How to Host a Killer Party

by Penny Warner

  When planning your event, consider creating a flowchart to outline the sequence of events. That way there won’t be any awkward surprises or embarrassing lulls at your party.

  At least not on your part . . .

  As I entered the historic Hall of Records, a massive gilt-trimmed concrete building that encompassed the entire block and housed the mayor’s office, I felt as if I were stepping back in time. I’d heard it referred to as the Crown Jewel by the docents and tour guides I’d half listened to over the years. Only recently had I come to appreciate the Beaux Arts architecture that is rare in eclectic California construction.

  I glanced at the plaque bolted near the door and skimmed the brief description. The original building was destroyed in the 1906 earthquake. The current one was built in 1915, then retrofitted after the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. The three-hundred-foot domed structure was now a national landmark, considered “one of the most important buildings in America.” Architect Arthur Brown Jr. designed a number of other buildings in the city, including the San Francisco Opera House and Coit Tower, often referred to as a phallic symbol. Each one was considered a masterpiece. But like all construction, safety renovation and historic restoration seemed never-ending, as state-of-the-art technology continued to be introduced and installed, “without compromising the historic character of the building.” So said the plaque.

  I entered the expansive rotunda and took in the vast grand staircase—the same one used in another Indiana Jones film—that led to the mayor’s office on the second floor. I gawked like a tourist at the pinkish Italian marble walls and huge domed skylight overhead. Two indoor courtyards currently offered art exhibits and educational displays. Now playing: “Before and After the Quake of 1906” and “The Universe Within—A Look Inside the Human Body.” Passing the pre- and post-quake photos I’d seen dozens of times over the years, I stole a quick peek at the poster for “The Universe Within.” My stomach lurched at the graphic photos of real human beings with their innards dipped in some sort of resin and put on display for all to see.

  Passing busts of assassinated Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk reminded me that even Mayor Green was only a bullet—or a bottle of poison—away from having his bust made. Moving on, I walked by courtrooms, public offices, and familiar names on nameplates in reverential awe, as if I were in church. Marble, pillars, and domes did a lot for a business professional’s image.

  My decrepit military barracks office could use a few pillars and domes, not to mention a little gilt.

  At the top of the stairs, a little out of breath, I entered the mayor’s office and was greeted by a young man sitting at a large oak desk. “Greeted” as in, he looked up from his phone call and held up a manicured finger, indicating for me to wait a minute. I nodded and took that moment to enjoy the ostentatious surroundings of the reception area.

  The mayor’s outer office encompassed the past and present nicely, with a mix of heavy antique office furniture and state-of-the-art electronic accessories. Dark hardwood floors were covered with intricate Oriental carpets. Velveteen-covered Victorian chairs sat tastefully arranged around the room beneath oil portraits of previous city mayors. I recognized the infamous—Emperor Norton—as well as the popular—Joseph Alioto, Willie Brown, and Gavin Newsom—all looking regal in their suits and smiles.

  “May I help you?” the man at the desk finally said, putting down the phone.

  I spun around, took several steps to the desk, and reached out my hand. “I’m Presley Parker, the mayor’s event planner. I have an appointment to see Chloe Webster.”

  The anorexically thin man in the tailored dark suit and closely cropped highlighted hair took my hand with slim fingers and shook it lightly, as if I might have cooties. “Do you have an appointment?” he said without making eye contact.

  Hadn’t I just said that? “Yes, sir.” I tapped an invisible watch on my wrist as if officially verifying it.

  “Have a seat. I’ll let Ms. Webster know you’re here.”

  He lifted the phone, pressed a button, and said something so softly I couldn’t make it out. After a brief couple of “Yes, Ms. Webster”s, he hung up and more or less mouthed to me, “She’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  I sat down in a stiff chair underneath Davin Green. He looked like a movie star in his portrait with his professionally whitened smile, green-contact-lensed eyes, molded dark hair, and Italian suit. As any event planner knew, a few fancy decorations went a long way to cover up a less-than-perfect venue. The same axiom worked for people too.

