by Penny Warner
I picked up a black-and-white-striped paper napkin embossed with the words “Davin and Ikea—Locked Together Forever” and offered it to the mayor. He snatched it out of my hands, wiped the champagne off his face, and darted after his bolting would-be bride. Chloe shot me a frantic look, then dashed after him.
I signaled to Raj to follow them. He saluted and tore out as if chasing an escaping convict. He was followed by a handful of other guests curious to see the drama unfold outside the cellblock.
“Want ads, here I come,” I mumbled, and took another swallow of champagne.
Delicia looked up at me, frowning. “Presley Parker! If you can manage a room full of screaming, hyperactive boys at a birthday party, you can certainly handle a little glitch like this!”
A “little glitch” being a stunned bride-to-be jilting her even more stunned future groom—the mayor of San Francisco, for God’s sake—then going AWOL from her own surprise wedding and reception. But Delicia was right, bringing to mind another one of my mother’s rules in her How to Host a Killer Party handbook on “How to Deal with a Disaster.” She’d had a few close calls herself on occasion and had shared her quick fixes in the book. Channeling my ADHD, I moved into fix-it mode.
“Berkeley!” I shouted across the room, then mimed Start the music!, cupping my ear and swaying back and forth. I waved to Rocco and gestured Bring on the food!, pointing to my open mouth, then waving in my arm. Finally I turned to Delicia and pretended to pour champagne down my throat.
I only pretended because I didn’t have an open bottle handy.
My spirited crew went to work—perhaps not quite as “spirited” as I. Berkeley cranked up the marriage-themed tunes, beginning with “Ball and Chain” by Social Distortion. Rocco brought out his mini-crab quiches and tuna tartar bites. And Delicia poured bubbly with both hands.
I headed for the outdoor platform and placed a call to Raj. When he didn’t answer, I left the first of half a dozen messages, then headed down a shortcut to the dock to search for Ikea myself. After fifteen minutes of scanning the landing area, questioning the ferry captains, and checking the public restrooms, I hiked back up to the cellblock, shivering from the fog-shrouded night, to check on the guests.
Puffing like a blowfish, I found the party people happy as bay clams, eating, drinking, dancing, and excitedly buzzing about the two guests of honor—the hot topic of the moment, perhaps of the year. I needn’t have worried about the entertainment. Who needed a bride and groom when you had juicy gossip like this?
A voice startled me from behind.
“Trouble in paradise?”
I whirled around to see the Crime Scene Cleaner guy grinning at me. I would have spilled my champagne all over him if there had been any left in my recently drained glass. Instead, I fumbled the empty glass and watched it tumble to the floor. Miraculously it didn’t break, having landed on the red carpet we’d rolled out for the occasion.
We both knelt down to retrieve it, but I beat him to it. While I was down there, I stole a quick glance at his shoes. New Balance Zips. Great for running, yet seriously comfortable. Not cheap.
Truth is, I have a sort of psychological shoe fetish. I’d worked my way through college selling everything from Birkenstocks to Blahniks, and learned more about people’s personalities from their shoe selections than all the psych classes I could ever take. Following even more in my mother’s footsteps, I thought about writing a book on the psychology of shoes called How to Know People by the Shoes They Choose, but I still hadn’t gotten past the cumbersome title.
We both rose. “Well, this isn’t exactly paradise, uh, Mr. . . . ?”
“Matthews. Brad Matthews,” he said, extending his hand.
I took it lightly, but his grip was strong. And warm. “Presley Parker,” I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “As for the bride-to-be, I’m sure she was a little shaken by the ‘surprise, ’ but no doubt the mayor will smooth things over. He’s good at that, as you may know. Anyway, I hope you’re enjoying the party.”
Brad Matthews took a sip of his drink, which looked more like water than champagne. “You’re right about that—he’s great at charming people.”
I frowned, wondering what he meant by that, but I couldn’t read his expression as he scanned the room. He had to have been a friend of either the mayor or Ikea to be invited to the event, but his tone was ambiguous. He turned his gaze on me. His dark brown eyes were penetrating.
