How to Survive a Killer Seance (27 page)

“Duncan!” I said, stepping inside his office. There was no sign of Berk. Duncan, however, was sitting at Berk’s desk, staring into Berk’s computer screen. A bunch of gobbledygook scrolled down the screen.

He glanced over at me. “Hey, Pres. ’S’up?”

“Planning another GPS Treasure Hunt?” I asked. Duncan was the mastermind behind the GPS parties I’d hosted on several occasions. “Or are you hacking into our national security system?”

He smiled indulgently. “Not this time. Just checking to see if I fixed Berk’s computer. It had a meltdown this morning.”

“Oh no. Did he lose all his work?” Berk stored most of his videos on his computer, although he could probably get most everything back from his posts on YouTube.

“Nope. It’s working now. Just doing a diagnostic.”

“You’re amazing,” I said, in awe of anyone who knew more about computers than I did . . . which was probably everyone. Brad was also computer savvy, but there was no one quite like Duncan. It’s a wonder he didn’t work for the National Security Agency or some other supersecret high-tech place. Barely twenty-one, he didn’t seem eager to enter the real world, and preferred doing his own thing. All while carrying a torch for Delicia.

“Listen, I need your help,” I said.

He looked up. “Of course you do.” Relaxing back in his chair, he folded his freckled hands over his ragged Space Aliens T-shirt. His tangled, curly red hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days—if ever—which was normal for him.

“I want to send an e-mail to the CEO of a company and I can’t find his address. Is there any way you could get it?”

“Depends,” he said swiveling in his chair. “What have you got?”

I gave him Dane Scott’s name, company name, and Web site address—it was all I had, aside from some articles I’d found on the Internet. “Not much, is it?”

Instead of answering me, he started typing furiously on the keyboard. I swear it was less than two minutes before he came up with [email protected].

“How did you do that?” I marveled at him.

“E-mail search engine. There’s a bunch of them. This one—
e-­mailaddress.­com
—is one of the best. I could probably find Amelia Earhart, Jimmy Hoffa, and the Bermuda Triangle’s e-mail addresses if they existed.”

“I’m impressed. Thanks so much.”

“Later,” he said, already refocused on Berk’s computer screen.

Delicia was back when I returned to our shared office.

“Hey. How’d the audition go?” I asked as I sat down at my desk.

She gave me a long, dramatically downcast look, then broke out into a grin and clapped. “I got the part! I got the part! I’m Miss Baghdad by the Bay for the San Francisco Tourist Bureau!”

I jumped up and hugged her. “That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you. You’ll be great.”

“At least I’ll be able to afford the rent this month. And it’s going to be fun, playing all these different characters.”

That gave me an idea.

“Dee, I’ve got the part of a lifetime for you. Doesn’t pay much, only a handful of people will see you, but it could be very satisfying. What do you think?”

“What—you need me to play another fortune-teller and tell you who your killer is? I’m a good actress, but not that good.”

“Actually, you’ll be perfect!” I told her my plan.

Brad appeared in the doorway, his eyebrow raised. “What are you two plotting? You look very suspicious.”

I grinned. Dee giggled.

“Just the man I was looking for,” I said. “Got a question for you. And since you seem to have all the answers, I’m betting you can answer this one.”

He touched his forehead and closed his eyes, pretending to read my mind. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and said, “You want to know what I’m making for dinner tonight?”

“That too,” I said, “but first, is corporate espionage illegal? I mean, can you get arrested for trying to steal secrets from another business? It seems so common these days.”

Brad sat on the corner of my desk. “Yes, it’s illegal. I’ve never had to clean up after it, but Luke has all kinds of stories about corporate spying. The most famous one was an employee at Bristol-Myers Squibb who had downloaded a bunch of the company’s secret processes so he could start his own business in India. He got something like ten years. Why? Are you about to commit a felony?”

I ignored his witty repartee. “How did they catch him?”

“Bristol had computer security specialists who caught on. They tracked his e-mails, texts. Those guys aren’t stupid. That’s why companies hire them.”

“I had no idea it was so prevalent.”

“These days corporate spying is pretty extensive and sophisticated. They hire professional sleuths, tap telephones, intercept text messages, get cell phone records, hack into computers, go Dumpster diving—all the stuff the CIA does.”

“Amazing. How do companies protect themselves?”

“Most businesses hire private security, mainly because the legal system is way behind on what constitutes espionage—and what’s just healthy competition.”

“The same goes for corporate sabotage?” I asked.

“Yep. That trusted insider may be a mole—anyone from an engineer to maintenance man to a salesman to an inspector.”

“Or a cleaner?” I said, tongue in cheek.

He grinned. “Yeah, I’ve stolen enough intel from Killer Parties to start my own party business.”

I laughed. “Are most of these guys caught and arrested?”

“Some are caught, but only a few go to jail. Mostly they end up as lawsuits. It’s a dangerous risk, but the payoff can be high.”

Aha. Just what I needed as leverage against Dane Scott and his talking puppet, Jerry Thompson.

 

I spent the afternoon getting ready to party once again—at the Winchester Mystery House. It was short notice, but Mia agreed to let me use the actual séance room this time, since the guest list would be smaller. She sounded surprised to hear that Jonathan had been arrested for murder and said she thought he was innocent. For such a brief relationship, he must have been quite the lover. I cringed at the thought.

