by Penny Warner
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
How to Host a Killer Séance Party
Teaser chapter
Praise for Penny Warner’s Party-Planning Mysteries
How to Crash a Killer Bash
“The Killer Party series is delightful!”
—Meritorious Mysteries
“Presley Parker is a protagonist that readers can’t help but like. She’s been down on her luck but lands on her feet when she comes up with the idea for an event planning business. For a mystery series, it’s a near perfect occupation.”
—MysteriesGalore.com
“This book combines humor with mystery and makes a wonderful tale taking place at the de Young Museum in San Francisco. This is a party that you don’t want to miss.”
—Once Upon A Romance Reviews
“Penny Warner has created a wonderful heroine in perilous Presley Parker. . . . With plenty of action on her investigation and several poignant moments, readers will enjoy the perils of Presley Parker.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“The second Party-Planner mystery is a delightful whodunit due to a strong lead and the eccentric cast who bring a flavor of San Francisco to life.”
—The Best Reviews
“Plenty of motives and suspects . . . a cast of lively characters.”
—Gumshoe
How to Host a Killer Party
“Penny Warner’s scintillating How to Host a Killer Party introduces an appealing heroine whose event skills include utilizing party favors in self-defense in a fun, fast-paced new series guaranteed to please.”
—Carolyn Hart, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity
award-winning author of Laughed ’Til He Died
“A party you don’t want to miss.”
—Denise Swanson, national bestselling author of
Murder of a Bookstore Babe
“Penny Warner dishes up a rare treat, sparkling with wicked and witty San Francisco characters, plus some real tips on hosting a killer party.”
—Rhys Bowen, award-winning author of the Royal
Spyness and Molly Murphy mysteries
“There’s a cozy little party going on between these covers.”
—Elaine Viets, author of the Dead-End Job mysteries
“Fast, fun, and fizzy as a champagne cocktail! The winning and witty Presley Parker can plan a perfect party—but after her A-list event becomes an invitation to murder, her next plan must be to save her own life.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha Award-winning author
of Drive Time
“The book dishes up a banquet of mayhem.”
—Oakland Tribune (CA)
“These days some of the hottest crime fiction revolves around caterers and chefs. The latest author to venture into culinary mystery territory is Danville’s Penny Warner, whose Bay Area hero—party planner Presley Parker—runs into homicidal high jinks all over the Bay Area, starting with an Alcatraz wedding gone awry.”
—Contra Costa Times
“With a promising progression of peculiar plots, and a plethora of party-planning pointers, How to Host a Killer Party looks to be a pleasant prospect for cozy mystery lovers.”—Fresh Fiction
“Warner keeps the reader guessing.”—Gumshoe
“Delightful, filled with suspense, mystery, and romance.”
—Reader to Reader Reviews
“Grab this book.... It will leave you in stitches.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“Frantic pace, interesting characters.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise for Penny Warner’s
Cannor Westphal Mystery Series
Dead Body Language
“Delicious, with a fun, irreverent protagonist.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A sprightly, full-fledged heroine, small-town conniptions, frequent humor, and clever plotting.”
—Library Journal
“The novel is enlivened by some nice twists, an unexpected villain, a harrowing mortuary scene, its Gold Country locale, and fascinating perspective on a little-known subculture.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“What a great addition to the ranks of amateur sleuths.”
—Diane Mott Davidson, New York Times bestselling
author of Fatally Flaky
The Party-Planning Mystery Series
How to Host a Killer Party How to Crash a Killer Bash
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, March 2011
eISBN : 978-1-101-47741-0
Copyright © Penny Warner, 2011 All rights reserved
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To Mom and Dad, Tom, Matthew, and Rebecca—I couldn’t party without you.
To Bradley and Stephanie Warner, and Luke and Lyla Melvin—the party has just begun.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to everyone who helped me, inspired me, supported me, informed me, and entertained me: Colleen Casey, Janet Finsilver, Staci McLaughlin, Mike Melvin, Ann Parker, Carole Price, Susan Warner, the mysterious “Lady Killers,” the informative staff at the Winchester Mystery House, and my tireless Webmaster, Geoff Pike.
