess I’d gotten myself into.

I’d originally wanted to hire only my own actors to play the roles of suspects. But Mary Lee had gone ahead and given the part of Sam Slayed to her son, without my knowledge. Next she offered the de Young’s real museum curator, Christine Lampe, the part of Agatha Mistry, Cozy Snoop. Christine had done a great job using makeup and costuming to age herself from fiftysomething to well over seventy, playing the part of the tea-sipping sleuth.

She’d also promised Dan Tannacito, Christine’s assistant—who preferred the title “exhibit developer”—the role of Pipe-Smoking Sherlock Bones. I found Dan at over six feet, with his romance-novel good looks, broad shoulders, and highlighted blond hair, almost too perfect for the part. It was hard to believe he had a thirteen-year-old daughter. He must have had her while he was still a teenager.

I’d filled out the rest of the cast with my office mates, who worked in the same barracks/office building on Treasure Island. This man-made strip of landfill had once been home to the 1939 Golden Gate Expo and the U.S. Navy; now it was where I lived and worked. Besides Delicia Jackson, who’d begged to play the role of Nancy Prude, Valley Girl Detective, I’d asked videographer Berkeley Wong to play the role of Kutesy Millstone, Biker Sleuth—which he chose to do in drag. Treasure Island security guard Raj Reddy, a wannabe Bollywood star, rounded out the cast of suspects as Hercules Parrot, Blustery Belgian Detective.

After the major roles were cast, I let my mother play a bit part as an assistant crime scene tech. She had insisted on being included when she heard about the event, claiming her decades-old stint as an afternoon-TV-movie hostess gave her serious acting chops. Since she was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, I’d asked Brad Matthews, a crime scene cleaner who shared office space in my building, to supervise her. I’d only recently learned his cleaning job involved more than just soap and water and a cute jumpsuit.

Like most murder mysteries, things are never as simple as they appear—even in real life.

Thanks to the publicity I’d garnered hosting the San Francisco mayor’s ill-fated “surprise wedding” on Alcatraz, my event-planning business, Killer Parties, was getting more requests for events than I could manage. Living in a low-priced condo on TI enabled me to use most of my profits for my mother’s care. I’d raised a lot of money for Alzheimer’s research, and hoped I’d do the same for autism. But the behind-the-scenes catfights and real drama I could do without. Unfortunately it was all part of the event-planning business. Our motto, after “The customer is always right,” is “Whatever can go wrong, will.”

“Okay, people, break’s over!” I clapped my hands to gather everyone’s attention. Time for another panic-filled pep talk. “We only have twenty-four hours before showtime!”

After some brief directions, I got them started on another rehearsal in the main court, sans blood and screams. Meanwhile, I returned to the adjacent mural room to check out the crime scene and the mannequin that lay on the cold marble floor, outlined with masking tape. Each of the weapons, artfully copied from real artifacts, was in position around the outline, and the Styrofoam knife had been replaced in the back of the body, along with fresh “blood.”

Back in the main court, I reviewed the decorations, props, and clues. I’d placed framed, poster-sized “mug shots”—front and side views—of all the suspects in the play. Black and white balloons almost obscured the twenty-foot-high ceiling, each tied with a black ribbon. Attached to the ends of the ribbons were small tchotchkes related to the mystery theme—magnifying glasses, flashlights, handcuffs (the size of cat-cuffs), and tiny replicas of Clue weapons I’d found on eBay. Mystery novels had been arranged as centerpieces for the tables, with mocked-up covers emblazoned with titles like
Blood All Over the Place
and
Death by Cuisinart
. Drinks and appetizers would be served in glasses and on plates embossed “Murder at the Museum,” while a pianist would play the theme song from
Murder, She Wrote
in the background.

I took a deep breath, wishing I could open a bottle of champagne and chug a few liters. With only twenty-four hours before the curtain lifted, so to speak, I was down to the proverbial wire. Now, if I could keep behind-the-scenes drama to a minimum, I just might make it through the mystery party without a major mishap.

As if.

“Welcome to Murder at the Museum,” I announced on the dot of seven to the two hundred plus guests attending the de Young fund-raiser. As requested on the dossier-style invitation, these well-paying attendees had dressed as their favorite sleuths to solve the impending murder of museum curator California de Young, aka Mary Lee Miller.

Fortunately, rehearsals had gone well after Mary Lee stopped harassing the cast, allowing me precious time to finish decorating the main court and the mural room. With help from my staff, I finished decorating by adding centerpieces of bloodred roses, along with miniature replicas of the murder weapons. By the time San Francisco’s high society royalty trickled into the main court, I was confident the party would be off the hook.

Delicia, dressed as Nancy Prude, and I, in my Kate Warne, First Female Pinkerton Detective outfit, stood at the sidelines as attendees entered, trying to guess who was who.

“Not another Nancy Drew!” Dee whispered after we’d ticked off half a dozen copies of the young sleuth. “Jeez, girls, get a clue. Don’t they know that’s
my
role?”

“Don’t worry about it. Having extra Nancy Drews just creates more red herrings to distract the amateur sleuths. Besides, you have the best costume—very authentic.”

It was true. Dee as Drew looked as if she’d stepped out of a River Heights boutique. She had on the same flowery, mid-calf frock she’d worn at the dress rehearsal, along with a blue felt cloche hat. She’d stayed away from the contemporary image of Nancy Drew, the one from the recent movie who dressed in smart plaids and sassy pins. Dee kept it old school, Nancy circa late 1930s and early 1940s, from the top of her titian wig down to the seamed hose and ankle-wrapped platform peekaboos. Her red fingernails matched her glossy toenails, and the vintage beaded handbag dangling from her wrist would have made the perfect place to store stolen diamonds or state secrets.

