How to Host a Killer Party (19 page)

It looked so simple on paper. Six easy steps for hosting a party. Or solving a crime. The only difference? My life didn’t depend on the success of a party.

As I entered the historic Hall of Records, a massive gilt-trimmed concrete building that encompassed the entire block and housed the mayor’s office, I felt as if I were stepping back in time. I’d heard it referred to as the Crown Jewel by the docents and tour guides I’d half listened to over the years. Only recently had I come to appreciate the Beaux Arts architecture that is rare in eclectic California construction.

I glanced at the plaque bolted near the door and skimmed the brief description. The original building was destroyed in the 1906 earthquake. The current one was built in 1915, then retrofitted after the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. The three-hundred-foot domed structure was now a national landmark, considered “one of the most important buildings in America.” Architect Arthur Brown Jr. designed a number of other buildings in the city, including the San Francisco Opera House and Coit Tower, often referred to as a phallic symbol. Each one was considered a masterpiece. But like all construction, safety renovation and historic restoration seemed never-ending, as state-of-the-art technology continued to be introduced and installed, “without compromising the historic character of the building.” So said the plaque.

I entered the expansive rotunda and took in the vast grand staircase—the same one used in another Indiana Jones film—that led to the mayor’s office on the second floor. I gawked like a tourist at the pinkish Italian marble walls and huge domed skylight overhead. Two indoor courtyards currently offered art exhibits and educational displays. Now playing: “Before and After the Quake of 1906” and “The Universe Within—A Look Inside the Human Body.” Passing the pre- and post-quake photos I’d seen dozens of times over the years, I stole a quick peek at the poster for “The Universe Within.” My stomach lurched at the graphic photos of real human beings with their innards dipped in some sort of resin and put on display for all to see.

Passing busts of assassinated Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk reminded me that even Mayor Green was only a bullet—or a bottle of poison—away from having his bust made. Moving on, I walked by courtrooms, public offices, and familiar names on nameplates in reverential awe, as if I were in church. Marble, pillars, and domes did a lot for a business professional’s image.

My decrepit military barracks office could use a few pillars and domes, not to mention a little gilt.

At the top of the stairs, a little out of breath, I entered the mayor’s office and was greeted by a young man sitting at a large oak desk. “Greeted” as in, he looked up from his phone call and held up a manicured finger, indicating for me to wait a minute. I nodded and took that moment to enjoy the ostentatious surroundings of the reception area.

The mayor’s outer office encompassed the past and present nicely, with a mix of heavy antique office furniture and state-of-the-art electronic accessories. Dark hardwood floors were covered with intricate Oriental carpets. Velveteen-covered Victorian chairs sat tastefully arranged around the room beneath oil portraits of previous city mayors. I recognized the infamous—Emperor Norton—as well as the popular—Joseph Alioto, Willie Brown, and Gavin Newsom—all looking regal in their suits and smiles.

“May I help you?” the man at the desk finally said, putting down the phone.

I spun around, took several steps to the desk, and reached out my hand. “I’m Presley Parker, the mayor’s event planner. I have an appointment to see Chloe Webster.”

The anorexically thin man in the tailored dark suit and closely cropped highlighted hair took my hand with slim fingers and shook it lightly, as if I might have cooties. “Do you have an appointment?” he said without making eye contact.

Hadn’t I just said that? “Yes, sir.” I tapped an invisible watch on my wrist as if officially verifying it.

“Have a seat. I’ll let Ms. Webster know you’re here.”

He lifted the phone, pressed a button, and said something so softly I couldn’t make it out. After a brief couple of “Yes, Ms. Webster”s, he hung up and more or less mouthed to me, “She’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

I sat down in a stiff chair underneath Davin Green. He looked like a movie star in his portrait with his professionally whitened smile, green-contact-lensed eyes, molded dark hair, and Italian suit. As any event planner knew, a few fancy decorations went a long way to cover up a less-than-perfect venue. The same axiom worked for people too.

A few minutes stretched into a quarter of an hour. While I waited, I thought about what I was going to ask Chloe. As I pulled out my notebook, a small sticky note floated onto my lap. Written in Delicia’s curly handwriting, it was the note to call the governor’s office. Damn. The timing couldn’t be worse. I wanted that job, but I felt overwhelmed by the current circumstances. How could I put on a murder mystery for the governor while trying to solve a real one?

That got me thinking. I’d done a small mystery event for the university to raise money for the campus library, and it had been a great success. The sponsors were able to supply the library with several new computers. Plus, it’d been a lot of fun putting the event together—although working out a not-too-easy, not-too-hard plot on the university’s limited budget had been a challenge.

First I’d chosen the victim—in this case a professor who was appearing at the school library to sign her latest book,
Deader Than a Doornail
. Then I jotted down the most likely suspects connected to the victim—the frumpy librarian, the tweedy bookseller, the stuffy publisher, the bitter critic, the bimbo star of the book’s miniseries, and the local crooked politician. Stereotypes always got the biggest laughs.

Next, I gave each one a secret and a motive for offing the victim—standards like jealousy, blackmail, larceny, lust. Finally, I wrote alibis for each one—which of course turned out to be questionable when the “detective” interrogated them. While the amateur sleuths attending the mystery tried to sort the red herrings from the real clues, they were distracted by the suspects’ psycho personalities and suspicious statements. Only those who looked for physical evidence guessed the real killer. Source:
Murder, She Wrote
.

