How to Host a Killer Party

by Penny Warner

  I ripped off an arm’s length of paper towel and wiped my hand, then scrubbed it with the disinfectant as if it were highly toxic before tossing the refuse into the wastebasket.

  “I don’t have leprosy.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “So, you want to tell me what the hell that was all about?”

  I rubbed my hand on my pants, hoping to destroy any last germs. “I . . . those chocolates I gave you. I thought you were eating one. They may have been tampered with.”

  Seemingly unfazed, he pulled open another drawer and removed the small box of chocolates I had given him earlier. Only now they were encased in a plastic Baggie. “You mean these?”

  “Why are they in a bag?”

  “I thought I’d take them down to the station and see if I can get someone to analyze them.”

  “What! Why?” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “Like you said. In case they’ve been tampered with.”

  “But why would you suspect something like that?”

  Brad folded his hands like some kind of patient counselor. “Look, Presley, I know about the poisoned chocolates. A friend of mine at the station just sent me a copy of the autopsy report. As you probably know, Ikea Takeda didn’t drown. She was poisoned. The tox scan found cyanide in the chocolate.”

  Oh my God. Were Rocco’s chocolates really poisoned?

  But how did Ikea get them?

  And how did she end up in the water?

  And what about Andi Sax?

  He nodded toward my Welcome Wagon gift of chocolates. “I doubt these are poisoned, but I’m taking precautions. You don’t have any more of these stashed away, do you?”

  I glanced toward my office. Only a desk full.

  I wondered if I should tell him about Rocco’s odd phone call. After all, he’d shared the autopsy information with me. I reached out and closed his door to keep the other office mates from overhearing, then opened a folding chair that was propped against the wall and sat down.

  I took a deep breath. “Listen. I need to tell you something. It’s about Rocco. He called a few minutes ago.”

  Brad leaned forward conspiratorially. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He asked if there were any chocolates left in the kitchen, and when I said no, he hung up. That was it.”

  “He needs to call the police. They’ll want to talk to him.”

  I nodded. “I don’t know why he hasn’t come into the office yet. Maybe he figures he’s a possible suspect. But I’m sure he didn’t poison those chocolates. He’s just not the poisoning type.”

  “Well, if they suspect him, that might let you off the hook.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not going to shift the blame to him to save my own ass. He didn’t do anything wrong.” I hoped.

  Brad swiveled to his computer and opened up a search engine I didn’t recognize—not Yahoo or Google. He typed the name “Rocco Ghirenghelli” and pressed ENTER.

  “How did you know Rocco’s last name?” I asked. I didn’t recall telling him.

  “It’s on the mailbox outside.”

  Duh.

  Seconds later the search brought up several links. Instead of clicking on Rocco’s Web site, Brad moved the cursor down to an article published in the San Francisco Chronicle a couple of months ago.

  I skimmed the details over Brad’s shoulder—and caught a whiff of Brad’s herbal shampoo. I inhaled, deeply. Momentarily distracted, I forced my eyes back onto the screen and read the review.

  Rocco Ghirenghelli, host of Bay City Café on KBAY, the San Francisco cable station, has been delighting hungry audiences for the past three years with his signature selections from local markets. Known for his unique Pacific Rim dishes, he often combines fresh catches from the bay with popular California produce. Among his award-winning specialties are his Crab and Avocado Tart in Quince Paste, Shaved Manchego with an Artichoke Chiffonade, Lobster Confit with Crispy Lavash, and Lemon Pepper Brined Mussels with Wilted Pea Sprouts. And what he does with chocolate is to die for.

  Ah yes. The article brought back taste memories. I had sampled all of the above. They’d tasted like crab Pop-Tarts, artichoke paste, fish Jell-O, and rubber thingies. But people seemed to like his food. And the chocolates really were to die for. So to speak.

  “It’s just a review,” I said to the screen. “What are you looking for?”

  Brad typed “Department of Motor Vehicles” into the search engine. Up popped the Web page. He typed some numbers—an access code? And finally he typed in Rocco’s name. The screen filled with more numbers, as indecipherable as my college trig homework.

