How to Crash a Killer Bash by Penny Warner

know. Kinda hard to believe she’s really gone. She was such a . . .”
    I wait for him to finish, then suggested, “Strong person?”
    He shrugged. “Yeah. Whatever.”
    I took a sip of my chocolate-rich latte while he stared into his tiny cup, still full of espresso.
    “Thanks for meeting me, Corbin. I know it’s a hard time for you, but I’d like to do what I can to help Delicia. You knew her. You know she didn’t have anything to do with your mother’s death, but the police seem convinced by the circumstantial evidence. And they aren’t doing much to find the real killer. I thought maybe you could help.”
    I wasn’t sure he was listening as he continued to stare into his cup. Then he raised his head and said, “How?” He shuffled his feet under the table, and one foot bumped into mine. He stretched his lanky legs out to the side. I glanced down at his shoes. They were frayed, laceless, and paint-spattered Doc Martens athletic shoes. I guessed Corbin couldn’t care less about brand names. His mother had probably supplied the black designer shoes. Or perhaps the starving-artist look was affected.
    I tried again.
    “Corbin, a lot of people went into that crime scene room last night. I can vouch for my office mates, Raj and Berk. They had no reason to harm Mary Lee. But I don’t know Christine Lampe or Dan Tannacito that well. I thought you might give me some insight into the museum staff. Can you think of any reason they might want your mother . . . out of the picture?” Bad choice of words, but I found it difficult to discuss this with him.
    Two girls entered the café, dressed in glittery BeBe tees and tight jeans, with rhinestones decorating their derrieres. Corbin followed them with his eyes, then took a sip of his drink. Was he thinking about something? Avoiding my question? Or just interested in the two girls?
    He set the cup down and met my eyes. “Actually, there were lots of people who didn’t like my mother. I mean, everyone acted as if they liked her, but she could be really abrasive and controlling. I’m not saying it was enough to make someone want to kill her, but still . . .” He glanced again at the girls as he took another sip.
    When he didn’t continue, I asked, “Did you get along with your mother, Corbin?”
    He smiled, but there was no joy in his eyes.
    “Sure. As well as any kid with a mother who—” He stopped. The smile faded, and his handsome face clouded over. “Wait a minute. You don’t think I had anything to do with my own mother’s death, do you? Is that why you’re here?” His voice rose as he spoke, anger building quickly.
    “No, no, of course not,” I said hastily. “I’m just trying to get a sense of her.” Perhaps it was time to change the subject. “Tell me about your father, Jason. Did he get along well with your mother after the divorce?”
    Corbin visibly relaxed.
    “They got along fine, you know, for divorced parents.”
    “I read somewhere that it was quite a bitter divorce. Your father resented the fact that he didn’t get anything in the settlement. And he was upset that your mother got full custody of you.”
    Corbin drummed his fingers on the small wooden table. Was he bored? Anxious? Or just ADHD like me?
    “That was like years ago,” he finally said. “Lately they’d been talking more. He had some ideas about fund-raising that he’d been pitching to Mother. In the past few years he’d gotten good at charming old ladies out of their money to fund his art-finding treks.”
    “Really?” I leaned forward. “They were getting along pretty well?”
    “Yeah. He was finally getting his act together.” Corbin’s eyes brightened.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Oh, you know. When I was a kid, I used to hear people talking about them. They said Mother only married him because she thought he was going to be a great artist. And that he only married her for her family inheritance. They called him her trophy hubby behind her back. But he got