by Penny Warner
“Presley!” Mother called, waving me over and distracting me from my distraction. She turned to a handsome silver-haired man in a suit who sat opposite her and spoke to him animatedly. She touched his hand every now and then as she made her point, and laughed flirtatiously after he spoke. Luckily I couldn’t hear what they were discussing. Sex, no doubt, knowing my mother. Mother had been something of a party queen in her day, and early-stage Alzheimer’s disease hadn’t hindered her ability to charm men. She seemed to have a new beau every few weeks, even though sometimes she couldn’t remember all of their names.
She spotted me and waved; the gentleman stood up and pulled at his suit jacket with one hand, the other falling to his side.
“Presley! You’re here!” Mother reached out and pulled me down into a chair next to her. “I want you to meet Stephen Ellington! He’s new here, and we’re already great friends.”
I’ll bet, I wanted to say. Instead, I took the high road. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ellington.” I clasped his cool, papery hand with mine and shook it. One of his blue eyes squinted as he gave a half smile.
“Stephen, this is my daughter, Presley. She’s a party planner, just like her mother!”
“Event planner,” I corrected her; then by way of explanation, I began rambling. “I used to teach at the university—abnormal psychology—until I was downsized—”
Mother cut me off. “Stephen is joining us for breakfast, dear. I hope you don’t mind.”
I eyed my mother. She was up to something.
“You said you had something urgent to talk about.” I forced a cordial smile in her direction. “Wouldn’t you rather just the two of us—”
She interrupted me again. “Oh no! Stephen is the reason I wanted to see you. We have a very important matter to discuss with you—something I mentioned a few weeks ago, after your party at the museum. Remember?”
Not really, I thought. But I remembered that that party had turned out to be a disaster. “Sure,” I said as I headed for the desk in the lobby and signed us out. Stephen held the door as we made our way to the street. “That’s my car there,” I said, pointing to my illegally parked MINI. Sizing up Stephen’s tall, lanky frame, I pressed my lips together, then said, “It’s going to be tight.”
“Dear, why don’t you let Stephen drive? Then you can sit in the backseat. You’re shorter than he is.” I’m five ten, and there was no way I was going to scrunch myself into that tiny backseat. Besides, the old guy probably didn’t have a license, and I wasn’t about to let some stranger drive my car. Granted, in spite of his age—I guessed him to be in his seventies—and a slight droop on the left side of his mouth when he smiled, his cheeks were a robust color and his eyes twinkled devilishly. I wondered why he was living at the care home. If he had Alzheimer’s like my mother, it wasn’t something I could easily spot.
“I have an idea,” I said. “Let’s walk. Mel’s Drive-in serves breakfast, and it’s only a few blocks away.”
Mother looked at Stephen, and he nodded.
“Let me move my car so it doesn’t get towed,” I said.
Mother and Stephen chatted in front of the building while I drove up the street in search of a legal parking place. I managed to squeeze in between a Smart Car and a VW bug. Then I locked the car and headed down the hill. Stephen was just closing his cell phone as I approached.
“Shall we?” I said, leading the way to the drive-in turned diner chain. The fifties decor, popular with tourists, featured wall-mounted push-button mini-jukeboxes that I’d loved as a kid. Mother came for the freshly squeezed orange juice, the silver-dollar pancakes, and crispy bacon. Why the woman didn’t have high cholesterol, clogged arteries, and a weight problem was a mystery to me.
We nestled into a cozy padded booth, me on one side, Mother and her “date” on the other. I ordered a low-fat blueberry muffin, strawberries, and a double latte. Mother gave her usual order and Stephen had a three-egg omelet called Herb Caen’s Favorite—ham and cheese—and black coffee.
Silence settled over the three of us for a brief moment after the waitress left. My mind flashed back to the man’s face I’d seen on the newscast at the care center. I was sure I’d recognized him but couldn’t come up with the details of where or when. But the silence didn’t last long, not with my mother. “So, Presley,” she said, placing a hand on Stephen’s hand that rested on the table. “We have a job for you! Remember when I mentioned I’d met someone at the center and his son was interested in having a big party?”
