How to Host a Killer Party

by Penny Warner

  Brad looked up at me. “The detective thinks it was you.”

  Chapter 26

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #26:

  Don’t let your party become a wild free-for-all, or you’ll soon find uninvited guests at the door—such as the local police.

  I put down my coffee, forgetting all about Brad’s untouched bagel, which had been on my mind seconds before. “Why would Melvin think I set fire to my own building? That’s ridiculous.”

  He shrugged casually. “Get rid of evidence?”

  “Shit. I gotta get out of here.” I stood up and grabbed my SFSU hoodie and knockoff purse and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Brad stood up, coffee in hand, and followed me.

  I spun around. “If Melvin thinks I set the fire, that’s probably all he needs to arrest me! I’ve got to find out who did this before he locks me up. Once he does that, there’s no way I’ll be able to prove my innocence. He thinks I did it, and someone is helping him along with that ridiculous assumption.”

  I stepped out the door and waited for Brad to clear the entryway so I could lock up.

  “How about I come with you?”

  “Why?” I crossed my arms. “What do you really want, Brad?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I don’t have any pressing crime scenes to clean up right now. And . . .” He looked away.

  “And what?” I snapped.

  He met my eyes again. “And, frankly, I don’t think you did any of this.”

  He looked sincere, and suddenly I had trouble finding words. Tears brimmed my eyes, but I quickly turned away and blinked them back.

  “Then why did you pick up one of my business cards from the ground before you left last night? If you want to check my fingerprints, they’re on file with the California Teachers Association.”

  Brad frowned. “If I wanted your fingerprints, I could find a much better set on that coffee cup I brought you.”

  “Then why? You got some kind of business card fetish?” I was only half kidding.

  “You’re right about trying to find prints. I think someone had your card, cased your place, then dropped the card accidentally. Your home address was handwritten on the back.”

  That stopped me momentarily. I thought about the noise I’d heard last night. Someone had been here. And his theory about the business card made sense. I bit my lip, then said, “Well, you’ll have to move your car.” I waved my hand toward his SUV, currently blocking my MINI Cooper.

  He jumped in and backed the SUV out of the driveway. I did the same, then waited on the street while he reparked his car and returned to mine. I stepped on the gas before he even got his seat belt on.

  “Where are we going?”

  From my purse, I pulled out the latest version of my notes with the list of what were becoming my suspects and handed it to him. He read it over, then said, “Who’s KTBNL?”

  I felt my face color. I couldn’t tell him it was my code for Brad Matthews. “Uh, it’s a free space, like in bingo,” I said, and changed the subject. “Have you been to CeeGee Studio?”

  He shook his head.

  “I’ve heard from Raj it’s pretty cool inside. They’ve filmed all kinds of movies in the old aircraft hangars—Indiana Jones, Flubber, Rent, and TV shows like Battlebots and Nash Bridges. Even Monk. It used to be a Pan Am hangar in the thirties.” I glanced over at him. No reaction.

  After a few turns, I pulled into the film studio lot and shut off the ignition.

  “But why are we here?” Brad asked.

  I released my seat belt. “Spaz Cruz is one of the people who has definite ideas about Treasure Island. I need to talk to him—see if he has anything to say about the mayor. He may know something Mayor Green doesn’t want the general public to know. And he may be using it as leverage in his fight for the island. Besides, he might even be a suspect.”

  The hangar didn’t look like much from the outside—just a ginormous windowless building—but I’d heard from Raj it was a whole other world inside. Tourists regularly tried to find the place, but if you didn’t know where it was, it was easily overlooked. There were no signs on the doors or walls other than KEEP OUT. DANGER. Those signs were common all over the island, thanks to the toxic chemicals left behind.

  We got out and headed for what looked like the front entrance—two huge double doors decorated with NO ADMITTANCE signs. By the look of the metal gizmo attached to

  the heavy doors, it appeared I’d need some kind of coded card to get in. With that kind of security, anything could be going on in there. Who would know?

