How to Crash a Killer Bash (10 page)

“Really?” I leaned forward. “They were getting along pretty well?”

“Yeah. He was finally getting his act together.” Corbin’s eyes brightened.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. When I was a kid, I used to hear people talking about them. They said Mother only married him because she thought he was going to be a great artist. And that he only married her for her family inheritance. They called him her trophy hubby behind her back. But he got nothing in the divorce, thanks to a prenup. And after a couple of bad reviews, he quit painting and started dealing in art and artifacts. Thought there was more money in it.”

“How did he do?”

“Not so well. After a kind of shady deal he tried to make with MoMA, none of the museums would trust him. Including the de Young. Word spreads fast in the art world. He was always looking for ways to make money.”

“Not all of them legit, I gather.”

Corbin glanced at the two girls, who had taken the other table window.

“Do you think he might have . . .” My question trailed off.

He jerked his attention back to me. “What,
kill
her? No way. Like I said, they were getting along better lately, talking and stuff. No, no way would he kill her. He didn’t have any reason to, after all these years.”

“Corbin, I’d like to talk to him. Can you tell me how I can contact him?”

“He’s houseboat-sitting right now. At the marina. You could try him there, although it’s tough to catch him. He’s gone a lot.”

I took down the location of the boat and Jason’s cell number. Before I’d talked to Corbin, I thought Jason was a real possibility as a suspect in Mary Lee’s death. But after hearing he and Mary Lee were friendly again, his motive had vanished like city fog in the afternoon.

Still, maybe he continued to harbor a lot of resentment from the past. And he could easily have been at the party. Could he have smuggled in a knife, sneaked into the crime scene room where Mary Lee was waiting, and killed her? Sure, except he didn’t seem to have a motive. At least, not an obvious one.

I filed the thought away for future consideration and moved on.

“Is there anything you can tell me about Christine, the museum curator? Or her assistant, Dan?”

Corbin took a deep, sorrowful breath and let it out slowly. “Not really. Mother and Chris were tight years ago, when I was a kid. They went to the same college, up in Oregon. Chris was my godmother, and Mother got her the job at the de Young. But they had some kind of falling-out recently. When I asked about her, Mother just shook her head and changed the subject. My mother didn’t confide in me much.”

A falling-out? Motive?

“What about Dan Tannacito? Did he have anything against your mother? Any deep, dark secrets?”

“Ha. He’s a joke,” Corbin said, looking disgusted, as if he smelled something bad in the air. “But that’s no secret around the museum. Calls himself an ‘exhibit developer,’ but he’s just another assistant. A wannabe curator who thinks he’s Indiana Jones. Recently he’d been hanging around Mother a lot, no doubt trying to get her to fire Chris so he could take over her job. At least, that was the gossip. He’s a total phony.”

Whoa. That was harsh. Did Corbin have a grudge against Dan for some hidden reason?

“Was there anyone else who might have been at the party who might have . . .” I couldn’t finish my sentence.

“Murdered her?” Corbin sat up, cupped his espresso in both hands, and downed the dregs in one swallow. Setting the cup down, he ventured, “How about everyone?”

My eyebrows shot up.

“Seriously,” Corbin continued. “It could have been anyone. Like I said, a lot of people acted as if they liked her. But she didn’t have many true friends. And those she did have didn’t seem to last long.”

Corbin squirmed in his chair. It was time to wrap this up.

“Corbin, are you planning to see or talk to Delicia?”

He looked down at his empty cup. “Nah. I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not until all this is . . . over.”

I felt the muscles in my neck tighten. “You don’t believe she did it, do you?”

He didn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he shifted, then pulled out his cell phone and began checking his messages. I got the hint and collected my purse.

Did he really think Delicia might have killed his mother?

Clearing Dee wasn’t going to be easy without Corbin in her corner.

I stood up, thanked him, and offered my hand. He shook it limply.

“Oh. One last thing,” I added. “Where’s your mom’s little dog?”

Corbin kept his eyes on his cell phone as he said, “I have no clue.”

 

I drove the short distance to the marina near Fort Mason, hoping somehow to catch Jason Cosetti. He hadn’t answered his cell phone, but I figured, since I was in the neighborhood, it was worth a try. Corbin had warned me that I wouldn’t be able to get past the locked gate at the pier—and he was right. As soon as I found the East Harbor, aka “Gashouse Cove,” I parked the MINI, got out, and located G-4, where the No. 90 boat slip was moored. Unable to get inside without a key, I stood on the dock for a few minutes waiting for someone to exit the gate so I could sneak in, while watching the colorful sailboats, kites, and tourists enjoying the unseasonably warm November day. Warm for San Francisco, that is, where weather usually ranges from overcast to fog to cloudy.

After a few minutes, a guy in white shorts and a blue-and-white-striped shirt appeared from within a nearby boat and stepped onto the dock.

But instead of coming my way, he began fiddling with some ropes.

“Excuse me!” I called and waved.

He looked up, squinting. “Yes?”

Now what? I couldn’t tell him I’d forgotten my key. These people all knew each other. I tried another tack. “I came to see a friend of mine, but can’t seem to get him on his cell. Could you let me in so I can check on him?”

“What’s his name?” the man called.

“Uh, Jason Cosetti.”

“Never heard of him. You must have the wrong dock.”

Nuts! Of course he hadn’t heard of Jason Cosetti. Jason was boat-sitting for some other guy—and I didn’t know the boat owner’s name.

“Actually, I think he’s staying on the boat and keeping an eye on it for a friend.”

