How to Host a Killer Party

by Penny Warner

If you plan to videotape your party, avoid playing the footage back during the event or you may find you’ve captured a couple of unsuspecting guests engaged in some compromising activities.

  The back of my neck tingled as I approached Ikea’s unmarked office. I twisted the doorknob. It held fast.

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled on the door, praying the business card trick would work like the gum had.

  It gave easily.

  With a last look down the hall, I slipped in and closed the door.

  Light from a streetlamp lit up the room enough so that I didn’t have to turn on the switch. I tiptoed to Ikea’s empty desk, sat down, and began opening drawers, one by one. All barren.

  I turned to the file cabinet behind the desk and yanked on the top drawer. Empty. All four drawers were the same. Cherchezing la femme was turning out to be a colossal waste of time.

  I shoved the top drawer back in, then the second, third, and last one. The three top drawers glided in smoothly. The one on the bottom stuck out about an inch. Mad at myself for wasting my time, I gave it an ineffective kick with my flip-flip and stubbed my big toe on the corner. “Shit!” I said, shoving it again with the bottom of my shoe.

  It stood fast.

  Kneeling down, I pulled the drawer open, then slid it in and out a few times. There was something keeping it from fully closing. I pulled on the drawer until it came completely out. Setting it on the floor next to me, I retrieved my cell phone from my purse. I turned it on and used the light to see inside the dark cabinet.

  I could just make out something white—a piece of paper?—at the back.

  I reached in, straining against the cabinet to grasp the paper with my short fingernails. I managed to get hold of a corner, then inched it out slowly.

  It was an envelope. Apparently it had fallen behind the drawer and gotten stuck.

  Or had someone hidden it there?

  I sat on the floor, my heart racing, and opened the sealed flap. Dumping the contents on the carpet, I held up my cell and scanned the materials: a map and a mini-videotape.

  Unfolding the map, I immediately recognized Treasure Island. Someone had divided the island into sections and labeled each one. But instead of plans for a casino, movie studio, memorial, or habitat, these plans indicated areas for a multimillion-dollar commercial/residential development, complete with high-end shops, gated communities, and exclusive homes—including one marked “Mayor’s Mansion.”

  It was all here. The mayor’s—or Ikea’s—real plans for Treasure Island.

  I set the map down and held up the videotape. This I had to see. And with Berkeley’s help I’d be able to view it as soon as I returned to the office.

  A click.

  Shit! Someone was at the door!

  I stuffed the contents of the envelope into my purse and scooted under the desk, behind the chair.

  The file drawer!

  If the intruder entered the room, he’d quickly discover it lying on the floor. I reached out a hand, pushed the drawer out of the line of sight, and crossed my fingers I wasn’t totally screwed.

  I sucked in a breath. My heart beat like a trapped bird inside my chest.

  The door opened.

  Silence.

  A flashlight beam swept the room.

  The bird in my chest grew to the size of a turkey. I pulled back under the desk as far as I could, hoping the chair gave me extra coverage.

  More silence.

  I pressed my hand over my heart to keep it from pounding out of my chest. Could the intruder hear my heartbeat echoing like a drum?

  An eternity later, the door closed. I scrambled out from under the desk and moved to the door, pressing my ear against it, listening for footfalls. Muffled steps faded away to nothing.

  I exhaled, waited a few more minutes, then pulled the door open an inch and peered out.

  Clear.

  That was way too close.

  When I thought about all the laws I’d broken and how narrowly I’d escaped being arrested—this time—my hands began to tremble. If anyone had caught me, there would have been no Camp Cupcake for me.

  Holding the stair railing with a sweaty, shaky palm, I double-timed it down the steps and ducked out of the building in record time. When I reached my MINI Cooper, I cursed.

  A ticket on the windshield.

  Cursing again, I threw caution to the wind and drove over the speed limit back to Treasure Island. My thoughts were consumed with what I’d found in Ikea’s abandoned office. Not only her plans for the island—or the mayor’s?—but a mysterious videotape. I couldn’t wait to see what played.

