How to Host a Killer Party

by Penny Warner

  In this case, there were two femmes—both connected to the mayor.

  Speaking of femmes, I made a U-turn out of the dead-end street in front of city hall and headed up Van Ness to my mother’s care facility. I parked on a side street and walked half a block to her building, inhaling the smell of roast beef and gravy coming from Tommy’s Joynt, my mother’s favorite lunch spot. Entering the three-story renovated Victorian home, I waved to Holly Dietz, one of the LVNs at the front desk. The tantalizing aroma of Tommy’s Joynt evaporated among the heavy odor of cleaning products, mildew, and leftover cafeteria food.

  “She’s in the community room,” Holly called cheerily. It took a special kind of nurse to work in a facility like this, and I was grateful for her.

  I spun on my flat Mary Jane heels and headed over to the “Grand Parlor,” where half a dozen elderly men and women were sitting in comfy chairs, chatting, playing games, or watching TV. My mother, who never watched TV, didn’t like small talk, and only hosted games—never played them—sat alone, hunched over a craft table filled with papers.

  “Hi, Mom!” I said almost as cheerily as the nurse. Sitting down opposite her, I gave her a quick once-over in an attempt to evaluate her status. Today she wore a bright orange floral dress and scuffed black heels; she’d twisted her hair into a French roll and tied a green ribbon in it. Her makeup, albeit a little heavy for daytime, was expertly done, and her manicured nails were painted bright red. A throwback to the Donna Reed/June Cleaver days, my mother was not the type to sit in a housecoat and slippers with no makeup or unstyled hair, no matter what the circumstances. She had “an image to preserve,” she often told me.

  She looked up as if she’d been expecting me—and I was late.

  “About time,” she said, placing a colorful piece of paper in a large binder.

  “Whatcha doing?” I asked, noticing a pile of old photographs taken at some of her favorite parties years ago. I cleared a small shoe box off of a chair, set it on the floor, and sat down opposite her.

  “I’m scrapbooking. It’s the latest thing. I’m putting all my party pictures together so I can present them to clients and show them what I’ve done.”

  “Great idea,” I said, sifting through a few of the photos. There were two schools of thought in dealing with Alzheimer’s patients—either try to bring them back to reality or go along with their fantasies. I chose the latter. She was happier that way.

  I looked down at the floor. Next to her feet were three more shoe boxes filled with more photos. “Wow, you’ve got a lot.”

  “That’s why I’m making each scrapbook a different theme—just like a party. This one is for my political parties. That one will be for my surprise parties, those over there for weddings and showers, and then I’ll make some for my children’s parties.” She pointed to a stack of binders on a chair next to her. It would take her years to finish all her planned projects.

  I noticed her How to Host a Killer Party book lying open, facedown, on the table. I lifted it up and found it had been cut to pieces.

  She caught my surprised look and said, “Oh, I’m adding pages from my book. . . .” She took the book from me, flipped through what was left of it, and found the page on party themes. She ripped it out. “Like this.”

  She began cutting out the page with scalloped scissors. While she worked, I watched her artfully arrange photos, party tips from her book, and what she called “embellishments” on the page. I had to admit, she had a knack for this. My mother seemed to be good at whatever she did, even with Alzheimer’s.

  I lifted a shoe box, set it on my lap, and flicked through the pictures. Some were familiar to me and brought back memories from my childhood and teen years; others were new to me. I was halfway through the box when I discovered a photo of a man I recognized. I pulled it out and held the faded snapshot up for my mother to see.

  “Mom, do you know this man?”

  Over the top of her decorative reading glasses she glanced at the photo of the man in a military uniform. Returning to work, she said, “Sure. That’s Gene. He was such a sweetheart.”

  Gene? “You mean, you knew Admiral Eugene Stadelhofer?”

  “Of course. Handsome, isn’t he? I hosted a party for him a few years back, when he retired from the navy. Why? Do you know him too?”

  I inserted the photo back into the box. “He’s . . . uh, trying to get the mayor to erect some kind of military monument on Treasure Island. Did you know him well?”

