by Penny Warner
He shot me a look. “The driver probably lost control of his car,” he continued, interrupting me. He gestured toward the back end of his car, where Lyla now stood talking on her cell phone. Levi was hunched down, examining the fender. Stephanie had remained in the car. “He clipped my bumper, then drove off. Luckily everyone’s okay.”
“Maybe you are . . .” I started to say. Jonathan shot me another fierce look. What was wrong with him?
“Looks like a hit-and-run,” the guard said, stating the obvious as he glanced around.
“Mark, notify the police,” Mia ordered.
“No!” Jonathan said loud enough to wake the dead. He softened his tone. “No, really . . . it’s fine. Besides, I don’t have time to wait around for the cops to take a useless report. My insurance company will cover it. And like I said, we’re okay.” He turned to his wife. “Right, sweetheart?”
She nodded absently, still talking to someone on her phone. Levi, on the other hand, looked pale, as if he’d seen Sarah Winchester’s ghost. The permanent crease in his brow was now cavernous and dotted with sweat.
Jonathan didn’t bother to ask me how I was. He checked his watch and turned to Mia. “I’ve really got to run. Presley and my VP will fill you in on our new plans.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to file a report?” the guard asked.
Jonathan shook his head and motioned for his passengers to get back in the car. He climbed into the driver’s seat and with a wave drove off, leaving me in the parking lot, puzzled and a little angry.
I checked my watch: a little after three p.m. Instead of returning home, I pulled up directions to Hella-Graphics on my iPhone GPS app and drove back to the city determined to talk to Jonathan about the parking lot incident. Why had he lied to the guard about the hit-and-run? He’d told me he thought the driver of the other car had aimed for him. If that was true, wouldn’t he have wanted to involve the police? And why had Levi looked so spooked—as if he’d seen an apparition—while Lyla seemed entirely unaffected?
I barely noticed the fog softly rolling in until I reached the Presidio address of Hella-Graphics. I passed a statue of Yoda, surrounded in the mist and looking as if he’d just stepped out of his swampy home. Behind him was one of George Lucas’s buildings where movie magic was made. He’d moved his company to the former army base and established his state-of-the-art filmmaking company, Industrial Light and Magic, there. Aside from a Star Wars museum that was open to the public, most of the ILM campus was off-limits to curious tourists, Luke Skywalker fans, and nosy party planners.
Jonathan’s company, Hella-Graphics, was located in a similar white clapboard building that looked as if it might have been officers’ quarters at some point. Like the other buildings nearby, it sported only an address; nothing that would indicate what was inside.
I parked the MINI in a free space next to a rack packed with bicycles and trespassed my way up to the front entrance, passing mostly BMWs and Priuses. I noticed Jonathan’s Mercedes parked in a reserved space close to the building, still sporting the damage from the “accident” at the Winchester Mystery House.
Stepping up to the double glass doors, I tried the door handle. Locked.
I spotted a buzzer on the side of the entryway and pressed it. A voice came over the intercom: “Yes?”
No greeting. No mention of the company. No doubt their way of discouraging drop-bys and looky-loos.
“Uh, this is Presley Parker, from Killer Parties. I’m here to see Jonathan Ellington.”
Silence, except for some faint hissing. Then, “Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh, not exactly, but I’m working with him on an upcoming event and have a few questions.”
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to make an appointment.”
“Look, I was just talking with him a short time ago and . . .” I paused. The faint hissing of the intercom had ceased. The woman who’d been speaking to me was no longer listening.
Great.
Now what?
I stood on the doorstep, pulled out my iPhone, and punched in Jonathan’s number.
Great.
Voice mail.
Time for a little industrial magic of my own, I thought, and quickly Googled the main number of Hella-Graphics. An automated voice answered, requiring me to punch in the first three letters of the last name of the person I wished to speak to.
Damn. What was Levi’s last name? Strauss? Nope. Jeans maker. Stubbs? No. Former Idol contestant. Levi . . .
I’d forgotten. Or maybe Jonathan had never mentioned it.