  I knocked. No answer. Duh. I cursed and headed back to the MINI, where Brad stood leaning against the front fender. “It’s like a fortress,” I said, reaching for my purse lying in the backseat.

  “Boy, you give up easy,” he said, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “I’m not giving up!” I snapped, and pulled my cell out of my purse. “And I don’t see you trying anything.”

  I scrolled down my contacts, touched a name, and held the phone to my ear, waiting for an answer.

  “Yes, hello?” a voice whispered.

  “Raj?”

  “Yes, it is me. Ms. Presley?”

  “Yeah, why are you whispering?”

  “I am at CeeGee, on the soundstage where they are filming the new movie Bad Ass, with Jack Jason. I cannot make any noise or I will be removed.”

  “Perfect!” I said, glancing at Brad smugly. “Listen, I’m right outside the door. You’ve got to get me in there.”

  Hearing my side of the conversation, Brad grinned.

  “Oh, Ms. Presley,” Raj whispered. “I cannot do that, actually. It’s what they call a closed set. No one is allowed inside.”

  “But you’re inside!”

  “Yes, but I am having a role in the film, remember?”

  “Raj, this is life or death. I need to talk to Cruz. All you have to do is open the door for a second. I’ll sneak in and—”

  “You are asking me to break the law, Ms. Presley! That’s going against the code.”

  “Entering a movie studio is not against the law, Raj. And I’ll make sure no one knows you let me in.”

  “Ms. Presley—”

  “Raj, the cops think I killed those two women! If I don’t find some kind of evidence that clears me, they’re going to lock me up. Do you understand?”

  I glanced at Brad again. He was rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

  “Okay. Okay. They are taking a break. Everyone will be going to the catering table. Maybe they will not be noticing you. There is a door at the back—on H Street. Go there and be waiting for me.”

  “Thanks, Raj. You’re saving my life.”

  I hung up, gestured for Brad to stay put, and headed to the back door. Moments later it opened a slit. A dark brown eye appeared in the crack. A brown hand grabbed my wrist and quickly pulled me inside, closing the door behind me.

  I found myself behind a black curtain, which I assumed was there to keep any light from sifting in when the door was opened. Raj shushed me—for no reason—then gestured for me to follow him. The darkness abated as we came out from behind the curtain, and the bright lights nearly blinded me as I entered the humongous soundstage.

  I don’t know what I expected—maybe something like the magical lot on the Universal Studios tour—but what I found was akin to an enormous junkyard. Cement floors and ceilings were covered with wires that seemingly led everywhere and nowhere. While most of the crew were huddled around an expansive table covered in deli meats, cheese, breads, and spreads, a few in flannel shirts and baggy jeans appeared to be repainting cars in what looked like a chop shop. In another area, a couple of guys seemed to be playing with explosives. I heard the sound of little pops. At the far end of the room I spotted what could have been a crack house, complete with skanky prostitutes and overdressed pimps in various stages of drug-induced apathy.

  Hard to believe it was all fake.

  Raj nudged me and nodded toward a
thin man with a scraggly goatee and a scraggly ponytail sitting on the seat of a fake motorcycle, flipping through what I guessed was a script. Although he looked more like a longtime doper than a respected film producer, I recognized Lucas “Spaz” Cruz immediately from the wedding party. I turned around to nod my thanks at Raj, but he had disappeared.

  Glancing around for something to make me look as if I belonged, I spotted a tray of cheeses on the buffet table and picked them up.

  “How is everything?” I asked Spaz Cruz after sidling up to him. I held out the tray as an offering.

  He glanced up from his reading and looked at me blankly.

  “I’m the new caterer. Presley Parker.” I held out a hand. “I did the event for the mayor the other day, and someone from your office hired me.”

  “Everything’s fine,” Spaz said. He shook my hand limply, then took a cube of cheese and returned to his reading.

  “This is so embarrassing, but would you mind if I borrowed your cell phone for a minute? The battery is dead on mine, and I think one of my staff is lost. She’s supposed to bring the dessert, and I see it isn’t here yet.”

