What had Dane Scott and Jerry Thompson hoped to achieve by infiltrating Jonathan’s Séance Party? I’d heard Stephanie tell the police she was worried about the intellectual property.
Did they plan to steal the 4-D idea? Or the actual product?
And had Levi gotten in the way of that goal?
It was time to add Dane Scott and Jerry Thompson to my list of suspects, headed by Jonathan and Lyla. Maybe Jonathan wasn’t lying and he really didn’t kill Levi. Maybe the guys from Stereo-Scope Graphics were trying to make him look like the murderer. They certainly had motive—to ruin Hella-Graphics. Jerry Thompson had opportunity, being at the party. And the candlestick provided the means.
I reviewed my short list of suspects—Jonathan, Lyla, Zachary, Dane Scott, and Jerry Thompson. Now it was time to start scratching them off. It would be easier putting on a wine tasting for Alcoholics Anonymous than figuring out if Jonathan was really innocent.
Like I do when I’ve signed to do a party, I pulled out a planning spreadsheet. Actually my spreadsheet looks more like a family tree. When planning a party, I start at the top of the tree with the name of the event and the host. Underneath are branches for various aspects of the party—the invitations, decorations, costumes, games/activities, refreshments, and favors. Farther down are twigs for more details under each category, such as what kind of invitation, when they’re sent out, who’s on the guest list, the RSVPs, and so on.
This time, instead of writing the name of the party host at the top—Jonathan Ellington—I wrote Levi’s name. In the row of spaces underneath, I filled in the names of the suspects, and under each I added details—their possible motives (competition, jealousy, humiliation, etc.), their relationships to one another (sex, friendship, employer), their secrets (multiple affairs, corporate spying, blackmail), and anything else I could think of.
I soon had a tree full of bad apples. But which one was rotten to the core?
I reviewed the sheet, trying to imagine why each suspect might have killed Levi.
Jonathan Ellington: revenge? Levi had exposed Jonathan’s secret affairs and humiliated him. Or so it seemed.
Lyla Ellington: revenge? She was also embarrassed in public by having such a scoundrel for a husband, so perhaps she killed Levi to frame Jonathan. Question: Would she inherit the company if Jonathan went to prison for murder?
Zachary Samuels: revenge? He was fired and replaced by Levi, so maybe he wanted to frame Jonathan. Question: Would he benefit in another way?
Dane Scott/Jerry Thompson: greed? The CEO and his spy from Stereo-Scope Graphics might have wanted Jonathan out of the way so they could present their own cutting-edge 3-D product. Question: Or did they plan to steal Jonathan’s 4-D Projector and claim it as their own?
I added a few more names to the spreadsheet.
Violet Vassar: revenge? Was she angry about Jonathan cheating on her and embarrassing her in public? Or did she have another reason, such as blackmailing Jonathan or she’d go public with his sex addiction? And what about the other women he’d seduced?
With a couple of spaces left, I added two more names—Stephanie Bryson, the VP of Hella-Graphics, and Mia Thiele, the manager of the mystery house—although their motives were weak.
Would Stephanie be next in line at Hella-Graphics if Jonathan was gone? And had she also had an affair with Jonathan that wasn’t revealed at the séance?
As for Mia, did she kill Levi because he revealed her one-night stand with Jonathan? Or could she have had another reason?
Like I said, weak.
With party requests piling up and an urgent need for cash—now that I wouldn’t be seeing a check from Jonathan anytime soon, I set my suspect tree aside and worked on my Killer Party business, even though it was Sunday. In the event-planning business, the hostess never sleeps.
Delicia came in to the office around noon to pick up some costume parts I kept handy. She was up for a part in a local commercial for the San Francisco Department of Tourism and was trying to win the job by getting Berk to videotape her wearing appropriate outfits at various popular sites. She’d planned to pose on Alcatraz in a black-and-white-striped prison uniform, dress up as Cinderella for the San Francisco Opera House, wear a Cable Car uniform on a ride up steep California Street, and sport a San Francisco Giants outfit while tossing a ball at AT&T Park. I was tired just watching her pick out the clothes.
When Brad popped by at five o’clock, I hadn’t done a thing about proving Jonathan’s innocence.
