How to Host a Killer Party

by Penny Warner

  “Did you know, Presley, that Yerba Buena means good herb?”

  I nodded, wondering what the local pot smokers thought about that.

  “The island used to be called Sea Bird Island and Goat Island, back when it was a Civil War military post. Then it became a naval training station, you know, with upscale housing for senior officers. . . .”

  As she continued with her lecture, I focused on maneuvering the hairpin turns as we drove up the steep, narrow road. I caught glimpses of the natural topography of the island, dramatically different from the flat, man-made landscape of Treasure Island, its conjoined twin. Whereas TI is practically barren of vegetation aside from a few palm trees and in need of serious renovation, neighboring Yerba Buena Island is lush with sage scrub, wildflowers, eucalyptus, moss and ivy, live oaks, buckeye trees, and well-kept, albeit tiny, yards. A few retired officers—and civilians who could afford the high rent—currently lived in the stately two- and three-story homes. Though built closely together, the houses were mostly secluded from one another thanks to the trees. Since the coast guard keeps a minimal base there, a small portion of the area is restricted, but most of the island is open to the public, in spite of the less-than-welcoming sign. Still, there were never many cars on the road. There’s not much to see or do unless you’re visiting old military buddies, checking out the quaint, still-functioning lighthouse, or you’re just plain curious.

  I wondered what it must have been like living on the base during wartime. Much of the navy housing was simple—squat homes with flat, asphalt roofs built on stilts into the hills. Mother pointed out several playgrounds and mini-parks the officers and their families must have used in the postwar days, as well as other remnants of the past, such as the blue awnings, small windowpanes, and clothes-lines.

  We pulled up to the address on the private road listed in my notes, a four-story white brick and clapboard Victorian with three turrets at the top. The expansive front porch was covered with artificial green turf, and the top riser leading to the porch sported a brass plaque: ADM STADELHOFER.

  “So Gene lives here?” my mother asked, finally ending her travelogue. I scanned what would have been the admiral’s enviable panoramic view of San Francisco, the peninsula, and Oakland, but the fog had started to sweep in, obscuring the details. I felt my hair frizz as soon as I got out of the car. Helping my mother out of her seat, I noticed her hair seemed impenetrable, no doubt covered with layers of hair spray.

  “Classic Revival,” my mother said, staring up at the mini-mansion, noticeably larger than the three other homes located within a stone’s throw of the place. “He’s certainly done well for himself.”

  I followed her up the three steps but stopped short when she began peering into one of the two large-paned front windows that flanked either side of the palatial home.

  “Mother!” I whispered as she cupped her hands around her eyes and leaned into the glass.

  “Oh my!” she gasped. “Look at this!” She grabbed my arm and pulled me to the window. In spite of my sense of propriety, I peeked inside, curious about how a retired navy officer lived—especially this one.

  Hardwood floors, a sparkling chandelier, fleur-de-lis wallpaper, and a brick fireplace created an impressive background for the blue velvet couch and chairs, antique tables, and Victorian lamps. A portrait of the admiral in full uniform and colorful medals hung over the fireplace. Before I could study the room further, Mother dragged me to the other side of the double front doors and leaned into the matching window. This room was almost a mirror image of the first room, with more hardwood floors, another chandelier, and a second fireplace. Only the furniture, while still antique, was maroon instead of blue. Incredible. The house had two living rooms.

  Mother released my hand and rang the bell.

  “Mother!” I whispered.

  “What? We’re here to see Gene, right? What’s the problem?”

  “I . . . I’m not ready,” I stammered.

  “What do you mean, you’re not ready? He’s my old boyfriend. I’ll do the talking.”

  I had no choice but to nod as I heard muted heavy footfalls on the hardwood floors. One of the double doors opened and a red-faced older man stood in the doorway. He wore a silky, old-fashioned smoking jacket that was barely secured around his large stomach. This was not a man who stayed away from a mess hall. He wore leather slippers and argyle socks on his feet, but his legs were bare beneath the hem of the robe. He frowned at us with bushy white eyebrows that could have used my mother’s expert styling and hair spray.

