How to Host a Killer Party

by Penny Warner

  A shadow moved across the ceiling of the SUV. Chloe was in the backseat. Moving my hand down and around the side of the seat, I felt for the lever that folds the seat. With all the strength I had left, I jerked it, throwing my weight against the seat. It fell forward and on top of Chloe.

  I felt her thrashing through the seat. Digging in my pocket, I grabbed a handful of still-gooey chocolate and shoved it in her open mouth. If it didn’t poison her, hopefully it would choke her—at least long enough for me to get the hell out of there.

  I hurled myself over the seat, my leg screaming in pain. Ignoring it as best I could, I scooted headfirst out the driver’s side door and onto the pavement. As I hit the road, skinning both my hands as I caught myself, I turned over and gave the door a shove with my good leg.

  A screech of tires filled the air.

  I could hear again!

  I pushed myself up into a sitting position and spotted another white SUV zooming up behind Chloe’s SUV.

  Pike—Chloe’s thug?

  I started to crawl away as the door to the second SUV flew open. The driver shot out and quickly ducked out of sight behind the opened door. A gun appeared over the top of the door.

  Oh shit. There was no way I was going to get away now.

  “Police!” a familiar voice called out. “Drop the weapon! Now!”

  Brad!

  “She’s back there,” I squealed, pointing toward the backseat of Chloe’s SUV. Brad approached, holding the gun at arm’s length with both hands. With his head, he gestured for me to lie low.

  He pulled the driver’s door open.

  I could hear Chloe coughing and gagging inside.

  Brad aimed his gun toward the sound. A moment later, I heard Chloe’s gun hit the windshield after her attempt to either drop it or throw it at Brad. She slowly rose, chocolate smeared over her face. She raised her chocolate-covered hands.

  Together, I’m sure we made quite a sight.

  “Get out of the car,” Brad commanded, gesturing with the gun as he moved around the front windshield. The side door opened. He waited for her to step out, never lowering his gun. Pulling out cuffs hidden beneath his shirt, he slammed her against the car and cuffed her.

  Raj pulled up in his beat-up old Chevy and hopped out. He ran over to me and helped me to the curb. I couldn’t stand on my bruised leg and possibly broken ankle, so he eased me down.

  “I just got your call, Ms. Presley. Are you all right?”

  “Call an ambulance, Raj,” Brad ordered. With one hand against Chloe’s back, he pulled out his cell with the other. He punched three numbers—the police.

  I knew it. Brad was much more than a crime scene cleaner.

  And thank God for that.

  Chapter 34

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #34:

  After hosting a big event, give yourself a full day to recover.

  Sip the last of the champagne in a bubble bath as you relive every delicious detail all over again. Then start planning your next party!

  “You lied to me!” I yelled at Brad from my hospital bed as he entered my room.

  “You lied to me,” he replied calmly, and sat down on a nearby chair. He’d obviously cleaned up from arresting criminals. His wavy brown hair was neatly combed, his jeans were fresh, and he wore a blue T-shirt with the Crime Scene Cleaners logo emblazoned on the front. But it was his smile that made me self-conscious. I pulled down the hospital gown, tried to fluff my hospital bed hair, and licked my lips wishing I had some lip gloss.

  He picked up the remote and switched the TV to mute. Dr. Phil rambled on, using his pop psychology on some neurotic couple, but I could no longer hear his down-home soliloquies.

  “So they pumped your stomach, huh?” he said, smiling with empathy.

  “Yeah, not fun. My throat still aches from the tube.” In fact, it hurt even more now, making me wish I hadn’t yelled at him a moment ago.

  “Heard you have a broken ankle”—he glanced at the foot-to-knee cast—“along with multiple contusions and abrasions on your leg, and a sore mouth.”

  Yeah, from tripping and falling on my way home, getting in a fight with Chloe, and holding quantities of poisoned chocolates in my mouth. Plus a huge headache—from the poison? Or the car accident? Luckily, the doctor had promised I could go home—with crutches—after a few more hours of observation.

