How to Party with a Killer Vampire (15 page)

“Yes, but he hadn’t been invited—”

“As a matter of fact, you had him
run off
the property when he showed up unexpectedly, isn’t that correct?”

Lucas adjusted his blazer. I could see beads of sweat on his forehead. “It was a private party.”

“Let’s show some
footage
from the event, shall we?” Ryan, hardly the bumbling reporter he’d appeared to be the previous night, had transformed into a hotshot host full of confidence and smooth talk. He turned to a nearby screen.

There it was, in living color. The camera had caught the ugly argument between Lucas Cruz and Bodie Chase on camera. Cruz stood there calling him names, shoving him, looking ready to punch out his lights.

“Wow!” Ryan said as the clip ended. “You didn’t look happy at
all
, did you, Lucas? But wait. We have
more
.”

He nodded to the nearby screen again. This time it featured a scene from the visit by the costumed traceurs as they invaded the perimeters of the party. And once again, Cruz was caught on tape threatening them off the property, like some old farmer scaring crows away from his crops.

The screen went black and the camera returned to Ryan and Cruz. If this had been a boxing match, Cruz would have been on the ground with Ryan standing over him, arms up in victory. “Two men are dead, Lucas Cruz. The young man who belonged to a group of extreme athletes and who had the misfortune of enjoying the sport the night before your party. And the reporter from TMI who was just doing his job—like me—and trying to get some footage of the event. What do you say to
that
?”

What Cruz said was bleeped out. I couldn’t read his lips because the techs had blurred his mouth using three-second time delay. He yanked off the lapel mic, threw it at Ryan Fitzpatrick, and stomped off the set.

While Cruz had exploded like a volcano, Ryan seemed completely unruffled. I had a feeling the Gossip Guy was used to having his guests throw things at him and walk off the set.

Unfortunately for Cruz, the whole Bay Area—and probably the whole nation—had just watched him lose his cool and attack his interviewer.

Would the police see him as being capable of murder?

“Did you see that?” Brad said, sitting up.

“Yeah, pretty childish, stomping off like that.”

“No, not that. Back it up.”

I looked at him blankly.

“You recorded it, right?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t think to. . . .”

Brad grabbed up the remote and pushed RECORD.

“It’s too late, isn’t it? Why are you recording now?”

“If your DVR works like mine, it’ll record from the beginning of the show, as long as you haven’t switched channels.” He stopped the recording and pushed PLAY. The beginning of the news show appeared. He fastforwarded until he reached the segment with Gossip Guy and Lucas, then pushed PLAY.

“We’ve already seen this,” I said, not ready to witness the public humiliation of Killer Parties again.

“Just watch.”

I took a sip of wine, sat back, and watched the screen, up to the point where Lucas appeared, schmoozing with the party attendees. At that point, Brad suddenly paused the recording.

“Look.” He pointed to the right side of the screen.

All I saw was Lucas Cruz chatting up the guests, followed by the invasion of the parkour guys. It was interesting to see his look of pleasure turn to disbelief and finally horror as he realized his party was being crashed.

“Been there. Seen that,” I said.

Brad rewound the part and played it again, freezing it once more at the same point. This time he got up from the couch and pointed at something in the upper right-hand corner.

“Oh my God. It’s Jonas and Angelica,” I said. The couple stood close together in the background, away from the party. From their frowns, they appeared to be having an argument. They didn’t seem to know they were being videotaped.

“Look there.” Brad touched the screen. A shadow lurked behind a tree just to the left of the pair, seeming to observe them while keeping out of sight.

I squinted at the image, then turned to Brad. “Who is that? Do you think it’s her stalker?”

Brad shook his head. “I’m guessing it’s her husband-slash-bodyguard, but I can’t tell for sure. I’ll call Luke and see if their forensics department can enhance the image.”

A thought occurred to me. “Hey, maybe her husband
is
her stalker,” I said, excited about possibly solving one part of the mystery so quickly.

Brad grinned at my impulsiveness, but I liked things resolved. Unanswered questions and loose ends nagged at me like a hangnail, and I picked at them until I had answers, even if sometimes those answers weren’t quite accurate.

We watched the recording a few more times until I imagined everyone at the party to be the lurker behind the tree, including Brad. That meant it was time to call it a night.

“You want to stay over?” I asked Brad, cuddling up to him after switching off the TV. I was exhausted from thinking.

“I don’t know. What’s in it for me?”

I giggled—I couldn’t help myself. “A bed full of cats and breakfast in the morning.”

“Thank goodness I took my allergy pills before I came over,” he said, smoothing my hair.

“They’re for the cats, right? You’re not allergic to me, are you?”

“Not yet. But I may need a Zantac before you make breakfast.”

I hit him with a couch pillow and ran down the hall, screeching like the victim in a horror movie as he chased me into the bedroom.

I woke up early the next morning, eager to talk to Jonas after seeing the video on
Gossip Guy
the previous night. Maybe he could tell me more about some of the “behind-the-scenes” drama. Brad left after making us an omelet to die for—eggs, sour cream, baked beans, and a little mild barbecue sauce, all leftovers from my fridge. He’d gotten a call from SFPD about a cleanup at an eldercare home—a suicide—and dashed off after giving me a quick kiss and a nether pat.

His latest assignment made me think of my mother. I wondered if she ever got depressed at her care center.

It was time for a visit.

