How to Host a Killer Party

by Penny Warner

  “Can I help you find anything?” the woman said, resting her hand on the catalog. Her name tag, pinned to a pink top that read “Princess in Waiting” in rhinestones, said “Staci McLaughlin.” She looked familiar. I wondered if I’d met her somewhere.

  “Yes, hi. I’m Presley Parker.”

  The woman sucked in a breath at the sound of my name and sat up. “Oh dear.”

  Apparently she’d heard of me. “I was sorry to hear about Andi,” I said quickly. “Are you her . . . partner?”

  She stood, closing the catalog slowly, and came out from behind the counter. The pink top was filled to capacity by her ample bosom and matched a long silky pink skirt, also studded with rhinestones. Pink ballet slippers peeked out from under the hem of her skirt. I felt underdressed in my black jeans, blue SFSU T-shirt, and sockless Mary Janes. “You’re the one who took over planning the mayor’s wedding, aren’t you?”

  I nodded, distracted by her costume. “Love your outfit,” I said, trying not to giggle.

  “Andi likes—er, liked me to dress up for the customers. Helps sell the merchandise. Today I’m Pretty, Pretty Princess.” She spun around, then curtseyed.

  “Very . . . pretty,” I said, mortified for her. I glanced around the crowded store to collect my thoughts, then turned back to her. “I wondered if you could tell me a little about Andi. I’m trying to help the police find out who might have had a reason to harm her.”

  She shook her head, nearly dislodging her crown, and took a moment to push it back into her puffy hair. “They’ve been here already—the police. I told them what I could, which wasn’t much. It’s all so sad.”

  Funny. She didn’t look all that sad in her pink getup. “What did you tell them?”

  She took in a deep breath before speaking. “That I don’t know anyone who would want to kill her, if that’s what you’re asking. Not even after that thing with the mayor.”

  “That thing?”

  “You know. That little tiff she had with him a couple of weeks before the wedding. But—”

  “What kind of tiff?”

  She shrugged. “I overheard her arguing with him on the phone, something about how ridiculous the wedding was becoming. You know, the ball-and-chain theme. Having it on Alcatraz. Andi thought it was all terribly tacky. Andi didn’t do tacky. But when he fired her, she was pretty upset. Then hiring you only made it worse.”

  I forced an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that, but I had nothing to do with any of it. I just got the call one day—”

  She waved me silent. “I know, I know. It’s not your fault. Andi could be a bit of a diva. Actually, we aren’t—weren’t—exactly partners. She did all the party planning; I run the boutique. But I helped her out a lot. And, of course, she had a freelance staff that worked for her too.”

  “Freelance?”

  “Oh, no one permanent, other than me.” She gave a little princess laugh. “Truth is, no one would work for her for very long. Like I said, a bit of a diva. I only got along with her because we kept our businesses separate. And she knew if she didn’t treat me well, I wouldn’t give her a big discount on all the party stuff she needed.”

  “Do you have any names of these freelancers?”

  She shook her head. “They came from a temp agency. No one lasted more than once or twice. Except me. Like I said, I helped out when I could.”

  “Hmmm.” I started down one of the aisles, hoping to find a clue to the mysterious Andi Sax. All I saw were festive supplies, party props, and costume rentals. One costume in particular caught my eye. I turned to Staci, who’d returned to her perch behind the counter and was fiddling with a bloody, severed arm.

  “This Miss Marple costume. It looks just like one I saw at the mayor’s wedding. Did it come from here?”

  She shrugged. “Could have,” she said, still focused on the rubber hand.

  “Do you know who might have rented it?”

  She shook her head so abruptly this time, one end of the tiara fell over her forehead. She shoved it back into place with a little more force. “I’d have to look. . . .”

  I stared at her. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. I leaned over the counter, in her face. “Staci?” She looked up. “Would you mind checking to see who rented this costume?”

  She dropped the fake arm and hung her head. “Oh, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

  Puzzled about her response, I asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “Andi . . . she sort of hired me to wear the costume. . . .”