As the minutes ticked by, I started to brainstorm a plot for the governor’s mystery. But after tapping my pen on the pad for several minutes, all I’d come up with were two dead victims and a very suspicious-looking party planner as the killer.

“Presley?” a voice called. I looked up to see Chloe Webster standing in her office doorway. I stuffed the notebook into my purse and rose.

“Hi!” Chloe reached out and took my hand in both of hers. She looked completely different out of her costume and in her fashionably tailored blue suit, with its cropped, closely fitted jacket and short skirt. Even her dark blue, sky-high Manolo Blahniks blended perfectly with her outfit. Around her neck she wore the small triangle necklace she’d had on at the party.

“Hi, Chloe. Thanks for seeing me. I know this is probably a bad time. . . .”

She’d turned and headed for her office, leading the way. With a last glance at the portrait of Mayor Green, I followed her through the door labeled CHLOE WEBSTER, ASSISTANT TO THE MAYOR. I shot a glance at the office next to hers: MAYOR DAVIN GREEN. His door was shut and the room looked dark through the frosty window.

As Chloe moved around to her desk, I took a moment to read her room. It was sparse, simple, and tastefully appointed. A steel desk and file cabinets, functional gray carpet and chairs, gray wainscoting on white walls. A framed picture of the Golden Gate Bridge and one of the Painted Ladies filled two walls. On her desk were tiny figurines popular with tourists—a Victorian house, a cable car, the Transamerica building, a replica of the MOMA. Even a cup from the mayor’s party on Alcatraz.

But it was her clothes and shoes that told me she was making the big bucks at this job.

I sat down in the sleek steel chair opposite her.

“As I told you, it’s been crazy here. Mayor Green is devastated over Ikea’s death, as you can imagine, and it’s meant a lot more work for me. But you’re not here to listen to me complain. So, what’s this all about?” She played with the triangle around her neck.

“Well, as I mentioned, I want to help the police figure out who did this.”

“Great.” She raised a well-drawn eyebrow. “How can I help?”

“I think the police are on the wrong track. They’re even questioning me and my staff.”

Her face clouded and she fiddled with her necklace. “The police were here too.”

I leaned in, waiting for her to go on. Like me, had they suspected the mayor too? When she didn’t continue, I asked the obvious. “So what did they want?”

She cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable. “Uh, well, they asked about you. And your caterer.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. I knew it.

“Okay, so now you know why I’m really here. That’s why I need your help.”

“I don’t know what I can do but I’m happy to help any way I can, Presley. I didn’t tell them much. Mainly because I really don’t know anything.”

I remembered Brad’s advice—start with the victim—and asked, “Can you tell me something about Ikea? How did she and the mayor get along?”

She grinned. “They were a great couple. Obviously, or the mayor wouldn’t have planned that whole wedding party.”

“Was there anyone who might have had a reason to do this? Anyone who—”

She cut me off with a laugh. “Oh sure. Plenty of people didn’t care for Ikea. She was talented, beautiful, powerful, and engaged to the mayor of San Francisco. Maybe having that kind of life makes you a lot of ‘friends’ ”—she put the word in finger quotes—“but it also makes you some enemies.”

“Really?” I pulled out my notebook. “Like who?”

“Oh, don’t quote me, but goodness, too many to count. I suppose you could start with the people who saw her as a connection to the mayor. Granted, she had a lot of influence over him, but some people thought she could actually affect his decision making.” She rolled her eyes.

“You knew Ikea pretty well?”

“I suppose. She was here all the time.” More fiddling with the necklace. Was she bored, nervous, or hyperactive like me?

“What was she like?”

Chloe sighed, as if reluctant to give a big speech. “Well, she was beautiful, you know. Tall, slim, gorgeous almond eyes. I think she was a model at one time. Then she started writing chick-lit novels and became a minor celebrity. Began hitting the city social circuit. That’s when she met the mayor. He was just coming off an ugly divorce and fell head over heels immediately.”

“You said people thought she had a lot of influence over the mayor. Do you think that was true?”

Chloe shrugged and looked down at her necklace. “I don’t really know. Like I said, some people thought so. That’s not to say the mayor didn’t have his own agenda, but I know she encouraged him on a few city projects.”

“Like . . .” I was practically sitting on the edge of my chair.

She tapped her pen. “Mostly special interest groups. As you know, the mayor is in the middle of making some decisions about the future of Treasure Island—and that’s causing major issues. Things are . . . intense, to say the least, and there are a few people who are trying—tried, I should say—to sway the mayor through Ikea.”

I thought of the three men who’d argued at the wedding—Dakota Hunter, Spaz Cruz, and Admiral Stadelhofer. And then there’d been that scene with Siouxie, the activist. Was there anyone else I could add to my list?

“Did Ikea actually help any of them? I mean, did she support any of those causes?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Ikea and I weren’t that close. Like I said, I met her after I got the job here. She didn’t confide in me or anything.” Chloe put the pencil down and looked at her watch. “Look, I want to help you, Presley, but I’ve probably said too much already. My job is to protect the mayor, and I could get in trouble—besides, he has a press conference in a few minutes.”

Protect the mayor? Odd choice of words, I thought.

“Sorry. Just one last thing. Do you have any idea where she got the earrings she wore that night?”

Her hand went to her necklace again. “Which ones?”

“They looked like miniature books.”

“Oh sure. The mayor gave them to her. That night, in fact, as a special pre-wedding gift, I guess. She was having a tantrum about her costume, and when he whipped those earrings out, she forgot all about her little snit.”

“By the way, I love your necklace. Does it symbolize something?”