Better yet, an outing, or an “adventure,” as she liked to call it. There was no reason why she couldn’t come with me as I “interrogated” Jonas—especially since it would be broad daylight. I enjoyed her company, and she visibly benefited from getting away from the “old folks,” as she called them. I punched her number, asked her if she wanted to meet a handsome movie star up close and personal, and told her I’d pick her up in an hour.

The care center just off Van Ness Avenue and around the corner from Tommy’s Joynt was one of the best in the City—and, of course, one of the most expensive. But I couldn’t envision my ex-socialite mother spending her remaining years in a discount facility where the indigent elderly or disabled ended up. Good thing I was making enough money to provide her with her own room in a nice hotel-like facility, with supervised in-and-out privileges and days filled with stimulating activities beyond basket weaving and TV watching.

When I arrived, I found Mother in the craft room, engaged in her favorite activity—scrapbooking. She was dressed in classic, vintage San Francisco clothes—a red St. John knit suit, matching heels, and a hat with netting, which she’d scrunched up to reveal her stillbeautiful face. Her makeup was expertly done, albeit a little heavy on the rouge, but referencing her old high school and party photographs, she’d maintained that style through the years. Now, with Alzheimer’s, she seemed to have mentally and physically returned to those heydays of flamboyant events, society fundraisers, and gala gallery openings. The only things missing today were her white gloves. I had a feeling they were tucked safely in her red leather handbag.

“Hi, Mom,” I said as I strode over to the table where she was crafting with another older woman. Photographs of herself at various functions were strewn about, along with colorful sheets of paper, scissors, glue, tape, and other scrapbooking implements. She’d tried several times to get me interested in the hobby, but I was too busy working on my business to spend the time assembling old memories. Besides, I didn’t have that many memories yet. My mother, on the other hand, had a lifetime’s supply. And one day I’d be grateful to inherit her scrapbooks.

“Presley, darling! What are you doing here?”

I gave her a quick hug. “I came to pick you up for an adventure, remember?”

She frowned and blinked several times, then broke out into a smile. “Of course. I was just so wrapped up in all of this, I nearly forgot!” She swept her hand over the papers in front of her, then turned to the other woman at the table. “Oh, darling. This is Helen. She’s new at the hotel, and I’m introducing her to all the wonderful things we do here.”

Mother called her facility a hotel, and I didn’t see any reason to correct her. I reached out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Helen.”

Helen mumbled something as she offered me a weak hand before returning to her task—cutting red paper into little hearts. Mother closed up the album she’d been working on. “Well, I must be off now, Helen. I’m going on an adventure with my daughter, Presley.” She placed her album in a small cubby that had her name on it, retrieved her red wool coat with the real mink collar, and followed me to the front desk.

Once we were signed out and in my MINI Cooper, she asked where we were going. I reminded her about our planned visit to see a movie star or two.

“How exciting! Who are we going to see? I knew a lot of stars in my day, you know. Everyone from Hollywood came to San Francisco for my parties. Gary Cooper. Bette Davis. I was hired to host a fund-raiser for Shirley Temple’s political campaign. . . .” She grew silent, lost in memories—or trying to bring some back.

“Today we’re going to see the star from the party the other night—Jonas Jones. And maybe Angelica Brayden too. Do you remember them? They’re staying at the Mark Hopkins, your old stomping grounds.”

“I don’t believe I know them. What picture were they in?”

“
Revenge of the Killer Vampires
, but it hasn’t been released yet. We saw them do a scene from the film at the party, remember? I have a feeling they’re going to be major stars.”

Mother spent the short drive up steep California Street to the famous Mark Hopkins Hotel reminiscing about the many stars who had attended her parties. She hinted she’d had affairs with a couple of them but declined to be specific. I didn’t doubt her for a minute. My mother had married five times—she was a serial monogamist—but that didn’t mean there had been only five men in her bedroom. And I’d had five fathers. How many kids could say that?

Driving over trolley tracks and slaloming between cable cars, we passed Grant Avenue and Chinatown, the Twins—Vivian and Marian Brown—Armoire Boutique where my mother often shopped, and the exclusive and practically unmarked men’s club, the Pacific-Union. I pulled into the brick driveway of the hotel, at the top of Nob Hill. A valet took the car, and a uniformed doorman held open the heavy door as we headed inside.

The cozy lobby was filled with guests, most occupying the plush couches and chairs under the crystal chandeliers. The luxury hotel had seen as much sensational history as a soap opera. I’d heard the stories from my mother each time we went to the Top of the Mark for a special occasion.

“Mark Hopkins was one of the Big Four, the founders of the Central Pacific Railroad, you know,” Mother said, forgetting she’d told me this story a number of times before. “He built his wife, Mary, a forty-room, Gothic-style dream home, but he died before it was completed. After she inherited the property, she promptly married Edward Searles, thirty years her junior. When she died at seventy-three, in 1891, she left her seventy-million-dollar estate to her second husband. . . .”

I half listened as I headed for the elevators on the left. I led Mother into one of two elevator cars that went to the Top of the Mark, and pushed the T button for the nineteenth floor.

“Edward eventually donated the estate to the Art Institute”—Mother continued her lecture as we rode up—“but it was destroyed in the fire, after the 1906 earthquake. A mining engineer named George Smith bought the site, and, in 1926, he built this nineteenstory French château with Spanish ornamentation, reminiscent of the wild Barbary Coast. . . .”

We stepped out of the elevator car and into the glass-walled restaurant and lounge, “the home of one hundred martinis.” The panoramic views of the bridges, skylines, and Alcatraz held me hypnotized for a few moments. I wondered what it would be like to spend the night in such an opulent place, then remembered the room rates started at four hundred dollars.