How to Host a Killer Party

by Penny Warner

  “Look, Detective, I don’t serve poisoned chocolates at my events. Tends to decimate the guest list, you know.”

  “Any idea how these got into Ms. Sax’s car?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe . . . someone took them from the reception, then somehow injected them with poison . . . I don’t know. Could have been anyone. There were a lot of people there. Half of them were wearing masks or disguises of some sort.”

  “You’re forgetting, Ms. Parker. Andrea Sax was killed before the wedding.”

  Oh yeah. What a great detective I’d make.

  While I tried to come up with a plausible explanation, Detective Melvin watched me squirm. A smug smile played on his face, causing tiny crinkles at the corners of his impenetrable eyes. I could see his jaw working—probably rehearsing the Miranda warning. I was surprised he wasn’t salivating.

  “Obviously someone stole them from the barracks kitchen. That’s where Rocco made them. We’ve had some break-ins at the office lately.”

  “That might explain it . . . except for one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Ikea Takeda.”

  “What about her?” I snapped. “She drowned! I’m sorry, but it was an accident. She must have fallen off the ferry on her way back to the city.”

  His silence told me everything I didn’t want to know. I shook my head and forced the words out. “Not an accident?”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Poisoned, right?”

  Stone face.

  “I guess it won’t do any good to say I have no idea what’s going on with these two . . . mishaps?”

  “Actually, I think you do. Someone overheard you last night threatening to kill Ms. Takeda.” He rapped his pencil eraser on the table lightly, as if accusing someone of murder was routine.

  “What? I certainly said no such thing!”

  He flipped through a few pages of his notebook. When he found what he was looking for, he read aloud. “ ‘Yes, I overheard Presley say, I’m gonna kill the bride. . . . ’ ”

  All the blood in my body rushed to my feet. The phone call I’d received—of my own voice—saying those very words. “That’s ridiculous!” I said, laughing too loudly. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I believe your exact words were”—he read his notes—“ ‘I’m going to slap the mayor, kill the bride-to-be ...’ ”

  Shit. Of course I’d said it. Under duress. Under the influence. “Well . . . if I said it at all, it was just a manner of speaking. Taken out of context. Stress release, you know? Everyone says it: ‘I’m gonna keel you!’ ” I tried to sound like Peter Lorre, but it came out sounding like Shrek with a bad cold. “Nobody really means that when they say it.”

  He made a note in his book. Apparently he didn’t share my understanding of the nuances of language.

  I leaned in, trying to read his scribbling upside down. “Who told you, anyway?”

  He flipped the notebook closed.

  “ ‘Everyone has something to conceal,’ Ms. Parker.”

  I recognized the quote instantly. How could a jerk like this be a fan of The Maltese Falcon, the best noir film ever made? I answered him in kind. “Well, Detective, ‘I won’t play the sap for you.’ ” I stood up and slung my knockoff purse over my shoulder like Brigid O’Shaughnessy.

  “ ‘It happens,’ Ms. Parker, ‘we’re in the detective business. . . . It’s bad business to let the killer get away with it.’ ”

  It took all I had to meet the detective’s gaze. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet,” he said, grinning, his top lip slightly curled under. I swear he looked like Bogart at that moment.

  I felt a jolt of heat flush through my body.

  “But as they say, don’t leave town.”

  Sweetheart.

  Chapter 9

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #9:

  Perfect parties, like perfect murders, are planned down to the last detail. And still, something invariably goes wrong.

  That’s why we have party planning handbooks and jail cells.

  I slammed the hell out of Detective Melvin’s door and stormed down the hall to the elevators. By the time I reached my car, fear had replaced anger—I could almost feel the handcuffs snapping around my wrists. And they weren’t made of chocolate.

  Two murders. Both linked to me. No alibi. Plenty of motive.

  Shit.

  I pulled the parking ticket off my car’s windshield, got into my MINI Cooper, and fought the thick traffic to the Bay Bridge, replaying the detective’s words on my way back to Treasure Island. The fog had abated, but the seagulls were out in force, and I only hoped my car wouldn’t be covered in gull guano by the time I arrived at my office.

  My MINI, like my office and my condo, was full of random party crap—medieval swords, Styrofoam ball-and-chains, sparkly ribbons, and “Killer Party” balloons. I’d gotten the car to save money—besides, it was so cute—then wished I’d bought a big SUV like everyone else on the road so I could haul all this stuff. A couple of black and silver balloons bounced around in the backseat as I drove over the retrofitted bridge toward the midway island turnoff.

  I still couldn’t believe it, but as ludicrous as it seemed, I was looking like Suspect Number One. I had to figure out a way to clear my own ass or I’d end up being arrested for a double homicide.

  I needed an alibi.

  Or an attorney.

  Or a ticket to Argentina.

  Or maybe I just needed to find out who killed those two women. I sure wasn’t going to get any help from that wannabe Sam Spade.

  Driving with one hand on the wheel, I reached the other hand behind me, feeling for the Kinko’s box in the backseat. Removing the box lid (and nearly sideswiping a PT Cruiser), I grabbed one of the fresh event planning forms I’d had made up for my Killer Parties business. Of course, in view of the latest “events,” I would probably have to change the name to something less murderous. Extracting a balloon-decorated promotional pen from my knockoff Dooney and Bourke bag, I held it between my teeth and placed the paper on my lap.