  How much did the mayor know about Ikea’s secret stash? And whatever was on that tape? Enough to have a reason to kill her? And how could he know for sure the party would end in such chaos?

  I was going around in circles, my mind churning with possibilities like a whirlpool. I had to focus on the upcoming treasure hunt. That earring was the key to everything, I was sure. If the mayor showed up to retrieve it, that would almost prove he killed her. And he’d do it in front of witnesses.

  Like a shower of snowflakes, everything seemed to be falling into place.

  Or was it more like an avalanche—and was I about to be buried in my own scheme? After all, the killer knew I knew, thanks to that cryptic invitation.

  “Berk! I need you!” I yelled as I entered the office building.

  Berk looked up from the video screen he was watching. “ ‘Yes, my precious?’ ” he hissed, quoting Lord of the Rings.

  No time for games. “Can you play this?” I handed him the tiny videotape I’d taken—stolen—from Ikea’s office.

  He took the tape and turned it over in his hand. “Sure.” Popping it into one of his smaller videocameras, he flipped open the viewer and turned the camera on.

  Instantly the tiny screen filled with the image of two people having sex.

  “Whoa. Is this you?” He turned and grinned at me.

  “God, no!”

  We both watched the action on the screen in stunned silence. Finally Berk said, “Oh my God. I see dead people! Isn’t that Ikea?”

  He was right. There she was, lying on her back on a mattress.

  “Who’s that with her?” I asked, referring to the muscular man on top of her. After a few mesmerizing moments—and a new camera angle—I recognized the long black hair.

  “Ikea is having sex with Dakota Hunter!” I looked over at Berkeley, who was grinning like a horny schoolboy. But he wasn’t lusting over the cheerleader; he was ogling the football quarterback.

  “Dude, he’s hot.”

  What was Ikea doing with Dakota Hunter, other than the obvious? In other words, why—if she was engaged to Davin Green?

  “The photography needs work. Obviously the guy holding the camera is a rookie,” Berk said.

  “Oh my God! You’re right—someone else is there. I didn’t even think about that.” So now the question was, who was holding the camera? Davin Green? Were they into that kind of thing? Who knew what went on behind closed doors?

  “Can I borrow your camera for a little while? I want to watch the whole thing and see if I can figure out who’s doing the shooting. I don’t have time right now.”

  Berk clicked off the camera and handed it over, with brief instructions on how to play the tape.

  “Thanks, Berk. And don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

  He nodded. I left his office and went to check on the others. Delicia had the decorations and clues ready to go. Duncan had packed up the GPS devices. Raj had ironed his uniform, and his badge shone like the top of the Chrysler Building.

  Only Brad Matthews was missing from the roster.

  I wondered where he was.

  And whether he’d show up for the “party.”

  Chapter 31

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #31:

  If, in spite of all your plans, you commit a party foul, learn from your mistakes. If there’s something more you could have done to give that party some pizzazz
, try it next time. What have you got to lose?

  Back in my office, I tried to call Chloe but got her voice mail. Damn. I left a message for her to call me back as soon as possible, that it was urgent. Next, I turned to the pressing matter at hand.

  “Okay, guys. Let’s get this party started!”

  I heard Berk chant a line from Animal House in the background. “Toga! Toga! Toga!”

  If this treasure hunt didn’t kill me, it just might save my life—and maybe a few others. I was sorry it was too late for Andi Sax and Ikea Takeda. I was still praying for Rocco’s recovery. If my plan worked, the killer would get my clue about Ikea’s missing earring and come after it during the treasure hunt. Of course, he—or she—might even come after me, figuring I knew something about how it ended up on Treasure Island. But that was a chance I’d have to take. The alternative was twenty-to-life.

  “Duncan!” I yelled.

  Duncan leaned out of his squatter’s office, his red hair falling in his face. “Dude. What?”

  “You ready?”

  “Du-uhh.” He flashed a freckled thumbs-up.

