How to Host a Killer Party

by Penny Warner

  “It is going against my ethics, actually. I’m sure Mr. Brad will be back soon. Until then, you can be using my telephone.”

  Shit. Shit.

  “Never mind,” I said, and pulled the door closed a little too hard.

  I skated back to my office to figure out a new plan. Dropping into my chair, I leaned over to untie my skates and noticed my top drawer was open an inch. It must have caught on my stapler when I’d tried to close it earlier. Stupid stapler.

  But I hadn’t used my stapler this morning. Or anything else in that drawer today.

  Slowly I pulled out the drawer until everything was fully displayed. Instead of being tucked into the back right-hand corner where it belonged, my stapler lay on its side at the front—blocking the drawer from closing.

  Not where I kept it. So how did it get there?

  I scanned the contents of my drawer. Nothing appeared to be missing.

  But on second glance, I noticed my chocolates were not in their usual groups. I always sorted my See’s Candies—dark chocolate raspberries, dark chocolate butters, dark chocolate caramels, and dark chocolate-covered nuts.

  One of the dark chocolate-covered nuts was in with the dark chocolate caramels.

  So I have a little OCD along with ADHD. Right now I was happy to have the additional disorder, since I now knew someone had been snooping in my drawer.

  Brad Matthews?

  I popped a chocolate in my mouth as I flashed on those strong hands of his in my drawer—then I froze.

  Chocolates.

  I spit the bite-sized candy onto a sheet of paper and wiped the chocolate drool from my mouth with the back of my hand.

  What if someone had tampered with my private stash of chocolates too?

  I pulled out another chocolate and looked around for something to save it in until I could get it to Detective Melvin. I found a small box among a stack of party gift boxes on a shelf and set the chocolate inside. Returning the stapler to its proper position and place, I slid the drawer closed, then bent over and pulled off my skates, replacing them with pink flip-flops I kept in another drawer. Releasing the clip-pie that held up my hair, I stuffed it in my pocket—and felt the earring.

  I pulled it out.

  Ikea’s earring.

  Where had it come from? And how had it ended up in the cache treasure box?

  I set the earring on my desk and got out the sheet of paper with the notes I’d started in the car, hoping I could decode my scribbles. After reviewing them, I drew a line under the who-what-when-where-how-why party questions. Beneath that I wrote a heading, then began making notes on Andi and Ikea’s deaths. Murders.

  Possible Suspects:

  People who knew both Andi and Ikea?

  For a start—the mayor. Besides me, that is.

  Or people who had a grudge against the mayor?

  Like Andi Sax—for firing her from hosting the event?

  Or could Ikea Takeda have angered the mayor enough to make him kill her? They say it’s often a loved one who commits a murder. Maybe that wedding was just a setup for his plan. Maybe he knew Ikea would bolt—giving him the opportunity to get rid of her, under the cover of darkness and fog. And maybe the mayor was completely innocent and I thought I was Nancy Drew.

  I crossed his name off and wrote down “Motive?” Underneath that I wrote:

  Adultery (Ikea?)—Was the mayor cheating on her? Or was she cheating on him?

  Jealousy (Ikea?)—Was Ikea jealous of the mayor’s power and status?

  Humiliation (Andi?)—Was she devastated by losing the mayor’s prime event?

  Revenge (Andi?)—And did she do something about it, to get even?

  Or was it larceny? (Follow the money.)

  I realized I’d just listed five of the seven deadly sins—adultery (lust), jealousy (envy), humiliation (pride), revenge (wrath), and larceny (greed.) The only two missing were gluttony and sloth. Could I make overeating or laziness possible motives too? If so, I could be guilty of both at times.

  I didn’t have much to work with, but if the detective planned to follow his course in suspecting me, I had better come up with something more viable than what I had.

  I couldn’t interrogate the two major players—they were both dead. I needed to talk to the mayor, but that wasn’t going to be easy, between all the security he had and his busy schedule. Maybe I could have a little chat with the people who knew him—and weren’t dead yet.