Disconcerted, I traded my empty glass for a full one from a passing tray and shrugged. “Ikea’s probably disappointed she didn’t get to plan her own wedding. After all, most girls dream of this day from the age of three. To be surprised at your own wedding—it’s got to be a shock.”
Brad Matthews nodded. “Unique theme—the ball and chain. Your idea?”
“God, no!” I shook my head. “The mayor’s.” Speaking of whom, I wondered where he and his ex-bride-to-be had disappeared to. Time to call Raj for an update.
“If you’ll excuse me . . .” Before I could escape, Brad held out his hand again. “It was nice to meet you, Presley Parker.” This time I tried to match his firm, confident grip as I studied his large hand. No rings, not even a suntan ring where a former wedding ring might have been. “Don’t you have an office over on TI?”
I blinked. “How did you—”
Before I could finish, Raj burst through the doors of the cellblock, red-cheeked and puffing, his uniform disheveled for the first time since I’d known him. He bent over, trying to catch his breath. I set my glass down on a nearby table and dashed over to him.
“Raj, are you all right?” I put a comforting hand on his back.
He nodded, still gasping, and slowly straightened up.
“I was about to call you,” I said. “Did you find Ikea? Or the mayor?”
He shook his head. “No, no. I’m very sorry, but I am scouring the whole area and she is nowhere to be found. She has actually disappeared!”
I made a mental note to add another party tip to my mother’s book: “Try Not to Lose the Guest of Honor.”
I signaled for Delicia to get Raj a glass of water, then stepped outside and tried to phone Ikea, Mayor Green, and Chloe on my cell. No answer from any of them.
I was about to call the police when I caught a glimpse of the mayor staggering up the hill. I ran to meet him and took him by the arm, out of the chilly night air and into the cellblock. He looked as pale as the damp white shirt he wore, and was breathing rapidly enough to hyperventilate. His black-and-white saddle shoes were scuffed, his suit jacket was gone, but his stiff, gelled hair was still perfect. He grabbed an abandoned, half-empty glass of champagne and chugged it, then looked for another.
“Mayor Green, did you find Ikea?” I asked, pulling up a nearby folding chair for him to use. He looked as if he was about to collapse.
He shook his head and slumped into the chair. “I searched everywhere. I thought maybe she’d taken one of the ferries back, but no one seems to know.” He took another swig from his recently refilled champagne glass, and his breathing slowed. As he lifted his hand to wipe his forehead, I noticed one of his cuffs was wet, not just damp, as was one of his pants pockets. He caught my gaze and brushed at the damp spots.
“I ran down to the dock. . . . I saw something caught on one of the ropes near the ferries. . . . I leaned over to get it. . . .”
He pulled what looked like a drowned rat from his pocket. I recognized it immediately as a piece of Ikea’s fur wrap. He glanced at me with bloodshot eyes. Had he been crying? Or was the redness due to something else? “You don’t think she . . . fell in, do you? She can’t swim. . . .”
My stomach flipped. The champagne I’d drunk surged upward. I swallowed, trying to keep it down. Suddenly the door to the cellblock burst open again. I spun around, along with most of the now quiet guests, hoping, praying I’d see Ikea in the doorway.
Instead, Chloe stood there, tears in her eyes. She spotted the mayor and ran to him. “Mayor, are you all ri
ght? I’ve been looking all over for you! Did you find her?” She too was disheveled, out of breath, and goose-pimpled.
Mayor Green shook his head. “I think she may have . . .” He dropped his head in his hands.
Hovering over him like a prison matron, Chloe patted his sculpted hair. “No, no, Mayor, I’m sure she’s fine. She’ll turn up. You know Ikea—she has a flair for the dramatic.” She glanced at me, her eyes pleading for help.
“Chloe’s right,” I said uselessly. “Meanwhile, my security team is searching the area.”
Delicia appeared in the doorway, her face flushed with color, either from the night air or from hiking up the hill—or both. Puffing, she said, “I just saw one of the ferries headed back to the city. I think she may have been on board—”
Mayor Green rose from the chair. “Really? When?”
Delicia looked at her watch. “Uh, a few minutes ago. We can call the ferry company and check.”
“Did you actually see her?” I asked Delicia.
