by Penny Warner
I dashed back to my car to get my cell to call Raj, but when I’d thrown the phone down, it had slipped between the seats. It would take too long to retrieve it. Instead I did a quick search for some sort of weapon—a tire iron (didn’t have one), my mini-laptop (too expensive), the cigarette lighter (broken). . . .
Glancing at the floor, I grabbed the medieval sword and two inflated balloons, and rushed back to the open barracks door.
Holding my plastic sword in one hand like a crazed pirate and the two balloons in the other like Mary Poppins, I slipped inside the reception room, straining to hear Delicia’s high, nasal voice. The only light came from the small windows flanking the building.
The smell hit me like a slap on the face.
I scrunched my nose. What reeked? Decaying fish? Decomposing fungus? Dead feet?
Something had died in here.
Or someone?
I fanned the smell away with my sword and tiptoed past the phony receptionist’s desk. No one in the co-op could afford a real receptionist, so we took turns manning the spot when we needed to look professional. But the scarred beige walls probably didn’t help our image.
I moved through the open reception doors that led to a hallway. Offices lined both sides. Each door featured a glass window, allowing anyone to peek inside. There were windows inside each office as well, offering an instant view of everyone inside, from the waist up. Great if you happened to be nosy or bored, but distracting if you had ADHD. Each room was furnished with a mishmash of garage-sale desks and purloined chairs, and decorated with personalized posters, cartoons, and boredom-busting office toys.
Moving slowly, I tiptoed onto the distressed hardwood floor of the hallway, looking for movement, listening for sound, all the while trying not to inhale the rancid smell that seemed to be coming from the kitchen at the back of the building.
The place looked deserted.
“Delicia?” I whispered.
Cautiously, I started toward the first set of offices—mine on the right and the unoccupied office across from mine on the left. I peered into the windows. Empty.
I moved on to the next set—Delicia’s adjacent to mine, and Berkeley’s on the opposite side. No sign of her.
And then I spotted her grande soy chai sitting on her desk among the clutter of film scripts, acting manuals, and glam photos of herself. Her computer screensaver, a picture of Edward the Vampire, looked at me lustfully.
I stepped inside and reached for her desk phone to call security, then froze.
A muffled voice.
As in gagged.
Coming from behind the closed door to the kitchen.
Chapter 11
PARTY PLANNING TIP #11:
When setting the scene for your party, accessorize, accessorize, accessorize! For a Pirates and Wenches party, use plastic swords as creative invitations, costume accessories, dangling decorations, and even for a game of silly sword fighting.
Delicia.
I started toward the kitchen, then came to my senses. Picking up the phone, I dialed security and punched SPEAKERPHONE. After setting the receiver on the desk, I backed into the hallway, raised my plastic sword as menacingly as I could, and tightened my grip around the nub of a balloon.
“Whoever’s in there, you better get out!” I shouted toward the closed kitchen door, hoping Raj would hear me over the speakerphone. “I’ve got a gun!”
To make my point, I stabbed the balloon with the tip of the toy sword. It gave a loud pop!
Another muffled shriek.
I inched forward, my sword raised in my sweaty palm. My heartbeat went into hyperspeed.
The door to the kitchen clicked open. The smell hit me in the face like a rotten cream pie. I reared back, fanning my nose with the sword.
Out stepped a giant marshmallow monster.
Either we were being invaded by an alien, or this was a robber uniquely disguised in a white hazmat jumpsuit.
I threatened the Thing That Came from the Kitchen with my plastic sword while screaming, “The police are on their way!” The Thing raised its hands like a zombie and headed right for me. It held a pair of wicked-looking tongs in one gloved hand. In the grip of the tongs was a large plastic Baggie.
Inside: something pink, gelatinous, and foul.
Body parts?
“Don’t come any closer!” I screamed.
Where in the world was Raj? He should have answered my call and been here by now. The island wasn’t that big. I swished my sword, but The Thing kept coming. I took a step backward, ready for flight if fight didn’t work, but one of my shoes caught on something and I lost my balance.
