How to Host a Killer Party (14 page)

Looking over my notes, I realized one name was missing—that tree-hugging young woman who called herself Xtreme Siouxie. She’d made quite a scene at the wedding, accusing the mayor of “murdering” Treasure Island. I had a feeling she’d have plenty to say about the mayor. But how much of it would be true?

There was another name not on the guest list: Brad Matthews.

He’d attended the wedding uninvited. What was he doing there? He’d nearly run me off the road the day after the party. And he’d suddenly arrived at the barracks to rent office space for his “crime scene cleaning” business.

I reviewed my notes. At least I had a list of people I could ask about the mayor and see if they knew of any secrets he might have had. True, my name looked the most promising, at least according to Detective Melvin. The way he saw it, not only did I benefit from Andi’s death—taking over the wedding plans—but I also benefited from Ikea’s disappearance and death, with all the lurid publicity.

I was sure of only one thing—the mayor was somehow connected to all this. But before I could jot down any more notes, I felt a breeze through my open office door. The salt air wafted in, along with Brad Matthews. Moving to his office, he turned and nodded at me, then unlocked his office door and slipped inside.

It was time to pay a Welcome Wagon visit and get this party started. I pulled open my top drawer again, selected three dark chocolates, and arranged them in a tiny gift box I pulled from the shelf.

Would he eat them? Not if he’d poisoned them.

I headed across the hall.

Just as I was about to knock, Brad saw me and waved me in. He was out of his white jumpsuit and back in his T-shirt and jeans. I opened the door, leaned in, and smiled, ready to kill him with kindness.

“Hi.” I thrust out the small box of chocolates. “I wanted to apologize for this morning. I was . . . rude. Uh, welcome to Barracks B.”

Brad smiled, stood up, and reached over to accept Pandora’s box. As he did, his shirt rose, revealing a glimpse of his tan, tight waist.

That wasn’t all. There was a definite bulge in his pants. As flattering as it would have been, Brad Matthews wasn’t necessarily happy to see me.

That was a gun in his pocket.

“My God!” I said, staring at the gun.

“What?” Brad frowned.

I quickly recovered. “Oh, uh . . . my phone! It’s been ringing off the hook. I’ll, uh, see you later, okay?” I backed out and pulled the door closed behind me before he could ask any more questions.

I slipped into my office and picked up the phone receiver, pretending to answer it. I caught Brad eyeing me suspiciously and turned away, listening to the dial tone buzz in my ear. I nodded, shook my head, laughed, pretended to jot down a note, and hung up. When I looked over, he was still watching me. I waved. He nodded, frowning.

Great. The crime scene cleaner was packing heat, as Sam Spade would say. Why would someone who’s essentially a janitor have a gun?

There were just too many coincidences connected to Brad Matthews. I had to get into that office the next time he stepped out. And I had to make sure I could get in without a key.

I headed for Delicia’s office and waited for her to hang up her phone. It sounded like she was talking to her agent about a part in a TV pilot being shot in San Francisco. I heard her mention something about playing the sidekick to a deaf private investigator who solves crimes by using his heightened other senses. I wished I had that kind of superpower.

“What’s up?” she said, replacing the receiver.

“Got any gum?” I asked.

“I thought you didn’t chew gum. Said it was like drinking decaf coffee—pointless.” She opened her purse and offered me a stick of Big Red.

“Thanks.” I took it and left without explaining my intentions.

Back in my office, I opened the wrapper, rolled the gum into a spiral, and popped it in my mouth. After exactly ten chews, I spit the wad into my left hand and headed back to Brad’s office.

“Hi,” I said, sticking my head inside. “I . . . uh . . . saw you talking to that detective earlier. Looked like a pretty serious conversation. Anything new on Ikea’s murder?”

He shrugged. “Not that I know of. We mostly talked about the weather. Doesn’t this fog ever get you down? It’s depressing.”

“You’re not from around here?” I said, eyes searching the room for something out of place, something telltale.

He shook his head. “LA.”

“I’d rather have fog than smog. Well, I better get back to work.” I started to pull the door closed, my gum hand resting inside the lock.

He held up a hand. “Wait a sec.”

I froze. “Yeah?” I tried to sound innocent. Wasn’t easy.

“Thanks.” He gave a half grin.

I frowned. “For what?”

“The chocolates. That was sweet of you.” His grin broadened. He licked his lips.

I felt the color rise in my face and smiled. I wasn’t ready for the compliment. Was he flirting? I hadn’t meant the gesture to be a come-on. And if he actually ate those chocolates, then apparently he hadn’t poisoned them after all.

Feeling guilty for the ruse—and what I was about to do—I was caught off guard and stammered, “Uh . . . good, glad you liked them.” Sticking the gum into the lock slot as magicianlike as possible, I pulled the door closed.

Then I had a thought. What if someone else poisoned the chocolates? Brad could be dying right now. I swung the door open—it slammed against the wall. “Uh . . . did you eat . . . all of them?”

He looked down and shook his head. “Uh, no . . . I’m not much of a chocolate lover. But I appreciate the thought.” He met my eyes, and I felt a jolt of electricity. Where had that come from?

Coming to my senses, I realized I had to get those chocolates out of there before someone ate one—just in case. But it would have to wait until Brad left the office or he’d be suspicious, even more than he was now. Returning to my office, I spent the next hour trying to catching up on work—returning phone calls, scheduling dates for events, and playing phone tag with the governor’s office. Most of the time I was just distracted, waiting for Brad to leave. When I finally ran out of party related tasks, I called my mother.

“Yes?” came the familiar voice, instead of “Hello.” I’d signed her up for caller ID, so she must have known I was calling.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

“Yes, I know, dear. How are you?”

“Good. I just called to check on you. See how things are going. You all right?”

“Oh yes. I’m planning a fund-raiser for this care center. Seems they don’t have enough money for one of those Wii gadgets”—she pronounced it “why”—“so I’m organizing a Halloween party and charging everyone a fee. Guess what my costume’s going to be.”

Oh boy. “I have no idea, Mom. What?”

“Priscilla Presley! In her big-hair heyday. Won’t that be a hoot!”

I should have known. She was obsessed with Elvis. Hence my name, a constant source of teasing in my youth.

“Sounds fun, Mom. Hey, listen. Did you happen to talk to anyone at the mayor’s office about me or my party business?”

“Which mayor? Joe? Or George?”

While her memory for current events wasn’t so great, she had no trouble recalling names, dates, places, and lurid details from the past. Joe was Mayor Joe Alioto from the early seventies, and George was Mayor George Moscone, late seventies.

“Davin Green, our current mayor.”

“You mean the one who’s gay?”

“No, Mom, he’s not gay. He supports gay rights. . . . Never mind. I was just wondering.”

“Okay, honey. Now don’t forget the Halloween party. I think you should come as Lisa Marie. Don’t you think we’d be cute together?”

“Adorable. I’ll stop by later to see you, Mom.”

“Don’t forget to bring your sweetheart. I want to meet him.”

I shook my head as I said good-bye and hung up the phone. I really needed to work on getting one of those sweethearts. Ever since I’d caught my administration of justice professor “boyfriend” with his hot young assistant at their “crime scene,” I hadn’t been interested in starting up again.

I glanced over at Brad’s office. He was stepping into his crime scene jumpsuit. I pretended to ignore him as he left his office, closing the door behind him, then hid behind a party catalog as I watched him exit the front door of the building. As soon as the coast was clear, I ducked into the reception area and peeked through the front window of the barracks to make sure he left. After he drove off in his white SUV, I tiptoed back to his office. Glancing around to make sure the coast was clear, I tried the doorknob.

Locked.

I pushed on the door.

It didn’t budge.

I leaned against it, hard, with a shoulder and hip.

Nothing aside from a sore shoulder and hip.

I jiggled the circa-1940s doorknob.

The lock released. The door opened.

The gum trick had worked—finally. I wondered if Brigid O’Shaughnessy had ever used that one, or if it was strictly Nancy Drew.

I slipped inside, hoping my office mates were too busy with their own mischief to notice mine. If any of them caught me, I could always use the old “door was unlocked, left my cell phone inside” ruse.

First I checked the boxes Brad had brought in. They’d been emptied of their contents and stacked neatly in a corner. The shelves were now filled with what looked like a variety of chemicals—all toxic, I assumed.

Next I invaded his desk drawers. Sparse—nothing but basic office supplies and some official-looking forms with the Crime Scene Cleaners logo at the top. So far, it appeared to be a one-man shop.

Finally, I riffled through the papers on his desk. Rental agreement. Take-out menu from the Pirate Cove Diner. Map of Treasure Island. Sticky pad with a phone number.

I read the number. Local. And familiar. On a hunch, I pulled out my cell and checked “Recently dialed numbers.”

A match.

Why was Mayor Green’s number written on Brad Matthews’ notepad?

 

The phone rang in my office. I dashed out, closed the door behind me, and picked up the phone.

“Killer Parties,” I said absently, still distracted by the phone number I’d found on Brad’s desk.

“Yes, this is Governor Brien’s office calling. Is this Presley Parker?”

My heart went into overdrive.

“Yes, this is Presley.” I sat down.

“This is Arden Wong. The governor asked me to call regarding the possibility of your hosting a party at the San Francisco Library. I understand you produce murder mystery dinner parties? If so, he’d like to employ you to host one as a fund-raiser.”

So it wasn’t a prank—the governor had really called. I took a deep breath to keep myself under control, something I’d learned to cope with ADHD, and mentally chanted my mantra:
Attend. Discern. Heed. Deliberate.

“Uh, sure, I do murders all the time. I mean, murder mysteries. What kind of fund-raiser? And when do you want the event?” In spite of my efforts, my speech had gone into hyperdrive.

Delicia came out of her office, eyebrows raised, and peeked in through my door. She could tell I was excited. No doubt she’d been waiting for me to return this call. I gave her a thumbs-up, and she fake-clapped her hands.

“The governor would like the mystery to take place at the San Francisco Main Library, as a benefit for the Friends of the Library. And he’d like to play one of the parts, if that’s possible.”

“Uh, sure,” I said stupidly.

“Good. How about we discuss the details next week?” she said.

“Great.”
As long as I’m not in jail
, I nearly added.

Delicia grew giddier by the second. Her antics started to distract me, not to mention her knockoff perfume. I managed to arrange a time and place to meet Arden Wong before I hung up and joined in a modified version of Delicia’s happy dance.

“How cool! Tell me all about it!” she said, pulling out the folding chair and plopping herself into it. “Can I help? We made a great team for the mayor’s wedding, didn’t we? I can play one of the parts. Maybe the victim!”

Remembering the victim at my last party, I was jerked back to earth.

Delicia caught the change in my demeanor and patted my arm. “Listen, that thing about Ikea? That was just a tiny little glitch. A fluke.”

“A
glitch
?” I raised an eyebrow. “She was murdered, Dee.”

“I know, Pres. But lightning never strikes twice—usually. This is the governor, for goodness sake! I’ll help with the décor. Berk can film it for local access TV—that’ll put you on the map for sure. And Rocco can make, like, chocolate weapons—a candlestick, a wrench, a gun!”