  Obviously his administrative assistant would know a lot about her boss. But would she share that information with me? Probably not, if she was the loyal secretary type. Still, I would give her a try.

  Who else might know something about the mayor and his connection to both women? Without being familiar with his social circle, I didn’t have a large selection. Best to start with the scene of the crime—Alcatraz—and those attending the party. Surely someone there would know a few secrets about our popular mayor.

  I pulled out the guest list and underlined the names I recognized. I put stars next to a few of them who stood out:

  • *Admiral Eugene Stadelhofer. He seemed to know the mayor well, and was one of those involved in that little altercation at the party. Something about wanting a military memorial on Treasure Island.

  • *Lucas “Spaz” Cruz. He talked about his interest in turning the island into some kind of Hollywood movie-making Mecca of the North.

  • *Dakota Hunter. Wasn’t he the one lobbying to build an Indian casino on TI?

  Those three stood out among the rest of the costumed criminals and crime solvers as having some kind of stake in the mayor’s pending decision. They might just have something interesting to say about him.

  Looking over my notes, I realized one name was missing—that tree-hugging young woman who called herself Xtreme Siouxie. She’d made quite a scene at the wedding, accusing the mayor of “murdering” Treasure Island. I had a feeling she’d have plenty to say about the mayor. But how much of it would be true?

  There was another name not on the guest list: Brad Matthews.

  He’d attended the wedding uninvited. What was he doing there? He’d nearly run me off the road the day after the party. And he’d suddenly arrived at the barracks to rent office space for his “crime scene cleaning” business.

  I reviewed my notes. At least I had a list of people I could ask about the mayor and see if they knew of any secrets he might have had. True, my name looked the most promising, at least according to Detective Melvin. The way he saw it, not only did I benefit from Andi’s death—taking over the wedding plans—but I also benefited from Ikea’s disappearance and death, with all the lurid publicity.

  I was sure of only one thing—the mayor was somehow connected to all this. But before I could jot down any more notes, I felt a breeze through my open office door. The salt air wafted in, along with Brad Matthews. Moving to his office, he turned and nodded at me, then unlocked his office door and slipped inside.

  It was time to pay a Welcome Wagon visit and get this party started. I pulled open my top drawer again, selected three dark chocolates, and arranged them in a tiny gift box I pulled from the shelf.

  Would he eat them? Not if he’d poisoned them.

  I headed across the hall.

  Just as I was about to knock, Brad saw me and waved me in. He was out of his white jumpsuit and back in his T-shirt and jeans. I opened the door, leaned in, and smiled, ready to kill him with kindness.

  “Hi.” I thrust out the small box of chocolates. “I wanted to apologize for this morning. I was . . . rude. Uh, welcome to Barracks B.”

  Brad smiled, stood up, and reached over to accept Pandora’s box. As he did, his shirt rose, revealing a glimpse of his tan, tight waist.

  That wasn’t all. There was a definite bulge in his pants. As flattering as it would have been, Brad Matthews wasn’t necessarily happy to see me.

  That was a gun in his pocket.

  Chapter 15

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #15:

  Always ke
ep a video camera handy to catch those spontaneously funny, embarrassing, and blackmail-worthy moments to show on YouTube.

  “My God!” I said, staring at the gun.

  “What?” Brad frowned.

  I quickly recovered. “Oh, uh . . . my phone! It’s been ringing off the hook. I’ll, uh, see you later, okay?” I backed out and pulled the door closed behind me before he could ask any more questions.

  I slipped into my office and picked up the phone receiver, pretending to answer it. I caught Brad eyeing me suspiciously and turned away, listening to the dial tone buzz in my ear. I nodded, shook my head, laughed, pretended to jot down a note, and hung up. When I looked over, he was still watching me. I waved. He nodded, frowning.

  Great. The crime scene cleaner was packing heat, as Sam Spade would say. Why would someone who’s essentially a janitor have a gun?

  There were just too many coincidences connected to Brad Matthews. I had to get into that office the next time he stepped out. And I had to make sure I could get in without a key.