  Spaz Cruz frowned, then reluctantly pulled his cell from his pocket and handed it to me. An iPhone, naturally.

  “Thank you so much. I’ll be quick.”

  I turned slightly so he couldn’t see the screen, then pretended to click on the push-button screen while actually pulling up his contacts list. Scrolling down I found Mayor Green’s number. Not surprising. I scrolled further down until I hit another familiar name—Ikea Takeda. Why would he have her number on his contacts list?

  “Whoops. Wrong number,” I said, grinning at him. I pretended to redial while pulling up the recents list. Scrolling down, I found Ikea’s name listed again. She had called him the day of the party. Odd.

  I held the phone to my ear, pretended to talk to my fake assistant about the fake dessert, then hung up and handed back the phone. “Thank you so much! She’s on her way. Just got a little lost.”

  Spaz nodded, forced a smile, and tucked the phone back into his pocket.

  “Hope you enjoyed the mayor’s party the other night,” I said, trying to figure out a way to ask him about Ikea. “You know, except for Ikea. It’s so awful what happened to the mayor’s fiancée, isn’t it?” I said, shaking my head.

  He stared at me as if I were some kind of alien.

  “Of course, we’re not using that chef anymore for our catering business,” I rambled on.

  Spaz glanced at the cheese tray, then looked at me.

  “Oh, you have nothing to worry about. They have that guy in custody. He won’t be poisoning anyone anymore.”

  Spaz Cruz put the script down on his lap and turned to me. Finally, I had his attention. “They do?”

  I nodded, but before I could ramble further, he asked, “Who did you say you are again?”

  “Presley Parker. The caterer for the mayor. And you.” I offered the cheese tray again. He shook his head. “So did you know her? Ikea, I mean.”

  “No . . . ,” he said, clearly puzzled as to why I was talking to him about the dead woman. I blathered on before he came to his senses and told me to get lost.

  “They say the mayor might have had something to do with it,” I said, “but he seems like such a nice man, don’t you think?”

  Spaz’s mouth dropped open. He looked stunned by my boldness. And that was just what I was going for. The more outrageous I became, the more I hoped he’d talk. “Then again, you never know what goes on behind closed political doors, do you?” I gave him a knowing wink.

  “Do you know something about Ikea’s death?” he said, growing more interested by the second.

  “Well, I’m not one to gossip,” I said conspiratorially, “but I heard someone was trying to ‘convince’ ”—I put the word in one-handed finger quotes—“the mayor to turn over the island to a special interest group.”

  Spaz Cruz got that thoughtful look in his eyes again. “Really?”

  “Hey, weren’t you one of those guys arguing with him at the party? Yeah—you’re the one who wants to turn TI into a Hollywood of the North!”

  Spaz abruptly closed the script he’d been reading and dismounted the motorcycle. “I’m not trying to pressure the mayor to do anything,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “Where did you get such misinformation? The tabloids, no doubt.”

  I dropped the act and turned serious. “But you do have a stake in this, don’t you, Mr. Cruz? And you did know Ikea Takeda, didn’t you? Did you also know Andi Sax? She’s dead too, you know.”

  Spaz’s face reddened as he finally met my eyes. “I barely knew Ikea. I may have used Sax for a couple of parties, but I didn’t really know her. My staff handles all that.”

  “Really? Then why was Ikea’s number in your cell phone?”

  The dawn of enlightenment filled Cruz’s face. “I hope you’re not suggesting . . .”

  “No. I’m just trying to find out what happened to the mayor’s fiancée and his former party planner. I think the mayor is somehow connected. If you know anything—”

  He cut me off. “How did you get in here?”

  “You’re awfully defensive, Mr. Cruz. If you had nothing to do with any of this, then—”

  “Jerry! Rob!” he called to a couple of guys carrying a long ladder nearby. “Would you escort Ms. . . . whatever . . . out of the building, please?”

  Jerry the Giant and Rob the Robot set down the ladder and muscled their way over. When they started to take my arms, I jerked out of their reach, spilling the tray of cheese.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Cruz,” I called as I dashed toward the exit. “I hope you’ll use Killer Parties for your next event.”