“No, but—”
Before she could respond, I heard a commotion at the far end of the cellblock, near what would have been the altar we’d set up for the nuptials. A young woman, blond, wearing a trench coat, had climbed up on the wooden structure. One of the guests appeared to be trying to pull her down.
The crowd gave a collective gasp as the twentysomething woman, barefoot, began to untie the belt on her coat. In seconds she had yanked it open and was standing in front of the gathered crowd, flashing the already stunned partygoers.
Her naked body was covered in ugly blisters and sores.
“Mayor Green is a murderer!” she screamed.
Chapter 5
PARTY PLANNING TIP #5:
If your party doesn’t have enough drama, add more.
There’s nothing duller than a party without surprises.
Caveat: Just make sure you, as hostess, are not the one surprised.
Elbowing my way through the crowd, I got close enough to recognize the woman from her frequent photos in the San Francisco Chronicle: Xtreme Siouxie, aka Susan Steinhardt. She’d been featured several times over the years for her off-the-wall protesting tactics. A self-described “Earthist” from the quasi-terrorist school of environmental protection, she’d been cited for incinerating SMOKEY BEAR signs (“Hypocritical!”), vandalizing animal spay clinics (“Oppressive!”), and disrupting political events (“Tyrannical!”), all while wearing extreme costumes—a singed bear outfit, a dog in jailhouse stripes, and a shroud made out of an American flag. Hence the nickname.
At the moment, she was sporting her latest protesting getup, which I realized upon closer look was a nude body-suit covered with glued-on blisters, sores, scars, and fake blood, and accented with streaks of greenish ooze. She’d accessorized with large rubber cockroaches in her hair and plastic decayed-looking “Bubba” teeth in her mouth. Shoe-less, she hadn’t seen a pedicure, perhaps ever.
Not a good look for this usually attractive young woman.
The crowd stood gawking at her, drinks in hand, appetizers midbite. A few began to whisper, a few laughed, and a few just shook their heads. I nodded to Raj, his top lip curled back in horror, his fake mustache long gone. He rushed forward, reached up, and with the help of a couple of other party guests—including Brad Matthews, the Crime Scene Cleaner—seized Siouxie by the arm. She twisted violently in Brad’s grip as he pulled her down and tried to cover her with the discarded trench coat.
Unfortunately, she didn’t go quietly into that good night. As the mini-posse escorted her outside, I heard her scream, “Clean up the toxic waste on Treasure Island, Mayor Greedy! You’re murdering innocent wildlife!”
A hefty, mustachioed older man channeling Hercule Poirot marched over and clapped a hand on the mayor’s shoulder. “Forget it, Mayor. She’s just a nutcase. Treasure Island was and will always be a monument to our military, not some tie-dyed, weed-infested, hippy hangout.”
“Admiral Stadelhofer, this isn’t really the time—” Chloe tried to interrupt before the pompous man could launch full speed into his personal agenda, but she was cut off by another man dressed as a clichéd American Indian in fringed leather pants, wristbands, and a headdress. Only his shirt was out of place—a T-shirt that read in scrawled letters “Indians Welcome” above a sign saying UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY. It was a carbon copy of the actual sign that greeted tourists as they arrived at Alcatraz.
“No, it isn’t, Stad,” the Indian said. “Besides, no one wants the island to become a reminder of all the contaminated waste the military left behind there, especially not the mayor. That land belongs to us.” He pounded his chest with a fist.
“And by ‘us,’” said Sherlock Holmes, aka Lucas “Spaz” Cruz, the Treasure Island film producer, “you mean you, don’t you, Dakota? So you can build more casinos and bring more tourists to our island? And just how is that going to preserve the place?”
The Indian named Dakota whirled around. “Better to benefit my people than one greedy moviemaker who continues to stereotype people like us.”
“Stereotype you?” Spaz laughed. “Look at your outfit! It’s ridiculous—”
The mayor held up his hands before the verbal sparring turned into a physical fight. “Enough! Gentlemen, please! Look, Eugene, Dakota, Spaz, I’ll make my decision about the island soon, but right now I’ve got other things on my mind—like making sure my fiancée is all right. So if you’ll excuse me . . .”