  “So you could attend the party!” I finished her sentence, then stood back, stunned. “You were there to spy on me?”

  She shrugged. “Andi wanted to know how it went. She was so jealous, you know?”

  I picked up the severed arm and slapped its hand menacingly in mine. “Did she want you to sabotage the party, Staci?” I thought about the poisoned chocolates. Maybe Andi had poisoned them. But then she wouldn’t have eaten them herself. Would Staci have done it?

  “Oh no. No. I’d never do that. I was just her eyes and ears. She knew she couldn’t be caught there, but not that many people know me. And she paid me a nice bonus, you know. I figured it was harmless.” She looked at the arm I was batting in my hand. “Oh dear. I shouldn’t have said anything. Especially about Andi. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. Poor thing.”

  I raised the hand up to face her, as if it might strike her if it had a life of its own. “Did Andi say anything about me, specifically?”

  She eyed the hand and laughed nervously. “Oh yeah. Like I said, when you got the mayor’s job, she was royally pissed. Checked you out on the Net. Wanted to know all about you. She saw you as a major threat to her future business. Said something about going over and having a little chat with you.”

  I thought about her body being found on TI. Apparently she had been on her way to see me. For a “little chat”? Why? Was she going to threaten me? Try to bully me out of doing any more business?

  Or had there been another reason?

  I set the fake bloodied arm on the counter and stepped back. “Do the police know you were at the party, Staci?”

  She shook her head. “I was too embarrassed to tell them. See, the thing is, I left before the mayor arrived. I got seasick coming over on the ferry and took the next one back to the city.”

  Delicia had said she thought she’d seen a ferryboat return—with a woman on board.

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Oh sure. When I stepped off the ferry, I saw the mayor and his fiancée boarding—although I kept out of sight so they wouldn’t notice me. I looked pretty real as Miss Marple. Anyway, I got a cab back to Sausalito. I suppose you can call the cab company. I’m sure the driver would remember me. I took off my wig and wiped off my makeup in the car.”

  “What did you do when you got back?”

  “Went home. I didn’t want Andi to know I’d come back.”

  “And you can prove that too?”

  “Well, my husband was at home, watching Survivor. He can vouch for me. Although sometimes he falls asleep watching TV.”

  Good heavens. This woman was something else. I headed for the door. “That’s quite a story, Staci, but you’d better let Detective Melvin know. He’s bound to find out anyway.”

  “I know, I know. The whole thing’s got me a little discombobulated. Until this thing is solved, I told my husband I’m sleeping with the lights on and the doors double-locked.”

  I nodded.

  “And I’ve given up chocolate.”

  I blinked. Apparently she knew about the poisoned chocolates. That reminded me. “One more thing. Did Andi ever do parties for any of the mayor’s acquaintances, like . . .” I pulled out my list and read the names: “Dakota Hunter, Eugene Stadelhofer, Xtreme Siouxie, or Lucas Cruz?”

  “Oh yes. She hosted an Over-the-Hill birthday party for Jack Jason, that TV star, last month. It was given by Spaz Cruz. Really lavish. Held at a funeral home, of all places. Everyone wore black
, gave funny eulogies while Jack lay in a casket. He kept sitting up and making jokes.”

  “Andi didn’t consider that tacky?”

  “I guess not. Anyway, it was a great party—one of her best.”

  “What about Dakota Hunter?”

  “He’s the Indian, I mean, Native American, right? The one who wants to build a casino on Treasure Island? She met with him about hosting a Vegas-style party if the Indians—Native Americans—got the land. But it was still in the planning stages.”

  “Xtreme Siouxie?”

  She stuck out her lower lip. “No, that name doesn’t ring a bell. Wait—is she the gal who does all that crazy protesting?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “No, Andi never did a party for her. That gal nearly ruined an important event Andi was hosting for a big meat company. She came running in, naked except for a cowhide draped over her. And she’d sprayed red paint on the hide to make it look like the cow was bleeding. It was a fright.”

  This, coming from a woman who was fondling a bloodied, disembodied arm.