  Brad leaned to the side so I could see the screen.

  “What am I looking at?” I asked.

  He pointed to a line that read “CPC 192b,” along with what appeared to be dates from over ten years ago.

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s a con,” he said matter-of-factly.

  I stared at him. “What do you mean—like a con artist? Rocco? That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, con, like convict. A 192b is a violation of the California Penal Code.”

  I reread the line, then turned to Brad. “What’s a 192 whatever?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Manslaughter.”

  Uh-uh. No way.

  Not Rocco.

  Yes, he was a little eccentric. What semi-celebrity chef isn’t? But he wasn’t a murderer. Or a manslaughterer.

  I crossed my arms. “I don’t believe it. If he really did . . . kill someone, I’m sure it was an accident.”

  Brad glanced back at the screen, as if avoiding my eyes. Odd.

  “How did you get that stuff, anyway?” I nodded at the screen, referring to his ability to access the information.

  He shrugged. “Like I said. I have friends at 850 Bryant. We work hand in hand.”

  “Yeah, about that . . .”

  “Look, Presley,” he said, finally meeting my penetrating stare. “Rocco’s obviously in some kind of trouble. He’s gone AWOL from his job. His chocolates were probably poisoned. He has a record. And you just got a suspicious phone call from him. If you know anything, you need to—”

  I stood up. “I don’t! All I know is he called me and hung up before I could find out what was going on.” I headed for the door, then turned back. “I thought we were going to help each other.”

  He threw his hands up in surrender. “Me too. I told you about the autopsy. Now it’s your turn. It’s called quid pro quo.”

  “I did! I have! I—”

  I heard the front door of the barracks creak open, interrupting me from my defense. I stole a peek out the door—two men in suits had stepped in and were glancing around the reception area. I recognized the one with the slicked-back hair immediately: Detective Luke Melvin.

  Any chance he was here to hire my services for the next Policemen’s Ball? Not likely.

  “I gotta go,” I whispered and slipped out the door, hoping the detective hadn’t spotted me yet. I ducked into Delicia’s office, startling her, and scrambled under her desk, startling her even more. My thinking was, if they couldn’t find me, they couldn’t arrest me. Scrunched into a human ball between Dee’s legs, I whispered up to her, “Where is he?”

  Delicia leaned down and whispered, “Who?”

  “Stop talking to your crotch! They’ll see you. Pick up the phone and pretend to talk.”

  Frowning, she did what I told her.

  “Now, where’s the detective?”

  She swiveled in her chair, almost rolling over my fingers. “He’s talking to the new guy—Brad.”

  “Can you hear what they’re saying?”

  Seconds passed. I couldn’t see her face. “I think they’re talking about . . . you. They keep looking toward your office.”

  Great.

  I hoped Brad wouldn’t give me up. This would be a test of his sincerity about wanting to help me.

  “What are they saying now?”

  “Shhh! I can’t hear them when you
keep interrupting. Besides, the detective is a mumbler. There’s another cop with him . . . uh-oh. He’s . . . going into your office. You left the door open.”

  What was that dickwad doing in my office? Wasn’t that illegal without a warrant? “What now?”

  “Uh, he’s looking around. . . . Wait, he’s sitting at your desk. He’s . . .”

  “What?”

  Delicia didn’t answer. I pinched her ankle. She jumped. Her knee hit my chin. We both said, “Ouch!”

  Rubbing my chin, I asked, “What’s he doing?”

  “Quiet—they’ll hear you. I don’t want to be charged as an accomplice if you’re arrested, you know.”

  I pounded one of her purple Crocs. She had a pair in every color.

  “Okay, he’s picking up something from your desk. . . . A sheet of paper . . . He’s getting up. . . . He’s taking it to the other cop.”

  Sheet of paper? What sheet of paper?

  My notes about Ikea’s and Andi’s deaths!

  I sat up and bumped my head underneath the desk. Shit! I rubbed the bump.