Next, I prepared the guest list. Besides my team—Dee, Brad, Duncan, Berk, and myself—I jotted down the guests of honor and then Dane Scott and his yes-man, Jerry Thompson. Then I added Mia from the mansion; Lyla, Jonathan’s soon-to-be ex-wife; Violet Vassar, his administrative assistant; and finally Stephanie, who would serve as a resource for information. I threw in my mother and Stephen Ellington to prove to them I was trying to find out the truth.

I drafted a copy of the e-vite, with Sarah Winchester herself doing the honors. I had Duncan create an animated spirit, with audio personalized to each guest, then ended with the Five W’s of Party Invitations:

I sent the first invitation to Dane Scott’s previously private e-mail address. Sarah Winchester gave him a very “good reason” to attend, telling him she “knew all about his corporate espionage and would share it with the police, the district attorney, and worse—the local television station”—if he didn’t respond positively in his RSVP. For Jerry Thompson, I had Duncan add audio from my iPhone recording of our meeting.

I wondered how much time I’d get for extortion.

I finished the rest of the invites, personalizing them based on what I knew about each guest. The ones to Lyla and Violet were a little less threatening, but still compelling (Lyla’s affair with Zachary and Violet’s unmentioned internship at Stereo-Scope Graphics). Stephanie and Mia got simple invitations asking them to be there for “an important update” in the case. Finally, I called my mother—she doesn’t do e-mail—and asked her if she and Stephen Ellington would like to attend. “Of course we would,” she said. I told her I’d arrange transportation for them both.

After I hung up, I had a frightening thought. If this plan backfired on me, I might be putting my mother in danger. Maybe I hadn’t thought this through enough. Desperation will do that to a person.

While I waited for the RSVPs to pour in, I started prepping for tomorrow night’s party—a séance to end all séances. The whole thing felt a bit like the denouement of an Agatha Christie novel, with all the suspects gathered in the parlor.

Only this time, the prime suspect, Jonathan, would be missing.

I checked my e-mail and found four responses to my e-vite. None of them was from Dane Scott or Jerry Thompson. If those guys didn’t show up, my plan would fall apart. I scanned the RSVPs I’d received:

Mia wrote, “This should be interesting. I’ll be there.”

Lyla answered simply, “Yes.”

Stephanie said, “I hope to be there, if nothing else gets in the way! Fingers crossed.”

Her answer reminded me of something, but before I could remember what it was, a new e-mail popped up.

Whoa. It looked like there would be a couple of hefty party crashers at my last-minute Séance Party. I only hoped I knew what I was doing.

 

I burst into Brad’s office and found him at his computer. “Brad! I need to see Jonathan.” He looked up from the screen and sat back in his chair, lacing his hands over his chest.

“Last I heard, he was in jail, Presley,” Brad said. “Visiting days are Saturday and Sunday.”

I pulled up a chair, sat down, and leaned toward him. “Seriously. I need you to call Detective Melvin and get him to let me see Jonathan. I have a plan that I hope will prove Jonathan’s guilt or innocence.”

“They usually do the proving in a court of law, Pres,” he said. “Besides, I thought this whole Séance Party you’re putting on tomorrow night was your plan. Aren’t you going to scare the bad guys from Stereo-Scope into confessing?”

I sat upright. “Stop mocking me!”

“Sorry.” He frowned, turning serious. “Why do you need to see Jonathan?”

“He’s going to be the one who accuses the killer of the murders.”

Brad chuckled. “And how is he going to do that? I’ll say it again—Jonathan’s in jail.”

“I
know
that. That’s why I have to see him. To videotape him for the séance.”

Brad shook his head. “First of all, I don’t know if I can convince Luke to let you in. I don’t have that kind of influence.”

“Yes, you do.”

Brad sighed, then continued. “Second, Jonathan’s probably not going to cooperate with any of this.”

“I think he will, especially if he’s innocent. Would you just talk to Melvin and try to get me in? Please? I’ll deal with the rest of it.”

Brad cocked his jaw. I could read his face easily, and it clearly said, “Resistance is futile; I give up.” He pulled out his phone and called the SFPD.

“Thank you,” I mouthed, then ducked out of his office and into the one next door. I had to get Berkeley Wong and Duncan Grant on board or, misquoting a Borg, my efforts would be futile. I found them punching keys on their computers, looking as if they were about to shoot, maim, or blow up each other—virtually.

“Berk!” I said manically.

“Ha!” Duncan said, his fist shooting up in the air. I took it that he had won the skirmish. Not to worry. These dead players came back to life quickly, ready for another round of warfare.

“Thanks a lot, Pres,” Berk said. “You made me lose. Now I’m dead.” In fact, he looked quite lively in his
Twilight
T-shirt, tight jeans, and bright green Chuck Taylors. He’d gelled his spiky black hair just enough to make it stand up like he’d been shocked in an electrical outlet.

“ ’S’up?” Duncan asked, still grinning from his win. It was midafternoon and he was still in his SpongeBob pajama bottoms, his Space Aliens T-shirt covering his thin chest.

Going shoeless also appeared to be part of his fashion statement today.

“Guys. Listen, I need your help,” I said, breathless from excitement.

“Sweet,” Duncan said. “I love helping you with your parties.”

“I’m in,” Berk added. “As long as I can upload what I tape onto YouTube.”

I filled them in on my plan. Then Berk showed me how to use one of his Flip Video camcorders to tape Jonathan—if I got the chance to see him in jail. Next, I got Duncan to agree to do a little computer work for me. In return, I offered to pay their rent for a month. They, like me, were also underemployed. I figured I could always take it out of Jonathan’s pocket if I proved him innocent.