  “Luckily the meat people were used to it—they get protesters all the time. The security guards carted her away.”

  Just like at the wedding reception. So Andi had had to deal with the extremist too. I checked my list for the last name. “How about Admiral Eugene Stadelhofer?” I thought about my mother, who had hosted an affair for him years ago—and possibly had another kind of affair with the admiral.

  Staci shook her head. “Don’t think so. She did a few military parties at the Presidio and Yerba Buena Island, but I couldn’t tell you for who specifically. He might have been involved.”

  “If you think of anything more, will you give me a call?” I started to give her my card, then decided to write my number on one of her sticky notes. It didn’t seem appropriate to leave a card with the words “Killer Party” on it.

  Talk about tacky.

  Chapter 22

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #22:

  With a few creative touches, you can transform the party room into Frankenstein’s laboratory, Cinderella’s castle, Indiana Jones’s archaeological dig, or a CSI crime scene—and transport your guests to another time and place.

  Staci McLaughlin had been helpful.

  Too helpful?

  I wondered what the detective would think of her story. Did she really leave the party? Or did she just say that? With everyone in costume, it would have been hard to tell who belonged and who didn’t. And spouses were known to lie for their loved ones.

  I thought of the mayor. Spouses were also known to kill their loved ones.

  Apparently there was no love lost between Staci and Andi, but it didn’t sound like she disliked her coworker enough to kill her. After all, a good portion of her income came from Andi’s purchases of party supplies. And Staci didn’t appear to have any plans to take over Andi’s business. Or did she?

  This whole thing was getting complicated. Every time I talked to one possible suspect, another one popped up. How did the police keep it simple? Oh yeah. They blamed the most obvious suspect. That would be me. I reflexively checked my cell phone clock—time was running out. I felt beads of sweat break out on my forehead and wiped them off with the back of my hand.

  Sitting in the cozy comfort and temporary safety of my MINI outside Andi’s building, I looked at the list of addresses I’d printed out from the computer for the people I wanted to interview.

  Dakota Hunter. He lived up in the Gold Country. Too far to go today, but I’d get to him ASAP.

  Lucas Cruz. His film company was located in my own backyard. I’d stop by on my way home.

  Eugene Stadelhofer. He still lived on Yerba Buena Island in upscale military housing, where all the high-ranking officers once lived. Before I went there, I’d pick up my mother to help me break the ice.

  For now, that left Xtreme Siouxie, aka Susan Steinhardt. Her address was listed as the High Times Commune in the Haight, hippie heaven circa 1969. I revved up the MINI and drove along the scenic Sausalito highway back to the Golden Gate Bridge, stealing a glimpse at the peaceful sailboats in the bay.

  In its heyday, the Haight-Ashbury was the place to find anything counterculture—psychedelic clothes, music, and drugs. The area still reeks of incense, weed, and dog droppings, even though an influx of new-age hippies had joined the aging hippies.

  As I turned onto Haight Street, I saw balding men with long ponytails and leathery skin, and women with graying hair in tie-dyed skirts and worn Birkenstocks. Most were sipping espressos at non-chain coffeehouses, while reading well-worn copies of books by Kesey and Kerouac. And everyone seemed to own a dog.

  Tourists still came to see the show, but exclusive boutiques, high-end vintage clothing stores, and hip—not hippy—restaurants had replaced much of the free-love culture of the sixties. In addition to getting pierced, you can now get tattooed, buy old clothes at higher prices, and obtain marijuana legally. The Haight was now one of the most commercial centers in the city, in spite of the fact that you can also still purchase an LP, give money to a panhandler, or find “paraphernalia.”

  I drove by a holistic healing center, an anarchist bookstore, a bead store, a Tibetan boutique, a tattoo parlor, a costume shop, a medical marijuana outlet, the Grateful Dead house, and nine cafés—none of them Starbucks—on my way to find a parking spot.

