How to Crash a Killer Bash
Page 25
“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 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.
“Removing the sign. See the fine print at the bottom?”
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 for 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, watching TV, doing crafts and handiwork, playing cards and board games, or idly watching the others from their wheelchairs. Mother was talking animatedly to a handsome silver-haired man in a suit who sat opposite her. She touched his hand every now and then as she made her point, and she laughed flirtatiously after he spoke. Luckily I couldn’t hear what they were discussing. Sex, no doubt, knowing my mother. Mother had been something of a party queen in her day, and early-stage Alzheimer’s disease hadn’t hindered her ability to charm men. She seemed to have a new beau every few weeks.
Mother spotted me and waved; the gentleman stood up and pulled at his suit jacket with one hand, the other falling to his side.
“Presley! You’re here!” Mother reached out and pulled me down into a chair next to her. “I want you to meet Stephen Ellington! He’s new here, and we’re already great friends.”
I’ll bet, I wanted to say. Instead, I took the high road. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ellington.” I clasped his cool, papery hand with mine and shook it. One of his blue eyes squinted as he gave a half smile.
“Stephen, this is my daughter, Presley. She’s a party planner, just like her mother!”
“Event planner,” I corrected her; then by way of explanation, I began rambling. “I used to teach at the university—abnormal psychology—until I was downsized—”
Mother cut me off. “Stephen is joining us for breakfast, dear. I hope you don’t mind.”
I eyed my mother. She was up to something.
“You said you had something urgent to talk about?” I forced a cordial smile in her direction. “Wouldn’t you rather just the two of us—”
She interrupted me again. “Oh no! Stephen is the reason I wanted to see you. We have a very important matter to discuss with you—something I mentioned a few weeks ago, after your party at the museum. Remember?”
Not really, I thought. But I remembered that that party had turned out to be a disaster. “Sure,” I said as I headed for the desk in the lobby and signed us out. Stephen held the door as we made our way to the street. “That’s my car there,” I said to Stephen, pointing to my illegally parked MINI. Sizing up Stephen’s tall, lanky frame, I pressed my lips together, then said, “It’s going to be tight.”
“Dear, why don’t you let Stephen drive? Then you can sit in the backseat. You’re shorter than he is.” I’m five ten, and there was no way I was going to scrunch myself into that tiny backseat. Besides, the old guy probably didn’t have a license, and I wasn’t about to let some stranger drive my car. Granted, in spite of his age—I guessed him to be in his seventies—and a slight droop on the left side of his mouth when he smiled, his cheeks were a robust color and his eyes twinkled devilishly. I wondered why he was living at the care home.
“I have an idea,” I said. “Let’s walk. Mel’s Drive-In serves breakfast, and it’s only a few blocks away.”
Mother looked at Stephen, and he nodded.
“Let me move my car so it doesn’t get towed,” I said.
Mother and Stephen chatted in front of the building while I drove up the street in search of a legal parking place. I managed to squeeze in between a Smart Car and a VW bug; then I locked the car and headed down the hill. Stephen was just closing his cell phone as I approached.
“Shall we?” I said, leading the way to the drive-in turned chain diner. The fifties decor, popular with tourists, featured wall-mounted push-button mini-jukeboxes that I’d loved as a kid. Mother came for the freshly squeezed orange juice, the silver-dollar pancakes, and the crispy bacon. Why the woman didn’t have high cholesterol was a mystery to me.
We nestled into a cozy padded booth, me on one side, Mother and her “date” on the other. I ordered a blueberry muffin and strawberries and passed on the coffee—no lattes at Mel’s. Mother gave her usual order and Stephen had a three-egg omelet called Herb Caen’s Favorite—ham and cheese—and black coffee.
Silence settled over the three of us for a brief moment after the waitress left. It didn’t last long, not with my mother. She placed a hand on Stephen’s hand, which rested on the table, and looked at me. “So, Presley, we have a job for you! Remember when I mentioned I’d met someone at the center and his son was interested in having a big party?”
Ever since I’d started Killer Parties, my mother had been booking me for parties at the care center. I’d already hosted a Red Hat Party and a Hot Flash Fiesta for her lady friends, but I had put her off when she suggested a Mardi Gras Mixer. Knowing Mother, I had a feeling there would be boob-flashing beads involved.
“Not really?” I said truthfully. “Things were kind of a blur after that party.”
“Well, Stephen’s son, Jonathan, is president of his own computer company, and he’s about to announce an amazing new product. Stephen wants to help Jon promote it by organizing a party for him. Apparently the product is something that could revolutionize the movie business, so the guests would include a bunch of special-effects bigwigs like George Lucas, Phil Tippett, and that guy from CeeGee Studios.”
“Oh yes,” Stephen said, glancing at my mother, his eyes sparkling. “In fact, he’s looking forward to meeting you.”
I blinked. This party sounded like it had started without me.
Mother’s red-lipsticked smile went into overdrive. “Presley, don’t you remember? He wants a séance party!”
“A séance party . . . ,” I repeated. Suddenly it was all coming back to me.
“Yes! And he wants to hold it at the Winchester Mystery House!”
Oh God, I thought, feeling a chill run down my back. I thought I’d dreamed that part. I’d visited the hundred-plus-roomed house on a Scouting trip when I was in sixth grade. The mansion, built by Sarah Winchester to appease spirits she suspected of haunting her, was filled with secret passageways, winding hallways, stairs that went nowhere, and rampant ghost sightings. It had scared the crap out of me back then. “I remember,” I said, “but why there?”
Mother glanced at Stephen; they both looked like giddy teenagers. “Because Jonathan wants to bring Sarah Winchester back from the dead!”
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How to Host a Killer Party A Party-Planning Mystery
Penny Warner
Presley Parker was just happy to get her party planning business off the ground. Now she’s gotten the gig of the year, planning Mayor Davin Green’s sumptuous “surprise” wedding for his socialite fiancée, to be held on Alcatraz.
But when the bride is found floating in the bay and the original party planner is found murdered, Presley becomes the prime suspect. If the attractive crime scene cleaner, Brad Matthews, doesn’t help her tidy her reputation, she’ll be exchanging her formal wear for prison stripes...
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