  She looked at me and smiled wickedly.

  Oh. My. God. Don’t tell me he’d been another one of her many “paramours,” as she called them.

  I set the box on the floor and stood up. “Well, I can see you’re busy, so I’m going to take off. I’ll come again soon, okay?”

  She nodded, concentrating on her page layout.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “No, I—” she started to say, then added, “Oh! More of this.” She held up some sort of tape dispenser. “I go through them like chocolate.”

  Chocolate. Great. “Okay, Mom. Well, take care of yourself. You look wonderful.”

  “You too,” she said, peering over her glasses. “And say hello to Gene for me when you see him.”

  I headed for the door, then had a thought and turned back to my mother. “Mom? Would you like to go on an outing with me, maybe later today?”

  She brightened. “Certainly, dear. I always enjoy our outings. Where are we going this time? Sausalito? Tiburon? Angel Island?”

  “How about Yerba Buena Island?” I said. It was about time my mother saw her old “paramour” again.

  Driving home, I thought about my mother’s connection to the admiral. What had their relationship been? More than I wanted to know, that’s for sure. But maybe she could help me get the opportunity to question the admiral about his ties to Treasure Island—and possibly Ikea Takeda. Maybe the admiral had more of a connection to Ikea than anyone suspected. . . .

  A chill ran up my back, and I shuddered. Was it possible the admiral had something to do with Ikea’s murder? Even more disturbing—could my mother have been romantically involved . . . with a potential murderer?

  Whoa. Where had that thought come from?

  When I arrived at my desk, the office across from mine was curiously deserted. Where was our crime scene cleaner? Cleaning up after another crime? There was something about that man I didn’t trust. And yet he seemed so—

  The phone rang.

  Not in the mood to talk, I let the machine answer. Turned out to be another request for a party, this time from someone at Pier 39. I wondered what kind of event this tourist area wanted. Didn’t matter, as long as it didn’t involve another body.

  I got out my notes and updated the list of people I wanted to question about the mayor and his connection with Ikea and Andi. Although I was tempted to put a big fat circle around the mayor’s name, it seemed unlikely that he’d kill his own fiancée—at a wedding he himself had planned. Still, stranger things had happened, especially in the name of passion. Maybe she’d said or done something that really, really ticked him off. And maybe the wedding party was just a cover.

  But how did Rocco tie in to all this? Although he had means and opportunity, he had no motive—that I knew of. Still, the physical evidence didn’t bode well for him.

  I was convinced Ikea’s drowning and Andi’s car crash had been misdirections. Poison via Rocco’s chocolates was the real MO. But there was no way I was going to add Rocco’s name to the suspect list—he was a victim, I was certain of that. The only other possibility was that he’d attempted suicide. But why?

  I didn’t buy it.

  Almost as if I were channeling automatic writing from the dead, I found myself writing down the name of the mystery man who’d shown up right about the time all this was taking place: Brad Matthews.

  He’d been at the party: opportunity.

  He had access to all kinds of chemicals and poisons: means.

  But what would be his
motive?

  If he knew the mayor, he probably knew Ikea too.

  How well?

  And Andi?

  I grabbed a black marker and obliterated his name. Underneath the heavy black mark, I jotted the initials KTBNL—Killer to Be Named Later. I didn’t want him to know I suspected him if he stumbled onto my notes. Meanwhile, I’d have to watch my back around him. If Brad was involved in this, I could be in big trouble.

  Back to the femmes fatales. I had to find out more about Ikea in order to know who had the strongest motive. And I had to find a credible link between her and Andi Sax.

  There’s a saying popular in my former teaching occupation: “Go ask the administrative assistant.” As Brad had pointed out, admins, including those at the university, were the ones to befriend if you wanted anything. Mine, Linda Barnes, had managed to get around all sorts of red tape, while keeping me supplied with materials I needed. She was also a great source of information about the subculture of academia. I learned from her that I might lose my job long before I was officially fired.