Great.
I was about to give up when a woman in a tailored gray suit, Burberry scarf, and a crystal dangling from her neck came walking up to the door from the direction of another building on the campus. It was Stephanie, Jonathan’s VP.
Without looking at me, she swiped the pass card that hung around her neck over a small metal square next to the intercom.
“Stephanie?” I asked.
“Presley!” Stephanie seemed to light up at seeing me. “What are you doing here?”
Before I could answer, she went on. “Jonathan just thinks you’re the greatest party planner on the planet! He wouldn’t stop talking about you all the way back to the office.”
“Oh, well, I’m flattered. I’m glad he’s happy with the plans so far. Not that we have many yet. That’s why I’m here. I still have more questions. Would it be possible to see him? I can’t seem to get my foot in the door without an appointment and I can’t reach him by phone.”
“No problem,” Stephanie said. “I’ll escort you in.” She slid her card over the metal square again and the door clicked open. “Security is tight around here, as you can imagine. We get mostly tourists who are curious about the Presidio campus, but you can never be too careful. Believe it or not, there are industrial spies everywhere, and they’d kill to get hold of one of our prototypes. Especially the one Zach—I mean Levi—has been working on.”
She held the door for me and I entered a wonderland of fantastical 3-D images. On one side of the lobby stood a large clear container on a pedestal that held what looked like mice. These mice, however, were multicolored and the size of cats, and they were standing upright, dancing. On the other side an identical container housed what could only be described as miniature people, no bigger than the cat-sized mice across the room. Tinted red, blue, green, and yellow, they nevertheless looked human, all talking or interacting with one another.
“These are amazing!” I said, feeling like one of those touristy looky-loos she mentioned. “I had no idea 3-D effects could be so realistic.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Stephanie said. “Want a quick tour? We might find Jonathan along the way. He doesn’t spend much time in his office.”
“Sure.” I had heard how great these young companies were to work for and was looking forward to seeing the place.
I followed Stephanie through the lobby to the receptionist at the front desk, no doubt waiting for the next doorbell ringer to try to break into the Hella-Graphics fortress. Twentysomething, wearing a Roxy T-shirt, she had short black hair, stylishly cut, with supershort, precision-straight bangs.
“You’re gonna have to sign in first with Maile,” Stephanie said, indicating a sheet filled with names and times. I signed my name and added my arrival time, then stuck on the sticky badge that read VISITOR the receptionist had handed me.
“Follow me,” Stephanie said, and I did, through the warren of building wings. She ticked off each room, describing them as if she were a tour guide in a mystery mansion.
“First of all, we’re green.”
At first I took her literally, then realized she meant eco-friendly. “Solar-powered, recycled materials, stuff like that. We try to keep the carbon footprint to a minimum.”
I thought about the Winchester House and how energy deficient it must have been. I wondered how many trees it had cost to keep that monstrosity fed.
“We have about five hundred peopl
e working for the company—some here in the building, some from home. HR gets something like a hundred résumés a day, if you can believe that, from electricians and gardeners to Ph.D.s in computer science and engineering. Everyone wants to work here—if they can’t get a job at ILM, Pixar, or Stereo-Scope Graphics.”
We headed down another corridor, this one painted to look like an undersea world. I kept wanting to hold my breath.
We turned another corner and into a spacious workout area, filled with exercise equipment. “This is our state-of-the-art gym,” Stephanie said, “where our employees can work off stress, stay in shape, swim, shower, or enjoy the spa.”
At the moment the place was empty. Was everyone too busy to use the gym?
Before I could comment, Stephanie went on with her tour speech. “Hella-Graphics also offers haircuts, laundry services, child care, a masseuse, a pool table, video games, and a physician for checkups. All free.”
Okay, I could be happy here.
I followed her as she led me down another corridor. “We also have a dog park. Many of our employees bring their dogs to work.”
What, no cat park? I’m outta here.
“What’s that?” I asked, spotting what looked like a broad tube spiraling down from the floor above.
