by Penny Warner
If I didn’t pull this thing off, I’d be the first to commit career suicide.
My iPhone—a luxury I refused to give up—chirped, jolting me out of my thoughts of danger, detention, and death. Missed call, the screen read.
“Service is really spotty here,” Delicia said, checking her pink rhinestone-enhanced cell phone.
I nodded, then thumbed to the voice mail screen and found three messages waiting for me. The first was from my mother: “Pres, please call me! It’s urgent!” Even though she was safely in a care facility, to my mother, every call these days was “urgent.”
The second was from Chloe Webster, the mayor’s admin. “Presley? We have a serious situation. Call me ASAP.” And with Chloe, there was always a “serious situation.” I felt for her. She was seriously overworked and no doubt underpaid, but she seemed to thrive in her status as assistant to the mayor. She’d been instrumental in getting me hired for this gig.
I saved the messages, mentally promising to return the calls—if I could find a pocket of service—as soon as I finished the more pressing matter of decorating the cellblock.
I went on to the third message.
“Presley Parker? This is Detective Luke Melvin from the San Francisco Police Department, Homicide. Would you please return my call at your earliest convenience?”
A homicide detective?
Holy shit.
Chapter 2
PARTY PLANNING TIP #2:
Like MacGyver, a good event planner can fix just about any party mishap with a toothpick, duct tape, or some crepe paper.
My first thought was: What would a San Francisco homicide detective want with me? This wasn’t about all those unpaid parking tickets, was it?
My second thought was: What had Mother done now? The last time the cops had called, she’d escaped from her care home and was found posing as a statue at the Museum of Modern Art. A nude statue. Things like that had happened more than once recently.
Shaking off other possibilities, my staff and I loaded into a small tram driven by a park ranger and headed up the zigzagging path toward Cellblock B, remaining party gear in hand. We were actually a ragtag bunch of entrepreneurs, all renting office space in an old military building not far from my condo on Treasure Island. The rumor that I’d be hosting a party for the mayor quickly spread through the building like a virus, and within the hour I’d hired TV chef Rocco Ghirenghelli as my caterer, filmmaker Berkeley Wong as videographer, and security guard Raj Reddy for added safety, in addition to Delicia, who pretty much did whatever I asked. Luckily they came cheap. Like me, they needed the money.
The ride up the steep hill was mostly quiet, all of us awestruck by the eerie surroundings. Delicia gazed wide-eyed at the cellblock as it came into view. Rocco sat stiffly, balancing on his lap several pink boxes of puff pastries and chocolates that he’d whipped up last night. Berkeley fiddled with the video camera perched on his shoulder. And Raj kept rubbing his shiny badge with a handkerchief as if it had magical powers.
The tram pulled up to the front of the cellblock with a jerk, and we unloaded our gear. I took a moment to scan the fog-enshrouded city skyline, but could barely make out Coit Tower through the thick covering. I headed inside to the main hallway, oddly named Broadway, that was flanked on either side by aging jail cells. The hall, wide enough to fit all the expected guests comfortably, would be the main party room. Delicia began unloading jail-themed decorations she’d helped me put finishing touches on last night—prisoner-style tin cups, brass jailhouse keys, striped uniforms and caps, and “Wanted” posters, each personalized for the invited guests.
Berkeley Wong, video camera still perched on his shoulder like a big black bird, began taping—and narrating—our setup efforts. “The Killer Party task force arrives at the infamous prison . . . ,” came his overly dramatic voice. “The highly trained team is about to give the penal institution an extreme makeover and turn the ghostly cellblock into a gala celebration. ‘Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.’ ”
Berkeley looked stylishly gay with his hedgehog hair, how-low-waist-can-you-go jeans, a long-sleeved “Hellboy—Visual Effects Crew” T-shirt, and red Chuck Taylor All Stars. I hoped to use his behind-the-scenes look at the mayor’s nuptials on YouTube as a marketing tool for my business. Berk apparently had a different vision; he saw it as his ticket into commercial work at CeeGee film studio, also located on Treasure Island. Berk was always “on”; I’d have diagnosed him as a mild manic. Since I was a former ab-psych instructor, diagnosing everyone I knew was an occupational hazard.
