How to Host a Killer Party (18 page)

I swept my arm around the office. “It seems to be contagious around here.”

Detective Melvin looked back at his notes. “Do you know any reason why Ghirenghelli might have wanted to poison Ikea Takeda? Or Andrea Sax?” He met my eyes again.

“No, of course not! He had no reason at all. And whoever poisoned those two women probably poisoned him too. I’d think that would be pretty obvious, Detective.”

Without taking those penetrating blue eyes off me, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out several folded sheets of paper, and handed them to me.

I unfolded them and skimmed the contents, like I do nearly everything I read, thanks to ADHD.

“Where are the chocolates, Presley—Ms. Parker?” Detective Melvin, slipping for a second from his usual formality, nodded toward the open drawer.

“I . . . I . . .”

I glanced at Brad, who had appeared behind the detective in the doorway. He gave me a blank look I couldn’t read.
Thanks for the support, buddy
.

“Wait a minute!” I said, recovering part of my brain. “Why did you think there were chocolates in my drawer?”

Melvin turned to the young woman a few steps away. “Officer Price?”

The wide-eyed rookie couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

“Anonymous tip?” she said. I thought I saw her steal a glance at Brad.

Brad caught it too and backed away, holding up his hands. “Innocent bystander,” he said.

“Go check Ghirenghelli’s office,” Detective Melvin told the kiddy cop. Meanwhile, Melvin busied himself by searching the rest of my office, opening party gift bags, snooping into prop boxes, looking behind cardboard cutouts of Elvis, Britney Spears, and Captain Kirk. All he found was a bunch of party crap. If he was looking for method, there were a few plastic swords, but no bloody weapons. No pointed clues. No detailed murder plots.

I stood there smugly, my arms crossed again, while he completed his search. When he’d just about finished, he bent down and checked beneath my desk, then reached under and pulled out my Rollerblades. He looked as if he’d discovered Lizzie Borden’s ax.

“You keep these hidden under your desk?” he said, rising. I shook my head, more in exasperation than denial. “Not
hidden
. Just out of the way. Seemed as good a place as any, since the rest of my office is pretty well filled with party paraphernalia.”

He peered inside one of the skates, no doubt checking for stashed evidence.

Then he reached in.

To my surprise, he pulled out a small plastic bag that had apparently been stuffed inside. I felt myself blush and leaned in. “What’s—”

“Funny place to keep your chocolates, don’t you think, Ms. Parker?”

Struck dumb, all I could do was shake my head in disbelief as he held up the bag. Inside were half a dozen tiny black birds from last night’s party—all chocolate. He dropped the bag into a large paper evidence bag.

“But . . . those aren’t my—”

“You’ll be hearing from me, Ms. Parker,” Detective Melvin said, glancing around as if searching for an overlooked clue. “Don’t leave town.” His last glance was directed at me, just before he left my office.

I felt the rope tighten around my neck and pulled at my T-shirt collar.

A voice came from the doorway. “You okay?”

I looked up at Brad, frowning. “Are they gone?”

He nodded.

“Did they find anything else?”

He shook his head.

I leaned back in my chair, still tugging at my T-shirt collar as if it were strangling me. “So what are they going to do now?”

He shrugged and plopped into the folding chair. “Run a tox on the chocolates. That’ll take some time.”

I nodded listlessly, playing with the now overstretched neck of my shirt. Up until now I’d been going round and round with possibilities but had come up with nothing substantial. It was time to start seriously investigating some of the mayor’s friends and acquaintances—not to mention the mayor himself, if I could get to him. He was the only link to the two dead women. Besides me.

Brad nodded toward my notes, now a mess of scratch-outs, arrows, additions, and question marks. “Want help?”

I pressed my lips together, then said, “You weren’t much help a few minutes ago. Besides, why would you help me? What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing,” he said, leaning forward. “Just seems like you could use a little professional assistance.”

“Professional assistance—from a crime scene cleaner?”

“Looks like I’m all you’ve got.” He grinned. I couldn’t help but smile back, then bit my lip to cover it.

I thought about my options. I had my coworkers—Delicia, Raj, Berk—and Rocco, who was out of commission at the moment. They meant well, but what could they do to help? Play themselves in my Lifetime movie during “Women Who Kill” week?

I’d lost contact with most of the staff at the university.

