How to Survive a Killer Seance (20 page)

“Dinner is served,” Brad announced, and I followed him into the dining room, where he dimmed the lights and lit candles. All we needed was a crystal ball to reenact the séance. The Crock-Pot chicken cacciatore turned out to be better than anything I’d ordered in the city’s Little Italy district.

Avoiding the subject of Jonathan, I asked about Spencer.

“His mother, Sansa, is a single mom. She had a home business—she’s a notary—and lives in one of the smaller units around the corner. Spencer loved Bruiser, so I asked his mom if I could hire him for doggy day care when I’m gone.”

“I still can’t believe you kept the dog. He looks—and acts—like a completely different dog! And he’s not pink anymore. So how did you manage to cure his ADHD?”

“I don’t think he liked having his fur dyed pink. Made him defensive. He’s a lot calmer now.”

“Didn’t Corbin want it?”

“Mary Lee’s son? Nope. Told me to do whatever I wanted with him.” Brad cleared away the dishes and asked, “Dessert?” returning with two small cups of what looked like chocolate mousse.

Oh my God. This guy could cook a meal, fix a computer, break into a house, take care of an obnoxious dog, moonlight as a caretaker, and remove blood from an antique carpet. He also liked kids, tolerated cats (even with his allergies), and looked hot in a black leather jacket and black jeans.

What did I need with dessert?

I woke up to someone sloppily kissing my face. When I opened my eyes, I realized it wasn’t Brad. The Dog Formerly Known as Chou-Chou was giving me a tongue bath. A little disoriented in the unfamiliar surroundings, I tried to get my bearings. I was in Brad’s house, in Brad’s bed, with Brad. And Bruiser.

Brad was snoring lightly, an arm draped across his eyes to block out the early-morning sun that streamed in from the upstairs bedroom window. I slipped out of bed, pulled on my jeans and T-shirt, and headed downstairs to the kitchen to make us lattes. I must have hit every creaky floorboard in the house.

Bruiser followed me down, either eager for a latte too, or hoping for something more doggylike. If he was anything like my cats, he’d want his bowl of food first thing. I found a bag of generic kibble food on top of the refrigerator, located a cereal bowl in a corner of the kitchen, and filled it up. He was gobbling up the bits before I finished pouring.

This was not the high-maintenance dog that had once belonged to a high-maintenance woman and traveled in a Coach handbag. What had Brad done to him? Taken him to obedience school? Given him Valium?

I petted the top of his curly white mop, which he ignored, too busy chomping down bits of food, then washed my hands.

Unlike mine, Brad’s kitchen was fully stocked. I kept only enough sustenance to stay alive in emergencies, while Brad had stored enough food to feed the Donner Party for a year. After getting the espresso machine started, I cracked a half dozen eggs, whipped them in a bowl with some milk and shredded cheddar cheese, and poured the mess in a saucepan. I hoped the fragrant aroma of sizzling eggs would wake Brad so we could get this day started. I had a lot on my to-do list and it had kept me sleeping fitfully during the night.

I heard a creaking floorboard.

“Mmmm. I love the smell of burning food in the morning.” Brad stood in the kitchen entryway in his blue velour bathrobe that came to just above his knees and did nothing to cover his broad chest. Wish I looked so good in the morning.

“Burned toast.” I said. “The burned lattes are on the table. The burned eggs will be ready in a minute.”

“Cool. I’ll go put on some pants and get the fire extinguisher.”

“Ha. Ha,” I said. He didn’t really need the pants, I thought, as I transferred the salvaged omelet onto a plate. When he returned, he was wearing jeans and his bloodred T-shirt with the logo: “Crime Scene Cleaners: Our Day Begins When Yours Ends.”

After breakfast and more witty repartee, I excused myself to take a quick shower, then gathered up my things.

“Where’re you headed this morning?” Brad asked, picking up Bruiser and tickling him under his chin.

“I thought I’d go over to Hella-Graphics, talk to some of the employees there. I think you’re right about George Wells, the assumed suicide. He’s tied to this somehow. I’m hoping to find someone who knows something—and will talk about it.”

“How’re you getting in? The security there is pretty tight. I even had trouble when I went over to clean up after Wells’s death. I don’t think they’ll let you in with your ‘balloon delivery’ trick.”

“Got a better idea.”

“What’s that?”

“I called Stephanie Bryson and told her I needed to talk with her about something. I’m meeting her there in an hour. Once I’m in, I plan to snoop around a bit.” I headed for the door, then turned back. “See you later?”

“Sure. I’ll come visit you in jail when you get arrested.”

“For what?” I said, frowning at his little joke.

He grinned. “Corporate espionage? Illegal trespassing? Impersonating a police officer?”

I rolled my eyes and closed the door behind me.

I pulled up to the Hella-Graphics lot on the Presidio campus and parked the MINI in a visitor’s space. The fog had lifted early, exposing a gently rolling lawn, a small waterfall that led to a stream, and lush landscaping throughout. The buildings looked more like college dormitories than former military housing and offices. Employees with badges hanging around their necks held to-go coffees as they headed for work. I glanced around at the nearly full lot and saw no sign of Jonathan’s Mercedes among the numerous BMWs, Volvos, and Priuses. Not surprising, now that he was wanted on suspicion of murder. I wondered where he was hiding.