I fell backward on the hard floor and landed on my ass. My sword skidded across the floor, out of reach. In a clatter, half a dozen glass bottles labeled with little skulls and crossbones rolled in every direction from an overturned box.
The box that had tripped me.
As I scrambled for my weapon, the creature stopped dead in its tracks, grabbed the smoky mask that obscured its face, and pulled it off, revealing a head with wavy brown chin-length hair, chocolate brown eyes, and a soul patch.
I’d seen this robber before.
“You all right?” it—he—said.
“Where’s Delicia?” I asked, scooting back like a frightened crab, in spite of the pain in my rear.
“I’m right here, Pres!” came a voice from the kitchen doorway. Dee stepped into the hallway, took in the scene, and scowled. “What happened to you?”
Stunned into silence, all I could do was stare at both of them. The guy in the hazmat suit grinned. I recognized that grin too.
He’d been wearing a similar outfit at the mayor’s wedding.
Finally I managed to sputter, “What the hell is going on here?” I stood up, ignoring the offered assist from the hazmat guy, and brushed myself off. For good measure, I kicked the stupid box that had brought about my downfall.
“Careful with that,” the hazmat guy said. I glanced at the bottles strewn about, all covered with warning labels. What—were robbers using explosive chemicals these days?
“And just who the hell are you? And what are you doing here?”
Delicia stepped over to brush me off and pulled at something in my hair—a dust bunny I’d picked up in my fall. “Presley, this is Brad Matthews.” She held out a hand, as if serving him up on a platter.
Brad Matthews. Oh yes. That’s how he’d introduced himself at my disastrous party. I peered at him in recognition. I looked at Delicia. Dressed in her latest vintage outfit—a gauzy shin-length dress, thick strappy heels, and pink socks with little bunnies on them—she certainly didn’t look like she’d been in recent jeopardy. Must have been the grin on her face that gave her away. “Brad, this is our resident party girl—”
“Event planner,” I snapped.
“Event planner—Presley Parker. You may have heard—she hosted Mayor Green’s wedding last night. It was off the hook!”
“We’ve met,” he said, extending his hand.
I ignored his greeting. “I said, what are you doing here?”
Delicia smiled up at him as if he were a rock star instead of some kind of janitor. “Brad just rented the empty office across from yours. For his business.” She tucked a loose curl seductively behind her ear. So transparent.
“Then what was that frantic phone call about?” I said to her. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Oh, that. I wasn’t frantic. . . .” She blushed, shook her head, and grinned again at Brad. The tight curls bounced flirtatiously.
“Actually, that was my fault,” Brad Matthews said, still holding the disgusting Baggie of what looked like giblets in the pair of tongs. “In this outfit, I’m sure I scared her a little.” He flashed her a toothy smile.
“No, no!” Delicia said, giggling. “Well, maybe a little. . . .”
I pointed to the bottles on the floor, then looked at Brad. “What’s with all the poison? Are you some kind of Unabomber chemist or just an ordinar
y serial killer? Because if you are, I’m sure your rent is going to be a lot higher.”
Brad Matthews gave his lopsided grin, but before he could respond, Delicia answered for him. “He’s a crime scene cleaner! Isn’t that cool, Pres?”
“I gathered that,” I said, then nodded at the plastic bag he held in his hand. “What is that? Did somebody die in here? It stinks to high heaven.” I fanned my face.
Delicia giggled again. “Oh, Rocco—I guess he forgot to clean up the crab puffs he made for last night’s reception. The kitchen’s a disaster. Looks like Emeril meets Lucy Ricardo in there.”
Rocco. The chocolates. I darted past Delicia and Brad, into the kitchen, and scanned the counters. The smell kicked up a notch. Delicia was right—it looked like a bomb had gone off in there. Scrunching my nose, I took a quick inventory.
“Where are the leftover chocolates?” I called out.
Delicia stepped into the kitchen and shrugged. “I didn’t see any. Rocco must have tossed them.”