“It’s exactly what it looks like—a slide. Jonathan wants his employees to have fun at work—and it’s more fun to go from floor to floor using a slide! We also have firemen’s poles and rock-climbing walls that lead to an upper floor. Hella-Graphics is not without whimsy.”
OMG.
“And this,” she said, stopping at a doorway that led to a large room full of tables, “is the café. We have our own chef, Rodney Worth, who used to be at the Peasant and the Pear. The café offers a salad bar, sandwich bar, dessert bar, a mix-and-match pasta bar, plus fresh gourmet meals, a DIY taco station, and a French mini-café that serves fresh Starbucks and Peet’s coffees, everything from plain black to fancy Frappuccinos. Would you like a latte or something?”
I nodded, trancelike, and watched as she ordered my drink, along with a Caramel Frappuccino for herself.
“We’re about done with the tour. I can’t take you to R and D—research and development. That’s under tight security, but each R and D employee has two or three computers and screens, a massage chair, and a cot in case they need a power nap or work late and just want to stay over.”
I wondered if they could use a full-time party planner and was about to ask for an application when Stephanie said, “And, here we are.”
I was standing in front of a corner office on the ground floor, with a door plaque that read: JONATHAN ELLINGTON, CEO, in gold letters. She tapped on the door, then tried the knob. Locked. She pulled out a key and opened the door.
“Jonathan?” she called, stepping in.
No sign of him.
Stephanie walked over to his desk, sat down in his chair, and opened his computer screen. “It looks like he’s in a meeting right now,” she said, then tapped a couple more keys and stood up. I peeked in and saw a highly polished cherrywood desk, black leather executive chair, and matching leather couch, creating a masculine, powerful feeling. On his desk was a three-foot statue I instantly recognized as the Creature from the Black Lagoon—one of my all-time favorite horror movies. On the wall were posters of other 3-D films—Thirteen Ghosts, House of Wax, Jaws 3-D—movies I watched with those red-and-blue-lens glasses. She returned to the door, closed it, and made sure it was locked. The scent of mint and cologne swept out on a waft of air.
He’d been here recently.
“Hey, maybe I can answer some of your questions. We’ve talked a lot about the party. Come over to my office and we can chat until Jonathan’s free.”
Stephanie’s office, adjacent to Jonathan’s, was half the size of her boss’s, and not so richly appointed, but still impressive. Her desk was covered with papers—all neatly stacked. Instead of a couch for guests, there were two chairs, one behind her desk, and one for a visitor. I sat down in the comfy padded chair and looked around while she sat and checked her messages. There were no family pictures in view, no collections of ceramic cats or Smurfs, only a large framed canvas that looked like a chart of the skies, along with signs of the zodiac.
“This is nice,” I said, lacking anything more complimentary to say about her office.
“I like simplicity. I came up through the ranks, you know, so I still relate to the other employees as well as the boss. Beside, Jonathan likes us to keep our offices neat. At least, the ones that visitors see. R and D is a rat’s nest. I don’t see how they can work under such messy conditions.”
I could relate more to R&D than the administrative offices. I suppose my Killer Parties office could be called a rat’s nest, but to me it was organized chaos, and I knew where everything was.
“Beautiful artwork,” I said, indicating the heavenly circle on the wall.
“That’s my birth chart,” she said. Her hand went to the crystal that dangled from her neck. “I had it done a few years ago. It looked like a work of art to me so I had it framed and hung on the wall.”
She saw me eying her necklace. “It’s a healing crystal. I wear it to enhance creativity and for protection.”
“It’s stunning,” I said.
Stephanie sat down and folded her hands on her desk. Her red nails were perfect and the only bright color in her gray ensemble. She wore no rings on her left hand, but sported an elegant pearl necklace around her neck and matching pearl earrings. She seemed relaxed and confident, while I felt stiff and a little out of place.
“So,” she began, “have you recovered from that little incident with Zach?”
“Excuse me?” I said, shaking my head.
“Zachary Samuels. Jonathan said it was Zach who tried to run him down in the parking lot.”
