How to Party with a Killer Vampire (12 page)

When I finished taking care of business, I went looking for Duncan. He wasn’t in his office, nor was his beat-up VW in the parking lot, but I had a hunch where to find him. I picked up my purse and told Dee I’d be back around noon. When she asked where I was going, I answered, “The cemetery.”

“Why are you going back there?”

“Time to raise the dead,” I said mysteriously, and headed for my car. It took me twenty minutes to get to Colma in the light traffic. The usually congested Highway 101 South was almost always a parking lot in the morning and late afternoon, but at the moment cars moved along, and the hills stacked with box-shaped, pastel houses flew by.

The freeway turned into Junipero Serra Boulevard, then El Camino Real, and moments later I saw the expanses of green cemetery lawns ahead. As I entered Colma, I noted all the multicultural restaurants—Thai, Filipino, Mexican, Brazilian, Nicaraguan—mixed in with the stores that sold monuments, floral arrangements, and other accoutrements for the dead.

The grand cemeteries, with names like Woodlawn, Greenlawn, and Cypress Lawn, sculpted in colorful bushes and flowers, offered an instant feeling of peace. Some had mini-castles that housed the administrative offices and chapels, nestled among the immaculate grounds, dotted with occasional ponds filled with geese and ducks.

I read the usual warning signs as I passed them: DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS, NO PICNICKING, and UNLAWFUL TO DRIVE THROUGH A FUNERAL PROCESSION. Good to know. Turning onto Eternity Drive, I drove past the Asian cemetery with its red monuments, the Jewish cemetery where Wyatt Earp lay, and the Italian cemetery, home to Joe DiMaggio, and continued around to the neglected Lawndale cemetery. I could see crime scene tape still encircling the open grave on the small rise.

Duncan’s old VW was parked by the entrance.

I parked the MINI next to his car, got out, and filled my lungs with the smell of eucalyptus, pine, and a fragrant flower I couldn’t identify. Not immediately spotting Duncan, I sensed I’d find him where Spidey’s body had been discovered.

I was right. He was lying on top of a grave next to the spot, his head resting against the headstone. His eyes were closed, earbuds in place, and he slowly nodded back and forth to the music of his iPod. I heard the muffled sound of a Beatles song, “Hey Jude.”

He didn’t see or hear me as I approached.

Not wanting to startle him, I gently tugged on one of his earbuds. In spite of my cautious efforts, Duncan jumped. He pulled out his buds and sat up quickly, as if expecting to defend himself against a killer he was certain was lurking among the headstones.

“Hey, Duncan,” I said. “It’s just me. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What are you doing here?” Duncan asked, sounding almost resentful at the intrusion. He folded up his knees and wrapped his arms around his legs, withdrawing into a protective shell.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“How did you find me?”

“I tried to imagine where I’d go if I were you. This seemed the most logical place.”

He turned his face away and watched an elderly couple walk along one of the paths. I couldn’t decide if they were mourners or just curious tourists. With all the famous names here, I had a feeling this place drew quite a few of the latter.

“Duncan, Brad found something when he was cleaning up the scene. I thought you might want to know.” Was I feeding the fire? Or helping someone who wanted to find the truth?

He looked at me. “What?”

I stood up and glanced round, curious to see if I could find the blood spatter. In the daylight, it wasn’t difficult. I found a nearby worn headstone with half a dozen burgundy drops streaked across the front and side. The inscription wasn’t easy to read, thanks to weathering and the passage of time. I could barely make out the words.

I peered at the small, dark red lines, some as long as three inches. Gesturing at the headstone, I said, “Duncan, come look.”

Duncan leaped up and bounded over, then knelt down and examined the marks.

He looked up at me, his eyes wide. “It looks like blood.”

“That’s what Brad thought.”

Duncan turned his head away from me and wiped at the tears that had formed in his eyes.

After Duncan composed himself, I walked him back to his car and he drove off, promising to wait for more news and not to do anything rash. To keep him busy and distracted, I asked him to design a new Web site for Killer Parties, my company. That way he wouldn’t have time to get into trouble. Meanwhile, I had a few ideas I wanted to follow up on.

I returned to the spot where Spidey had been found. I knew Brad had cleaned up the site thoroughly, and the forensics team had probably done a complete search of the ground where Spidey’s body had lain. But I wondered if they’d thought about where Spidey might have been just before he fell from—or was knocked off—a gravestone.

After checking the area to see if anyone was watching—the old couple had disappeared—I stepped up on a short headstone in my Mary Janes and promptly fell off. Removing my shoes, I tried again in bare feet and had better luck with traction, and my toes curling over the sides to aid my balance. With my arms extended, I found myself able to step from one short headstone to another, as long as they were within a leg’s length away.

This is kind of fun
, I thought as I tried for a taller headstone. I would have been mortified if anyone had seen me, but at the moment it felt exhilarating. I wanted to shout, “On top of the world!” but didn’t.

And then I got cocky. I misjudged the distance to the next headstone, and as I stepped out, I twisted my ankle. I dropped like a rock to the ground, hitting my right knee and elbow in the process. As I lay there imagining how stupid I must look, I felt a sharp pain along my arm and leg. I sat up and carefully pulled up the torn sleeve of my long-sleeved T-shirt. A long ugly scrape ran down my arm. Tiny dots of blood appeared, and I gently lowered the sleeve to help blot the bleeding and protect the wound.

