How to Host a Killer Party

by Penny Warner

  “Presley!” Delicia said. I turned around. She had attracted the attention of Rocco, Berkeley, and Raj, who stood in various areas of the room gaping at me as if I’d swallowed poison.

  “It’s only wine,” I said, then waved them off, finishing the last drop with a lick of my lips. “I’m . . . fine. Really. Just a little pre-party pick-me-up.”

  Hold it together, Pres, I told myself. It’s almost party time. No one needs to know anything about Andi Sax—at least, not until after the wedding. Still feeling a little unsteady, I poured myself another glass.

  Delicia tore her gaze from me to check her watch; then she clapped her hands like a cheerleader. “Okay, people, the guests will be arriving any second! Make sure you’re in your costumes and ready to greet them!”

  Dee’s up-with-people voice brought me out of my near coma. I nodded to let her know I was back. Slightly tipsy, but back. And I had a new tip to add to my mother’s How to Host a Killer Party book regarding “Hosting While Under the Influence: Probably Not a Good Idea.”

  “Rocco, set out the crab balls and chocolate Maltese Falcons,” I directed. “Berk, videotape a sweep of the party room before it fills up with wannabe criminals and crime solvers. Raj, take a last look around and make sure Alcatraz hasn’t been invaded by party crashers.”

  I ducked outside, into one of the public restrooms, and changed into a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a navy blazer sporting a cameo brooch, a plaid midcalf skirt, bobby socks, and penny loafers. Pulling out a large magnifying glass I’d brought as a prop, I leaned into the mirror to check my makeup. Still pale from the news, I added more blush, then stuffed the magnifier into my jacket pocket. I covered my flat, iced hair with a tan cloche hat and headed out as my new persona: Nancy Drew, Girl Detective.

  As soon as I stepped out of the restroom, I collided with Inspector Clouseau. His mustache went flying.

  “Whoops! Sorry, Raj.” The security guard nodded and shook his head simultaneously as he felt his chest for the wayward ’stache. “Great costume,” I added, plucking the strip of fake fur from its landing spot on his trench coat lapel.

  “This effing mustache keeps falling off. You got any stickum?”

  I dug in my purse and pulled out a roll of double-sided tape. As an event planner, I’m always packing: duct tape, glue, scissors, string, stapler, whatnot. All tools of my new trade. Nancy Drew would be proud.

  Raj scanned my costume as he replaced his mustache. “And who are you being?”

  I held up my magnifying glass and peered at him, no doubt with an alcohol-induced bloodshot eye.

  “Oh, yes, yes. Miss Marple.” He grinned and his mustache fell off again.

  “No, not Miss Marple. Nancy Drew!”

  He frowned. An eyebrow fell off. The “inspector” was coming apart at the seams.

  Delicia twirled in, dressed in a trench coat, pillbox hat, and chunky black heels. “How do I look?” she said, waving a slim reporter’s notebook for effect.

  “Lois Lane! That’s so cool,” I said. Standing next to each other, me at five ten and Delicia at five feet, we must have been a sight: Amazon Girl Detective and Intrepid Mini-Reporter. We all headed inside.

  And froze.

  Rocco, wearing a leather butcher apron over his chef whites, held a raised hatchet in his hand. One of his fingers was missing, leaving a bloody stump. A mask and a chain saw lay on the table beside him.

  Everything was covered in blood.

  Before I could scream “Call 911!” Delicia squealed, “Texas Chainsaw Massacre! I loved that movie!” She picked up the chain saw. It was real. What I now realized was red food coloring dripped from the blade. “Do you actually use this thing for slicing and dicing?”

  Rocco grinned.

  A familiar narrative voice began spouting behind me. “Here she is now, party planner Presley Parker, appearing as her alter ego, Nancy Drew, Valley Girl Detective. Are you ready to solve the Mystery of the Mysterious Marriage, Ms. Drew? Or are you just looking over the crime scene? ’Tis a mystery.”

  I turned to Berk, not in the mood to play the movie game, and gasped again. My videographer now sported a red-stained bridal gown, torn and tattered, with a ragged veil, and white satin stilettos splattered with more red food coloring. At least, I hoped it was food coloring.