  Chloe had been a good source of info on Ikea, but I had a feeling she knew more. I wondered if Andi Sax had someone like an administrative assistant. Surely she couldn’t have been the most successful event planner in the Bay Area all by herself.

  I turned to the computer and did an Internet search for her company, Party People, then clicked the link to her site. The dazzling display, full of floating balloons and flashing lights, listed links to many of her biggest parties, along with her lengthy bio, suggested party themes, information on how to hire her, and her Party Talk blog. I scrolled down to the bottom of the home page and found, in fine print, a snail mail address. Andi had an office in Sausalito, just on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Grabbing my purse and a copy of the address, I was on my way out the front door when I bumped into Brad—literally—who was headed inside. As I hit solid muscle, I caught a whiff of lime. Beer? Or aftershave?

  “Whoa! Where’s the fire?” he said, backing down the front steps. Brad Matthews always seemed to be running me off the path.

  “Uh, I . . . was just about to run some errands. Party stuff, you know.”

  He nodded a Yeah, sure kind of nod.

  “What about you? In a rush to get back to work?” I said, massaging my shoulder where he’d slammed into me. If I didn’t stop getting hurt in the shoulder, I’d soon be needing rotator cuff surgery.

  “Nope. Got some information for you.” He rubbed his chin. I was beginning to wonder what this “tell” meant—that he felt a little self-conscious? Or he was about to tell a lie?

  “Oh? What did you find out?” I asked suspiciously.

  He stuffed a hand in his pocket, pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper, and glanced at it. “Your friend, Rocco? Same poison, same MO—chocolates.”

  I felt my stomach drop. I’d suspected as much, but the confirmation still hit hard. “How did you find out?”

  “I have my sources,” he said mysteriously as he stuffed the note back in his pocket.

  I looked down at him as he stood on the bottom step. “The police just happened to tell you this?”

  He shrugged. “Like I said, they know me from my cleaning business.”

  “So, how’s Rocco? Any news?”

  He shook his head. “Still unconscious.”

  Poor Rocco. He didn’t deserve this. I’d stop by the hospital later and check in on him. I stepped down the three stairs and started for my car.

  Brad caught me by the arm. “Hey, wait a minute. It’s your turn.”

  I looked at the grip he had on me. He released my arm and crossed his own arms, causing his biceps to double in size. The guy worked out, and his white T-shirt didn’t hide anything.

  “My turn to what?” I said, stroking my arm as if he’d seriously wounded me.

  He rolled his eyes. “Your visit with the mayor’s chick. What happened?”

  “Oh.” I sighed. “Not much. She was kind of tight-lipped—you know how it is with them.” I decided not to mention the press conference fiasco.

  Brad set his jaw and waited.

  I sighed again. “Honest. She said there might have been some special interest groups urging Ikea to influence the mayor about the island, but she didn’t have anything concrete.”

  “Hmmm,” Brad said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Think she’s hot for him?”

  I laughed. “Who? Chloe? For the mayor? No way. She’s not his type.”

  “Oh, you can tell people’s types?”

  “I read people like fortune cookies. I have a background in psychology, remember. Abnormal psychology, as a matter of fact.” I eyed him.

  “Really?” he said, his voice full of doubt.

  I looked down at his shoes. “New Balance athletic shoes. Expensive. Good for both work and play. But awfully clean, even for a crime scene cleaner.”

  He checked his shoes, then looked up at me and smiled, obviously impressed. “What do your shoes say?”

  I glanced at my black, round-toed Mary Janes. “Isn’t it obvious? Comfortable, casual, but still feminine.” Talking about my own shoes reminded me of my skates—and the chocolates that someone had placed inside. Better get moving, Pres, I told myself, before Detective Melvin shows up with a pair of prison slippers. Definitely not my style.

  He watched me as I moved on to my car.

  “MINI Cooper, eh?” he called out. “Does what you drive mean something too?”

  “Sure. It means I’m smart with money, but playful, independent, yet flirty. . . .” I stopped before I told him too much. Instead, I nodded toward his SUV parked next to mine. “Your SUV? All business. Dirty—could use a wash. A magnetic sign for easy removal. And paneled—no way to see what you’re hiding inside.”

