How to Host a Killer Party (38 page)

Sam Wo shined his flashlight around the room while he talked as if it was habit. “I guess you didn’t hear about the Getty or the Met scandals? They made the news a few years ago. There were questions about how they acquired some pieces.”

“You mean they had fakes?” I stole another glance at the encased dagger, wondering how one could tell a replica from an authentic piece. I’d been impressed with how much the Styrofoam stage dagger looked like the real thing, right down to the dried-blood effect.

“More like they were ‘taken without permission,’” he said, making finger quotes. He stepped over to another display and shined his flashlight inside the case. “See these ceramic bowls and whatnot? They’re authentic. We have the documentation to prove their provenance. But similar ones were recently acquired illegally at another museum.”

Surprised, I asked, “How does that happen?”

“Some museums aren’t as careful as the de Young. They’ll deal with the black market.”

“Where does the black market get them?”

Sam tucked his thumbs into his black leather belt. “Professional thieves usually steal them from the country of origin and sell them to questionable curators who think art should be ‘shared with the world for the greater good.’ But if you think about it, it’s like taking pieces of the Statue of Liberty and displaying them at, say, a museum in Egypt.”

I saw his point. Not only was I unaware that this kind of looting occurred, but I was impressed that a security guard knew so much about art. More than I did, anyway. My walls tended to display posters from classic movies such as
The Maltese Falcon
, and my “display cases,”—aka table-and desktops—showcased party props and event catalogs. I guessed Sam Wo had absorbed a lot just by osmosis.

“There’s a lot of competition between museums to build world-class collections,” he added. “And the de Young—”

His words were suddenly cut off by the echoing razor-sharp click of heels and the yapping of a small dog coming from down a shadowed hall. As if he recognized the sounds, Sam Wo jerked to attention, pulled down the front of his jacket, and adjusted his hat.

Mary Lee Miller stepped into the dim light. The woman who’d hired me to produce a murder mystery at the museum was the de Young’s major fund-raiser and philanthropist. She was a petite blond woman who was clearly older than fifty but tried to look younger than forty. Tonight she wore a pink Chanel suit and matching stiletto heels that would have made killer weapons. Peeking out of her pink Coach bag was a teeth-baring, pink-ribboned purse pooch. A pit bull wrapped in a poodle’s clothing? The metaphor fit both the dog and the woman.

“Oh, God, Sam. Do hush!” Mary Lee said to the security guard. She waved him away with a whisk of a manicured hand. Sam nodded, tipped his hat to both of us, and shuffled off into the darkness, waving his flashlight from side to side as if a blind man with a cane.

“Sam’s a character. The older he gets, the more he talks. We keep him around only because his father was my father’s gardener.” Mary Lee patted her poodle with a diamond-riddled hand. “No doubt he was telling you one of his exaggerated stories, right? I do believe he’s a frustrated Indiana Jones.”

I smiled. “Well, a museum can always use a little mystery.”

Mary Lee raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Yes, but it can’t afford a real scandal. See that Dogon figure over there?”

Oh, God, not that piece again.

“Superb, isn’t it? We paid over one million dollars for this truly incredible piece. The de Young would rather have one great object than a hundred ordinary ones. We strive to make sure our museum is
not
your dowager grandmother’s provincial museum. It’s contemporary, user friendly, and, with my name on it, it has to be the best. Believe me—I have the scars to prove it.”

She was referring to the controversy that had dogged the museum since she first took on the job of major money raiser a decade ago. Everyone in the San Francisco Bay Area knew about the frequent arguments over everything from the architecture and location to the financing and environmental impact. But somehow Mary Lee Miller had managed to overcome these obstacles and raise more than two hundred million dollars worth of funding in the process.

“Blockbuster art brings in millions of visitors—that’s a fact. And we now rival the Met, the Louvre, and the British Museum with our collection. Plus, the art-related trinkets we sell in the gift shop make great refrigerator magnets for tourists to purchase. When the Tut exhibit was here, we made more money selling Tut shirts and bags than we did on admission.”

Remembering what Sam Wo had said, I asked. “Is it difficult to make sure all the objects are legitimate?”

“Absolutely not,” she snapped, petting her purse pooch vigorously. He . . . She . . .
It
panted in response. “We trust our dealers implicitly. When we acquire something like the Dogon statue, we make sure it has a reliable provenance.”

I nodded my understanding, but she continued as if I were a schoolchild on a field trip.

“Provenance, Presley, is the ability to document an object’s origin and history of ownership.”

I tried to ignore her condescending tone but it irritated me. “Sam said there’s still a black market for things like the Dogon statue?”

Her eyes narrowed. I knew I’d offended her as soon as the words “black market” tumbled out of my mouth. It was like saying “plastic surgery” to a trophy wife.

“Certainly there are still looters, smugglers, unethical dealers, and desperate collectors who will turn blind eyes to the origins of some art,” Mary Lee said, “not to mention the occasional forgery. But our staff is top-notch, impeccable. I personally recommended Christine Lampe, who was hired as our curator. And that’s why this fund-raiser is so important. If it’s got my name on it, it’s sure to bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars we need for the new wing and collection. And it has to be perfect.”

Her minispeech reminded me how pompous Mary Lee really was. When she’d hired me for this gig, she’d insisted she be given full credit for the fund-raiser. I’d agreed, as long as a percentage of the money raised went to the Autism Foundation. My friend and part-time assistant, Delicia, had a sister with the disorder, and I wanted to do something to help stem the puzzling rise in cases.

“Now, shall we return to the Grand Gallery, Chou-Chou?” Mary Lee said to her dog in a nauseating baby voice. The dog licked her fingers as if they were covered with gravy.

Mary Lee spoke to me in a normal voice, “Do I have to remind you, Presley, that I hired you to do an event, not wander around the museum unescorted? The rehearsal is not going well, and you won’t see a dime for your company or your charity if this event isn’t perfect.” Her face tightened.

I stole a last glance at the bloodstained ceremonial dagger, safe in its plastic case.
Good thing it is inaccessible
, I thought, or I might have borrowed it to use on Mary Lee. Instead I followed her down the stairs, her stilettos tapping out a strident beat as she led the way. Her threats had been repeated so many times over the past couple of weeks that they no longer struck terror in my heart as they had initially. Still, I wasn’t above the occasional dagger-in-the-back fantasy.

But before I could picture shoving the blade between her pink-clad shoulders, I heard a scream echoing up from the stairwell ahead.

A scream so loud that it could have shattered Plexiglas.