  I headed for Delicia’s office and waited for her to hang up her phone. It sounded like she was talking to her agent about a part in a TV pilot being shot in San Francisco. I heard her mention something about playing the sidekick to a deaf private investigator who solves crimes by using his heightened other senses. I wished I had that kind of superpower.

  “What’s up?” she said, replacing the receiver.

  “Got any gum?” I asked.

  “I thought you didn’t chew gum. Said it was like drinking decaf coffee—pointless.” She opened her purse and offered me a stick of Big Red.

  “Thanks.” I took it and left without explaining my intentions.

  Back in my office, I opened the wrapper, rolled the gum into a spiral, and popped it in my mouth. After exactly ten chews, I spit the wad into my left hand and headed back to Brad’s office.

  “Hi,” I said, sticking my head inside. “I . . . uh . . . saw you talking to that detective earlier. Looked like a pretty serious conversation. Anything new on Ikea’s murder?”

  He shrugged. “Not that I know of. We mostly talked about the weather. Doesn’t this fog ever get you down? It’s depressing.”

  “You’re not from around here?” I said, eyes searching the room for something out of place, something telltale.

  He shook his head. “LA.”

  “I’d rather have fog than smog. Well, I better get back to work.” I started to pull the door closed, my gum hand resting inside the lock.

  He held up a hand. “Wait a sec.”

  I froze. “Yeah?” I tried to sound innocent. Wasn’t easy.

  “Thanks.” He gave a half grin.

  I frowned. “For what?”

  “The chocolates. That was sweet of you.” His grin broadened. He licked his lips.

  I felt the color rise in my face and smiled. I wasn’t ready for the compliment. Was he flirting? I hadn’t meant the gesture to be a come-on. And if he actually ate those chocolates, then apparently he hadn’t poisoned them after all.

  Feeling guilty for the ruse—and what I was about to do—I was caught off guard and stammered, “Uh . . . good, glad you liked them.” Sticking the gum into the lock slot as magicianlike as possible, I pulled the door closed.

  Then I had a thought. What if someone else poisoned the chocolates? Brad could be dying right now. I swung the door open—it slammed against the wall. “Uh . . . did you eat . . . all of them?”

  He looked down and shook his head. “Uh, no . . . I’m not much of a chocolate lover. But I appreciate the thought.” He met my eyes, and I felt a jolt of electricity. Where had that come from?

  Coming to my senses, I realized I had to get those chocolates out of there before someone ate one—just in case. But it would have to wait until Brad left the office or he’d be suspicious, even more than he was now. Returning to my office, I spent the next hour trying to catching up on work—returning phone calls, scheduling dates for events, and playing phone tag with the governor’s office. Most of the time I was just distracted, waiting for Brad to leave. When I finally ran out of party related tasks, I called my mother.

  “Yes?” came the familiar voice, instead of “Hello.” I’d signed her up for caller ID, so she must have known I was calling.

  “Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

  “Yes, I know, dear. How are you?”

  “Good. I just called to check on you. See how things are going. You all right?”

  “Oh yes. I’m planning a fund-raiser for this care center. Seems they don’t have enough money for one of those Wii gadgets”—she pronounced it “why”—“so I’m organizing a Halloween party and charging everyone a fee. Guess what my costume’s going to be.”

  Oh boy. “I have no idea, Mom. What?”

  “Priscilla Presley! In her big-hair heyday. Won’t that be a hoot!”

  I should have known. She was obsessed with Elvis. Hence my name, a constant source of teasing in my youth.

  “Sounds fun, Mom. Hey, listen. Did you happen to talk to anyone at the mayor’s office about me or my party business?”

  “Which mayor? Joe? Or George?”

  While her memory for current events wasn’t so great, she had no trouble recalling names, dates, places, and lurid details from the past. Joe was Mayor Joe Alioto from the early seventies, and George was Mayor George Moscone, late seventies.

  “Davin Green, our current mayor.”

  “You mean the one who’s gay?”

