How to Host a Killer Party

Table of Contents

 

 

“Penny Warner blends humor and mayhem to create a unique mystery full of fun.”

—Denise Swanson, national bestselling author of
Murder of a Royal Pain

“Penny Warner dishes up a rare treat, sparkling with wicked and witty San Francisco characters, plus some real tips on hosting a killer party.”

—Rhys Bowen, award-winning author of the Royal Spyness and Molly Murphy mysteries

“Penny Warner’s scintillating
How to Host a Killer Party
introduces an appealing heroine whose event skills include utilizing party favors in self-defense in a fun, fast-paced new series guaranteed to please.”

—Carolyn Hart, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Award-winning author of
Dare to Die

“There’s a cozy little party going on between this cover. Don’t miss Penny Warner’s new series.”

—Elaine Viets, author of
Killer Cuts

“The winning and witty Presley Parker can plan a perfect party—but after her A-list event becomes an invitation to murder, her next plan must be to save her own life.”

—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha Award-winning author of
Prime Time

 

“The novel is enlivened by some nice twists, an unexpected villain, a harrowing mortuary scene, its Gold Country locale, and fascinating perspective on a little-known subculture.”

—
San Francisco Chronicle

“What a great addition to the ranks of amateur sleuths.”

—Diane Mott Davidson,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Fatally Flaky

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, February 2010

Copyright © Penny Warner, 2010

eISBN : 978-1-101-18471-4

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“The dying process begins the minute we are born, but it accelerates during parties.”

—Carol Matthau

Through the thick morning veil of San Francisco fog, all I could make out from the ferryboat deck was the eerie silhouette of an island. It loomed like a giant corpse floating in the bay, its form eaten away by the relentless waves.

I shivered in the penetrating cold as the wind off the Pacific whipped through my purple and gold San Francisco State University hoodie and my black jeans. Even the venti latte, my antidote for my ADHD—attention deficit/ hyperactivity disorder—couldn’t keep this California native warm.

Slowly, like a desert mirage, the apparition began to take shape.

I felt goose bumps break out as I thought about the former home of organized crime boss Al “Scarface” Capone, “Creepy” Karpis, “Machine Gun” Kelly, and Robert “Birdman” Stroud. The island exuded a mystique that thrilled tourists and frightened schoolchildren. No wonder this notorious maximum-security prison was the most popular attraction in Northern California. Although no longer home to the most incorrigible criminals, it still housed plenty of legendary ghosts.

Tonight the inhospitable island would play host to the party of the century: San Francisco mayor Davin Green’s “surprise” wedding to his socialite fiancée, Ikea Takeda. I held up the wedding invitation I’d created for the event and scanned it.

It would be the biggest event since Caruso sang at the Met.

Or the biggest disaster since the 1906 earthquake.

And I, Presley Parker, was the lucky event coordinator.

This wedding is going to be the death of me
, I thought, balancing my latte on the boat’s guardrail. I shredded the biodegradable invitation into confetti and ceremoniously sprinkled it like cremated ashes into the San Francisco Bay. I only hoped it wasn’t a symbolic gesture.

The sudden blast of a warning alarm startled me, sending another chill over my already goose-pimpled flesh. I grabbed the ferry railing, nearly spilling my precariously balanced drink, and pulled my hood up over my bobbed auburn hair.

Prison breakout?

Nothing so exciting. Just the familiar but disquieting sound of the ubiquitous foghorn. As a seagull swooped down, I lost my grip on my latte and watched my life’s blood tumble overboard. I cursed into the deafening sound.

Great. Now I’d probably be arrested for polluting the bay.

Even worse, there was no Starbucks on Alcatraz.

At least, not yet.

“Land-ho, Presley!” Delicia Jackson, my thirtysomething part-time assistant, called too cheerily between foghorn blasts. She appeared behind me in her quilted green parka, which made her look as if she’d been entombed in a giant bunch of grapes. Cupping her hand over her forehead like a pirate at sea, she squinted into the fog, then pointed to our destination.

“Good thing too,” Delicia said, shivering in spite of the puffy jacket that nearly reached to her matching green Crocs. Her toes had to be icicles; mine were cold even in my black Uggs. “I’m getting seasick.”

“How are the others doing?” I asked, referring to my minimal staff.

“They’re inside. Too cold out here for those lightweights.” When she wasn’t helping me host fund-raising events and kids’ birthday parties for extra cash, Delicia was a part-time actress and full-time drama queen. A mixture of many cultures, she was stunningly beautiful, with smooth mocha skin, long black hair, and disconcertingly blue eyes. Girls loved her as characters Belle and Ariel when she performed at my young clients’ birthday events.

“Only three hours till showtime!” Delicia said, tapping her princess watch with a sparkly nail. Being an actress, she spoke mostly in exclamation marks.

“What was I thinking?” I shouted through the rumble of the boat engine, the squawk of the seagulls, and the relentless fog blasts. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“It’s going to be off the hook!” she shouted back. “Perfect for your extreme career makeover!”