Rocco was a perfectionist. If any of the chocolate falcons or handcuffs hadn’t turned out perfectly, he wouldn’t have taken them to the party. But he knew I loved his leftover desserts—especially chocolates.
So where were they now?
I looked back at Brad Matthews, still down the hall, kneeling over his box of cleaning supplies. A siren went off in my head as I recalled my near-death experience on the bridge off-ramp.
Was he the one driving the white SUV that nearly got me killed?
I moved past Delicia and Brad, down the hallway to the reception area, and glanced out the front window to the parking lot.
The white SUV. I’d forgotten all about it.
I stormed back down the hallway and stood over Brad, still hunched over the box of cleaning supplies.
“You! You’re a lunatic!”
He looked up at me and blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You almost got me killed!”
He stood up, brushed his hands on his pants, and shook his head. “No, those chemicals are perfectly safe . . . as long as you don’t trip over them—”
“Not that! At the bridge exit. You nearly drove me off the road, tailgating and speeding in that stupid SUV of yours. What was your problem?”
Brad ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh, was that you I passed? You were driving kind of funny, like you weren’t really paying attention to the road, and I was sort of in a hurry. . . .”
“Yeah, and after you ran me off the road, you didn’t even stop to see if I was okay.”
He held his hands up. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I just wanted to get around you. You were all over the road. . . .”
He paused and leaned in. I ridiculously thought for a moment he was going to kiss me. Then I realized—he was checking my breath!
I glared at him. “I haven’t been drinking! It’s eleven o’clock in the morning!”
He shrugged. “Well, you were hitting it a little hard last night—”
“That was—God! You’re unbelievable! I don’t drink . . . in the daytime, anyway. And I don’t get drunk . . . usually. Today I was just—”
I stopped. What was I going to say—I had been “writing while operating a motor vehicle”? So maybe I had been driving a little erratically. Doesn’t everyone these days?
Before I could argue more, my office phone rang.
Delicia, standing near my office door, stepped in and picked it up.
“Killer Parties!” she said in her Cinderella voice. Covering the speaker, she whispered, “Pres, your phone has been ringing off the hook all morning!” She waved at a small pile of yellow sticky notes on my desk. “The calls have all been about that article that appeared in the Chronicle. Did you read it? The reporter went off on how cool the party was—even with the disappearing bride!”
Apparently the writer didn’t know about the body in the bay.
She listened for a moment, then asked, “Who shall I say is calling?”
Take a message, I mouthed to Delicia. I gave Brad Matthews a last scowl as he carried the refilled box into the empty office across from mine.
“Where’s the newspaper?” I asked Delicia as she hung up.
She looked at me, wide-eyed. “OMG.”
“What?” I asked, suddenly alarmed by her expression. I hadn’t finished the article. Could it have gotten any worse?
“That was the governor!”
“What?”
“On the phone!”
Oh my God. First the police. Now the governor.
What was in the rest of that newspaper article?
Chapter 12
PARTY PLANNING TIP #12:
Personalize your party setting to the theme.
Host an Over-the-Hill milestone at a mortuary, a Redneck bash at a trailer park, or a Murder Mystery at a haunted mansion.
Although I had my reservations about Brad Matthews, I set them aside when he offered to help clean up and remove all the rotting fish carcasses from last night’s wedding prep. “No charge,” he’d said, grinning in an attempt to make up for giving us a scare. Meanwhile Delicia and I went to work on the countertops, appliances, and floors, mainly by squirting everything with Lysol and other mysterious chemicals Brad brought in, until the whole office building reeked like a hospital. I had to admit, we did an impressive job. Now that we wouldn’t be poisoned by botulism, we’d no doubt be asphyxiated by industrial-strength cleaners.
Poisoned.
I returned to my office and slumped into the seat at my desk, trying to ignore the strong smells coming from the kitchen and the new activity in the office across from mine. Not easy for a person with ADHD. Dropping my purse in the middle of the desk sent yellow sticky memos fluttering around like giant confetti. I leaned over to pick up a handful that had sailed to the floor and caught a glimpse of the new guy across the hall.