Of course, there was always my mother. She was my best friend, supporter, and cheerleader, in spite of her illness. But I couldn’t exactly ask her to help me find a murderer. Could I?

I spun the list of the mayor’s associates around toward Brad.

He took it in his large hand. “Tell me what you know about them.”

As I ticked off the names, I gave Brad their connections to the mayor and what information I had so far, which wasn’t much.

“Xtreme Siouxie: She’s been pressuring the mayor to clean up the island and make it a natural habitat. Eugene Stadelhofer: He wants TI to become a permanent monument to the navy. Dakota Hunter: He thinks the site should be turned over to his tribe for a casino. And Lucas Cruz: He’s trying to make this place Hollywood North. They all know the mayor—and in fact want something from him—so I figured they’d be good to talk to. Maybe they know something about the mayor or Ikea or even Andi. I know it’s not much to go on, but it’s better than nothing.”

In the silence that followed, Brad rubbed his chin. I ran my fingers through my hair. They caught on a snarl. How long had it been since I’d brushed my hair?

“Look,” I said, breaking the silence, “I know I don’t have shit, but I think the key lies with the mayor. He knew both of the dead women. But how that ties in, I don’t know.”

“All right,” Brad said, setting my notes on the desk. “When the cops work on an unsolved murder, they usually begin with the victim. In this case, there are two. Let’s start with Ikea.” Brad sat forward. “You said you heard she had a lot of influence over Mayor Green. That’s a start. Now, how do you find out more?”

“No clue,” I said.

“You were a college instructor, right? Who did you schmooze when you needed classroom materials or whatever?”

A light cut through my fog of thoughts. “The admin.”

Brad grinned. “Now you’re thinking like an investigator.”

I opened my cell, checked my call history, then pressed the number for the mayor’s office. A few seconds later, a familiar voice answered.

“Mayor Green’s office.”

“Chloe? It’s Presley Parker.”

“Presley! Hi. Sorry I haven’t called to thank you for the great job you did, in spite of everything that happened. It’s been totally crazy here, as you can imagine.”

“Actually, I wondered if you had time for lunch or coffee? I wanted to talk to you about something else.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brad give me a thumbs-up.

“Um, sure. I’m a little overloaded with work right now because of all this—the mayor’s taking it hard, you know—but if you want to come by, I might have a couple of minutes. Is it about the party? We’ll cut you a check soon.”

“Actually, it’s about Ikea’s death.”

“Oh God, it’s been awful. The mayor is just devastated.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The police seem to think I’m somehow involved. I could use your help.”

“You’re kidding! Of course. I’ll do what I can. Can you come by, say, in half an hour?”

 

Brad stood up. “Nice work, Holmes. You’re a natural. And that’s kind of a scary thought.”

I shrugged. “Hmm. Planning a party and solving a mystery aren’t that different, really. It’s all about the dynamics of a group of people brought together for a purpose.”

“Maybe. But one’s a lot more dangerous than the other,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Want me to come with you?”

“No, thanks, but you could do something for me.” Oh my God, was I actually batting my eyelashes now?

“Like what? Destroy incriminating evidence?”

I frowned. “Not funny. I thought you believed me.”

“Just kidding. What do you have in mind?”

“Find out how Rocco’s doing?”

“Sure.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Here’s my cell number. Call if you need me.” The card, with the words “Crime Scene Cleaners” at the top in red, looked as if it had been printed by computer. “Got any idea what you’re going to say to the mayor’s admin?”

I looked down at my notes. “I have no clue. But I’ll think of something.”

 

As soon as Brad left my office, I pulled out my mom’s
How to Host a Killer Party
manual, silently thanking her for writing it. The more I read through it, the more I believed preparing for a party
was
a lot like solving a mystery. It was all about planning—and timing.

The cover featured a picture of my mother in her thirties, wearing a polka-dot party dress, her dyed-blond hair styled in a classic pageboy. She held a martini glass in one hand and some sort of fancy canapé in the other. Colorful balloons filled the background like giant pieces of confetti.

I smiled as I remembered the day the photo was taken. I’d been watching the shoot from a short distance away, admiring my beautiful mother’s poised and confident demeanor. She still retained those qualities, in spite of her illness, and I envied that.

Flipping open to the first chapter, already dog-eared and latte-stained, I inserted a few handwritten corollaries next to the Perfect Party Planning to-do list: