How to Party with a Killer Vampire, page 12
I sat down, but Mother remained standing, her cheeks pink. “Presley, dear, I’m going to freshen up. I’ll be back in a tick.”
“Oh. Okay, Mom. You know where the restroom is? Don’t get lost.”
“Don’t worry, dear. I know my way around this place like the back of my hand. Will you order a Shirley Temple for me?”
As Mother headed for the restroom, Jonas sat down opposite me and took another swig of his drink, which I guessed was whiskey and something.
“So, what’s this about the paparazzo?”
The cocktail waitress sidled up and asked what I wanted. “Two Shirley Temples,” I said to her, then turned to Jonas after she left. “Did you watch the news last night?”
He glanced out at the view. “Yeah. Gossip Guy—what a jerk. It’s as if he’s trying to screw over Cruz and our movie.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sympathize with him and gain his trust. “But I noticed something else while I was watching. Something in the background of the footage they showed.”
Jonas was a very good actor. His face remained blank, eyebrows raised in interest. But no amount of acting skill could hide the sudden rush of color to his face. “What did you see?” he said evenly.
“You.”
He cleared his throat and took another sip. “I’m not surprised. After all, I was at the party.”
“But you weren’t actually at the party in this segment. You were in the background, several yards away, in the cemetery. The same place I’d seen you and Angelica together earlier.”
He started to say something, then swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp and signaled the waitress. “So? I’m sure we weren’t doing anything, with all those people around. I doubt anyone saw us. And so what if they did.”
“Well, if the police decide to study that video, they may see you together, and no doubt they will enlarge your images. And even at a distance, in the shadows, the looks on your faces were . . . well, odd.” He squirmed in his seat.
“How?”
“From what I could tell, you were frowning at each other, as if you were having some kind of argument.”
“So? That’s not a crime, is it? Two artistic personalities don’t always agree—”
“That’s not all.”
He waited, his face now a blotchy crimson. Tiny beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. “What?”
“Someone was watching you.”
“What do you mean? Who?”
Before I could answer, Jonas glanced at something behind me. This time he wasn’t avoiding my eyes. He’d seen something, or someone, that had caught his attention. I turned and followed his gaze.
Angelica Brayden stood in the entry to the bar wearing black tights, a long red top that barely covered her butt, a plaid scarf around her neck, and red Ugg boots. Instead of wearing her long black vampire wig, she had her hair styled short, slinky, and blond. Free of makeup—and even at a distance—she looked as if she’d been crying. The moment she realized I’d spotted her, she spun around and bolted.
“I have to go,” Jonas said, leaping up and causing the table to rock.
“Jonas, wait. I have to ask you—did you know the paparazzo who was killed last night, Bodie Chase?”
His hands were trembling. Was that fear? Nervousness? Concern for Angelica? Or did the alcohol have something to do with it?
“Of course I knew him. He’d been hounding Angelica and me since we first arrived in the City to shoot the film. But I have no idea who killed him or that other guy, if that’s what you’re asking. All I know is, Angelica’s in some kind of trouble and I need to go to her. Now.”
Mother, who had come up behind Jonas while he was talking, blinked several times as she watched him storm out of the bar.
“What was that all about, dear?” she said. “Did he make a pass at you? I know you. You can be very abrupt when discouraging men from getting close to you, but . . .” Mother rambled on, but I didn’t hear the rest of her usual lecture about me and men.
I was too busy wondering why Jonas had overreacted, and what he meant by Angelica’s being in trouble.
Chapter 13
PARTY-PLANNING TIP #13
If you need ideas for games and activities at your Vampire Party, here’s a twist on an old favorite. Instead of “Pin the Tail on the Donkey,” play “Jam the Stake into the Vampire’s Heart.” Set up a “body” using stuffed clothing, insert a balloon filled with red-tinted water under the shirt, and have guests try to pop the “heart.”
“Come on, Mother! Hurry!”
I grabbed my mother’s hand and pulled her to the elevators, hit the DOWN button at least nineteen times—there was no way we were climbing down nineteen floors—and got into the elevator car before anyone could get out.
“Sorry! In a big hurry!” I said by way of explanation when several men in suits glared at me on their way out. I pushed LOBBY a dozen times, then hit the CLOSE DOOR button, just as the doors were already closing.
“What is wrong with you, Presley?” Mother asked, looking at me as if I’d just sprouted pointy vampire teeth right before her eyes. She reached over to feel my forehead—anything that was wrong with me had to be a fever, according to my mother—but I pulled back.
“Nothing, Mom. I don’t want to lose Angelica Brayden. I want to talk to her and Jonas, and see if I can get to the bottom of this stalker business, and I may not get another chance. Come on!” I pulled her through the opening elevator doors, across the lobby, and out of the Mark Hopkins, not bothering to wait for the doorman. Glancing up and down the street, I caught a glimpse of Angelica’s blond hair and red top. She had crossed the street and was mounting the stairs of Grace Cathedral, one block up. Oddly, Jonas was nowhere in sight.
“There she is!”