Ever the politician, the mayor thanked the guests for coming and “for contributing to . . . uh, a good cause. Please enjoy yourselves, everyone. You paid good money for this.” With that, he gave a kingly wave and left the cellblock, Chloe shadowing him out the door. Poor girl. She had her hands full. I wouldn’t have wanted to be in her shoes—even if they were Juicy Couture. I had my own problems.
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Delicia whispered, her thin dark eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline.
I shrugged. That was all I needed. A police raid on my big party. “I guess so. But let’s at least wait until we hear back from the ferry captain. Unless you want to report the premature death of an event planner’s career. Besides, Raj has his staff on it. Let’s give him a chance to find out what he can.”
I signaled to Rocco to cut the ball-and-chain cake, told Delicia to serve the chocolate birds and handcuffs, and asked Berkeley to pour the gourmet coffees.
Raj appeared moments later, holding his walkie in one hand and cell phone in the other. “The ferry company is not responding to my calls, but one of the captains was saying that a boat was returning to the city. He was also giving me this.”
Raj held up what was left of Ikea’s fur wrap. “He found it at the dock, after the ferry was leaving. It’s appearing she was on the ferry. Case solved, perhaps?” he said, in keeping with his Clouseau character.
I nodded, taking the damp wrap from his hand. “Thanks, Raj. Good work.”
As the guests headed for the waiting trams to take them to the ferries, I took a last sip of leftover champagne. Then, together with my crew, I packed up the decorations and supplies, leaving only a few crumbs and some spilled bubbly for the park’s janitorial staff to clean up.
Where was a crime scene cleaner when you needed one? I mused, boarding the last ferry. This party had certainly been a mess, but it would take more than a mop to clean up after. As the boat left the dock, I gazed back at Alcatraz, once again bleak, moody, and blanketed in fog, and thought about all that had happened. My first big event had been a colossal disaster. The bride had bolted. The groom had been left at the altar. A few of the party guests had made their own scenes.
And lest I forget, the police wanted to talk with me about the death of my primary competitor.
Before I could list more, the boat hit a swell, and I spent the rest of the trip back to the city heaving champagne over the side.
The next morning, with a massive headache, dry throat, and upset stomach, I rolled out of bed and headed for the tiny
kitchenette in my one-bedroom, one-story condo. My rental was one of dozens of remodeled former military housing units on this four-hundred-acre man-made island poised between San Francisco and Oakland.
I’d learned from my mother, somewhat of a San Francisco historian along with her other talents, that the island had been constructed from fill dirt washed down from the Sierras. The name, Treasure Island, came from the hope that some of that mother lode dirt still held flakes of gold. While TI may not hold the lure and promise of gold, it has a rich history for such a small plot of land.
I made myself a recuperative latte, took three Tylenol, and stepped out onto my back porch. Inhaling the salt air, I sipped the soothing drink and gazed at the city skyline from my safe harbor. That view of the orange Golden Gate Bridge, Coit Tower, and Transamerica building was only part of the reason I loved living here, in spite of the fact that the island will no doubt sink into the bay if there’s another major earthquake. Liquefaction was one of the risks of using fill dirt.
The island was originally planned as an airport for Pan Am’s Pacific Rim service—the first of its kind—and during the thirties was home to the glamorous China Clipper sea-plane. Pan Am only employed male stewards back then, but my grandmother Constance managed to get hired as a nurse aboard the grand ship, and I used to hear tales of her adventures on the “flying boat.” What I would have given to have taken a round-trip back then, but today the ticket would cost twenty-five thousand dollars.
At the end of the thirties, the island served as the site for the Golden Gate International Exposition—the World’s Fair—and featured such one-of-a-kind amusements as Billy Rose’s Aquacade starring Esther Williams and Johnny Weissmuller, and Sally Rand’s Nude Ranch along Gay Way. What an exciting time that must have been.
When the navy took over in preparation for World War II, Treasure Island was closed to the public. By the time it reopened in 1997, a few of the Art Deco buildings remained, but sadly the beautiful gardens, fountains, and statues were gone, leaving behind decaying military buildings and a desolate landscape. And the original Pan Am aircraft hangars now house soundstages for film producers like CeeGee Studio. While the island has been designated a historical landmark, it’s still a source of continuing arguments over plans for the future.