I checked my throbbing leg. My jeans had torn at the knee, revealing another bloody gash. Stretching out my leg, I held on to the closest headstone and pushed myself up, one-handed, to standing. I hoped no one could hear the curses coming out of my mouth every inch of the way.

Idiot.

What was I thinking, playing around on headstones like one of those athletic kids? That would teach me.

Maybe.

And then it occurred to me. Spidey had had a gash on his head, supposedly from hitting a piece of gravestone as he fell to the ground. But what about his elbow? His knee? Nobody fell off something without at least trying to break the fall—as I just had. Spidey would surely have had some scrapes, gashes, or blood on his arms and legs, if he’d lost his balance and fallen.

I pulled out my cell and called Brad.

“Crime Scene Cleaners,” Brad said.

“Did Spidey have any marks on his body, other than the head wound?” I asked.

“What?”

I repeated the question.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Please, Brad. It’s important. Can you find out if Spidey had any defensive marks on his body, as though he was trying to break his fall?”

“I suppose—”

“Great. Call me back when you know. Thanks.” I hung up before he could ask any more questions. If my hunch was right, there would be no defensive wounds on Spidey, only old scabs from any previous falls he’d had.

That would add credence to the possibility that Spidey had been murdered, just like that party crasher last night. He could have been hit over the head with the shovel and knocked unconscious while on top of the tombstone, and so he wouldn’t have been able to break his fall.

And that would mean there was a killer still running loose.

Possibly right here in the cemetery. If that was the case, it was time to be like Wyatt Earp and get myself the hell out of Dodge.

I drove back to the office, rehashing my conversation with Duncan. I hoped he’d take my advice and stay out of trouble, but he was young and impulsive, and I had a hunch he was going to do some snooping on his own. I felt I had to help him look into Spidey’s death just to keep him safe.

Duncan seemed to think Lucas Cruz was suspect, even though there didn’t seem to be any evidence to support that. But something was going on between Lucas and Duncan . . . and it wasn’t good.

I pulled into the Building One lot on Treasure Island and parked the MINI, noting that Brad’s SUV was also there. Duncan’s VW van, however, was not. I wondered where he’d gone.

My office door was locked and the room was empty when I arrived. Dee had written “AAA. BBL.” on the dry-erase board hanging on the wall. I’d quickly learned her texting code, which she also used on “While You Were Out” memo pads, phone texts, and other communication media. This one meant, “At an audition. Be back later.”

I dropped my purse on the desk and walked next door to Brad’s office. He was sitting at the computer, frowning at whatever he was reading on the screen. I felt a chill run down my spine, thinking he might have found something having to do with Spidey’s death. Stepping around behind him, I peered at the screen.

He was checking sports scores.

“Darn it,” he said. “The Sharks lost again. They should never have traded their goalie.”

I stood back and stared at him.

He looked up. “What?”

“Nothing. I assumed you were helping me figure out what happened to Duncan’s friend Spidey and that photographer. I didn’t know you were too busy reading about baseball.”

I turned to leave. Brad grabbed my hand.

“Hey, not so fast. First of all, it’s hockey, not baseball. And second, don’t you want to hear what Luke said about the blood type?”

I spun around and eyed him suspiciously. “Okay, what?”

He leaned back and crossed his hands behind his head. “He said . . .”

“What? Stop teasing and tell me!”

“Well, the police confirmed that the blood from the spatter on the gravestone and the shovel are the same, meaning it’s almost certain that Spidey was hit with the same shovel that killed Bodie Chase.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Wow,” I whispered. “Then Duncan was right. Someone did murder his friend.”

“Looks like it. Luke’s looking into all the possibilities. He’ll find out what happened.”

“You have a lot of confidence in Detective Melvin, don’t you?”

“You don’t?” he said, still holding on to my hand.

I said nothing, but my mind raced. Having Detective Luke Melvin on the case didn’t make me feel great. While he was a smart cop, he moved at a ridiculously slow pace, and he didn’t always jump to the same conclusions I did when it came to ferreting out a killer. Brad had explained in the past that the police were cautious in order to prevent mistakes. But with ADHD, I couldn’t wait forever to make a case. Plus, I wondered if Duncan’s comments about Lucas Cruz had any merit.

“He’s okay. We butt heads a lot,” I said, and again turned to go.

He didn’t let go of my hand. “Hold up! Where are you off to?”

I glanced at my watch. “Lunch?”

“Is that an invitation?”

I shrugged, pretending to play hard to get. Ha! That ship had sailed soon after I met Brad.

He grabbed his black leather jacket. “My treat,” he said. “Where to?”

“
Hmm
. I know just the place,” I replied mysteriously. “The food is good, it’s all you can eat, and it’s free. Plus we can walk there.”

Brad eyed me suspiciously. “Are we going fishing off the pier? ’Cause I’m a kind of catch-and-release guy.”

I smiled and led him out of his office. “That’s because no one’s ever used the right bait before.”

“Lucas?” I said into my iPhone as we stood outside the CeeGee Studio doors on Treasure Island. I knew he was in because his yellow Porsche was parked in the NEVER, EVER PARK HERE slot. He’d answered on the fourth ring with a curt, “Yeah?”

Looking completely baffled as to why I’d brought him here when I mentioned lunch, Brad listened to my side of the conversation with Cruz.

“Presley,” Cruz said. “I heard about that scumbag Bodie. Can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone, but what a way to go—ending up in an open grave. You heard who dunnit yet?”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you, Lucas. I’m right outside the studio. I thought I’d pick up my check. Got a few vendors who want to be paid. Will you let me in?”