  I grimaced. “Oh my God, Berk! This isn’t a horror movie theme—it’s crime. Don’t you know your genres? Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”

  “ ‘Wanna play?’ ” he said, grinning like a crazed doll.

  “Not The Bride of Chucky?” I said, aghast at his choice. Before I could challenge his questionable taste, Raj rushed into the room, his mustache dangling from one side of his upper lip.

  “They’re coming. They’re coming!”

  “ ‘They’re heeerrre ...,’ ” Berk added, quoting from Poltergeist .

  I scanned the cellblock one last time. Incredibly, we’d managed to turn a depressing, decaying prison into a killer party scene, complete with Pose with the Prisoner photo ops. I took another gulp of champagne. “Okay, guys, let’s put on a show!”

  Delicia, Raj, Berk, and I rode the tram down the dimly lit concrete path to the boat dock. The first guests were just stepping off the ferry. My fingers tingled, either from excitement or terror—or both. My mother was right—putting on a party was a lot more work than it looked. And this one had to be perfect.

  As instructed, partygoers were costumed as popular criminals or crime fighters. Delicia couldn’t keep from nudging me in the ribs and pointing out the characters she recognized. “Look! Hercule Poirot! Al Capone! Oh, there’s Lizzie Borden! . . . Is she naked under that coat? OMG—a cross-dressing Hoover from the FBI! And Miss Marple—I love her!”

  I nudged Delicia back, sharply, and hissed, “Chill!” But I had to admit, the guests had really gotten into the spirit. Even I got excited when I spotted Jack Jason, a San Francisco resident and the star of CeeGee Studio’s current top-secret movie, in production on Treasure Island. He’d come as Inspector Gadget in a trench coat and fedora topped with toy helicopter blades—one of his “gadgets.” With him was Lucas “Spaz” Cruz, the producer of the film, dressed as Sherlock Holmes, complete with deerstalker hat, cape-coat, and meerschaum pipe.

  After giving a brief welcome to Alcatraz and orientation speech, I gestured toward the waiting trams that would take the guests to Cellblock B on the Rock. Delicia remained behind for the next boatload of convicts and crusaders, while I accompanied the first group up the path to the prison party site. I eavesdropped Nancy Drew-style on their animated conversations as they tried to guess who their alter egos were.

  “Right this way, everyone,” I shouted over the din as we unloaded and entered Broadway. I indicated the champagne tower, while the deejay played “Jailhouse Rock.” As the guests headed for the drinks and appetizers, I checked my iPhone to see if Chloe had called again. She was supposed to alert me when the mayor and his fiancée had left the dock in San Francisco.

  Damn. I’d missed her latest call. Stepping outside, I pressed her number.

  “Hi, Chloe,” I said.

  “Presley! Thank God you finally called back. Didn’t you get my messages? I’ve got a major situation here.”

  Not surprising. The mayor’s administrative assistant had called me so many times in the past few days with “major situations,” I’d thought about putting her on my “Do Not Call” list, but I couldn’t afford to lose this job. Besides, the woman had enough on her plate without me avoiding her calls.

  I took another swig from my half-empty champagne glass, vaguely wondering if this was the beginning of a drinking problem. At this point, I didn’t give a damn.

  “Sorry, Chloe. Reception here is iffy. What’s up?”

  “Ikea is throwing a hissy fit, and the mayor is about to lose it. He’s threatened to cancel the whole thing!”

  Perfect. The party was dead in the water before it had begun.

  I took another swallow. “What did she do this
time?”

  “She doesn’t want to wear the Bonnie Parker costume I got her. She says it makes her look fat. The woman is anorexic, for God’s sake. And the mayor can’t get her to pick something else.”

  “Just tell her she can wear whatever she wants—she’ll look beautiful. And tell Mayor Green the guests are having a great time, thanks to the champagne. This event is going to top the governor’s ‘Term-inated!’ Ball that Andi hosted last summer.”

  Shit. I’d managed to put Andi out of my mind for the last half hour. Now she was back. Haunting me.

  “Okay, but you know how she is, Presley. I just hope she doesn’t ruin everything. The mayor would love to get out from under the governor’s shadow and this party could really do it.”

  He’d love to take the governor’s place someday too, I thought.

  “Thanks, Presley,” Chloe continued. “I’ll see you soon—I hope.”