“Hungry?” he said, stepping inside. He’d exchanged his crime scene suit for jeans and a blue T-shirt, which outlined his muscular chest and set off his strong arms. For a moment, I didn’t think he was referring to food.
“Starving,” I said, coming to my senses. I saved my work and shut down my laptop.
“How about dinner at a special place I know. Heard the food is great, the view spectacular, and the ambience cozy and romantic.”
“How could I resist that?” I gathered my purse and notes, and walked with him out to the parking lot. Working inside all afternoon, I hadn’t noticed the fog had rolled in. I shivered.
Before we got far, someone called his name, “Braaaaddd!”
I turned to see Marianne, the TI administrator and person who held my rent fee over my head, hustling out of Building One to catch up with us. She wore what looked like a tie-dyed muumuu and sandals. Her shoulder-length brown hair was highlighted several shades of blond.
“Hi, Presley,” she said to me, then turned her attention to Brad. “Glad I caught you, Brad. My computer just froze. Any chance you could take a look at it? You’re so good with computers, and I’m desperate.”
Brad glanced at me for permission. I blinked once for “Fine. Go do it.”
“Sure, I’ll take a look.” To me he said, “I’ll be right back.”
Brad and Marianne returned to the building entrance and disappeared inside, leaving me standing in the parking lot alone. What was she doing here on a Sunday, running around in a cloud of tropical flowers and sandals? And what was up with the “helpless me” act?
Duh. Marianne was hot for Brad.
I decided to walk to the edge of the Bay, just across the street from the admin building. Staring out at the San Francisco city skyline, the tips of the buildings covered in fog, the lights beginning to sparkle, I started to think of ways to get rid of Marianne. That led me to thinking about Jonathan again—whether he was guilty, what I could do to help him if he was innocent. I was conflicted about his claims that he didn’t kill Levi, and it had left me paralyzed and unable to start investigating.
A thought occurred to me as I sat on a large rock and looked down at the water: Almost all the motives I’d listed on my spreadsheet involved revenge. I knew revenge was a powerful motive for retaliation—and murder. I’d even been thinking of ways to off Marianne. Jonathan certainly could have wanted revenge for what Levi had done to him.
So how did George Wells tie into all of this? I was sure he was somehow connected to this family tree. But George Wells was an orange among apples. Still, I added his name to the list, reminding myself that I’d promised to help his wife, Teddi. I had to find out more about him.
My daydreaming was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. Startled, I whirled around.
“You scared me!” I said, feeling my face flush at the sight of Brad.
“You were deep in thought,” Brad said. “That kind of scares me too.”
“Very funny.” I took his proffered hand and rose up from the rocky seat.
“Shall we go?”
“You’re finished? Did you fix her computer?”
He nodded innocently.
“So what was wrong with it?”
“Nothing. Too many open files caused it to freeze up. I just rebooted and it worked fine.”
“I’ll bet,” I said under my breath. She probably did it on purpose.
The evening westerly was picking up and I pulled my arms in close to keep out the chill.
“You cold?” he asked. “My jacket’s over there.” He pointed back to the parking lot.
“I’ll be fine in the car,” I said, glancing around for his ride. “Where’s your SUV?”
He pressed his lips together.
“Oh no, you didn’t. You brought your
bike
?”
I spotted his motorcycle parked off to the side of the admin building. When we reached it, he pulled two black leather jackets from a sort of locked dashboard and helped me slip it on. He shrugged into his own jacket, then handed me a helmet.
Oh my God. By the time we reached the restaurant, my hair would be flat, my face would be red, and my hands would be too cold to open a menu.
“Hop on,” he said, seating himself up front. I hopped onto the back, wrapped my arms around his tight waist, and hung on for dear life.
Marianne could bite me.
Before I could even get somewhat comfortable in my seat, we were zooming up Macalla Drive. Seconds later we crossed over to hilly Yerba Buena Island and practically flew around the hairpin curves. The smell of eucalyptus trees filled my nostrils, and I caught quick glimpses of colorful flowers as we whizzed by former military housing. How strange it was to go from bare flatlands to lush green hills in less than five minutes. YB was another world. Moments later Brad pulled up to a large white two-story house and killed the engine.