  “How did it go?” Brad asked. He was sitting in the passenger side of my car, listening to the radio. Country music.

  I shrugged. “He’s definitely hiding something—he was very defensive—but he won’t talk to me.”

  “No shit,” Brad said. He didn’t look surprised. “You probably weren’t terribly subtle.”

  “I thought I was brilliant,” I said, as I started up the car. “I could be an actress if I wanted to. Piece of cake.”

  Brad laughed. On the way back to the office, I shared what little I’d learned. But the more I thought about it, the more I was certain that Spaz Cruz knew something.

  When we arrived back at the building, I kept the car idling, waiting for Brad to get out. He didn’t move.

  “You’re not coming in?” Brad asked, resting one arm on the windowsill and the other on the back of my seat.

  “I’m going to see my mother.”

  “She lives nearby?”

  I nodded. “In a care facility in the city. Alzheimer’s. You know.”

  Brad nodded. “Sorry.” He opened the car door, then turned back to me. “Do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t go around interrogating people without me. You could get into some serious trouble, poking your nose into places that some people want to keep private.”

  I thought of Spaz Cruz. He knew my name and the name of my business. He knew where to find me. And he knew I was snooping around about the murders. If he had anything to do with it, I could be in real trouble. It was nice to know Brad was concerned about my well-being.

  Then again, was he? Or was he just keeping tabs on what I learned?

  As soon as he was out of the car, I shoved the gearshift into reverse and sped away without looking back.

  “Mom?” I said into the phone at a stop sign, hoping a cop wouldn’t catch me. This hands-free-while-talking-on-the-phone law was idiotic, and I tended to ignore it—when there were no cops around. One day I would get caught, but by then I’d feel it was worth the fine.

  “Yes, dear?” she said. Good. She still recognized my voice. Although she might not remember what we did a few hours ago, she remembered me, and for that I was grateful. And while I’d learned that some Alzheimer’s patients become surly as the illness prog
resses, so far my mother was her usual sweet, albeit ditzy, self.

  “Are you free?” I pulled onto the Bay Bridge headed for the city, one eye on the road, one eye alert for the California Highway Patrol.

  “Well, I think I have some kind of exercise class this afternoon. Tai Chi or yoga or something. But that’s it.”

  “Want to take a little drive, maybe see an old friend?”

  “That sounds lovely, dear! Male or female?”

  “Male. I thought we’d pay a call on Admiral Stadelhofer. He’s retired and lives on Yerba Buena Island.”

  “Wonderful! I haven’t seen him in years! Oh, what shall I wear?”

  “Keep it casual, Mom. You look beautiful in anything.”

  She giggled.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time. But all right, I’ll see you in the lobby.”

  Not giving her much time to primp was the point. I didn’t want her changing into some kind of cocktail frock and full makeup for this visit.

  Twenty minutes later I pulled up in front of her Victorian building. Double-parking the MINI, I rushed inside, signed her out, and led her to the car.

  “When did you get this cute little thing?” my mother asked as she delicately snuggled into the cozy passenger seat.

  “I’ve had it for a while, Mom. You’ve been in it before. Remember last week when we went to the de Young?”

  “Oh, I love the de Young. We should go there.”

  I turned on my iPod, and selected one of her favorite songs from Grease.

  “So, where are we going today?”

  I smiled. “Yerba Buena Island. To see your old friend, Admiral Stadelhofer.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad I dressed for the occasion.”

  And she had. Her highlighted blondish hair was swept up in her usual French roll, her makeup expertly done but a little heavy for daytime. And she wore a frilly dress covered with red and yellow flowers, years too young for her age. It matched her scuffed red heels and red patent leather handbag.

  I took the turnoff for Yerba Buena, passed the sign that read PRIVATE ROAD: RESIDENTS AND GUESTS ONLY, and waited for the usual travelogue my mother offered whenever we went somewhere. As a native San Franciscan, she knew more about the Bay Area than most history teachers, and her long-term memory was still very much intact. She didn’t disappoint me.