  A few minutes stretched into a quarter of an hour. While I waited, I thought about what I was going to ask Chloe. As I pulled out my notebook, a small sticky note floated onto my lap. Written in Delicia’s curly handwriting, it was the note to call the governor’s office. Damn. The timing couldn’t be worse. I wanted that job, but I felt overwhelmed by the current circumstances. How could I put on a murder mystery for the governor while trying to solve a real one?

  That got me thinking. I’d done a small mystery event for the university to raise money for the campus library, and it had been a great success. The sponsors were able to supply the library with several new computers. Plus, it’d been a lot of fun putting the event together—although working out a not-too-easy, not-too-hard plot on the university’s limited budget had been a challenge.

  First I’d chosen the victim—in this case a professor who was appearing at the school library to sign her latest book, Deader Than a Doornail. Then I jotted down the most likely suspects connected to the victim—the frumpy librarian, the tweedy bookseller, the stuffy publisher, the bitter critic, the bimbo star of the book’s miniseries, and the local crooked politician. Stereotypes always got the biggest laughs.

  Next, I gave each one a secret and a motive for offing the victim—standards like jealousy, blackmail, larceny, lust. Finally, I wrote alibis for each one—which of course turned out to be questionable when the “detective” interrogated them. While the amateur sleuths attending the mystery tried to sort the red herrings from the real clues, they were distracted by the suspects’ psycho personalities and suspicious statements. Only those who looked for physical evidence guessed the real killer. Source: Murder, She Wrote.

  As the minutes ticked by, I started to brainstorm a plot for the governor’s mystery. But after tapping my pen on the pad for several minutes, all I’d come up with were two dead victims and a very suspicious-looking party planner as the killer.

  “Presley?” a voice called. I looked up to see Chloe Webster standing in her office doorway. I stuffed the notebook into my purse and rose.

  “Hi!” Chloe reached out and took my hand in both of hers. She looked completely different out of her costume and in her fashionably tailored blue suit, with its cropped, closely fitted jacket and short skirt. Even her dark blue, sky-high Manolo Blahniks blended perfectly with her outfit. Around her neck she wore the small triangle necklace she’d had on at the party.

  “Hi, Chloe. Thanks for seeing me. I know this is probably a bad time. . . .”

  She’d turned and headed for her office, leading the way. With a last glance at the portrait of Mayor Green, I followed her through the door labeled CHLOE WEBSTER, ASSISTANT TO THE MAYOR. I shot a glance at the office next to hers: MAYOR DAVIN GREEN. His door was shut and the room looked dark through the frosty window.

  As Chloe moved around to her desk, I took a moment to read her room. It was sparse, simple, and tastefully appointed. A steel desk and file cabinets, functional gray carpet and chairs, gray wainscoting on white walls. A framed picture of the Golden Gate Bridge and one of the Painted Ladies filled two walls. On her desk were tiny figurines popular with tourists—a Victorian house, a cable car, the Transamerica building, a replica of the MOMA. Even a cup from the mayor’s party on Alcatraz.

  But it was her clothes and shoes that told me she was making the big bucks at this job.

  I sat down in the sleek steel chair opposite her.

  “As
I told you, it’s been crazy here. Mayor Green is devastated over Ikea’s death, as you can imagine, and it’s meant a lot more work for me. But you’re not here to listen to me complain. So, what’s this all about?” She played with the triangle around her neck.

  “Well, as I mentioned, I want to help the police figure out who did this.”

  “Great.” She raised a well-drawn eyebrow. “How can I help?”

  “I think the police are on the wrong track. They’re even questioning me and my staff.”

  Her face clouded and she fiddled with her necklace. “The police were here too.”

  I leaned in, waiting for her to go on. Like me, had they suspected the mayor too? When she didn’t continue, I asked the obvious. “So what did they want?”

  She cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable. “Uh, well, they asked about you. And your caterer.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. I knew it.