  “Yes?” he said, pulling the belt tightly around his middle.

  I started to say something but my mother interrupted me. “Gene! It’s so good to see you!” She smiled, practically batting her eyelashes in time to her words. The old girl still had it.

  “Ronnie?” the admiral sputtered.

  “In the flesh, so to speak,” she said, then blushed.

  Instead of inviting us in, Admiral Stadelhofer glanced back into the house, then stepped onto the porch and closed the door softly.

  “What are you doing here, Ronnie?” He turned to me, finally acknowledging me, and said, “I know you. You’re . . .” He snapped his fingers, trying to come up with the answer.

  Mother put an arm around me and gave me a proud squeeze. “This is my daughter, Presley. She’s a college professor over at San Francisco State.”

  I started to explain: “I’m only an instructor, not a professor, and actually I was recently laid off—” I stopped when I saw the color drain from the admiral’s red face. He looked at my mother.

  “She’s not . . . mine, is she?”

  Mother laughed. I frowned. Of course I wasn’t his daughter. God, I hoped not. Neither of us was pleased at the thought.

  “Don’t be silly, Gene. She came along way after you.”

  He looked visibly relieved, and the color returned to his Santa Claus cheeks and gin-blossom nose.

  “So, may we come in?” Mother said.

  The admiral shook his head. “It’s not a good time, Ronnie. My wife is ill—”

  “Your wife?” Mother frowned, then said loud enough for the neighbors to hear, “You’re married?”

  Uh-oh.

  I had a feeling her Alzheimer’s was kicking up a notch today. Had she really expected he’d been single all these years?

  “You knew that, Ronnie. You planned our engagement party, remember?”

  As my mother tried to focus her thoughts, I could see the admiral realize the situation. He looked at me—a look of regret flashed over his florid features. I gave a tight smile. Then suddenly, another look crossed his face—one of recognition. “Now I know who you are! You’re that party gal from the mayor’s wedding.”

  I started to nod humbly until he continued. “What a snafu! You really made a mess of things, didn’t you? Not exactly a chip off the old block when it comes to parties, are you?” he said, glancing at my mother.

  I knew my mother wouldn’t take kindly to the “old block” reference. “Eugene! What are you talking about?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Nothing, Mother. It was that party I planned for Mayor Green. There were a couple of glitches. . . .”

  “Glitches?” The admiral laughed. “You call a murdered guest of honor a glitch? In the navy, we’d call that a major FUBAR. A clusterfu—”

  “Stop it, Gene!” Mother stared at the admiral, horrified. “You watch your language in front of a lady.” Then she turned to me. “What does he mean, ‘murder’?”

  “She didn’t tell you?” the admiral said, his eyes on me. “At that so-called party she threw for the mayor, his bride-to-be turned up floating in the bay like an overturned boat. Apparently she was murdered. Poisoned. With chocolates your daughter served at the party.”

  “How did you know about the chocolates?” I asked, surprised he would have that kind of information.

  He shrugged, as if realizing he might have said too much. “I got connections. Scuttlebutt is, you’re the
ir primary suspect.”

  Mother, eyes wide, mouth open, looked at me, then turned back to the admiral and slapped him, hard, across his fat red cheek.

  “What the fu—” he started to say, rubbing his face.

  “How dare you! My daughter is no murderer. If anyone is guilty of a crime, it’s you, Gene. I may have forgotten you’re married, but I haven’t forgotten the rumors about all that testing you did on those poor men.”

  The admiral took a step back, wild-eyed. Mother was onto something.

  “That was never proved,” he sputtered.

  “Everyone knows how good you are at hiding things, Gene. You only got away with it because you paid off some self-serving committee. And now you’re at it again, aren’t you? You think your money and influence will buy you a place in history.”

  I stared at my mother, who seemed amazingly lucid at the moment. “You mean, you know about his interests in Treasure Island?”