I was about to get out of the car when I caught a glimpse of a dirty BMW parked in a loading zone. I noticed it because a man in a baseball cap and sunglasses was sitting in the car, watching me. The car’s right bumper sported a large dent.

I recognized it immediately—it was the same car that had struck Jonathan’s Mercedes in the Winchester Mystery House parking lot.

The driver had to be the menacing and mysterious Zachary Samuels.

And he was looking right at me.

“Miss? Do you have business here?”

I about jumped out of my seat. A security guard was hunched over, peering in my window.

“Uh, yes. I’m here to see Stephanie Bryson at Hella-Graphics.”

“You’ll need a temporary parking permit. You can get it from their office.”

“Thank you,” I said, and watched him walk away. I glanced back at Zachary. He, too, was watching the guard. As soon as the guard disappeared from sight, Zachary got out of the car, without giving me another look.

He hadn’t been watching me after all. He’d been watching the guard.

I scooted down in my seat before he spotted me—not that he’d necessarily recognize me, but I didn’t want to take a chance. Plus, I was curious as to what he was doing at Hella-Graphics, showing up so boldly like he was. Stephanie’d said he’d been fired, so I assumed he was persona non grata at the company. Was he planning to just waltz in?

In addition to the cap and sunglasses, he wore a dark green hoodie, jeans, and athletic shoes, and was carrying a bag. As he headed toward the building, I could read the lettering on the back of his hoodie: SUBWAY.

SUBWAY? As in sandwiches?

There was something off about the letters. While they were white and yellow like the official logo, they looked like standard iron-ons, not the SUBWAY font. Was he using this corny ruse to get himself into the building? And would it work? In such a simple disguise, wouldn’t he be recognized immediately by the receptionist?

This I had to see.

I opened the door slowly, slipped out, and scrunched down behind my car, craning my neck to see where he was going. To my surprise, he didn’t continue to the front entrance of Hella-Graphics. Instead, he pulled his cap down even farther, glanced from side to side, and walked briskly to the left side of the building.

It was time to take action. If I didn’t keep up with him, I’d lose him. I followed him, keeping my distance and trying to look casual and to blend in among the several dozen people passing by.

Suddenly he stopped halfway down the side of the building and pulled out his cell phone. His thumbs moved rapidly over the display. Seconds later he stuffed the phone back into his jacket pocket and glanced around again.

I pulled back behind a tree and took out my own cell phone, trying to look occupied in case he spotted me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement and looked over. A side door had opened near where the man stood. I couldn’t see who’d opened the door, and before I knew it, Zachary Samuels—if that was who it was—had sneaked inside Hella-Graphics.

Someone who worked there had let him in.

 

I stepped out from behind the tree, stunned at what had just happened. An innocent party planner like me couldn’t get past the front door, and a possible killer just walked right in. I guess you had to know the secret knock.

I crossed over to the front entrance and rang the bell. A voice came over the intercom: “Yes, may I help you?”

“Presley Parker to see Stephanie Bryson,” I announced, with a hint of entitlement in my voice. I wasn’t about to be turned away at the gate this time. Not when I was expected by Jonathan’s VP.

A buzzer sounded. I pushed open one of the double glass doors and slipped inside before the receptionist changed her mind.

“Sign in, please,” she reminded me.

I performed the ritual with a flourish and set the pen down, meeting the receptionist’s watchful eyes.

“I’ll let her know you’re here. Please have a seat.” She handed me a visitor badge.

With a nod, I chose a chair opposite the little 3-D mice and watched them while I waited for Stephanie. Nearly thirty minutes later, I had read all my e-mail messages, sent out half a dozen of my own, added Zachary’s suspicious entry into Hella-Graphics to my notes, cleaned out my purse, read the latest issue of
Computer Graphics
magazine, and counted the number of employees who passed by: forty-eight.

I thought about making a run for Stephanie’s office—what would the receptionist do? Call security? Have me arrested? Instead, I rose and returned to the front desk.

“I’m sorry, but could you check on Stephanie Bryson? I’ve been waiting over half an hour for her.”

The young woman, who had piercings through her lip, eyebrow, and nose, sighed, lifted the phone, and punched a number. “Stephanie, you have a visitor.” She paused, then said, “Okay,” and hung up the phone.

“She’ll be right here.”

I frowned at her, puzzled. That was what she’d said thirty minutes ago. Had she forgotten to call Stephanie the first time? I decided to loiter near the front desk rather than disappear into one of the comfy chairs, to make sure the receptionist didn’t forget me again.

Seconds later Stephanie appeared from the company’s inner sanctum.

“Hi, Presley,” she said warmly, reaching out a hand. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

I took her hand and shook it, a little surprised by her unapologetic greeting. “Uh . . . no . . . uh . . . a few minutes.” I decided to let it go, figuring she hadn’t gotten the original message that I was waiting for her. Stupid receptionist. What was her name? I’d have to remember her.

“Any news on Jonathan?” I asked, anxious to hear if he’d contacted her.

She glanced around sharply, then said, “Let’s go to my office.”

I followed her down the hallway, stealing glimpses into rooms filled with employee amenities and envious of all that Hella-Graphics had to offer. I really needed to submit an application. Surely they needed a party girl.