  I ended the call, took a deep breath, and reminded myself this was all for a good cause. The money for Alzheimer’s was guaranteed by the mayor, whether or not there was a wedding.

  I returned to the cellblock and circulated, making sure the costumed crowd was noshing, drinking, mingling, and generally having a good time. Nick and Nora were chatting with Eliot Ness, Dick Tracy seemed to be entertaining a small group of attractive women—one in a Wonder Woman outfit—and Jessica Fletcher stood admiring her “Wanted” poster with a giant magnifying glass. The only ones out of place were a thirtysomething man dressed in a plain white jumpsuit and a twentysomething woman wearing the ever-popular trench coat. Who were they supposed to be?

  The party had warmed up considerably by the time Raj appeared at the door, waving his arms like a panicked air traffic controller. “The mayor’s boat is docking! They’re coming!” He shouted into his walkie, alerting the other guards he’d hired to help out.

  I checked my watch. Chloe still hadn’t called to tell me the mayor and Ikea were on their way. I checked my phone. Another message. Shit! Apparently she had. I tried calling her back, but the call went to voice mail.

  I took another swallow of my bottomless drink. “I swear,” I said aloud, “if anything else goes wrong, I’m going to slap the mayor, kill the bride-to-be, and take a flying leap off the pier.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the man in the white jumpsuit had sidled up beside me. How long had he been standing there? I caught a glimpse of him as he scanned the crowd, a little grin on his face. He was tall—taller than my five ten. Maybe six two or three. Well built, obviously, even covered in a jumpsuit. Thick, wavy, shoulder-length dark hair, brown eyes. A triangular soul patch that matched his dark hair. A label stitched onto the left side of the outfit read “Crime Scene Cleaners—Our Day Begins When Yours Ends.”

  Clever.

  I wondered if he’d overheard me talking to myself. Or maybe he just had a thing for Nancy Drew?

  He caught me staring at him and smiled. I glanced away, feeling my face tingle with heat. He turned to me and lifted his glass. I acknowledged him by raising mine, then drank what was left. As soon as I was done, I bolted for the door. It had been a while since I’d flirted with a good-looking guy, and now wasn’t a good time to start again.

  On the way out the door, I grabbed a bottle of champagne and two glasses for the guests of honor, cued Delicia to position the minister, then headed down to the dock via tram to greet Mayor Green and Ikea Takeda. I prayed the bubbly would soften the bride-to-be’s imminent “surprise.”

  If not, I’d empty the bottle myself.

  With a fake smile plastered on my face, I watched as the couple stepped from the ferry into the pool of light illuminating the dock. Thrusting the glasses into their hands, I said, “Welcome to the Mayor’s Ball and Chain Fund-raiser for the Alzheimer’s Association!” I could hear the false gaiety in my voice and only hoped I wasn’t slurring my words. My tongue felt like a fat dead slug.

  Mayor Green and Ikea had indeed dressed as Bonnie and Clyde, only they’d glammed up the notorious bank robbers, Hollywood style. The popular, thirty-five-year-old mayor looked even more dashing in a zoot suit, black roadster cap, and black-and-white saddle oxfords. He was beaming, most likely in anticipation of the upcoming surprise.

  Ikea appeared truly anorexic in a slinky sequined black dress, dangerously high strappy heels, and a gray beret with a diamond stickpin placed perfectly in her black shoulder-length pageboy. The outfit hung on her as if she were just a hanger. Aside from a pair of square gold earrings that dangled from her ears and a ginormous diamond on her left hand, she wore no other jewelry. No animal rights activist, she dragged a black stole over one shoulder, and clung to the mayor’s arm like a barnacle. Her public smile showed no trace of the tantrum she’d thrown earlier. When she realized there was no one to greet her but “the help,” she dropped the smile.

  “Where is everyone?” she said to the mayor.

  I stepped up. “They’re all up at the cellblock, Ms. Takeda. Waiting for you and the mayor. We’ve got a tram to take you there.”

  Ikea Takeda looked at me as if I were a prisoner rather than a party planner. She turned to the mayor again, rolled her eyes, and pulled the stole tighter around her shoulders. “God, let’s get this over with. It’s freezing here! I know, I know. It’s for a good cause—what was it again?”