  He laughed. “That’s just for work.”

  “Really? So what’s your other car?”

  “A Harley.”

  It figured.

  As I drove over the Golden Gate Bridge toward the boutique town of Sausalito, I wondered if tourists were a little disappointed to find the famous Art Deco bridge painted bright orange instead of gold. What they didn’t know was that the bridge had been named after the Golden Gate Strait—the entrance to the San Francisco Bay—not the color.

  In addition to walking across the Golden Gate, committing suicide from the bridge has been a popular activity. Someone once said, “The Golden Gate Bridge is to suicides what Niagara Falls is to honeymooners.” Years ago, one of my college friends jumped from the bridge just before finals. It haunts me to this day. I can’t think of a worse way to die, but when she talked about it a few days before she jumped, she’d romanticized it, imagining it to be some kind of swan dive. In essence, it was. Still, even though we’d talked about it, I didn’t think she would follow through.

  Ironically, she’d planned to be a psychiatrist.

  There had been lawsuits and demands to erect barriers—one led by my mother—and a recent exposé by a renegade filmmaker who had actually videotaped jumpers in the act. But even after the city put up the barriers, the suicides continued.

  As an abnormal psychology instructor, I retained morbid facts like these: A bridge jump is called a 10-21 in police code; every two weeks someone jumps from the bridge; there have been twelve hundred jumps since the bridge opened; only twenty-six people have survived.

  And the most common fear among San Franciscans is gephyrophobia—the fear of crossing bridges. I have a touch of it—especially when being run off the road by a white SUV.

  Another irony—now I lived in the middle of a bridge. In earthquake country.

  In truth, death by jumping isn’t romantic at all. People don’t hit the water cleanly, like an Olympic high diver. After the four-second fall, they hit the surface at about seventy-five miles per hour, and die of multiple blunt-force injuries—bruised, broken ribs; lacerated spleens, lungs, and hearts; bleeding from the ears; snapped vertebrae, ruptured livers, and heads smashed like day-old Halloween pu
mpkins. According to those few who have survived, many change their minds—just after they let go. For most, it’s too late. And if the bodies aren’t found immediately, they sustain “severe marine depredation”—shark attacks, feeding crabs, and other indecencies. That’s the kind of stuff kids remember from their field trips. And every time I drive over the bridge, I think about all that crap.

  When I reached the end of the span, I spotted the familiar rainbow tunnel that leads to Sausalito. Driving out the other side, I was greeted by houseboats on the right and stilted houses on the left. In this cute little bayside town, neither type of lodging came cheap.

  After cruising the cute downtown area three times in search of parking, I finally found a car pulling out from a metered space close to my destination and hovered until I could take over the spot. I got out of the car and looked up at the three-story artsy-craftsy building with boutiques—cookie boutiques, clothing boutiques, jewelry and juice boutiques, scrimshaw and T-shirt boutiques, even dog and cat boutiques. I thought about picking up some new toys for Cairo, Fatman, and Thursby, but a glance at a price tag for a fake mouse sent me running from the place.

  I found Party People on the third floor of the high-rent building. The door stood open to a cluttered store with narrow aisles filled with party supplies. A woman wearing a plastic tiara sat behind a cramped counter covered with Halloween party favors. Fake lips. Rubber ears. Bleeding fingers. The kind of crap I love.

  She looked up from an Oriental Trading Company catalog when I stepped on the PARTY HERE! mat, which instantly played a version of Eddie Murphy’s “Party All the Time!”

  That would get annoying fast.

  I looked around, envious of all the party props available. A life-sized Brad Pitt posed between Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston, and other giant cutouts of famous stars were propped here and there. Mylar balloons in various shapes and metallic colors hung from the ceiling, above piles of Balloon Time! helium kits. Aisles were packed with themed paper products and props, everything from tropical luaus to over-the-hill birthdays. Apparently Andi’s business had been doing well for her to have so much party stuff on hand. I could barely afford to order it over the Internet in time for each event.