I led my mother to the crosswalk, looked both ways, and, ignoring the pedestrian light, darted between a cable car and a honking taxi to reach the other side. Dragging my poor mother behind me, I ran-walked up the four flights of steps to the famous old church. When we reached the top, I let Mom catch her breath while I looked around for Jonas, thinking he’d be right behind Angelica, but I saw no sign of him. Had he not followed her after all? Or had they arranged a rendezvous point?
I was about to turn around when I caught a glimpse of another man standing across the street. He seemed to be watching me. As soon as I spotted him, he knelt down and tied his shoe. Sensing something about him, I waited for him to stand up and continue walking. Instead, when he stood, he whirled around and headed back the way he’d come.
I hadn’t seen his face, but with his dark skin, tall, lean body, and black pants and shirt, I was pretty sure it was “the shadow,” as I had come to call Angelica’s husband.
Maybe Jonas had spotted him too and decided to disappear.
I returned my attention to Mother and finding Angelica. As she entered the church, Mom pulled her veil down over her face and crossed herself. She’d been a Catholic for a while, when married to a man of that faith, and still used some of the rituals no matter what the church. Born a Methodist, she’d also been Jewish, Mormon, and Buddhist, and was currently looking into becoming a Wiccan. That woman had covered all her bases when it came to the hereafter—or wherever.
I followed her inside and paused. Each time I entered the French-Gothic cathedral, the majestic atmosphere took my breath away. Passing the reception-information desk, I gazed at the glowing stained glass panels, tall arched ceiling, and massive pipe organ. Mother went on autopilot and began her docentlike tour of the church, explaining its history and eccentricities once again.
“You know, dear,” she began, in a hushed, reverential voice, “the first chapel they built here back in 1849 actually burned down in the 1906 earthquake, just like the Mark Hopkins. The Crocker family—Charles Crocker was one of the four railroad barons—donated the property for the cathedral. When they began work on it in 1928, it took another forty years to complete it. It’s the third-largest Episcopal cathedral in America.”
“I know, Mother,” I whispered, hoping to cut her short. “You told me last time we were here.”
Ignoring me, she continued. “Since then it’s become an international pilgrimage destination for people from all over the world. A lot of them come to see the two labyrinths. Did you know they’re authentic replicas of the ones discovered in France in the twelfth century?”
Of course I knew. She’d told me many times about the “authentic replicas.” Truthfully, I was glad she’d brought me here when the first labyrinth was created, some twenty years ago. The first time I experienced it as a child, we’d gone in the evening when a musical group happened to be singing a song specifically written for walking the labyrinth. The whole night had been magical. Walking the thirty-six-and-a-half-foot-long, elevencircuit design that wove back and forth like a circular puzzle had helped me harness my flighty attention and focus on whatever problem I needed to solve.
“Did you know the cathedral was featured in several films? Alfred Hitchcock filmed his last movie, Family Plot, here. Plus,” she continued, counting off on her fingers as she listed other movies, “Bicentennial Man with Robin Williams, Bullitt with Steve McQueen, Vertigo with Jimmy Stewart, The Wedding Planner with Jennifer Lopez, and Milk with Sean Penn, to name a few.”
Grace Cathedral was without a doubt impressive, even without its Hollywood heritage. But I was not there to gawk or listen to Mother’s spiel. Time was a-wasting. I took her hand and pulled her farther into the chapel, where a handful of people sat, mostly singly, among the vast rows of pews that led to the stunning altar covered with a vividly embroidered cloth.
Mother sat down in one of the back pews, obviously tired from my dragging her around. “Stay here, Mom. I’ll be right back,” I said, and headed up one of the aisles, looking for Angelica. With her bright blond hair and colorful plaid scarf, she wasn’t hard to spot.
I slowed when I reached her pew, not wanting to scare her off, and slid into the same row, taking a seat about four feet away from her. I hoped she might be deep in prayer and not notice me initially.
She didn’t, but it wasn’t because she was praying. She was rapidly texting on her cell phone.
I scooted over a few inches, trying to be subtle. No reaction. I scooted a few more inches. Not until I was practically up against her did she finally look up from her rhinestone-studded phone. Her eyes flared; she recognized me instantly. She stuffed her bling-covered phone in her huge, multipocketed designer handbag, preparing to flee. I touched her arm before she made a move to slide out.
“Angelica, please. I need to talk to you.”
I could see the fight-or-flight response in her bearing; then it all seemed to leak away, leaving her shoulders slumped. “The crypt café,” she whispered.
She slid out and I started to follow; then I glanced back to check on Mother. She looked as if she’d fallen asleep in her pew. I hesitated, thinking she might wake up and panic when she didn’t see me. But I wasn’t about to lose Angelica. I had to take the chance Mom would still be there when I got back. Luckily when she dozed off, she slept long and deep.
I just hoped she didn’t snore.
I turned back to look for Angelica. She was gone. I walked swiftly toward the church elevator, wanting to run but knowing it wasn’t appropriate in a place like this. I stepped into the open elevator car with one of the Episcopal priests, who said, “Crypt?”
I nodded, smiling.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We still call it that, but there aren’t any more crypts down there. Just some meeting rooms, our gift shop, and a Peet’s café.”