  The mayor led her toward the tram.

  “Alzheimer’s,” Chloe said, following them. The mayor’s admin wore a long black dress and matching hat from the forties, and carried a black Beanie Baby bird. Even her fingernails were painted black. As Mayor Green and Ikea entered the front row of the tram, I joined Chloe in the seat behind them. She gave me a small hug and mouthed Thank you, then nodded at Ikea. If I’d had more time, I’d have guessed some form of anxiety disorder—but then, who wouldn’t have anxieties in her job?

  “I love your costume!” I whispered to Chloe.

  “Do you know who I’m supposed to be?” she whispered back, fiddling nervously with a small silver triangle that hung from around her neck.

  “Of course. It’s my favorite movie of all time,” I said. “You’re Brigid O’Shaughnessy from The Maltese Falcon. Very San Francisco.”

  As the tram wended its way up the hill, I overheard Ikea say to the mayor, “How’s my hair?” Naturally it was perfect, just like the mayor’s.

  “Fine,” he said, straining his neck to see up the hill.

  She shook her head. “You didn’t even look!”

  Mayor Green turned to Ikea, put an arm around her, and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.”

  “Well, it won’t last if this fog keeps up. That cellblock better be heated.”

  I thought I saw a flash of irritation cross the mayor’s brow before he turned away. Moments later the tram pulled up in front of the cellblock. I hopped out, while Mayor Green helped Ikea from her seat. I made a sweeping gesture toward the large double-door entrance. The mayor took the cue, stepped forward, and pulled open one of the heavy doors, ushering Ikea inside. Chloe winked at me, I crossed my fingers, and we both followed them in.

  As Ikea entered, she smiled at the large but suddenly quiet group gathered in a semicircle in the cellblock hallway.

  “Well,” Ikea said, seemingly pleased at the turnout, “on behalf of the mayor and myself, we want to thank you all for coming tonight and helping with a great cause, uh . . .”

  She paused and looked at the mayor for a moment, who quickly spoke up.

  “The Alzheimer’s Association.”

  Ikea nodded and flashed her artificially whitened smile at the group. Several people in the crowd whispered to each other and giggled.

  Ikea turned to Mayor Green, looking puzzled. Looping her arm through his, I heard her whisper, “Darling? What’s . . .”

  She left the question unfinished as the mayor grinned at her in gleeful anticipation. He raised his champagne glass and the smiling crowd followed suit.

  “Surprise!” they all shouted.
r />   Ikea frowned deep enough to require Botox. She scanned the room, nearly teetering on her spiky heels, then turned back to Mayor Green. “I don’t understand. Davin, what’s this all about?”

  I cued the deejay to begin the “Wedding March.” The cheering crowd shuffled back against the cell bars, clearing a path down the middle of Broadway, as the minister stepped up to the portable altar set up at the end of the hall.

  Ikea blinked several times. Under her breath, her smile frozen on her pale face, she hissed, “Davin, what the hell is going on?” As she spoke, she slowly withdrew her arm from the mayor’s and nervously ran the finger of her right hand up and down the stem of the champagne flute.

  Mayor Green, still grinning like a teenager, took her diamond-studded left hand. “It’s our wedding, baby! I wanted it to be a surprise!”

  Ikea stared at the mayor, openmouthed.

  He raised his champagne glass. “So, are you surprised?”

  Her smile unwavering, she slowly lifted her champagne glass and faced the crowd. I held my breath, waiting for a shriek of joy or a prenuptial kiss. The music quieted, the attendees grew hushed. All eyes were on Ikea.

  For one quick moment she gave me a look I couldn’t read. Then she turned to the mayor and, with a twist of her wrist, flung the bubbly liquid into the mayor’s beaming face.

  “How could you!” she said, her eyes as sharp as prison-house shanks.

  The crowd gasped at the dramatic display as Ikea spun in her retro heels and stomped out of the cellblock, into the dark night. In the deadly silence that followed, I thought I heard a pin drop. The kind used to stick a voodoo doll.

  The deafening crash that followed was the sound of my career hitting the cellblock floor.

  Chapter 4

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #4:

  You can spin even the most disastrous affair into a successful soiree by turning up the tunes, serving the snacks, and most of all, decanting the drinks.