  In the meantime, I was lying in a hospital bed watching Dr. Phil talk about people who had stressful lives. Ha.

  “Are you even a crime scene cleaner at all?” I asked hoarsely, then coughed. It hurt to talk. My voice changed to a rasping whisper. “Or are you really some kind of undercover cop?”

  Brad gave his lopsided grin and shrugged. He looked great in his blue shirt, while I felt like a hag in my tent-shaped hospital gown.

  I eyed him as he pulled up a chair next to me, seeing him in a completely different light. Someday I’d have to ask him about the accidental shooting of the disabled man that must have had a huge impact on him. No one walked away from something like that without a degree of posttraumatic stress disorder. But now was not the time.

  “How did you know I was in trouble?” I asked. “Were you spying on me? Did you hope to catch me in the act of murdering my next victim?”

  He laughed. “No. I told you, I knew you didn’t do it. It was the mayor who sent me to TI to keep an eye on you. He’s not as stupid as Ikea sometimes made him appear. When he started receiving death threats about his upcoming decision for the island, he suspected the vandalism there was somehow connected. I was hired to check it out. Turns out he was right about that. Chloe managed to find a punk named Geoff Pike to do some of her dirty work. All except the murders. She saved those for herself.”

  “So you’re not really a cop?”

  He shook his head. “I do a little private investigating. For SFPD, the mayor. This time I was hired to find out what was up.”

  “And did you?”

  “With a little help from you,” he acknowledged.

  “You bet your ass. Did they catch that Pike guy?”

  “Oh yeah. We found all kinds of information about him locked in a file in Chloe’s office. Tracked him down to the apartment she’d rented him on the island. When he found out about the murders, he gave her up.”

  “Wow. I never realized how much power an administrative assistant had.” I paused. “But that doesn’t answer how you found me—and so quickly.”

  “I was in the office when your call to Raj came in. I just beat him to the scene.”

  I smiled.

  “Doc says you can go home soon,” Brad added. “Thought I’d give you a lift.”

  “Thanks. Not sure I want to get back into another SUV anytime soon though.” I took a sip of water. Even that hurt. “Have you seen Rocco?”

  Brad nodded. “Good news. He’s awake, alert, and out of danger. Can’t remember much about what happened to him—something about chocolates—but other than that, he seems fine. He’ll be released in another day or so.”

  “Thank God.” I sighed, a combination of exhaustion and relief. Raising an eyebrow, I said, “So, you got a license?”

  Brad leaned to one side and pulled his wallet from his back jeans pocket. He flipped it open and showed me the official form. I took it and checked out his ID picture. Taken a couple of years ago, it didn’t look much like him, now that his hair was longer and he had that soul patch on his chin. But the dark eyes were definitely his.

  I handed it back. “So you’re friends with the mayor, huh?”

  Before he could answer, Detective Melvin appeared in the doorway. I tensed up reflexively. What now?

  “Got a warrant?” I asked weakly, only half teasing.

  Melvin stepped in, dressed to kill in a designer suit, silk tie, and shiny Italian loafers. I wondered for a moment if he was on somebody else’s payroll. When he shook hands with Brad, I decided I had to stop being so suspicious of everyone.

  “Six o’clock? Firing range?” he said to Brad.

>   Brad nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it. You’ll be buying the beer afterward.”

  “In your dreams, buddy. Remember last week?”

  I stared at them, watching their back-and-forth banter openmouthed until I’d had enough. “You guys are friends?”

  Melvin finally turned his attention to me. “Went to Cal together,” he said. “Sorry about giving you a hard time, Ms. Parker. When it became clear that someone was trying to make you look guilty, we did our best to find out who it was, and protect you at the same time. Obviously we couldn’t let you know.”

  “Well, you sure made it look good, Detective.”

  “Sorry about that. But you were under surveillance twenty-four/seven. At least, for the most part.”

  Yeah, except when I wasn’t.

  After it sank in, I realized I still had a few threads to tie up. “All right. I have a couple of questions for you guys,” I said, looking back and forth between the two men. “And I want answers.”