  Duh. I wish I had that kind of relaxed confidence. “All right. Meet you at the Officers’ Club.”

  After my coworkers had piled into their cars and started off, I checked one last time for Brad’s SUV in the lot. Where the hell was our crime scene cleaner? Mentally shrugging, I followed the caravan to the starting point less than a mile away.

  A few minutes later we’d pulled up to the club parking lot and had begun unloading for the game. I sidled up to Duncan, who was unboxing a couple dozen GPS units and absently setting them on a card table. His real attention seemed to be focused on Delicia. I caught him stealing glances at her as she covered another table with a tablecloth. She’d chosen camo fabric in an effort to coordinate with the theme. I wondered if she noticed Duncan’s surreptitious looks.

  Meanwhile, Berk began videotaping the area, with close-ups on the GPS units, the stack of clues, and my frantic-looking face. Raj just strolled around, hands clasped behind his back, watching for guests—invited and uninvited.

  “Think the game is easy enough for beginners?” I asked Duncan, then chewed my nail nervously.

  “Totally. With these new units, all they have to do is find the longitude and latitude for each coordinate.” He picked up a unit as if it were a valuable relic. “These are state of the art. They have their own maps, built-in electronic compasses, even voice navigation.”

  “So the players don’t need to know all that technical mumbo jumbo you’re always spewing?”

  He rolled his eyes. “No. You just enter the waypoint written on the clue. That’s where the geocache—the treasure— is hidden. That’s it.”

  “Hmmm. Can I track a player with one of these units?”

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. “God, Presley! The units don’t broadcast your location—unless you’re an alien or something. I thought you knew all this stuff. The satellites use radio frequencies that broadcast their position. Your unit takes that information to figure out where you are. It’s called triangulation.”

  “So they don’t have to wear foil helmets to deflect all those gamma rays?” I asked, laughing.

  He rolled his eyes again. If he wasn’t careful, his eyes were going disappear into his head forever. That’s what my mother had always told me.

  “You know, someday they’re going to be able to track Oldtimer’s patients with these babies,” Duncan said, practically petting the one in his hand.

  I bristled at the euphemistic word. “It’s Alzheimer’s.”

  “Whatever.”

  I started to pick up a unit but fumbled it in my fingers. It landed on the table with a smack.

  “Careful! Those are expensive.” Duncan grabbed it up.

  “Sorry. How much do they cost?”

  “Some are only a hundred bucks, but those are crap. These cost five hundred a pop.”

  Whoa. I wondered who paid for them. Did Duncan make that kind of cash hosting his GPS hunts?

  “What are you guys talking about?” Delicia appeared with a handful of leftover fabric she’d used as tablecloths. In addition to the camo, the tables now sported green, black, and brown balloons, along with signs that read CLUE #1. Ever the scene stealer, she was wearing camo overalls and Crocs that matched the tablecloths. Cute.

  “I was just telling Dunk that I didn’t realize these GPS units were so expensive.”

  She picked one up. Duncan eyed her. “That’s a Cobra,” he said, suddenly losing the attitude.

  She turned it around in her hand. “So how do you play with it?”

  Duncan smiled as he gently took the unit from her hands. “You use it to find a hidden cache. When you find it, you TSLS—take something and leave something. Then you write a note in the logbook.”

  Delicia scrunched up her nose. “You take something? Isn’t that stealing?”

  He laughed a little too loudly. “It’s trading, not stealing.”

  “Cool. What kind of stuff is usually in the catch?”

  “It’s a cache, like C-A-S-H, not a catch,” he explained patiently. If I’d said it, he would have rolled his eyes at me again. What kind of a spell did Delicia have on him?

  “Could be anything in there,” he continued. I’d never seen him so animated as he was with Dee. “Stuff like Star Wars figures, baseball cards, army men, foreign coins, cool stuff like that.”

  I thought about the earring.

  “No jewelry? Or chocolate?” Delicia joked.

  Duncan laughed again. I hadn’t even known Duncan had a sense of humor, and here he was giggling like a teenager—which he practically was.