Stripping.
I watched as the white jumpsuit fell to the floor like shriveled snakeskin, leaving behind yet another outfit, this time a well-filled-out white T-shirt with the company logo embossed on one pocket and low-rise, well-worn jeans. His shoes: New Balance. Not a blood spatter on them.
He caught me peering and grinned.
I snatched the notes off the floor and spun around, trying to focus on the stack of calls I’d gotten while at the police station. But when Brad left his office to retrieve more boxes from his killer SUV, I stood up in the hall and leaned in to check out his stuff.
Everything was sealed with crime scene tape.
So what did he have in those boxes besides bottles of poison?
Poison. There was that word again.
“Can I help you?” Brad said, startling me from behind.
I jumped. “I . . . was looking for today’s newspaper. Delicia!” I called out, trying to cover my snooping. I spun around, took a few steps, and leaned into her office. “I can’t . . . um, find the Chron. Did you do something with it? I’ve searched all over. . . .”
“I think I left it in the kitchen,” Delicia said, eyeing me oddly. “I’ll get it.” She popped up from her chair and bounced down the hall. I returned to my desk, ignoring Brad’s eyes on me, and riffled through the pile of messages again. Two were from Chloe at the mayor’s office, both marked “Urgent!” They probably wanted their money back. Tough.
I took a second look and realized Chloe’s messages were dated yesterday. Probably more pre-wedding panic attacks. One was about the reception food. “Did the caterer know that Chilean sea bass was endangered? The mayor didn’t feel it was politically correct to serve it. Could it be replaced with Dungeness crab, the ‘new lobster’?”
I wadded up that message and its twin—one about a couple of last-minute guest additions—and tossed them into the wastebasket.
The next five were from my mother, also marked “Urgent!” as usual. I set them aside, promising myself I’d see her as soon as I had a moment. I knew she was lonely—and confused—and my visits had a way of grounding her, at least temporarily.
Thankfully the return phone number wasn’t the San Francisco Police Department.
The rest of the messages were from a variety of businesses, all wanting parties.
Friends of the San Francisco Library: “We’d like to do a Murder Mystery set in the stacks. . . .”
Gay Pride Coalition: “Can you do a kind of Queer Eye Makeover party for the Exotic Erotic Ball? . . .”
Glide Memorial Church: “Looking for an American Idol in Heaven karaoke fund-raiser for a new organ . . .”
The de Young Museum: “When are you free to host a gala for a new wing?”
Overwhelmed by all the prospects, I shuffled through the rest—Morrison Planetarium, Mark Hopkins Hotel, Angel Island State Park, Industrial Light and Magic. A group of Red Hat ladies wanted a Chocolate Decadence theme. The Sally Rand Madams were asking for a Pimps and Hos party. Even my former employer, San Francisco State University, was looking for a Cheerleaders and Jocks alumni party.
Whoa. What was in that article I hadn’t finished reading?
I set all the messages down, except for the last one. As usual, Delicia had written it in text messaging code.
“OMG! Gov. wd like to mt w/U to discuss his 60th b’day pty—a MM theme! Pls call ASAP! OMG!”
Oh. My. God. was right. The governor wanted me to host his Big Six-O birthday party? With a murder mystery theme? This was beyond the society page—this was front page headline: MARTHA STEWART DOES THE WHITE HOUSE.
Where was that damn newspaper article?
“Delicia?”
Delicia appeared in the doorway and handed me the paper. “Did you call him?”
“Who?”
“Johnny Depp. Duh! The governor!”
“I will. I want see what this says first.” The paper was already folded open to the article.
Delicia pirouetted out and, with a curious glance at Brad’s office, headed back to her own office. “BTW,” she threw over her shoulder, “if you see Rocco, tell him he owes us for cleaning up his mess. Where the frick is he, anyway?”