A special thanks to my wonderful agents, Andrea Hurst and Amberly Finarelli, and my outstanding editor, Sandy Harding.
“Nothing is more irritating than not being invited to a party you wouldn’t be seen dead at.”
—William E. (Bill) Vaughan
Chapter 1
PARTY PLANNING TIP #1
When hosting a Séance Party, be sure to contact an agreeable spirit who’s willing to communicate with you. There’s nothing more frustrating than a tight-lipped ghost who only mumbles, grunts, or rattles chains.
CONDEMNED!
I stared at the orange notice that had recently been posted on the front door of my office barracks on Treasure Island and skimmed the printed words.
“City of San Francisco . . . Barracks B . . . hereby condemned . . . dilapidated and unsafe, due to contamination with asbestos, plutonium, radium, and other substances . . . vacated by the end of the week . . .”
I glanced around, looking for the jokester who had graffitied my place of business. Spotting no one, I ripped the bright orange paper from its staples and got out my key.
That was when I noticed the padlock.
“You’re freaking kidding me,” I yelled into the early-morning breeze that swept across the man-made island—once home to the 1938-39 Golden Gate International Exposition, the Pan Am Flying Clipper Ships, and the U.S. Navy—anchored in the San Francisco Bay. Decades later, when the navy abandoned the island, they left behind crumbling barracks, empty hangars, and toxic soil. But a few of the fair’s Art Deco buildings remained, along with breathtaking panoramic views of the city, and low-rent housing that suited my budget perfectly. Apparently my yell had frightened a low-flying seagull passing overhead; he dropped a load of chalky white poop at my feet, narrowly missing my red Mary Janes.
Where was a crime scene cleaner when you needed one?
Or a breaking-and-entering expert, for that matter.
I heard the screech of tires and spun around. Speak of the devil. Brad Matthews had just pulled up in his SUV. Brad and I had officially met when he’d moved into an empty office in the barracks building. At the time, I’d thought he was a burglar, and he’d suspected me of being under the influence of alcohol. Since that auspicious beginning, we’d become . . . friends. He saw me standing on the porch and waved. I waved the orange placard at him.
He sauntered over, looking incredible in his black leather jacket and black T-shirt with the red embroidered Crime Scene Cleaners logo and catchphrase—“Our day begins when yours ends.” His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his well-worn jeans and there were no bloodstains on his New Balance Zips. I wished I looked as good in the white “Easily Distracted by Shiny Objects” T-shirt and jeans I was wearing. Of course, he looked even better without anything on. Okay, so we’d become more than “just friends.” But I wasn’t ready to call him my “boyfriend” yet.
“Someone pop your balloon this morning?” he asked, obviously noticing my scowl.
I handed over the sign I’d snagged from the barracks door.
As he read it, his smile drooped.
“You’re freaking kidding me,” he said, only he didn’t use the word “freaking.”
“That’s what I said. How are we supposed to get inside? All my stuff is in there.”
Brad gave the notice back to me and sighed. “Well, I’m not too surprised. These barracks should have been condemned a long time ago. They’re falling apart—that’s why they’re so cheap to rent. And they light up like a month-old Christmas tree when there’s a match within a mile of the place. Remember that fire we had in the old building?”
How could I forget? I had almost been trapped in it. “But the low rent is the reason I took this place. Where am I going to go now? My Killer Party business isn’t exactly turning a profit yet.”
“I hear there are a few openings in Building One.” Brad glanced in the direction of the Administration Building, also known as Building One. The curved Streamline Moderne- style Art Deco building, erected for the Golden Gate Exposition of 1939, was one of a handful of original structures remaining on the island. Intended as an airport terminal, the building now housed a number of eclectic small businesses, including the Treasure Island Museum, Treasure Island Wines, and the Treasure Island Development Authority.
“I can’t afford the rent there! And besides, how is that place any safer? One big earthquake, and the ground beneath it will liquefy like Jell-O. The whole island is built on landfill, and none of the old buildings was constructed to handle a major jolt.”