Zach Samuels? Jonathan hadn’t mentioned a name to me. If he knew who had hit his car, why hadn’t he told the security guard—or contacted the police?
“Is he a former employee?” I asked. I wanted to know more about this guy who’d nearly killed me—even if he hadn’t meant to.
“Yes. He’s been harassing Jonathan ever since he was let go. Keeps showing up unannounced at places where Jonathan happens to be—restaurants, clubs, even his home.”
“Why was he fired?”
“He started demanding more money for the work he was doing here. Everyone gets a salary, plus a bonus at the completion of a project, not to mention all the perks that go along with working here. But Zach wanted more.” She sighed and shook her head at the memory.
“Can’t Jonathan stop Zachary from harassing him?”
“He’s tried, but Zach’s brain doesn’t seem to reboot all the time. He’s one of those weird scientist-types you hear about. A genius, but not too savvy when it comes to the real world.”
“What was he working on?”
She hesitated. “Uh, let’s just say he was claiming to have invented one of our new products, which is ridiculous, of course. It was a team effort, along with Levi Webster and a few other R and D guys. But Zach keeps making accusations of intellectual property theft.”
“Was it the 4-D Projector?” I asked, taking a wild stab.
She looked down at her hands. “I . . . really can’t say. But I can tell you this: Zachary Samuels enjoyed stirring up trouble for Jonathan and he should have been fired a long time ago. I just hope he leaves Jonathan alone. God forbid if anything should happen to him, knock on wood.” She actually knocked three times on her wooden desk. “Anyway, let’s not talk about him. Let’s talk about the party!”
Stephanie peppered me with questions for the next twenty or so minutes, things like what kind of food we should serve, who would be playing the medium, and what kind of favors did I have in mind. Finally, with still no sign of Jonathan, I told her I needed to get back to my office and get to work on the party plans.
Stephanie escorted me to the front entrance, then shook my hand. “It’s gonna be great working
with you, Presley. This Séance Party will be so much fun!”
I stepped outside, then had a sudden thought and turned back quickly, catching the door before it closed. “Stephanie?”
“Yes?” she said.
“The man who . . . died . . . here recently—George Wells? Was he working on the 4-D Projector as well?”
Stephanie glanced around as if looking for those spies she’d mentioned earlier. She slipped out the front door, letting it close behind her. I followed her glance at a corner of the building and spotted a tiny video camera.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” she said. When we were a few feet away, she took a deep breath, then said, “I suppose word is getting around about Wells. That was just an unfortunate . . . tragedy. I heard he was suffering from depression, money problems, relationships gone awry . . . you know. I guess he just couldn’t take it anymore. Jonathan tries so hard to make sure everyone at Hella-Graphics is happy working here, but some people are unhappy for reasons other than the job.”
She seemed to know a lot more about George’s state of mind than his own wife. But then, that was often typical.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” I said lamely, unable to come up with something more appropriate. I stopped at my car and thanked her again for the tour and the chat.
On my drive through the fog back to Treasure Island, all I could think about were a seemingly deranged ex-employee named Zachary Samuels, a despondent suicide victim named George Wells, and the strange CEO of a successful company named Jonathan Ellington—who seemed to be trying hard not to be tainted by a recent death and an attempted murder.
Not the most auspicious beginning for a party.
Chapter 9
PARTY PLANNING TIP #9
The ideal time for your séance is midnight, which is fine if your guests are night owls. If not, they may be too tired to channel their energy and could doze off before the spirits arrive.
Séance Party time was upon me before I knew it. The last month had gone by like a let-go balloon. In between prepping for Jonathan’s gig, I’d hosted a Twins party for the world-famous San Francisco Twins, Marian and Vivian Brown. Guests, including former mayor Willie Brown, current mayor Davin Green, and a number of A-list guests were required to bring a date and dress as twins. When Marian and Vivian appeared in their identical snappy outfits, colorful hats, and perfectly coiffed hair, they brought the house down, as in the Mark Hopkins Hotel.