  “No, Mom, he’s not gay. He supports gay rights. . . . Never mind. I was just wondering.”

  “Okay, honey. Now don’t forget the Halloween party. I think you should come as Lisa Marie. Don’t you think we’d be cute together?”

  “Adorable. I’ll stop by later to see you, Mom.”

  “Don’t forget to bring your sweetheart. I want to meet him.”

  I shook my head as I said good-bye and hung up the phone. I really needed to work on getting one of those sweethearts. Ever since I’d caught my administration of justice professor “boyfriend” with his hot young assistant at their “crime scene,” I hadn’t been interested in starting up again.

  I glanced over at Brad’s office. He was stepping into his crime scene jumpsuit. I pretended to ignore him as he left his office, closing the door behind him, then hid behind a party catalog as I watched him exit the front door of the building. As soon as the coast was clear, I ducked into the reception area and peeked through the front window of the barracks to make sure he left. After he drove off in his white SUV, I tiptoed back to his office. Glancing around to make sure the coast was clear, I tried the doorknob.

  Locked.

  I pushed on the door.

  It didn’t budge.

  I leaned against it, hard, with a shoulder and hip.

  Nothing aside from a sore shoulder and hip.

  I jiggled the circa-1940s doorknob.

  The lock released. The door opened.

  The gum trick had worked—finally. I wondered if Brigid O’Shaughnessy had ever used that one, or if it was strictly Nancy Drew.

  I slipped inside, hoping my office mates were too busy with their own mischief to notice mine. If any of them caught me, I could always use the old “door was unlocked, left my cell phone inside” ruse.

  First I checked the boxes Brad had brought in. They’d been emptied of their contents and stacked neatly in a corner. The shelves were now filled with what looked like a variety of chemicals—all toxic, I assumed.

  Next I invaded his desk drawers. Sparse—nothing but basic office supplies and some official-looking forms with the Crime Scene Cleaners logo at the top. So far, it appeared to be a one-man shop.

  Finally, I riffled through the papers on his desk. Rental agreement. Take-out menu from the Pirate Cove Diner. Map of Treasure Island. Sticky pad with a phone number.

  I read the number. Local. And familiar. On a hunch, I pulled out my cell and checked “Recently dialed numbers.”

  A match.

  Why
was Mayor Green’s number written on Brad Matthews’ notepad?

  The phone rang in my office. I dashed out, closed the door behind me, and picked up the phone.

  “Killer Parties,” I said absently, still distracted by the phone number I’d found on Brad’s desk.

  “Yes, this is Governor Brien’s office calling. Is this Presley Parker?”

  My heart went into overdrive.

  “Yes, this is Presley.” I sat down.

  “This is Arden Wong. The governor asked me to call regarding the possibility of your hosting a party at the San Francisco Library. I understand you produce murder mystery dinner parties? If so, he’d like to employ you to host one as a fund-raiser.”

  So it wasn’t a prank—the governor had really called. I took a deep breath to keep myself under control, something I’d learned to cope with ADHD, and mentally chanted my mantra: Attend. Discern. Heed. Deliberate.

  “Uh, sure, I do murders all the time. I mean, murder mysteries. What kind of fund-raiser? And when do you want the event?” In spite of my efforts, my speech had gone into hyperdrive.

  Delicia came out of her office, eyebrows raised, and peeked in through my door. She could tell I was excited. No doubt she’d been waiting for me to return this call. I gave her a thumbs-up, and she fake-clapped her hands.

  “The governor would like the mystery to take place at the San Francisco Main Library, as a benefit for the Friends of the Library. And he’d like to play one of the parts, if that’s possible.”

  “Uh, sure,” I said stupidly.

  “Good. How about we discuss the details next week?” she said.

  “Great.” As long as I’m not in jail, I nearly added.

  Delicia grew giddier by the second. Her antics started to distract me, not to mention her knockoff perfume. I managed to arrange a time and place to meet Arden Wong before I hung up and joined in a modified version of Delicia’s happy dance.