  “Wait—he’s bringing it back to your office. . . . He’s putting it on your desk. Uh-oh.”

  “What?” I pulled on Delicia’s long patchwork skirt like a kid wanting her mother’s attention.

  “He’s calling the other cop over . . . showing him something . . . in your drawer.”

  Oh God. I’d left my drawer open too!

  And they’d found my stash of chocolates.

  Chapter 18

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #18:

  To perk up a placid party, introduce a surprise guest—a magician with something up his sleeve, a fortune-teller who can predict the future, or a cop . . . who doubles as a stripper.

  When the coast was clear, I scooted out from my hiding place. My knees and back cracked as I eased myself to an upright position. I was sure I had a lump on my head and a bruise on my chin. Brushing cobwebs from my clothes, I said to Delicia, “You really should clean under there.”

  “You really should find a better hiding place!” she snapped back.

  “Thanks, by the way,” I said in parting, then turned around to find myself face-to-face with Brad Matthews. I froze, feeling like I’d just been caught breaking and entering.

  “What were you doing under there?” he said, frowning and grinning at the same time.

  “Uh . . . looking for something.” I felt beads of sweat break out along my forehead.

  “The detective wanted to talk to you.”

  “Really.” I arched my back, trying to squeeze the remaining kinks out. “Did he have a warrant?”

  “No. Should he have?” He gave that half smile he was so good at.

  I rolled my eyes. “He was in my office snooping through all my stuff!”

  “Actually, there’s a loophole called plain view, which means you don’t need a warrant if you can clearly see what you’re looking for. Like papers on your desk in an open office and stuff in your open drawers. But I think he just wanted to talk to you about Rocco, who seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  He leaned back against the doorjamb. “Nothing, obviously, since I don’t know anything more than what I read on the Internet.”

  “What did he say about me?” I ran my hand through my hair, hoping to remove any spiders that might have set up residence. I certainly didn’t mean for it to come off as sexual. But Brad reached out toward my face. Reflexively, I pulled back. His hand paused; then he plucked a cobweb from the side of my head. I felt a blast of heat rise like an erupting volcano.

  Flicking away the cobweb, he said, “Melvin wanted to know where you were so he could ask you some questions. Your car’s out front, so he knew you were around. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  “No.” Yes. “What else did he say?”

  “He did mention something . . . ,” Brad added, rubbing his chin.

  “What?” I may have screeched.

  “Calm down. He found some kind of notes or list on your desk, along with some chocolates in your drawer. He wanted to know why you were writing down a bunch of names. And where the chocolates came from.”

  Jeez, didn’t everyone have chocolates in their drawers?

  “So . . . ,” Brad said, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up with your list?”

  I shrugged, spun around dramatically, and went into my office. I found my list almost right where I’d left it. Before I could pick it up, a muscular arm came out of nowhere and snatched it away.

  “Give me that!” I said, grabbing at it.

  Brad raised his arm, holding my list out of my reach like a school bully. When I stopped reaching for it, he lowered his arm and scanned the names. A few moments later he handed it over, frowning. “Is this a list of suspects?”

  I glared at him. “No. Just people I want to talk to, who might know something about Ikea and the mayor.”

  “Why’s my name there?” Was that a smirk on his face?

  “You’re a person of interest, just like the others,” I said. “Even I’m on my list—thanks to Detective Melvin. So don’t take it personally.”

  The phone rang. I snatched it up. “What!—I mean, Killer Parties.”

  “Pres! Thank God.” It was Rocco. I turned away from Brad in an attempt to have some privacy, but he didn’t get the hint. He stayed planted right where he was—inside my office.

  “Hi . . . Mother. How are you?” I said a little too dramatically.

  “Are the cops still there?” Rocco whispered.

  “Oh no, I’m fine. What’s up, Mother?”

  “Did they find anything?” He sounded urgent.

  “Not that I know of, Mom.” I sneaked a glance at Brad. He was busy flipping through my stack of phone messages. At least, he was pretending to.

  “What about the chocolates?” Rocco said.