  Brad glanced at Detective Melvin, who clasped his hands protectively in front of his groin. They both nodded.

  “Who tried to run me off the road?”

  “Which time?” Brad said.

  I shook my head. “Both times!”

  “That first time, when you were coming down Macalla to the island, that was me. I wasn’t trying to kill you. I was in a hurry—I’d had a call from one of the officers on the island about another break-in. I’ve already apologized for that.”

  “Apologized? You should have your license revoked.” I took a breath. “So what about the second time. Was that you too?”

  “No, that was Pike, driving the SUV Chloe rented for him. He was just supposed to scare you.”

  “What about that phone call, with my voice threatening to kill Ikea?”

  “Chloe must have caught you on tape at the party,” the detective said. “We found a mini-recorder in her desk. She was probably waiting for you to say something like that at the party so she could use it.”

  “And the fires at the office building?”

  “Pike.”

  I suddenly had an epiphany and looked at them. “Was I your—decoy?”

  Melvin shook his head. “Absolutely not. I assure you, you were well protected.”

  “Except when I wasn’t! Like when my car was side-swiped, my office building was torched, and my home was broken into, and—”

  Detective Melvin flushed. “Like I said, I’m sorry about not being able to let you know, but we had you covered, most of the time.”

  I pointed to my leg cast, indicating one of the times I wasn’t protected.

  “You want me to sign it?” he said, pulling out a pen.

  I looked at him in disbelief. Before I could kick him with the cast, I heard a Southern-accented voice outside the door. “Mama always said, ‘Life is like a box of chocolates.’ ”

  A hand appeared from the side of the door, holding—wait for it—a box of chocolates. Berkeley stepped into the room, followed by Delicia, clenching a handful of “Get Well” mylar balloons featuring Mickey Mouse. Duncan entered with a bouquet of California golden poppies, no doubt freshly—and illegally—picked from Treasure Island. Finally Raj peeked in holding a small gold-wrapped present with a red bow.

  A rush of emotion overwhelmed me and I felt my eyes sting. These people weren’t just my coworkers; they were my friends.

  Detective Melvin and Brad stepped back to make way for the new visitors. After a few minutes of answering their questions and listening to their condolences, I realized Brad and Detective Melvin had left the room.

  “You must open your gifts,” Raj said.

  Berk handed me a heart-shaped package. Inside were a dozen fancy chocolates.

  I looked at him, horrified.

  “Chocolates?” Delicia said. “Berk, what were you thinking?”

  He grinned. “They’re porcelain. Just for decoration. At your next party.”

  I laughed and thanked him.

  Delicia tied the balloons to my cast while Duncan put the flowers in an emesis basin, unable to find anything else. He plucked off a bud and stuck it between my bare toes, which tickled.

  “Thank you, guys,” I said, blinking back the tears. “This is all too sweet. I owe you all so much.”

  “Don’t worry,” Delicia said. “You’ll pay us back. By the way, the governor called again! He’s hot for you, Pres.” She clapped.

  “Great,” I said, although I didn’t feel as enthusiastic as I once had about doing an event for the governor. In fact, I’d planned to read the want ads and see if there was some other job I might be more suited for, such as mattress tester or governess.

  I unwrapped the gold paper and opened the small bejeweled box. Inside was a pink enamel pin shaped like a balloon. Printed on the balloon were the words “Killer Parties!” I guess I’d be keeping the name, no matter what I did.

  I thanked them all again and gave them bedside hugs. Then the doctor appeared and shooed everyone out so she could check me one last time.

  “You’re looking good, Ms. Parker,” Dr. Vassar said. “Do you feel up to going home or would you prefer to stay an extra day?”

  “Go home,” I said, through my sore throat. I sounded like E.T.

  “I’ll write a prescription for pain medication.” She pulled out a pad, scribbled something, ripped it off, and gave it to me. “Come by the office tomorrow so I can check you. Do you have a ride? Or shall I call you a cab?”