I got off the bike, unclasped the helmet, and looked up at the elegant home that once belonged to an Admiral Bryson, according to the name plate on the steps that led to the front door. “This is impressive,” I said. “You live here?”
In all the time I’d known Brad—and granted that wasn’t so long—I’d never been to his place.
Brad took my hand and led me up the steps to the porch. Across the top of the door and at the bottom were strips of yellow crime scene tape that read “Police Line—Do Not Cross.”
I looked at Brad, waiting for an explanation. Was this building also condemned? Or had some kind of crime occurred here?
He stuck a key in the lock and opened the door. “That’s just to keep nosy people away. I got the tape from Luke Melvin. You wouldn’t believe the number of curious visitors who come snooping around.”
He pointed to several other large homes close by. “I moonlight as the caretaker of these old historic homes. That one down at the end is where Admiral Nimitz used to live. Now they rent it out for special events. Meanwhile, I keep an eye on the place—and my rent is free.”
I was quickly learning that Brad was quite the negotiator when it came to living quarters. After scanning the spectacular view of the Bay Bridge from his front porch, I stepped over the bottom stretch of tape and entered the front hall. On the right was a parlor, with a crystal chandelier, hardwood floors, and wainscoting on the wall. It was absent any furniture. On the left, a formal dining room was identical to the parlor except for a small table and a couple of folding chairs in the middle. I wanted to rush out and buy him some furnishings from IKEA until he led me to the back of the first floor. On the right was a huge kitchen, and on the left what may have been the admiral’s study.
But Brad had transformed it into his own man cave.
A huge black leather couch and Papa Bear-sized chair occupied most of the room. A mega flat-screen TV dominated the wall facing the couch, flanked by a variety of entertainment systems—a DVD player, Xbox, PlayStation, CD player, and other electronic gizmos every man thinks he must have in order to survive.
Brad gestured for me to sit down on the couch and quickly poured me a glass of wine. He set it on the glass coffee table that held a laptop, some paperwork, and, oddly, some small toy cars. I picked up what looked like a race car and asked, “Do you play with these in your spare time?”
“No,” Brad called from the kitchen. “Those are for—”
The doorbell rang.
“Just a sec.” He sprinted for the door. Curious about who’d be calling at a home with crime scene tape covering the door, I followed him. In the open doorway stood a little boy of about five or six, big eyed, rosy cheeked, and holding a leash that led to a small furry ball of white fluff.
“Spencer! How you doin’? How was Bruiser today?” Brad knelt down and began petting the dog. When he saw me come up behind him, he stood. “Presley, I’d like you to meet Spencer Brien. Spencer lives next door with his mom, Sansa. He takes care of Bruiser while I’m at work, don’t you, Spence?”
The boy nodded proudly as he handed the leash over to Brad.
Brad picked up the dog and cradled it in his arm. “Were you a good boy today, Bruiser?”
Spencer grinned, revealing a gaping hole where a bottom tooth had once been. “He was real good, Uncle Brad. We went to the park and he didn’t run away or anything.” Spencer couldn’t quite manage his “s” or “r” sounds, which only made him even cuter. I wanted to give his buzz-cut hair a noogie.
Instead, I leaned over and noogied the dog. “Oh my God. This is Chou-Chou! Mary Lee’s dog.”
Mary Lee Miller had hired me to do a party at the de Young Museum recently. When she died under tragic circumstances, Brad had somehow ended up with her puffy purse poodle. I thought he’d unload the dog as soon as he could find a home for it. Apparently I was wrong.
Brad grinned. “His name is Bruiser now, not Chou-Chou. And yes, I still have him. I haven’t found a place for him yet. Besides, Spencer is a great dog nanny. I pay him five dollars a week to watch Bruiser for me when I’m gone.”
I laughed. “Well, this is yet another side to Brad Matthews I haven’t witnessed. Maybe you could bring Chou—I mean, Bruiser—over for a playdate with my cats sometime.”
“Are you kidding? Those cats would turn him into pillow stuffing before I could say ‘bad kitties.’ ”
After Spencer left, Brad returned to the kitchen to finish preparing whatever it was that smelled so good—something garlicky. Chou-Chou/Bruiser seemed excited to see me, although I had a feeling he was always like that. Eventually he calmed down and took his spot on a small rug near the giant chair.