Ever since I’d started Killer Parties, my mother had been booking me for parties at the care center. I’d already hosted a Red Hat Party and a Hot Flash Fiesta for her lady friends, but had put her off when she suggested a Mardi Gras Mixer. Knowing Mother, I had a feeling there would be boob-flashing beads involved.
“Not really,” I said truthfully. “Things were kind of a blur after that party.”
“Well, Stephen’s son, Jonathan, is president of his own computer company, and he’s about to announce an amazing new product. Stephen wants to help Jon promote it by organizing a party for him. Apparently the product is something that could revolutionize the movie business, so the guests would include a bunch of special-effects bigwigs like George Lucas, Phil Tippett, and what’s his name—that guy from CeeGee Studios.”
The details sounded vaguely familiar. I looked at Stephen. “Does your son know about your plans?” A few months earlier, I’d hosted a “surprise” wedding event for the mayor, which had backfired because the bride wasn’t in on the planning. I didn’t relish doing any more surprise parties like that in the near future.
“Oh yes,” Stephen said, glancing at my mother, his eyes sparkling. “In fact, he’s looking forward to meeting you.”
I blinked. This party sounded like it had started without me.
Mother’s red-lipsticked smile went into overdrive. “Presley, don’t you remember? He wants a Séance Party!”
“A Séance Party . . .” I repeated. Suddenly it was all coming back to me.
“Yes! And he wants to hold it at the Winchester Mystery House!”
I felt a chill run down my back. Oh God, I thought I’d dreamed that part. I’d visited the hundred-plus-roomed house on a scouting trip when I was in sixth grade. The mansion, built by Sarah Winchester to appease spirits she suspected of haunting her, was filled with secret passageways, winding hallways, stairs that went nowhere, and rampant ghost sightings. It had scared the crap out of me back then.
“I remember,” I said, “but why there?”
Mother glanced at Stephen; they both looked like giddy teenagers. “Because Jonathan wants to bring Sarah Winchester back from the dead!”
Chapter 2
PARTY PLANNING TIP #2
Hold your séance in an atmospheric setting, such as a gloomy old mansion or creepy cemetery, where spirits are more likely to be found. Just make sure your guests aren’t arrested for trespassing. Nothing ruins a party faster than jail time.
After hearing my mother’s plan, I choked on the strawberry I’d been eating. Wiping my mouth as delicately as I could with a napkin, I took a catch-up breath and said, “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused, dear,” my mother responded.
“No, I mean, excuse me, as in, what did you just say?”
Mother flashed Stephen a beaming smile. “It’s a brilliant idea, isn’t it? You hold a party at an old haunted mansion like the Winchester Mystery House, give it a séance theme, and then contact the eccentric—and long-dead—former owner of the house, Sarah Winchester, to showcase the new product!”
Stephen turned his crooked grin on me. “Yes, you see, the project my son is working on is the latest in 3-D technology. He calls it ‘4-D Projection.’ ” Stephen made finger quotes around the phrase. “I don’t understand how it works exactly, but he says it has plenty of applications, especially for the movie industry. That’s why I thought hosting a party that shows those Hollywood producers what this gizmo does would be perfect.
And your mother said you’re the go-to girl when it comes to parties.”
Go-to girl? Up to this point I’d said little, listening in stunned silence to their preposterous idea. They wanted to rent the Winchester House—one of the biggest tourist attractions in the San Francisco Bay Area—for a Séance Party. To bring back the spirit of eccentric Sarah Winchester, dead for nearly a century.
Ludicrous. I wished I had a crystal ball so I could see where all of this was headed. But I needed the money, and according to Stephen Ellington, his son was willing to spend “a wad” to debut his latest creation. Now that my office was temporarily off-limits, I had to find another place quickly—and that meant a hike in rent, for sure. But the idea of raising the dead at my next party . . . ? I shuddered, recalling a recent party where a guest had actually died. What was it my mother had said at the time? Oh yes. “A corpse is not a party favor, Presley.” Ya think?