  Without taking her steely eyes off of the admiral, she nodded. “I have my sources too, Gene.”

  A female voice called from inside the house. The admiral whirled around and headed inside without another word. I jumped at the sound of the door slamming shut in our faces.

  “Come along, dear,” Mother said, taking my sweating palm in her dry, papery hand and leading me back to the MINI Cooper. “I’m hungry. How about we go to Tommy’s Joynt for some buffalo stew and an Irish coffee? My treat.”

  I glanced back at Admiral Stadelhofer’s stately home and caught a glimpse of a woman wearing a housecoat, staring out the window, her arms crossed over her chest. There was no sign of the former navy officer.

  Tommy’s Joynt at Van Ness and Geary is a popular tourist spot, but the locals love it too—the non-vegetarian ones, that is. My mother used to take me there every year for my birthday because she loved the Hofbrau and I loved the tacky retro signs and neon beer lights that covered the walls and ceiling. Now that she lived so close to the place, we’d become regulars.

  I ordered the beer and bean soup, she had the stew, and we sat down at a small table under the stairs that led to the restrooms. She gave a brief history lesson about the place—built in 1947, Herb Caen’s hangout, and so on—something she did every time we came. It was as if she’d completely forgotten about our recent encounter with the admiral.

  “So, Mom,” I said, after a spoonful of the spicy soup, “what did you mean about Admiral Stadelhofer doing tests on his men?”

  She looked up from her stew and blinked. “Who?”

  “Gene Stadelhofer. You said something about some testing he did while in the navy?”

  She resumed eating her stew. Between bites, she filled me in. “There were rumors about a secret project called SHIP, or SHADE, or something like that. It was some kind of germ warfare tests or whatnot. When a bunch of sailors got sick from the tests, Gene tried to cover it up, denied everything. I don’t think they ever proved any of the allegations, but a few of us know the truth—that he was into something secret—and dangerous.” She looked at me pointedly. “That was after I dumped him, of course.”

  I ate and thought about what she’d said, hardly tasting my soup. Admiral Stadelhofer had been using his men as guinea pigs to test for some kind of germ warfare? Could that have something to do with the death of Ikea Takeda or Andi Sax? Could one—or both—have discovered proof of his involvement in something so unethical and diabolical it could have ruined him?

  For the rest of the meal, my mother did the talking, mostly about her party heyday and plentiful paramours. Then, out of the blue, she said, “Dear, are you in some sort of trouble? You look a little pale.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “No, Mom, I’m fine. I’m just trying to find out how Ikea Takeda and Andi Sax were murdered so I don’t end up—” I started to say in jail—or worse—but didn’t want to alarm my mother.

  “Murdered? Who was murdered?”

  Apparently she’d forgotten what the admiral had said, another sign that her long-term memory was still good, but not so much her short-term.

  I sighed internally, shook my head, and rose from the table. “We’ve got to get you back home. Your friends will be wondering where you are.”

  She stood and delicately brushed at the front of her dress, removing nonexistent crumbs with bright red nails. “Oh, I hope I haven’t missed the party!”

  “What party?” I asked, following her to the door.

  “It’s my birthday, silly! Did you forget? I’m having a huge gala to celebrate.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her birthday had been six months ago. Why spoil an excuse to celebrate? “Happy birthday, Mom.”

  “I had a little chat with Admiral Eugene Stadelhofer,” I said to Brad, who stood in my office doorway looking down at me. He pulled the folding chair up to my paper-littered desk and glanced down at the increasing notes I’d been making about the murders.

  “Really?” He looked a little disappointed. Why? Because I hadn’t taken him with me? Or because I’d learned something that he might not know? “So what did you chat about?”

  I decided not to tell Brad about my mother’s questionable relationship with Gene, as she called him. I didn’t think it was necessary to involve her in this.

  “How’d you get him to talk?” he asked.

  “Rang the doorbell,” I answered smugly.