The man looked down at his ropes and shook his head.

“Nope. Not here. No one’s allowed to live on their boats in the harbor. Most you can stay is seventy-two hours.” With that he leaped back onto his boat deck and disappeared inside.

Well, that trick didn’t work. And I had more questions than answers.

So was Jason living on the boat illegally?

Or was Corbin lying to me about where his father was staying?

I checked the time—a little after ten—and figured I’d go on over to the de Young Museum to see if I could find out anything new. Two other names kept rearing their ugly heads—Christine Lampe and Dan Tannacito. Maybe they could shed some light on Mary Lee’s untimely death. Both were personable people, at least superficially. But I’d barely gotten to know them in the short time they’d served as suspects in my murder mystery play. After Corbin had filled me in on their “backstories,” I was intrigued.

Maybe they’d open up their secrets to me, a simple, non-threatening party planner. Event planner, I corrected myself.

I parked in the lot and headed for the museum. In spite of last night’s murder, the place was open to the public, although I guessed the crime scene room had been cordoned off. After opening my purse to the guard at the door, I walked to the mural room. Instead of a “Do Not Cross” police tape across the door, a discreet sign read “Temporarily Closed to the Public.”

I moved on to the front desk, showed my membership card to the docent, and lied, “I have an appointment with Christine Lampe.”

The nice thing about docents, besides the fact that they donate their time and knowledge to the public, is that they’re usually kindly older volunteers who work part-time and don’t really get involved with administrative staff. I hoped my air of authority would allow me access upstairs.

The elderly woman paused for a moment and frowned, clearly befuddled. Then looked up the curator’s office number on a plastic chart. “It’s on the fourth floor, but you can’t get there without a passkey. She’ll have to come get you. I’ll dial her extension.”

I placed my hand on her wrist to stop her. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary.” I patted my purse. “I have a passkey. Thanks.”

I turned and headed for the elevators. I didn’t want Christine to know I was coming, preferring to take her by surprise, but I had to figure out a way to get up to the fourth floor.

I got on the elevator and spotted the button for the fourth floor. Underneath the buttons was a metal box with a blinking light. Apparently I needed to swipe a passkey to access the administrative upper floors. I rode to the seventh floor—the tower—and got off. Ignoring the breathtaking view from the panoramic windows, I walked over to a staircase on the other side of the room and well hidden from the gift kiosk. Strung across the entrance was a rope with the sign: “No admittance.”

If I could just get past that rope . . .

“Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re not allowed in there,” came a voice from behind me.

I spun around, startled, until I recognized the security guard from the other night, Sam Wo.

“Sam! Hi, it’s me, Presley Parker, from the party . . .”

He stared at me blankly.

“The event planner? For the mystery fund-raiser?” I reminded him.

Sam broke into a grin and nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, I remember you. And your delightful mother.” The smile abruptly faded. “Terrible thing, what happened to Ms. Miller. Terrible.”

I nodded, commiserating. “Yes, actually that’s why I’m here. I’m trying to find out who might have had a reason to kill her.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “I thought the police had arrested someone.”

“That’s just it. Delicia is my friend, and I know she didn’t have anything to do with it. I want to help clear her.”

“She didn’t do it?” he said, lifting his cap to scratch his head.

“No, no way. And I need to talk to Christine Lampe and Dan Tannacito, but I don’t want them to know I’m coming. Can you get me onto the fourth floor?”

He glanced around to see if we’d been overheard, then lowered his voice. “Oh no, Ms. Parker. I could get into trouble—”

“Please, Sam. I’m sure, as the head of security at the de Young, you want to find out who really killed Mary Lee—Ms. Miller—don’t you?”

Sam glanced around again for eavesdroppers. “Yes,” he whispered, “but I don’t want to lose my job. I’ve already lost too much.”

I frowned. “What do you mean? Because of the murder?”

“No, no. My retirement—it’s gone. All my savings. Then my wife left me. I lost my home. So you see, I can’t afford to lose this job.”

I felt a sudden empathy for this man I hardly knew. I reached out and touched his arm. “Sam, what happened?”

“I made some stupid investments,” he said, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Sam. That’s terrible.” I thought for a moment. “Listen, if you help me, I’ll do my best to make sure you keep your job and get credit for your part in helping me find the real killer. Maybe even get a raise.”

Just how I was going to do that was a mystery to me.

“I really can’t. Things are tense around here, and I feel some responsibility for Ms. Miller’s death. After all, it happened on my watch.”

“I understand. I swear I won’t mention you, except to say you helped me find the killer when the time comes.”

The deep line in his brow softened. I was getting to him. I had one more ace up my sleeve.

“I know my mother will be impressed that you’re trying to help. She’s been talking a lot about you.”

His face lit up. “She has?”

Great. Now I was offering up my dear mother as a sort of bribe. What kind of daughter was I?

Stealing another glance around, he said, “Okay, but make it fast. This staircase leads to the floors below. There are cameras, so give me five minutes to get to the security office and take over the watch. You’ll still be recorded on tape, but if there’s no reason to review them, you should be okay.”

“Thanks, Sam. I won’t forget this. Nor will my mother.”

Sam tipped his hat. “Ms. Parker, please be careful. If your friend didn’t kill Ms. Miller, then someone else did. Perhaps someone from the museum.”

Those were my thoughts exactly.

Staring out at the view of the city, I waited the required five minutes before running down the stairs. When I reached the fourth floor, I yanked open the door and began looking for Christine’s office.