While there were plenty of Nancy Drew replicas, I didn’t see a single guest competing for my character, Kate Warne, credited as the first female Pinkerton detective back in 1856. I’d been a fan of Kate’s ever since I discovered her while reading about the Pinkertons on
Crimelibrary.com
, especially when I found out how she’d gotten the job in a time when “lady detectives” were almost unheard of. According to legend, when she’d applied, Allen Pinkerton had mistaken her for a clerical worker, not a detective.

Typical.

Warne had to argue to get the position, reminding Pinkerton that women could be “most useful worming out secrets in places which would be impossible for a male detective,” such as “befriending the wives and girlfriends of suspected criminals and gaining their confidence.”

Smart woman.

She’d also argued that women “have an eye for detail and are excellent observers.”

Kate Warne was my kind of role model. For my costume, I copied her look from the only photo I could find—baggy khaki pants, a short button-down jacket, bolero-style hat, well-worn boots, and the famous badge featuring an eye in the center encircled with the Pinkerton slogan—“The eye that never sleeps.” It wasn’t the most flattering outfit, but as the event planner, I preferred to remain in the shadows.

The main court filled quickly with a variety of popular detectives, especially those who practiced their trades in the noir city of San Francisco, like Hammett’s Sam Spade, Marcia Muller’s Sharon McCone, and her partner, Bill Pronzini’s Nameless. (One attendee wore a nametag that said “Nameless,” while another’s nametag was simply blank.) There were Charlie Chan permutations, a couple of Continental Ops, and one man came as Sister Carol Anne O’Marie’s nun detective, Sister Mary Helen—only sporting a disconcerting beard.

Berk joined us for the guessing game, and we raced to identify the rest of the sleuths as they sifted in. Magnum PI wore a Hawaiian shirt and fake caterpillar mustache. Columbo swaggered in with his fake cigar, his tattered overcoat dragging behind. Bond held a shaken martini and wore a classic suit. Jessica Fletcher wore a picture of a typewriter around her neck. Scooby-Doo looked, well, like a dog in a rented costume. There was no way to tell if it was a man or a woman. And there were way too many Sherlock Holmeses.

Berk won the game, of course. He was just too pop savvy. He beat us to Jake Gittes from
Chinatown
(bandaged nose), Adrian Monk (who kept straightening people’s clothes), and Precious Ramotswe (an African-American woman in a colorful dress and head wrap).

Eventually Dee and Berk moved into the crowd, mingling and passing out “Killer Parties” pens and “Police Reports.” On the back of the reports I’d printed a list of slang terms which guests could translate to win a prize—like “beanshooter” (gun), “bracelets” (handcuffs), “caboose” (jail), “Chicago overcoat” (coffin), and “chin music” (punch on the jaw). At least it would keep them occupied until the play began.

My mother looked stunning in a long red silk dress and a black wig, in spite of the fact that she’d come as Mata Hari—a spy rather than a detective. Hopefully no one would really notice, especially after she covered her outfit with the crime scene assistant’s coat. The tight dress outlined her full figure nicely, and her face still had the classic bone structure that had translated so well on her old afternoon TV show.

I was quite proud of her. I just hoped she wouldn’t become confused and give anything away—like tonight’s killer.

By seven thirty, all of the suspects were accounted for—except Brad. He wasn’t supposed to make an entrance as a CSI tech until after the crime occurred, but so far he hadn’t checked in, and I hadn’t seen any sign of him. He knew how important this event was for me, and his absence irritated me.

The only glitch so far had been a brief altercation between Mary Lee and a man I didn’t recognize. Apparently he’d tried to crash the party, dressed in a Sherlock Holmes outfit, but had been turned away by a security guard. When he’d demanded to see Mary Lee, they’d had a heated argument, and he finally left. Unfortunately, I learned this from Dee, who relished telling me about the scene in a told-you-so tone.

At least Mary Lee was leaving Delicia alone—for the time being.

“Where’s Corbin?” I asked, glancing around the crowd. “He was here earlier.”

Delicia nodded toward a shadowy corner. There sat the young artist, staring into his drink and ignoring the people around him.

“Is he all right?” I asked her.

She shrugged, downed her own drink, and disappeared into the mass of gumshoes, dicks, flatfoots, shamuses, and ops, all having a criminally good time.

I sipped my drink and checked my watch.

Where the hell was Brad?

 

Showtime, I said to myself, and finished my drink. I stepped up on a bench and tried to get the attention of the crowd, well lubed by champagne. Everyone ignored me, happily chatting and drinking and nibbling on fancy appetizers. I signaled Sam Wo to flash the overhead lights. When most of the conversations had quieted, I lifted the portable microphone.

“Thanks for coming tonight to support the de Young Museum. I’m Presley Parker, aka Kate Warne, Pinkerton’s first female detective, here to welcome you to de Young’s Murder at the Museum.

“As you know, our museum curator, California de Young”—I gestured to Mary Lee, who gave a queenly wave—“asked you here tonight to help raise money for a new exhibit at the museum, an interactive, simulated archaeological dig. She hopes this cutting-edge technology will bring people to what was once a stuffy world of antiquities.”

The crowd clapped politely.

I continued. “Tonight California de Young has invited six of the world’s greatest detectives here to solve a baffling mystery. However, in the event these great minds are unable to solve this difficult task, you amateur sleuths will assist us by searching for clues and using your little gray cells to ferret out the truth. But first, let me introduce our professional detectives.”

During the brief applause, I glanced at my cast to make sure they were ready for their debuts. I presented them one at a time, allowing each to make his or her own character introductions. Corbin Cosetti stepped up first, wearing the traditional trench coat, fedora, and some real stubble for his character, Sam Slayed.