I had a feeling he was asked about the term often. As soon as the doors opened, I followed the smell of strong coffee to the tiny café. Angelica was sitting at one of the three tables, staring at her coffee, as if she might want to dive in.
I sat down next to her. She looked up. Without makeup, she was still pretty, but there were bags under her eyes, her skin was sallow, and her eyes were red.
“What do you want?” Angelica asked, getting directly to the point.
I took a deep breath. Where to begin? “I’m trying to find out what happened to Spidey the night before the party, and to the paparazzo after the party. It’s starting to look like Spidey didn’t die as a result of a fall. He was probably killed. And the police think Bodie, the paparazzo, was hit in the head with a shovel. They found Spidey’s blood on that same shovel. I think their deaths are connected. And I think you may know something about them.”
She gave a big sigh, as if the weight of the world were on her slim shoulders. “I’ve been over this with the police, Presley. I told them and I’ll tell you—I didn’t really know Spidey. He was just an extra on the set. We flirted a little; that’s it. Maybe he had a crush on me. It happens. And I’ve never met this Bodie guy, although I’ve seen him before. I have no idea why they were killed.”
Her words said one thing, her hands another. She was rubbing the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other as if trying to rub out a spot or soothe a pain. Clearly she was anxious about something. She’d quickly passed over the fact that she and Spidey had “flirted a little.” How much was a little? And what did it mean?
“Was Spidey—or Bodie Chase—stalking you?”
Her red-rimmed eyes flared again. I wondered if that was an acting technique.
“How did you know about my stalker?”
I had no particular loyalty to Jonas and said his name.
She closed her eyes. “Jonas.”
“So it’s possible one of them was the one sending you those notes and texts and calling your cell phone?”
“I don’t know. Honestly. Yes, someone—I don’t know who—has been sending me . . . stuff. But it comes with the territory. Guys get crushes on actresses all the time.”
“Do you have any of the messages on your phone?” I asked, hoping to see how threatening they really were.
She pulled out her cell phone, touched her text messages icon, scrolled through, then turned the cell phone toward me.
I took the phone and read the message: No matter where you go or what you do, I’ll find you and have you. The message had been sent by someone using the name “Eternal.”
I handed back the phone. “Have you tried to trace this?”
“Yes, I have a . . . friend who knows how to do that kind of thing.”
“Has he learned anything?”
“Not yet.” Angelica returned the phone to her purse.
“Jonas said you were worried.”
She pressed her lips together. The hand-rubbing picked up again. “Not really.”
Liar.
“You do know that sometimes these stalkers are dangerous, right?” I thought of a couple of actresses who’d been seriously accosted or even murdered by their stalkers.
“Yes, but I’m careful. And I have protection.”
I looked around. “I don’t see your . . . bodyguard.”
She laughed. “Nobody’s going to bother me in a church.”
I looked at her.
“Except you, maybe,” she added, then checked her watch as if she had an urgent meeting to attend. “Listen, Presley, I gotta go. I don’t have anything else to tell you.” She stood up, rearranged her scarf, and downed the last of her coffee before throwing it into a trash can.
“Angelica, this killer—whoever he or she is—may kill again. If there’s anything you can tell me that would help . . .”
“I don’t have anything! If anyone knows anything, it’s Lucas Cruz. He’s the one who hired the extras and then didn’t invite them to the party. That was what started all this. And then he had that argument with the paparazzo. So why don’t you ask him?”
I was surprised at the bitterness in her voice. Had something happened between Cruz and Angelica to cause her to imply that he had something to do with these deaths?
I tried one last question. “Angelica, I saw you in the cemetery with Jonas—”
She cut me off. “I know. I was there, remember?”
“No, I mean I saw you on the Gossip Guy segment last night on the news. You and Jonas were caught on tape, standing in the background. You both looked upset, as if you were having an argument.”
Her sallow face reddened. “So? There’s no crime in two actors passionately discussing their craft, is there? Now really, I have to go. Like I said, talk to Lucas if you have more questions. Just leave me out of it.”
She started to walk away when I called out, “There was someone in the shadows, watching you.”
She whirled around. “What are you talking about?”
“Brad and I noticed it last night while we were watching the show at my place. Someone was lurking behind a tree, as if spying on you. It couldn’t have been Lucas. He was front and center in the video. Any idea who it was?”
She paused, then shook her head, but I thought I saw the light go off in her eyes, shrouded by fear. I had the distinct feeling she did know.
My guess? Her husband.
I panicked the moment I reentered the cathedral. Mother was not in her pew. I searched the area and asked a few people sitting in nearby rows if they’d seen her, but no one seemed to have noticed the elegantly dressed woman in red with the netted hat. She’d vanished.
I ran out of the front entrance and scanned the area from the top step, searching up and down the hilly street. No sign of her. Someone came up behind me. I turned around to face the priest who’d ridden in the elevator with me.
“Are you all right, miss?” he asked. Apparently I didn’t look all right.
“My mother,” I said between rapid, shallow breaths. “I’ve lost her!”
In a calm voice he probably used to address the congregation, he said, “What does she look like?”
I described my mother to him. He nodded solemnly.