  “No, Mom, sorry.” I shook my head as if he could see me.

  “Shit! Listen, Pres, you’ve got to help me. In the kitchen cupboard, over the refrigerator where we keep the cleaning supplies, there’s a box of rat poison. . . .”

  A chill ran down my back. I hesitated, then said, “Uh, yes, Mom, it’s gone.” I looked at Brad—he was no longer pretending not to listen. I quickly added, “My rash has finally cleared up.”

  Brad made a face. Great. What sort of rash was he imagining I had?

  “No!” Rocco hissed. “It’s got to be there! I use it all the time—”

  “You do?”

  “For rats, of course. My fingerprints will be all over it—”

  I heard him cough. “Are you okay?”

  “Where could it . . . who . . .” Rocco coughed again, more violently.

  My heart skipped a beat. “Ro—Mom? You don’t sound well.” More coughing, gasping. “Mom?”

  The phone went dead.

  I turned to Brad as I hung up. He was staring at me.

  “Is your mom all right?” He frowned, feigning concern.

  I opened my mouth to continue the lie, then sighed. “Okay, okay. It wasn’t my mom.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Brad said. “So where’s Rocco? I’m guessing he’s in some sort of trouble.”

  “I think he’s sick. . . .” I trailed off, trying to guess where Rocco might have called from. Wherever it was, he obviously knew the cops had been here. “We’ve got to find him. He sounded . . . awful.”

  Brad reached for the phone. “I’ll call the police, see if they can—”

  I pushed his hand down, replacing the receiver. “No! No cops. Listen, I have a hunch where he may be, but you have to promise not to call the police. If anything, he may need an ambulance.”

  Brad frowned.

  I raced out of the barracks to my MINI with Brad right behind me. I slid into the driver’s side, and Brad got into the passenger’s side, ducking to avoid hitting his head in the tight quarters. As he turned to fasten his seat belt, I caught another glimpse of his gun.

  Momentari
ly distracted, I switched on the ignition—twice, by accident—causing a horrible noise. I jammed the gearshift into reverse and sped out of the parking lot, shooting pebbles in my wake. Driving back toward the main gate, I turned onto California Avenue, which ran along the marina. Just before the Treasure Island Yacht Club stood the Windsurf Café. It was the only restaurant on Treasure Island, run by the Job Corps Culinary Academy. Housed in what looked like a double-wide trailer on blocks, the place was easily overlooked by tourists.

  The café served breakfast and lunch, six days a week, and was a favorite spot for us locals—even Rocco, who needed a break from his own gourmet cooking from time to time. The bacon, crab, and cheese omelet beat a fancy eggs Benedict any day. And nothing cost over ten dollars. No wonder we all loved it.

  I pulled in front of the café. Bingo. Rocco’s SUV was in the parking lot. I could smell frying fish as I got out of the car. Leaving Brad in my dust, I ran inside and scanned the patrons, mostly young men and women with still-damp hair, wearing wet suits.

  “Bosun!” I called to the overweight balding man behind the lunch counter. Behind him were colorful photos of the Chinese Dragon Boat Races, held every August in Clipper Cove off Treasure Island.

  He finished pouring a beer from a tap, then looked up. “Hey, Pres. The usual—”

  I cut him off. “Where’s Rocco?”

  He wiped a beer-soaked hand on his apron, glanced around, and shrugged. “Hmm. Was here. Left, I guess. S’up?”

  I turned to Brad, who’d finally followed me in. “Check the men’s room. I’ll check his SUV.”

  Brad headed into the lavatory as I made a dash for the front door. Before I stepped out, I heard him yell, “He’s in here!”

  Ignoring the boundaries of society, I joined him in the men’s room. Rocco lay slumped on the floor, his legs sticking out of the last stall. From the blue coloring in his lips and fingertips, he looked cyanotic.

  “Call 911!” I screamed.

  “How is he?” Delicia said, following me into my office when I returned from the hospital. Rocco was in critical condition. They’d pumped his stomach after I mentioned he might have been poisoned. He was still unconscious when I left.