“And your son . . .” I started to say.
“Jonathan,” Stephen filled in.
“Jonathan, he’s on board with this?”
“Oh yes. Jon said if I could find someone good to host the party, he’d love to do it.” Stephen gave me a half grin. I could see why my mother was charmed by him. Gentle, friendly, and obviously proud of his son, he reminded me of one of those distinguished stars from the golden age of movies—William Powell? Laurence Olivier?
“I don’t know . . .” I said, stalling. “The Winchester House may not be rentable. And if it is, it could be extremely expensive. Besides, I’ve never done a Séance Party . . .”
“Ah, but Veronica assures me you can handle this,” Stephen said, glancing at Mother with affection. Or was that lust?
In spite of being in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease, Mother had kept up her appearance and was still an attractive and vivacious woman. No wonder she’d hooked up with another handsome, charismatic man.
The bell over the door to the diner chimed, announcing a new customer. Stephen turned to look at the young man who entered, then raised an arm and waved the man over. He was about my age—thirtysomething—a younger version of Stephen with blond instead of gray hair, smooth rather than lined skin, and jeans with a blue button-down shirt, instead of the tweed jacket and khaki slacks his father wore. Both had on brown Sperry Top-Siders—rich, stylish, and good-looking, like father and son.
Stephen started to rise.
“Don’t get up, Dad,” the man I’d guessed was Jonathan Ellington said. He leaned down to embrace his father, then straightened up, reached out a hand to my mother, and said, “You must be Veronica. My father has told me so much about you. I’m Jonathan.” My mother blushed as she took his tanned hand.
There was no mistaking the resemblance between father and son. They had the same sparkling blue eyes, the same perfectly sculpted thick hair, and the same tall, slim physiques. The only real difference was the years between them.
Jonathan turned to me and grasped my outstretched hand. He held it a little longer than was comfortable as he said, “And you’re Presley Parker, the ‘party queen.’ It’s great to meet you.”
For a moment I thought he was going to kiss the back of my hand. I pulled it away before he had the chance.
He flashed a white, toothy grin. “Mind if I join you?” He slid into my side of the green vinyl booth.
O-kay.
I scrunched over, but Jonathan scooched up close enough for me to smell his minty breath and heavy aftershave. I tried to move over farther but was already up against the booth wall. Literally and figuratively.
“How did you know we were here?” I asked, figuring his arrival hadn’t been a coincidence.
Stephen spoke up. “I called him, while you were parking your car.” I remembered Stephen being on the phone when I’d returned from moving my MINI Cooper.
“You got here fast,” I said to Jonathan.
“I live in the city,” Jonathan replied. “Pacific Heights.”
“Actually, it was my idea,” Mother added, taking Stephen’s right hand. “I thought the four of us should meet and get this party started, as they say.”
Jonathan started to touch my hand in a similar fashion until he saw the knife I was holding. Instead, he picked up a menu. “That’s right. I jumped in my Benz and zipped on over. So what’s good here?”
While Mother praised the omelets, I quietly wondered what I was getting into. Once Jonathan ordered his Melburger, it didn’t take long to find out.
“So, as my dad probably told you, Presley, I’m founder and CEO of Hella-Graphics, the fastest-rising company in Northern California. . . .”
I tuned out as our food arrived. Jonathan continued to recite what sounded like a memorized speech, while I sipped my coffee and listened to “All Shook Up” that someone had selected on the jukebox. Could have been my ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) or his NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder) but I checked out the fifties decor—old menus, posters of American Graffiti, pictures of carhops—until I felt a sharp-toed kick under the table. I glared at the smile pasted on my mother’s face as I caught Jonathan’s last words.
“. . . exciting new product, an incredibly realistic four-dimensional holographic projector my research department developed, called 4-D Projection. Dad said you’ve had a few mishaps at some of your recent parties, so I’m thinking this event will not only be a great way to impress my future investors, but will also help you get your party business back in the spotlight.”
Oh my God. What had Mother told them?