  My party checklist was based on a diagnostic tool I’d adapted for my ab-psych students to help them differentiate a patient’s symptoms. Since it worked for academic problem solving, I’d made a few alterations and turned it into an event-planning checklist. Amazing how useful it was for both.

  Holding the paper in my left hand and the pen in my right, I steered with my knees, my eyes shifting back and forth between the road, the wheel, and the planning form. With a last look in the rearview mirror for traffic cops, I began filling in the who-what-when-where-how blanks listed next to the little red balloon icons. But instead of answering questions like, “Who is the party for?” and “What is the occasion?” I substituted details I’d learned from the detective’s interrogation.

  KILLER PARTIES—EVENT PLANNING FORM

  Who?

  Andi Sax—thirtysomething, party planner—victim Ikea Takeda—thirtysomething, mayor’s fiancée—victim

  What?

  Andi—poisoned, cardiac arrest, crashed her SUV—murder

  Ikea—poisoned, drowned—murder

  When?

  Andi—killed sometime during the day of the party?

  Ikea—killed sometime during the night of the party?

  Where?

  Andi—on the road to TI—coming to see me?

  Ikea—fell into the bay?—heading back to the city?

  How?

  Andi—via poisoned chocolate—from Rocco’s kitchen?

  Ikea—also poisoned chocolate?—at the party?

  Why?

  Good question.

  And why was someone trying to make me look guilty of two murders?—because that’s sure how it seemed. Someone who had overheard me joking about killing Ikea? Someone who knew my address was in Andi’s BlackBerry? Someone who just didn’t like me—a former student, aka undiagnosed sociopath?

  I needed a new category: WTF?

  As I merged into the far left l
ane of the bridge, slaloming through darting cars, someone honked.

  I swerved.

  Having ADHD, I was usually good at multitasking, but apparently writing notes under the influence of driving a motor vehicle while listening to Amy Winehouse on my iPhone was beyond me. Even my bright red MINI Cooper didn’t seem to help my visibility in the light mist.

  I honked back, cursed the driver via my rearview mirror, then switched off the iTunes. Perhaps if I tried to limit my attention to two tasks—driving and deducing what the hell was going on—I’d make it off this bridge.

  Alive.

  Unlike Andi.

  Another question occurred to me and I jotted it down. Why was Andi on her way to Treasure—

  Another honk!

  I checked my mirror. A white SUV—the same one that had honked at me a few minutes ago?—was riding my tail.

  Go around, you idiot!

  What was his problem? I wasn’t about to change lanes with my tricky off-ramp coming up. Someone needed to give him a ticket for stupidity. Where was a cop when you needed one?

  That thought reminded me of my interrogation with Detective Melvin, who was no doubt filling out a warrant for my arrest at this very—

  Another honk!

  What the hell?

  I strained to see the driver’s face in the mirror but the windshield was too high for my short car. I tapped the brakes a couple of times to signal for him to back off, but he clung to my bumper.

  “Go around me, you stupid jerk!” I shouted at the mirror. It didn’t take a Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (Fourth Edition) to spot road rage in the lunatic behind me. I slowed down to force him to go around but he stuck to me like frosting on a cake.

  I glared at him in my rearview mirror, hoping that in spite of the angle, he might see the signs of “posttraumatic police interrogation disorder” in my face and realize I shouldn’t be antagonized.

  Switching my focus to the road ahead, I suddenly slammed on my brakes—this time to keep from hitting a Hummer that had cut me off.

  I swerved, knocking the plastic sword off the seat. The tip hit one of the balloons and popped it, causing me to jump and nearly hit an orange traffic cone. When I tried to step on the brake again, I found the sword had slid underneath the brake pedal.

  Shit! I leaned down and tried to dislodge the sword, while trying to keep an eye on the road and a hand on the wheel. Finally I pulled it loose, dislodging my shoe in the process.

  My exit jumped out of the mist. Jerking the wheel, I oversteered as I took the Yerba Buena/Treasure Island off-ramp and skidded with a screech onto the narrow lane.

  I stole a glance in my mirror, hoping I wouldn’t be hit from behind.

  The white SUV was right behind me!

  Seconds later it shot past me on the narrow, one-lane road. It disappeared around a sharp curve.

  Still skidding, I slammed on the brakes in an attempt to gain control of my car, but the wheels slid into the hairpin turn, tires squealing like angry seals. The MINI Cooper continued its course, slipping onto the shoulder of the precarious road, out of control.

  I was headed right toward a sheer cliff that would plummet me straight down and into the bay.

  Chapter 10

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #10:

  Always carry a bag of balloons to a party. They perk up any event with color and cheer. For added fun, fill one with confetti, then pop it over the guest of honor’s head and watch the surprised reaction!

  The MINI choked, spasmed, and died at the edge of the cliff overlooking jagged rocks and swirling water. Adrenaline racing, I jerked the parking brake and rested my head on the steering wheel.

  Asshole. Idiot. Lunatic. Shithead!