“The wedding,” he continued, using his Don Pardo voice from Saturday Night Live, “hosted by perky party planner Presley Parker—”
“Event coordinator!” I yelled at the camera. “And don’t call me perky.”
“Whatever,” Berk hissed, then continued, gangster style, just to irritate me. “Da nuptials’ll take place widdin da walls of notorious Cellblock B, and feachah a festive ball ’n’ chain theme.”
I glared at him as I set the shanklike knives on the buffet table. Berk gave me a sassy smile, then panned the inside of the monolithic cement structure, which was slowly deteriorating thanks to the corrosive effects of time, neglect, and salt air.
“ ‘What. A. Dump!’ ” he said, summing up the place with a line by Bette Davis. He was always tossing out famous movie quotes, hoping to beat me at Name That Film.
Not in the mood to play games, I ignored him as I surveyed the main hallway for places to hang the “Wanted” signs. The cement walls, covered in peeling pink paint, seemed to close in on me, and my first thought was to look for an escape route, much like the prisoners must have done the first time they shuffled down this infamous hall. I had a feeling I might need one if the party was a total disaster. The dull, thick bars, scarred by decades of angry or bored inmates, gave me a chill that ran down my spine to my cold toes. Or was it cold feet?
“Oh shit!” Rocco Ghirenghelli called from the cellblock dining area, distracting me from my claustrophobia. I headed down to the large mess hall where Rocco was preparing the food. Tall and pale, with a shaved head that disguised his receding hairline, he stood Birkenstock-sandal-footed in his once-white chef’s coat and pants, staring into a large pastry box as if it were Al Capone’s open crypt.
“What’s up, Rocco?” I asked, eyeing the perfect handcuffs and Maltese Falcons he’d formed out of chocolate. Tempted, I wondered whether he’d miss just one. . . .
“My balls are getting soft!”
He looked tired, judging by the suitcases under his eyes. No wonder. He’d pulled an all-nighter sculpting the impressive wedding cake, a giant ball and chain masterpiece covered in silver icing. Rocco dreamed of turning his culinary skills into national Food Network television, but so far he’d managed only to snag a weekly gig on a local cable show, KBAY Café. A master at “chocolate art,” he’d designed and created dozens of chocolate treats for tonight’s party. If I hadn’t known better, I would have recommended Prozac for his chronic depression.
I glanced down at the crab-filled pastry puffs he’d prepared the previous night. They looked more like pancakes, deflated thanks to the salt air. I picked up a party toothpick that sported a tiny skull-and-crossbones flag and stuck it into one of the mouth-sized morsels. “There. No one will ever notice your flat balls.”
Berkeley giggled. “I’ll have what he’s having,” he said, misquoting When Harry Met Sally. I threw a needle-sharp toothpick at him. Missed.
“I’m loving this!” Raj Reddy said, suddenly appearing behind me. He stood grinning at the interior of the cellblock. Glancing at me, he snapped to attention and saluted. “Where are you wanting me, boss?”
A wannabe cop, the Treasure Island security guard looked official in his perfectly pressed khaki uniform and shiny black military-style shoes. Definitely had a touch of OCD—obsessive-compulsive disorder. Raj had been an attorney in India a decade ago, but when he’d emigrated to the United States, his degree was not honored. In his
mid-fifties, he felt he was too old to start over at the university, and went into security work. He seemed to love his job as head security guard on Treasure Island, where most of the crimes tended to be minor break-ins, petty vandalism, or public drunkenness. He especially relished the task of detouring tourists and paparazzi away from the CeeGee film studio, which was disguised in an old Pan Am hangar on the island.
At the moment, he looked prepared to take any and all prisoners, if Alcatraz happened to be missing some. I’d hired Raj for extra crowd control, and to make sure the latest special-interest demonstrators didn’t seize the prison and interrupt the ceremony for their own political agendas. Back in the late sixties, American Indian tribes had held Alcatraz hostage for more than a year and a half. With tonight’s well-publicized event hosted by our popular but controversial mayor, a demonstration was almost a given.