  That was all the time I could spare thinking about a possible Duncan/Delicia hookup. It was time for the hunt to begin, and none of the invited players had arrived yet. I paced the area, checking the time on my cell phone every thirty seconds, wondering where everybody was.

  Moments later a white SUV pulled into the parking lot of the Officers’ Club. Out stepped Brad, dressed in his crime scene jumpsuit. Had he been working?

  “About time,” I said, checking his uniform for signs of blood.

  “Sorry I’m late. Had a job. How’s it going?” he said, glancing around.

  I looked at my coworkers, who were standing idly by, and shrugged.

  Brad’s eyes moved to the table filled with the GPS equipment. He stepped around me, picked up a unit, and examined it. “A Magellan? Nice model,” he said to Duncan. “Parole officers are starting to use them to keep track of ex-cons. What channel do you use?”

  Duncan lit up. “Channel two as the primary for both FRS and PMR, and twelve as the alternate FRS channel,” he said in some foreign tongue. He may as well have been speaking Fo’Shizzle.

  “Ah, so they’re longer-distance walkie-talkies, like Nextels or Talkabouts.”

  Apparently Brad knew about global positioning satellite units. And ex-cons.

  What didn’t he know?

  I glanced around for the umpteenth time. Where was everyone else?

  What if you gave a party and nobody came?

  Did they not get the invitations?

  Or had the mayor circumvented the invitation and cancelled the party . . . ?

  What had I been thinking? Hell, some event planner I was. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this entrepreneurial business after all. I shook my head at my office mates, who’d been waiting for my cue. The fog had come in and the darkness was swallowing up the creative decorations. Slowly we folded up the tables, popped the balloons, gathered up the clues, packed up the GPS units, and loaded everything into our various vehicles.

  Delicia gave me a hug. “The mayor is a jerk,” she said, trying to cheer me up. I sighed, which Berk caught on videotape. While Brad helped the others with their tasks, I caught him glancing at me several times.

  An hour after the party was supposed to begin, I was already back at my new office, replacing party props on shelves. My tired coworkers had gone home, af
ter trying to pump up my self-esteem. Even Brad had disappeared, apparently called to another crime scene. Only Raj remained to lock up the building after I left.

  Before leaving my office, I checked my messages and listened to an “urgent” phone call from my mother. Turned out she wanted to know if she’d left her panty hose at Tommy’s Joynt. I didn’t even want to know how that might have been possible, and I deleted the message. Tomorrow I’d stop by to see her again. Every day I didn’t visit her, I lost another small part of her.

  The other “urgent” call could wait until morning—the one from Detective Melvin. I pretty much knew what he wanted.

  Me.

  In an orange, county jail jumpsuit.

  Not my color.

  Remembering the videotape in my purse, I gathered my notes and headed for the door. “Have a good night, Ms. Presley,” Raj said, peering out of his office.

  “Thanks, Raj. And thanks for your help tonight.”

  “It was my pleasure, actually. Drive yourself safely.”

  As I backed out of the parking lot, I also remembered the earring I had buried at the last cache, hoping to catch a killer. Damn. In my haste to clean up and clear out, I’d forgotten to retrieve it. I made a sudden left turn onto Avenue B, followed it to Perimeter Road, then pulled over at the rocky edge, not far from where Ikea’s body had been found.

  The fog seemed thicker in the darkness, making it even harder to see. A few lights glowed through the mist from the Bay Bridge, but the island had few streetlights. We’d had to set up our own lights for the hunt, but of course, now they were gone.

  I used my cell phone to light the way, creeping along the rocky shore while half feeling my way to the cache spot. Running my fingers into a crack in the rocks, I felt the treasure box and pulled it out. As I opened it, I half expected the earring to be gone, thinking maybe the killer had somehow figured out my plan and beat me to the punch.

  There it was, mocking me and my stupid idea.

  I tucked it in my pocket and returned to my car. Locking the doors, I switched on the headlights and checked the mirror before pulling out.