  “I got her, Doc,” Brad said from the doorway.

  The doctor nodded, shook my hand, and left after signing my release. A nurse appeared with a wheelchair. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to take you to your car,” she said.

  When she left, Brad said, “You ready?”

  I glanced down at my gown.

  He grabbed the bag with my clothes. After untying the balloons from my cast, he lent me a shoulder and helped me into the small bathroom.

  “I’ll go fill your scrip while you change,” he said, then closed the bathroom door.

  With my leg in a cast, I felt like a contortionist inside the little room. It took me ten minutes to dress. The doctor had cut my pant leg above the knee, saving me the trouble of having to make the alteration myself, but it still wasn’t easy getting my jeans on. After combing my hair and wiping the mascara shadows from under my eyes, I opened the bathroom door.

  Brad was waiting for me, holding the balloons. I didn’t know who looked more ridiculous—me wearing half shorts and half long pants, or him holding Mickey Mouse balloons.

  “You want these?” he asked, lifting the balloons.

  I shook my head. “Leave them for the next patient. I’ve got plenty more.”

  Brad helped me into the waiting wheelchair. He piled the chocolates and gifts on my lap; then we started out of the room. A nurse appeared and blocked his path.

  “I’ve got it,” he said.

  She tried to argue hospital policy, but when Brad flashed his PI badge, she must have mistaken it for a police badge and gave up, handing him a pair of crutches.

  As Brad wheeled me to his SUV, I had a growing sense of dread.

  “I hate SUVs,” I said, grimacing. “Especially white ones.”

  “You’re stereotyping. Not all SUVs are evil. Not all party planners are murderers.”

  “Event planner!” I snapped, and then realized I was more upset about being called a party planner than a murderer.

  Brad helped me in and buckled me up. As he started the car, I asked, “Can we stop by the office—”

  Brad held up a hand. “No. I’m taking you home.”

  I nodded, too tired to argue.

  I dozed off on the drive from San Francisco General to Treasure Island, and woke up when he turned off the engine at my carport. He carried me into my condo and helped me into bed, then made a second trip to the car for the crutches and hospital goodies.

  Heavily medicated, I fell asleep before he returned.

  The next morning, aching everywhere bu
t my hair, I rolled up, grabbed the crutches that lay on the floor nearby, and hobbled to the kitchenette for my pain meds. I was surprised to see Brad sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He was wearing the black Alcatraz T-shirt from the party. It looked great on him.

  He must have seen my startled look. “Just got here. Made you a latte.”

  I blinked. “Where did you sleep?”

  “In my SUV.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “In the driveway.”

  I dropped into a kitchen chair. The front page of the Chronicle was spread out on the table. Chloe, Mayor Green, and I had made headlines, but I didn’t feel like reading further. I folded the paper over to the want ads and scanned them.

  “Good story. Sure you don’t want to read it?” Brad said.

  “Maybe later. Right now I need drugs. Got any heroin?”

  He laughed and brought over my pain pills, along with the latte he’d made using my espresso machine. Multitalented.

  “What, no medicinal marijuana?” I swallowed the medication.

  He sat down. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Like I partied all night.”

  “Yeah, I know that feeling.” He looked down at his foot.

  Thursby was brushing against him.

  “Hey. You’re not sneezing!” I said.

  “You’re not the only one on drugs. Took some Claritin.”

  After I’d had a couple of swallows of my latte and felt my head begin to clear, I asked, “So what’s going to happen to Chloe?”

  Brad shrugged. “Trial. Sentence. She’ll probably get life for first-degree murder.”

  Too bad Alcatraz wasn’t available, I thought.

  “So your assignment for the mayor is over?” I said.

  He nodded. “Piece of cake, as they say in your business.”

  “Will you be moving out of the barracks?” I squeaked. I sounded like helium escaping from a balloon and hoped the disappointment on my face wasn’t that obvious.

  A wicked smile crossed his face. “Well, it looks like the crime scene cleaning business is about to pick up. Davin’s got another job for me.”