That would be the icing on the cake.
“How about blowing up some of those black and silver balloons with the helium tank?” I said to him, then turned to the others.
Delicia raised her hand as if she were in school. “Can I help greet the guests when they arrive? I think they’ll love my costume!” Dee definitely had a touch of narcissism.
“Sure,” I said to her, “but meanwhile would you set out the ball-and-chain centerpieces? And Berk, when you’re done shooting the ‘making of’ video for MTV, would you hang those mug shots of the guests?”
Raj saluted, Delicia clapped, and Berk stuck out his tongue at me.
In spite of the pressure, I was starting to feel good about my first big event. Having ADHD helped—it gave me plenty of energy and helped me multitask—as long as I kept it under control with gallons of caffeine. I’d discovered in high school that coffee, instead of stimulating me like it did other kids, calmed me down and helped me focus. No more Ritalin for me.
It was seven forty-five p.m. by the time we turned on the sweeping searchlights, stationed the uniformed “guard” cutouts, and switched on Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues.” Everything that could go wrong had—popped balloons, burned-out lightbulbs, missing chocolates—but Broadway looked like a scene from Escape from Alcatraz when we finished, with stuffed “prisoners” lying in their cots, fake guns poking out from the upstairs guard walk, and jail cell keys dangling from the bars. The chill from the unheated room only added to the authenticity. The setting would have impressed even a hardened ex-con like Martha Stewart.
I inhaled a deep relaxation breath, filling my lungs with the aroma of fresh crab balls mixed with salt air. As I exhaled, I mentally went over the party logistics one more time. This wedding had to be perfect. Not an easy task considering the gloomy location, the ridiculous theme, and the fact that it was a “surprise” for the bride.
Its only redeeming value was the mayor’s pledge to donate most of the proceeds to the Alzheimer’s Association. This was probably the only wedding in history where the guests paid to attend. But it was all part of the ruse to fool Ikea, the bride-to-be. Not an easy task, considering the woman was every bit as smart and savvy—and ambitious—as her political beau. Perhaps more so.
According to local gossip, Ikea seemed to have the mayor wrapped around her little acrylic fingernail. She’d managed to get him involved in all her pet causes: Save the Painted Ladies, Clean Up the Haight-Ashbury, Beautify the City Trash Cans, and even Renovate Treasure Island. Quite the dedicated citizen. Of course, if she got her way with TI, I’d soon be out of an office—and a home. Again.
I checked my cell phone clock for the umpteenth time. The hours had passed much too quickly. If everything went according to plan, the guests would arrive any minute, followed by Mayor Green and his unsuspecting fiancée of six months.
Time to panic.
“All right, everyone,” I called out. “Get into your costumes. We’re about to get this party started.”
As my crew headed for the public restrooms just outside the cellblock, costumes in hand, I checked my phone again to see if there were more messages. There were half a dozen new calls from the mayor’s office, three more from my mother, and another from SFPD, along with a no service warning across the screen. I stepped outside the cellblock to try to find service, then listened to the message from the police department.
“Presley Parker? This is Detective Luke Melvin from the San Francisco Police Department again. Please return my call as soon as possible.”
Shit. I was sure it had something to do with my mother. What else could it be?
I hiked a few feet away from the cellblock, pressed CALL BACK, and waited for an answer. I felt my underarms prickle at the deep sound of a man’s voice.
“Detect—Mel—” Static.
I could barely hear him and spun around, trying to catch sound waves—or whatever they were. “Uh . . . yes, this is Presley Parker. I believe you called me? Is this about my mother?”
“No, ma’am. I’m calling—another ma—You know—woman named—Drea?”
“What?” I pressed my hand over my other ear. “I’m sorry . . . you’re breaking up. I can hardly hear you. What did you say?”
“I said—know—An—”
“Sorry—and what?”
“—drea Sax,” he said loudly through the crackle.
“No, I . . . wait. You mean Andi Sax. Yes . . . I mean no, that is, not really. Why?”
