How to Host a Killer Party (17 page)

“He’s calling the other cop over . . . showing him something . . . in your drawer.”

Oh God. I’d left my drawer open too!

And they’d found my stash of chocolates.

When the coast was clear, I scooted out from my hiding place. My knees and back cracked as I eased myself to an upright position. I was sure I had a lump on my head and a bruise on my chin. Brushing cobwebs from my clothes, I said to Delicia, “You really should clean under there.”

“You really should find a better hiding place!” she snapped back.

“Thanks, by the way,” I said in parting, then turned around to find myself face-to-face with Brad Matthews. I froze, feeling like I’d just been caught breaking and entering.

“What were you
doing
under there?” he said, frowning and grinning at the same time.

“Uh . . . looking for something.” I felt beads of sweat break out along my forehead.

“The detective wanted to talk to you.”

“Really.” I arched my back, trying to squeeze the remaining kinks out. “Did he have a warrant?”

“No. Should he have?” He gave that half smile he was so good at.

I rolled my eyes. “He was in my office snooping through all my stuff!”

“Actually, there’s a loophole called plain view, which means you don’t need a warrant if you can clearly see what you’re looking for. Like papers on your desk in an open office and stuff in your open drawers. But I think he just wanted to talk to you about Rocco, who seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“What did you tell him?”

He leaned back against the doorjamb. “Nothing, obviously, since I don’t know anything more than what I read on the Internet.”

“What did he say about me?” I ran my hand through my hair, hoping to remove any spiders that might have set up residence. I certainly didn’t mean for it to come off as sexual. But Brad reached out toward my face. Reflexively, I pulled back. His hand paused; then he plucked a cobweb from the side of my head. I felt a blast of heat rise like an erupting volcano.

Flicking away the cobweb, he said, “Melvin wanted to know where you were so he could ask you some questions. Your car’s out front, so he knew you were around. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“No.” Yes. “What else did he say?”

“He did mention something . . . ,” Brad added, rubbing his chin.

“What?” I may have screeched.

“Calm down. He found some kind of notes or list on your desk, along with some chocolates in your drawer. He wanted to know why you were writing down a bunch of names. And where the chocolates came from.”

Jeez, didn’t everyone have chocolates in their drawers?

“So . . . ,” Brad said, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up with your list?”

I shrugged, spun around dramatically, and went into my office. I found my list almost right where I’d left it. Before I could pick it up, a muscular arm came out of nowhere and snatched it away.

“Give me that!” I said, grabbing at it.

Brad raised his arm, holding my list out of my reach like a school bully. When I stopped reaching for it, he lowered his arm and scanned the names. A few moments later he handed it over, frowning. “Is this a list of suspects?”

I glared at him. “No. Just people I want to talk to, who might know something about Ikea and the mayor.”

“Why’s my name there?” Was that a smirk on his face?

“You’re a person of interest, just like the others,” I said. “Even
I’m
on my list—thanks to Detective Melvin. So don’t take it personally.”

The phone rang. I snatched it up. “What!—I mean, Killer Parties.”

“Pres! Thank God.” It was Rocco. I turned away from Brad in an attempt to have some privacy, but he didn’t get the hint. He stayed planted right where he was—inside my office.

“Hi . . . Mother. How are you?” I said a little too dramatically.

“Are the cops still there?” Rocco whispered.

“Oh no, I’m fine. What’s up, Mother?”

“Did they find anything?” He sounded urgent.

“Not that I know of, Mom.” I sneaked a glance at Brad. He was busy flipping through my stack of phone messages. At least, he was pretending to.

“What about the chocolates?” Rocco said.

“No, Mom, sorry.” I shook my head as if he could see me.

“Shit! Listen, Pres, you’ve got to help me. In the kitchen cupboard, over the refrigerator where we keep the cleaning supplies, there’s a box of rat poison. . . .”

A chill ran down my back. I hesitated, then said, “Uh, yes, Mom, it’s gone.” I looked at Brad—he was no longer pretending not to listen. I quickly added, “My rash has finally cleared up.”

Brad made a face. Great. What sort of rash was he imagining I had?

“No!” Rocco hissed. “It’s got to be there! I use it all the time—”

“You do?”

“For rats, of course. My fingerprints will be all over it—”

I heard him cough. “Are you okay?”

“Where could it . . . who . . .” Rocco coughed again, more violently.

My heart skipped a beat. “Ro—Mom? You don’t sound well.” More coughing, gasping. “Mom?”

The phone went dead.

I turned to Brad as I hung up. He was staring at me.

“Is your
mom
all right?” He frowned, feigning concern.

I opened my mouth to continue the lie, then sighed. “Okay, okay. It wasn’t my mom.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Brad said. “So where’s Rocco? I’m guessing he’s in some sort of trouble.”

“I think he’s sick. . . .” I trailed off, trying to guess where Rocco might have called from. Wherever it was, he obviously knew the cops had been here. “We’ve got to find him. He sounded . . . awful.”

Brad reached for the phone. “I’ll call the police, see if they can—”

I pushed his hand down, replacing the receiver. “No! No cops. Listen, I have a hunch where he may be, but you have to promise not to call the police. If anything, he may need an ambulance.”

Brad frowned.

I raced out of the barracks to my MINI with Brad right behind me. I slid into the driver’s side, and Brad got into the passenger’s side, ducking to avoid hitting his head in the tight quarters. As he turned to fasten his seat belt, I caught another glimpse of his gun.