  “Okay, so now you know why I’m really here. That’s why I need your help.”

  “I don’t know what I can do but I’m happy to help any way I can, Presley. I didn’t tell them much. Mainly because I really don’t know anything.”

  I remembered Brad’s advice—start with the victim—and asked, “Can you tell me something about Ikea? How did she and the mayor get along?”

  She grinned. “They were a great couple. Obviously, or the mayor wouldn’t have planned that whole wedding party.”

  “Was there anyone who might have had a reason to do this? Anyone who—”

  She cut me off with a laugh. “Oh sure. Plenty of people didn’t care for Ikea. She was talented, beautiful, powerful, and engaged to the mayor of San Francisco. Maybe having that kind of life makes you a lot of ‘friends’ ”—she put the word in finger quotes—“but it also makes you some enemies.”

  “Really?” I pulled out my notebook. “Like who?”

  “Oh, don’t quote me, but goodness, too many to count. I suppose you could start with the people who saw her as a connection to the mayor. Granted, she had a lot of influence over him, but some people thought she could actually affect his decision making.” She rolled her eyes.

  “You knew Ikea pretty well?”

  “I suppose. She was here all the time.” More fiddling with the necklace. Was she bored, nervous, or hyperactive like me?

  “What was she like?”

  Chloe sighed, as if reluctant to give a big speech. “Well, she was beautiful, you know. Tall, slim, gorgeous almond eyes. I think she was a model at one time. Then she started writing chick-lit novels and became a minor celebrity. Began hitting the city social circuit. That’s when she met the mayor. He was just coming off an ugly divorce and fell head over heels immediately.”

  “You said people thought she had a lot of influence over the mayor. Do you think that was true?”

  Chloe shrugged and looked down at her necklace. “I don’t really know. Like I said, some people thought so. That’s not to say the mayor didn’t have his own agenda, but I know she encouraged him on a few city projects.”

  “Like . . .” I was practically sitting on the edge of my chair.

  She tapped her pen. “Mostly special interest groups. As you know, the mayor is in the middle of making some decisions about the future of Treasure Island—and that’s causing major issues. Things are . . . intense, to say the least, and there are a few people who are trying—tried, I should say—to sway the mayor through Ikea.”

  I thought of the three men who’d argued at the wedding—Dakota Hunter, Spaz Cruz, and Admiral Stadelhofer. And then there’d been that scene with Siouxie, the activist. Was there anyone else I could add to my list?

  “Did Ikea actually help any of them? I mean, did she support any of those causes?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. Ikea and I weren’t that close. Like I said, I met her after I got the job here. She didn’t confide in me or anything.” Chloe put the pencil down and looked at her watch. “Look, I want to help you, Presley, but I’ve probably said too much already. My job is to protect the mayor, and I could get in trouble—besides, he has a press conference in a few minutes.”

  Protect the mayor? Odd choice of words, I thought.

  “Sorry. Just one last thing. Do you have any idea where she got the earrings she wore that night?”

  Her hand went to her necklace again. “Which ones?”

  “They looked like miniature books.”

  “Oh sure. The mayor gave them to her. That night, in fact, as a special pre-wedding gift, I guess. She was having a tantrum about her costume, and when he whipped those earrings out, she forgot all about her little snit.”

  “By the way, I love your necklace. Does it symbolize something?”

  “Just my old sorority. Tri Delta.”

  I rose to leave and reached out my hand. She came around the desk and gave me a light hug. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the police will figure all of this out. And feel free to come to me if you need my help—or the mayor’s.”

  “Thanks, Chloe. You’ve been a great help already.”

  She smiled wanly and looked away. “I wish I could do more. It’s really been hard on the mayor.”

  Did I see something more in that smile and those eyes besides concern for the mayor?

  I started for the door, then turned back. “Oh yes, I almost forgot. Did the police tell you that Ikea was poisoned?”

  Chloe nodded. “Yes, I heard. The mayor is sick about it.”

  “They think it was the chocolates at the wedding party,” I added.