  Not very professional terms for an ab-psych instructor to call an obvious sociopath, but sometimes layman’s terms were more satisfying.

  Releasing my death grip on the wheel, I took stock. My heart raced under my T-shirt. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of a shaking hand. I was lucky I hadn’t peed my pants. They were my only clean pair.

  I sat back, took in a lungful of salty air, and peered at the water a hundred feet below the jagged escarpment. Normally the postcard panorama—the whitecapped bay, colorful sailboats, San Francisco skyline, landmark Golden Gate Bridge—calmed me, but at the moment, the view did nothing for my jangled nerves.

  I glanced over at Alcatraz Island in the distance. Last night it had been lit up like a birthday cake. Today, standing alone, stark and severe, it looked like dried-up, crumbling leftovers.

  A fish out of water.

  Sort of how I was beginning to feel.

  How had I ended up here . . . with a deadly cliff in front of me, a determined cop at my back, and a deranged driver on my ass?

  One thing was clear. That white SUV had nearly run me off the cliff.

  Deliberately? Or was the driver just crazy?

  As I turned the ignition, my cell phone blasted an electronic version of “Beauty and the Beast”—Delicia’s personalized ring. I punched the phone icon.

  “Presley? Pres? You there?” Her high-pitched voice sounded frantic.

  “Delicia?”

  “Where are you?” she hissed, her voice changing to a whisper.

  “I’m . . . I’m on my way back to the office. What’s up?” I found myself whispering back.

  “There’s someone . . . here . . . in the building . . . hurry. . . .”

  Delicia had a penchant for drama. That’s probably why she was such a good actress, albeit mostly unemployed. The trouble was, she tended to create problems when there weren’t any. I took her theatrics with a cup of salt.

  “I’m on my way, Dee. Did you call Raj?”

  The image of the white SUV barreling down the road toward the island flashed through my mind. What if the driver actually had been after me? Would he—or she—be waiting at my office on the off chance I survived the trip?

  “Delicia?”

  Static.

  “Delicia? Are you there?”

  I thought I heard whispering but it could have been interference.

  Checking my rearview mirror for other speeding white vans, I shoved the gearshift into reverse and backed up slowly until I reached the road. Turning the car around, I stepped on the gas and continued down the hill toward the main gate, once manned by the navy. When I reached the bottom of the hill, I redialed Delicia.

  The call went to her perky voice mail.

  Something was up.

  MINI Coopers, although too small to hold all my junk, are built for curves. I put mine to the test by pressing a Mary Jane to the metal. The car hugged the turns like a racer as I sped down the winding road that led to the flatland. In a matter of moments, I’d arrived on the flat, man-made island.

  Thanks to Delicia’s call, my near-death experience was almost forgotten. I usually enjoy cruising the ghostly remnants of the island’s lost eras. In spite of the contaminated waste, a high crime rate, and spirits of the past, TI retains a mystique, popular with tourists, windsurfers, picnickers, brides, and GPS treasure hunters searching for hidden caches—not bodies.

  Cursing cell phones, I jammed mine in my bag and tried to focus on reaching the barracks office in record time. I whizzed past the dangling NO ENTRY sign and onetime armed guardhouse turned Snack Shack, the Art Deco administration building and the World’s Fair Exposition Hall that now housed various government agencies, and finally the Pan Am Clipper hangar where CeeGee Studio filmed special effects for such movies as Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade . I felt a little like Indy, but a tingling at the back of my neck reminded me this wasn’t fiction. In spite of her histrionic history, this time Delicia had sounded seriously scared.

  I flashed on the recent break-ins we’d been experiencing on the island. The place had become host to a variety of taggers, vandals, and burglars. Some of the “perps,” as Raj called them, were transients currently housed in a section of military barracks at the north end. While the island is
regularly patrolled by our two-officer police squad and security guards like Raj, there are still ongoing problems with bored teenagers and the unemployed.

  Most of the rental barracks had been broken into, but as far as I knew, Barracks 2, my co-op office building, hadn’t been hit yet. The five of us renters were extra cautious about locking up at night, and I’d felt safe there, until recently.

  Was someone actually trying to break in—in broad daylight?

  And was Delicia alone?

  Another chill grabbed the back of my neck.

  I jerked the wheel right and sped into the barracks’ gravel lot. The bark of the harbor seals basking on the rocks nearby welcomed me—warned me?—as I shut off the engine.

  Next to my MINI sat a white SUV.

  I glanced at the barracks building. The front door of the blue-trimmed, white clapboard building stood ajar.

  We never left the door unlocked, let alone open.

  I hopped out of my car, tiptoed up the rickety steps, and peered inside. The reception area stood empty, the lone desk deserted. Delicia was nowhere in sight.

  “Delicia?” I called quietly. I wanted to let her know I was here, without alerting the—what? Robber? Killer? Crazy driver?

  The hairs on my neck stood on end. Maybe it was going to be a new—and permanent—look for me.

  I thought for a moment. If she really was in trouble, I couldn’t go in unarmed. I hated when those fictional heroines went down into the dark basement to check out a noise. Without a flashlight. In their skimpy underwear.