  The High Times Commune, an old Victorian painted every color of the rainbow, was located on a side street. Tie-dyed sheets covered the windows, and the door sported a dozen bumper stickers, mostly political clichés. My favorites: “Save the Bay; Drink Hemp Tea,” “Compost Happens,” and from the Bush days, “Dr. Jack Kevorkian for White House Physician.” I felt like I’d gone back in time.

  Stepping over a German shepherd/rottweiler mix sleeping on the second of five cement stairs, I knocked and rang the bell. A towering emaciated man with blond-turning-to-gray wispy hair tied back in a long, thin ponytail answered the door. He wore ragged jeans and a torn T-shirt with the words “More Cowbell” on the front. I couldn’t begin to guess his age—anywhere from thirty- to fiftysomething. The lines in his face could have come from poor skin care, too much smoke, or simply aging.

  “Yeah?” he said. His eyes were bloodshot, his teeth stained, and I had a feeling his frown was permanent.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Siouxie.”

  “What for?” He reeked of pot.

  “Shut up, Stone,” came a voice from inside the house. Siouxie appeared from behind the half-open door, dressed more normally than her usual getup. She wore an ankle-length retro floral dress, gauzy and too large for her tiny frame. No doubt she’d picked it up in one of the Haight’s secondhand stores. The contrast between her youth and the old clothes was arresting. She didn’t look any older than a high school girl, although the newspaper had listed her age as twenty.

  The man stumbled back, and Siouxie took his place at the door. “I’m Siouxie. Sorry about him. He’s a few ounces short of a kilo.” She brought her thumb and index finger to her lips and pretended to inhale. “Are you from the welfare department? I haven’t been getting my checks. That’s why I called.”

  I shook my head. “I’m Presley Parker. I’m looking into the death of Ikea Takeda.”

  She jerked the door tight against her side. “You’re a cop?”

  I laughed. “Oh no, nothing like that. I’m a . . .” I almost said event planner, then realized it sounded ridiculous. Why would an event planner be investigating a murder?

  “I’m a psychologist. I’m sort of helping the police.” Could I be arrested for impersonating an assistant to the cops? Hell, better to be arrested for fraud than murder.

  Instead of inviting me in, she stepped out, closing the door behind her. Apparently she didn’t trust psychologists either.

  She sat on the porch step and began petting the dog, which until this moment I’d thought might be dead. It hadn’t moved a muscle.

  I sat next to her, carefully eyeing some dog poop not far away.
“I’m trying to find out what I can about Ikea Takeda—the woman who was supposed to be the bride at her surprise wedding. Did you know her at all?”

  “Why are you asking me?” she said casually, still petting the dog. She looked so innocent rubbing the animal’s black and brown fur, it was hard to believe she’d been dressed like a blistered corpse the other night.

  “Because you were at her wedding the night she died.”

  She stopped petting and stared up at me. Her green eyes flashed in the late afternoon light. “Wait a minute. I was only there to make a statement. That’s how I fly. You can’t think I had something to do with her death?”

  “No, no, of course not.” Maybe. “But you might have seen something that night that could help.” Like someone poisoning chocolates. “Does anything stand out in your mind?” Say, murder?

  She shrugged. “All I saw was a bunch of rich drunk people, oblivious to the fact that wildlife is dying on Treasure Island while they get wasted on Alcatraz. That’s the only reason I was there—to get Mayor Greed to save TI.”

  I nodded. “How’s that going?”

  “Sucks. Ikea was supposed to talk to the mayor and get him to come around. My group, Endangered Earth, paid her a lot of money for her help. Now everyone’s mad at me because the bitch is dead, the money is gone, and we’ve got squat.”

  “You paid Ikea?” I asked, surprised at this revelation.

  “Duh,” she said, playing with the beaded necklaces around her neck. “Isn’t that the way things really work in this capitalist society? She promised—practically guaranteed—the mayor would agree to our demands—I mean, requests. Said she had a lot of influence over him. Even told me to show up for that little demo I put on.”

  “She told you to come and do that?” Holy crap. I guess she didn’t know it would be her wedding reception entertainment.

  She laughed. “How else do you think I got into the party?”