I wondered what the infamous Party Queen was up to now. Was she jealous I’d gotten the mayor’s wedding? Was she trying to sabotage my first big event?
“I—come down—station—a couple of ques—you.”
Squinting as if that would help me hear better and twirling around like a whirling dervish trying to capture phone rays, I shouted, “What? I can’t hear you.”
He repeated most of the words and I filled in the blanks: “Come down to the station. I have a couple of questions to ask you.”
“Uh . . . I can’t right now. I’m in the middle of something. What’s this all about?”
Silence.
I thought for a moment I’d lost the connection. Then his voice came back on the line, and for once—and unfortunately—I heard him loud and clear.
“Andrea Sax was found dead early this morning.”
Chapter 3
PARTY PLANNING TIP #3:
Don’t drink alcohol while hosting an event.
Especially when the police want to question you about a murder.
Whoa. I didn’t even know the woman, and I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. The blood in my head rushed to my feet and I had to squat to keep from falling over.
“Ms. Parker?” I heard a tinny voice from my phone. I brought the phone back to my ear.
“Ms. Parker? Are you there? Ms. Parker?”
“Dead?” I whispered. Then I got my voice back. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m afraid not. I need you to come down—”
“What happened?” I said, interrupting him. I stood up slowly, using the side of the building for support.
“We’re not—” Static. Then, “According to her BlackBerry calendar—your—last scheduled—”
“What?” I rasped, struggling to find my voice again.
“Ms. Parker, I need you to come by the station—answer a few questions,” Detective Melvin said, ignoring my question.
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “I told you, I can’t right now. I’m . . . hosting a wedding . . . a fund-raiser. . . .”
“I’m going to have to send an—” More static.
Before he could say more, I added, “For Mayor Green . . . It’s his surprise wed—er, big fund-raiser. I’m sure you’ve heard about it—for Alzheimer’s.”
Another moment of silence. I thought I had lost him for good, but his voice came on the line, less insistent. “Tomorrow morn—nine sharp—”
The line went dead.
Dead.
Just like Andi Sax. Dead. How was that possible?
Unable to wrap my mind around this stunning blow, I tried
to pull my thoughts together and focus—not easy for someone with ADHD. A homicide detective wanted to question me. What had he said . . . that my name was in her calendar? Why? I could easily imagine Andi Sax sticking pins in a voodoo doll with my image, what with my getting the mayor’s job. But why would I be her last scheduled appointment? I’d had no plans to meet with Andi Sax. Ever.
Zombielike, I stood holding the dead phone, trying to absorb the news.
“Pres? Presley? You okay?”
I looked at my phone, thinking the detective had come back on the line, then realized it was Delicia, standing beside me. I whirled around and saw her frowning. Blinking myself back to the task at hand, I headed for the cellblock, with Delicia trailing behind me, pelting me with questions.
“Did you get the phone to work? Who were you talking to? Are you all right?”
Ignoring her and forcing thoughts of the detective’s call aside, I began my own series of questions. “Where’s the champagne? Are the appetizers ready? Why can’t I hear the music?”
Focus, Pres, focus, I said to myself, repeating my mantra. You have a wedding to host, not a funeral. Let’s get this party started.
Delicia pointed to a three-foot metal sculpture, supposed to be a mini-guard tower, sitting on a table covered with a black-and-white striped cloth. It looked more like an oil rig, with champagne bubbling up through the middle and spilling over the sides into a crystal bowl. “There’s more champagne hidden under the tablecloth,” Dee explained. “The appetizers are all arranged on metal prison trays and ready to be set out with the arrival of the first guests. The deejay is taking a smoking break but he’ll be back. And the place looks amazing!” She caught my glassy stare and raised a well-plucked eyebrow. “Pres, are you sure you’re—”
I blinked, then darted over to the champagne table, ducked under the table skirt, and pulled out a bottle. Aside from the occasional glass of white wine, I wasn’t much of a drinker. My mom’s fourth husband had died as a result of alcoholism. But seconds later I held a full glass—and gulped half of it down.