“That might be a good negotiating point,” Brad said. He was taking this condemnation awfully well. “Plus, I know one of the administrators—Marianne Mitchell. Considering the circumstances, she’ll probably give us a deal.”
I checked my watch. “Meanwhile, I can’t get to my stuff, and I’m late to meet my mother for breakfast. She called this morning saying she had something ‘urgent’ to talk about.”
“She all right?” Brad asked. He and my mother seemed to have hit it off immediately when they’d first met. I think they talked about me behind my back.
“I hope so. She wouldn’t say more. But if she sees something she wants on the shopping network or doesn’t like the dessert they’re serving at the care center, she calls that ‘urgent.’ ”
“Do you need anything from your office right now?”
“I guess not, but I will soon. And so will Delicia and Berk and Raj and Rocco . . .” I listed the other corenters, who ran their own small businesses and shared the barracks building with me. They often picked up extra cash by helping me out with some of my bigger events. Dee dressed up in theme-fitting costumes, Berk videotaped the parties, Raj provided extra security when I needed it, and Rocco served as my caterer.
“I’ll get ahold of the housing inspector and see what I can do about getting our stuff. And I’ll talk to Marianne. I’m sure she’ll give us a deal you can afford. Besides, I thought you were doing well in your party planning business lately—”
“Event planning,” I said, correcting him.
He grinned at my insistence on calling my new career “event planning.” I thought it sounded a little less frivolous, especially with a name like Killer Parties.
“Whatever. You must have made some heavy change with that last event you hosted at the museum.”
It was true. I’d recently had some high-paying jobs—the mayor’s interrupted wedding, the de Young Museum mystery party. Unfortunately, both events had become victims of party fouls, which had not only been traumatic for everybody involved, but had nearly cost me my life in both cases. Still, in spite of the sensational headlines in the San Francisco Chronicle, people continued to call me for their parties. Apparently, guests like a little drama with their bubbly and balloons.
“I have to run,” I said to Brad, who already had his cell phone out, ready to call the powers that condemn buildings. “If you get inside, will you let me know? I’ve got half a dozen requests for events that I have to answer. I’m going to need them to pay my ever-increasing bills.”
Brad said, “Hold on,” to the person on the other end of the phone, then covered the mouthpiece and nodded toward the paper in my hand. “That’s a misdemeanor, you know,” he whispered.
“What?” I asked.
Penalty for removal:
$700.00 and/or 90 days in jail.
I wadded up the stiff paper and threw it at him, snowball-style. Missed by a mile.
“And that’s littering,” he called out as I headed for my car. “A hundred-dollar fine and a week of roadside cleanup!”
Ignoring him, I hopped into my red MINI Cooper. When I looked back, Brad was at the barracks door, holding the padlock in his hands. Knowing him, I was sure he wouldn’t wait for any official to unlock the building. He’d MacGyver it open himself.
I drove along Avenue of the Palms, up Macalla to the Bay Bridge entrance. It was getting tougher to merge onto the bridge these days, thanks to generally increased traffic and bridge retrofitting. Finally I was able to squeeze in front of a slow-moving truck. I plugged earphones into my iPhone and listened to songs from my mother’s day—Frankie Valli, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, and of course Elvis Presley. Thanks to her, I loved the music of the fifties. By the end of “The Great Pretender” by the Platters, I had arrived in front of the assisted-living facility off Van Ness where my mother currently resided. I parked the MINI in the loading zone and headed for the front door.
Using my passkey, I entered the building and found my mother waiting for me in an upright wing chair by the fireplace. She’d dressed more for a tea party than breakfast, in a coral sweater set and a floral skirt. Still somewhat old-school San Francisco, she never went anywhere without her hair and makeup done. At least she didn’t insist on wearing gloves and a hat, like her mother had.
A handful of other residents sat around the “social room” at tables or in groups, many in wheelchairs, doing crafts and handiwork, playing cards and board games, or idly watching a morning newscast on TV. I glanced at the screen and saw a head shot of an older man, with a caption underneath that read: “Computer whiz found dead in his office.” I couldn’t hear the details, but the man looked slightly familiar to me.