  “What, no breaking and entering? No criminal trespass?”

  I glared at him. “Stop sounding like a cop. I thought you were interested in helping me. If not, go . . . clean something.”

  He sat back. “Whoa. We’re a little crabby, aren’t we? I just want to keep you from breaking any laws. How’s it going to look if you’re arrested for a 602?”

  A 602? I assumed it was police code for trespassing, but how would he know that? Had he been arrested for a 602? I really knew nothing about this guy who had walked into my life so coincidentally. Brad Matthews might claim he was a crime scene cleaner, but I had a feeling he was something more. A snitch for the cops? Letting him get involved in this had been a bad idea.

  I underlined Admiral Stadelhofer’s name and added a fat question mark, along with the acronyms SHIP and SHADE my mother had mentioned.

  Brad looked at my notes. “You’re going about it the wrong way.”

  “Oh really? Got a better idea, Holmes?”

  “Yeah, Drew. Think about it from the killer’s perspective. That’s what I do when I’m bored cleaning up a homicide. I try to imagine what happened and get inside the killer’s head while I’m wiping up all that blood.”

  “Easy to say,” I said, sighing. “I don’t have any solid suspects, other than the mayor—and that’s just because he looks guilty. I don’t have any incriminating evidence, either—except my connection to the chocolates. Frankly, I’m running out of time. It’s only a matter of hours before Detective Melvin reads me my rights—or I move to Argentina.”

  Brad patted my knee, then stood up and left me alone to my self-pitying thoughts. I turned on my iTunes, plugged in my earbuds, and listened to the Smiths sing “Girlfriend in a Coma.” Luckily for me, having ADHD is akin to multitasking, so while Morrissey crooned, I started to formulate a plan.

  It was time to throw another party. The theme: “Catch a Killer.”

  Chapter 27

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #27:

  When you’re desperate for a fresh party idea, search the Web and you’ll find every theme from Redneck Trailer Park parties to Red Hat tea parties. But a Murder Mystery party is always a crowd-pleaser.

  Without a backward glance at Brad, I left the office and drove to my condo. My cats gave me a mixed welcome—Cairo hid under the coffee table, no doubt thinking I was an intruder. Thursby tried to attack my feet because he thought they were mice. And Fatman barely lifted his fat head from his place on the kitchen counter, probably because I wasn’t food.

  I plopped down on my couch and switched on my blue netbook. My laptop was still in the old smoke-damaged office—I ha
dn’t had a chance to move it to the new barracks next door yet. My mini-computer would give me access to as much information as I could get before I took the next step.

  I Googled “Bradley Matthews.” Apparently it was a common name, since over a dozen hits appeared. I narrowed down the search by adding “San Francisco” and “crime scene cleaner” and came up with nothing. I took out the job, leaving only his name and the city.

  Bingo. An article appeared, dated three years earlier, no picture. What I read sent a shiver through me.

  Bradley Matthews had killed a man.

  I reread the passage slowly, making sure I hadn’t skipped anything important or misunderstood it.

  ... The victim, Jerome “J.T.” Thompson, was shot and killed coming out of the liquor store when he didn’t respond to the police officer’s command to halt.

  According to an inquest conducted by SFPD Internal Affairs, Officer Matthews claimed the suspect appeared to be hiding a weapon in the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt.

  After Matthews identified himself and repeated requests to “Halt and drop the weapon,” he shot the suspect twice in the chest. Thompson died at the scene.

  The investigators later learned that Thompson was deaf, and the weapon he was brandishing was a BlackBerry, which he used to instant message other deaf people.

  Officer Matthews is on leave, pending further investigation.

  Oh my God.

  I knew it. Brad had been a cop. What I never would have guessed was that he’d killed an unarmed man. A disabled unarmed man.

  That must have been devastating for him.

  Was he kicked off the force? Or did he leave voluntarily? He had most likely suffered—was still suffering—from PTSD, posttraumatic stress disorder. Is that why he’d become a crime scene cleaner?