Now, after listening to the boring spiel in the pompous vocabulary he’d spewed—not to mention his condescension about my business—there was no way I could work with this egomaniacal player. And if my mother’s new beau dumped her because I didn’t take the job, then he wasn’t much of a prospect, Top-Siders or no Top-Siders.
“Well, I’m not sure it’s my kind of event—” I began explaining.
“Oh, I disagree,” Jonathan said, interrupting me. “Any event planner would kill to get this gig, but after all I’ve heard about you, you’re the one I want. Together I bet we could put on a great show. I’m sure your creative skills and my cutting-edge product will go hand in hand.”
On cue, he laid his hand on mine. Kill me now, I thought.
“In fact, not only will 4-D Projection revolutionize the movie industry—think Princess Leia-slash-Avatar popping up at our table here, fully formed and as real as your sparking eyes—it also has potential for use in medicine, personal protection, even the military. And you can say you helped introduce it.”
I removed my hand and reached for my latte. “But I really don’t think—”
“Plus, it will make us both a hella-lot of money,” Jonathan added, grinning widely.
I looked at Mother. She actually winked at me.
“Well, I’ll check my calendar—I’ve got a pretty full lineup . . . a bat mitzvah, a quinceañera, two bachelorette parties. Oh, and a funeral—”
Jonathan’s phone rang, interrupting my list of excuses. He pulled out his cell phone and answered with a loud “Yes?”
The three of us listened while he took the call.
“No way!” he said into the phone, his animated smile sobering. “. . . Screw him . . . Yeah, well if he tries, I’ll wring his neck . . .” The irritation reflected in his reddening face morphed into anger. His voice grew louder, attracting the attention of the diners nearby. “Take care of it, Stephanie! That’s what I pay you the big bucks for.” He punched off with as much force as his thumb could muster and tucked the phone back into his pocket. Once again he flashed that superwhite smile, and said, “Sorry about that. Business. I’m sure my VP will handle it.”
I shot a concerned glance at Mother. She raised her eyebrows. This guy was a chameleon, changing from charming to enraged in a matter of seconds. A red flag not only went up, but flew at full mast.
“Where were we?” Jonathan continued, oblivious to our reaction. “Oh yes. Just imagine—a séance at the rumored
-to-be-haunted Winchester Mystery House. It’s the perfect venue for debuting the product to possible investors. They’ll all be blown away when our special guest suddenly appears—the ghost of Sarah Winchester!” He chuckled. “Wait until James Cameron hears about this. He’d kill for the secret to this new technology. But I’ll be the one making a killing.”
I’d had enough. I pushed away the plate in front of me and I pulled out my iPhone, pretending to check my messages. “Well, I hate to be rude, but I have to get back to the office. I’m meeting a client.”
Jonathan made no attempt to move out of the way. “So, are we set?” he said, looking at me with confident anticipation.
I started to say, “In your dreams, buddy,” but before I could get out a nicer version, I caught my mother staring at Stephen, her eyes wide with horror.
I looked at the older man. His eyes had rolled back and his lids were fluttering. He seemed to be trying to say something, but all that came out of his mouth were grunts and a string of drool.
Jonathan turned to see what I was staring at and jumped up. “Dad? Dad!”
Stephen’s eyelids stop fluttering and his jaw grew slack.
“Stephen!” Mother said, grimacing and patting his hand.
Jonathan pulled out his cell phone. “Yes, this is an emergency,” he said to the operator. “It’s my father. I think he’s having another stroke.”
I witnessed a new side of Jonathan Ellington materialize as we waited for help to arrive at the diner. Leaving his evil twin behind, his good twin had emerged and taken charge immediately. He lay his father gently on the floor, checked the man’s pockets for medication, then asked the waitress for water. While we waited for the ambulance, Jonathan sat caressing his father’s head lovingly, as if caring for a baby. I heard him whisper “Dad” repeatedly while he wiped his father’s brow with a dampened handkerchief that Mother had offered. The rest of the diners remained in their booths, mouths agape at the unfolding drama, food untouched and getting cold.