Momentarily distracted, I switched on the ignition—twice, by accident—causing a horrible noise. I jammed the gearshift into reverse and sped out of the parking lot, shooting pebbles in my wake. Driving back toward the main gate, I turned onto California Avenue, which ran along the marina. Just before the Treasure Island Yacht Club stood the Windsurf Café. It was the only restaurant on Treasure Island, run by the Job Corps Culinary Academy. Housed in what looked like a double-wide trailer on blocks, the place was easily overlooked by tourists.

The café served breakfast and lunch, six days a week, and was a favorite spot for us locals—even Rocco, who needed a break from his own gourmet cooking from time to time. The bacon, crab, and cheese omelet beat a fancy eggs Benedict any day. And nothing cost over ten dollars. No wonder we all loved it.

I pulled in front of the café. Bingo. Rocco’s SUV was in the parking lot. I could smell frying fish as I got out of the car. Leaving Brad in my dust, I ran inside and scanned the patrons, mostly young men and women with still-damp hair, wearing wet suits.

“Bosun!” I called to the overweight balding man behind the lunch counter. Behind him were colorful photos of the Chinese Dragon Boat Races, held every August in Clipper Cove off Treasure Island.

He finished pouring a beer from a tap, then looked up. “Hey, Pres. The usual—”

I cut him off. “Where’s Rocco?”

He wiped a beer-soaked hand on his apron, glanced around, and shrugged. “Hmm. Was here. Left, I guess. S’up?”

I turned to Brad, who’d finally followed me in. “Check the men’s room. I’ll check his SUV.”

Brad headed into the lavatory as I made a dash for the front door. Before I stepped out, I heard him yell, “He’s in here!”

Ignoring the boundaries of society, I joined him in the men’s room. Rocco lay slumped on the floor, his legs sticking out of the last stall. From the blue coloring in his lips and fingertips, he looked cyanotic.

“Call 911!” I screamed.

 

“How is he?” Delicia said, following me into my office when I returned from the hospital. Rocco was in critical condition. They’d pumped his stomach after I mentioned he might have been poisoned. He was still unconscious when I left.

I slumped back in my desk chair, frowning, my legs stretched out in front of me. “I don’t know, Dee. He’s in pretty bad shape.”

I gave her a brief summary of the past couple of hours.

“You think it’s another poisoning?” she said, blinking rapidly.

I shrugged. “They haven’t confirmed it, but . . .” I thought about Rocco, lying in that hospital bed, all those wires hooked up to him. At least he was still alive, unlike Andi and Ikea.

“Well, if he was poisoned, wouldn’t that prove he didn’t kill anybody?” Delicia said, leaning against the doorjamb. “I mean, why would he eat his own poisoned chocolates?”

Raj appeared in the doorway. “Perhaps the police will be thinking he tried to off himself.” Apparently he’d overheard us.

Delicia turned toward him. “What do you mean, Raj?”

“Perhaps he was committing suicide, knowing the jig was up.”

Off himself? The jig was up? Raj had been watching too many bad cop films. He was starting to sound like a Bollywood Gangsta. But he had a point.

What if the police thought the same thing? And at the moment, Rocco wasn’t able to defend himself, lying in that hospital bed unconscious. Now I had two people I needed to clear of murder—Rocco and myself.

What had Rocco said about the missing rat poison in the kitchen? That it had his fingerprints on it? And where was it now?

“Where’s the CSC?” Delicia asked, peering into Brad’s office across the hall. When I frowned, she explained her text-talk: “Crime scene cleaner.”

I shrugged. The last I’d seen him he was at the hospital, but he’d disappeared sometime before I left. At least, he hadn’t ridden back to the office with me.

“Ms. Parker?” A familiar voice boomed from the doorway of the reception area. Raj and Delicia parted like the Red Sea, allowing me a full view of the dapper Detective Melvin.

“What?” I snapped, not in the mood to be arrested, let alone interrogated. I had just about lost a friend—and still might, if Rocco didn’t make a turn for the better.

The detective glanced at Delicia and Raj, who both got the message and disappeared into Dee’s office. Once there, they pretended to work while surreptitiously watching the proceedings behind the glass partition. I was so onto them.

The detective helped himself to the empty folding chair. As he did, I caught a glimpse of Brad slipping into his office and wondered if he’d been at the hospital all this time. Or had he come with the detective? I watched as he started to shut the door, then noticed he left it open a crack. Since his office was directly across from mine—and only five feet away—he’d be able to hear everything the detective said. I was onto him too.

“Ms. Parker, I understand Rocco Ghirenghelli called you,” Melvin said, flipping open his notebook.

I couldn’t lie. They’d probably checked the call history on his cell.

“Yes, but—”

“What did he say?” The detective lifted his piercing blue eyes from the notebook page and looked at me.

I bit the inside of my mouth, then shook my head and said, “Nothing, really. He started to say something and then coughed and wheezed. I couldn’t understand him. Then the phone went dead.”

“He must have told you where he was. You showed up at the Windsurf only a few minutes later.”

“Nope. I just guessed. He hangs out there a lot, so I took a chance and headed over. We—Brad Matthews and I—found him lying on the floor of the men’s room, unconscious. I called 911. End of story.”

“Matthews was with you?” he asked.

I nodded.
As if you didn’t know
.

The detective squinted. “Why did Ghirenghelli call you?”

“I don’t know.”
None of your business
.

“What did he say?”

“I told you. Nothing. He just coughed.” I glanced over at Brad’s office. The door still stood ajar. I wondered if he’d rat on me later.

No doubt.

“By the way, they’ve done a partial analysis of his stomach contents, thanks to your heads-up.” The detective flipped a page of his notebook.

“Rocco was poisoned, right?”

He looked at me and frowned. “How did you know?”