  Chloe’s eyes narrowed as she had a thought; then she shook her head. “God, that means it could have been anyone. . . .”

  I nodded. “Well, if you have any ideas, let me know.”

  She nodded. “Hang in there, Presley.”

  Did she have to use the word “hang”?

  A bunch of newscasters and reporters were gathered in the rotunda when I came out of the elevator, checking camera angles, checking their hair, testing microphones.

  The mayor’s press conference. This might be a good time to ask a few pointed questions of our bereaved mayor. I pulled out my little notebook and a pen and tried to blend in with the newspaper reporters, hoping the mayor might not recognize me when I started grilling him. Ha. Then I had a thought and ran out to my car, where I still hadn’t unloaded the costume I’d worn at the party. I dug out the blazer, cloche hat, and a pair of Groucho glasses, then slipped on the blazer and hat as I dashed back to the rotunda. Mayor Green had just arrived at the podium and was about to be introduced by Chloe. As subtly as I could, I broke off the mustache and nose from the black-rimmed glasses and put them on, hoping I could at least fool the mayor from a distance.

  Seconds later Chloe took the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, Mayor Davin Green has been through a very devastating experience. He knows you have questions, but please keep them brief. You have five minutes. And now, Mayor Davin Green.” She lifted her hands in applause.

  The room followed suit as Mayor Green took over the mic. He waved his hands to calm the crowd, then began reading his professionally (but over-) written speech. “People of San Francisco”—pause, look at notes, blink back tears—“I want to thank you for the tremendous outpouring of support for me at my time of loss. . . . The death of my fiancée has been difficult . . . but I appreciate all your good wishes. . . . I am confident the San Francisco Police Department will fully investigate her death and apprehend the perpetrator in a swift and timely manner. . . .”

  I couldn’t stand it any longer. Why wasn’t anyone asking questions? Chloe had said he’d only be available for five minutes. At this point, I had nothing to lose.

  “Mr. Mayor!” I called out, interrupting his prefab talk. “Do you know of any reason why someone might want to murder Ikea Takeda?”

  The mayor blinked, put a hand over his brow, and tried to see who had asked such a boldly rude question. In the harsh lights, I doubted he could see me, but I pulled back behind another reporter in an
attempt to hide, just in case.

  “Uh . . . ,” he stammered, not having any notes on the sudden subject change to refer to. “Who’s—”

  “Is it true,” I continued, lowering my booming voice an octave so he wouldn’t recognize it, “that you and your fiancée were arguing over something the night of the surprise wedding and that—”

  Someone grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me back from the crowd—a man in a black suit. His twin joined him, and together they “escorted” me from the rotunda and “helped” me through the door and onto the sidewalk.

  Rubbing my shoulder where the first guy had grabbed me with “unnecessary force,” I headed back to my car. I sat in the front seat a few minutes, shaking my head at my stupidity. What had that accomplished, other than to make me look like a fool, get me thrown out of the building, and no doubt draw sympathy for the mayor? If he were really as devastated as he’d proclaimed to the press, he sure didn’t look like it. Maybe he was good at hiding his feelings when he was in front of the public. Maybe he was good at hiding more than his feelings. . . .

  As I removed the hat and switched on the ignition, I only hoped that Chloe hadn’t recognized me. If she had, I could cross her off as a source of more information. And at the moment, she was my best bet for uncovering any of the mayor’s secrets.

  Chapter 21

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #21:

  To personalize your party for the guest of honor, secretly interview friends and family to find out little-known facts—such as her first job, his first car, their first date. Then use those telling details to make the event memorable.

  “Cherchez la femme,” I said aloud as I got into my MINI Cooper. Look forthe woman. This advice had certainly been true in The Maltese Falcon. Brigid O’Shaughnessy was the real clue, not the black bird. Hitchcock had called this the McGuffin, and defined it as something that seemed to be the pivotal point of the mystery, when in fact it was simply misdirection—there was so much more going on.