How to Host a Killer Party (20 page)

“Just my old sorority. Tri Delta.”

I rose to leave and reached out my hand. She came around the desk and gave me a light hug. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the police will figure all of this out. And feel free to come to me if you need my help—or the mayor’s.”

“Thanks, Chloe. You’ve been a great help already.”

She smiled wanly and looked away. “I wish I could do more. It’s really been hard on the mayor.”

Did I see something more in that smile and those eyes besides concern for the mayor?

I started for the door, then turned back. “Oh yes, I almost forgot. Did the police tell you that Ikea was poisoned?”

Chloe nodded. “Yes, I heard. The mayor is sick about it.”

“They think it was the chocolates at the wedding party,” I added.

Chloe’s eyes narrowed as she had a thought; then she shook her head. “God, that means it could have been anyone. . . .”

I nodded. “Well, if you have any ideas, let me know.”

She nodded. “Hang in there, Presley.”

Did she have to use the word “hang”?

 

A bunch of newscasters and reporters were gathered in the rotunda when I came out of the elevator, checking camera angles, checking their hair, testing microphones.

The mayor’s press conference. This might be a good time to ask a few pointed questions of our bereaved mayor. I pulled out my little notebook and a pen and tried to blend in with the newspaper reporters, hoping the mayor might not recognize me when I started grilling him. Ha. Then I had a thought and ran out to my car, where I still hadn’t unloaded the costume I’d worn at the party. I dug out the blazer, cloche hat, and a pair of Groucho glasses, then slipped on the blazer and hat as I dashed back to the rotunda. Mayor Green had just arrived at the podium and was about to be introduced by Chloe. As subtly as I could, I broke off the mustache and nose from the black-rimmed glasses and put them on, hoping I could at least fool the mayor from a distance.

Seconds later Chloe took the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, Mayor Davin Green has been through a very devastating experience. He knows you have questions, but please keep them brief. You have five minutes. And now, Mayor Davin Green.” She lifted her hands in applause.

The room followed suit as Mayor Green took over the mic. He waved his hands to calm the crowd, then began reading his professionally (but over-) written speech. “People of San Francisco”—pause, look at notes, blink back tears—“I want to thank you for the tremendous outpouring of support for me at my time of loss. . . . The death of my fiancée has been difficult . . . but I appreciate all your good wishes. . . . I am confident the San Francisco Police Department will fully investigate her death and apprehend the perpetrator in a swift and timely manner. . . .”

I couldn’t stand it any longer. Why wasn’t anyone asking questions? Chloe had said he’d only be available for five minutes. At this point, I had nothing to lose.

“Mr. Mayor!” I called out, interrupting his prefab talk. “Do you know of any reason why someone might want to murder Ikea Takeda?”

The mayor blinked, put a hand over his brow, and tried to see who had asked such a boldly rude question. In the harsh lights, I doubted he could see me, but I pulled back behind another reporter in an attempt to hide, just in case.

“Uh . . . ,” he stammered, not having any notes on the sudden subject change to refer to. “Who’s—”

“Is it true,” I continued, lowering my booming voice an octave so he wouldn’t recognize it, “that you and your fiancée were arguing over something the night of the surprise wedding and that—”

Someone grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me back from the crowd—a man in a black suit. His twin joined him, and together they “escorted” me from the rotunda and “helped” me through the door and onto the sidewalk.

Rubbing my shoulder where the first guy had grabbed me with “unnecessary force,” I headed back to my car. I sat in the front seat a few minutes, shaking my head at my stupidity. What had that accomplished, other than to make me look like a fool, get me thrown out of the building, and no doubt draw sympathy for the mayor? If he were really as devastated as he’d proclaimed to the press, he sure didn’t look like it. Maybe he was good at hiding his feelings when he was in front of the public. Maybe he was good at hiding more than his feelings. . . .

As I removed the hat and switched on the ignition, I only hoped that Chloe hadn’t recognized me. If she had, I could cross her off as a source of more information. And at the moment, she was my best bet for uncovering any of the mayor’s secrets.

“
Cherchez la femme
,” I said aloud as I got into my MINI Cooper.
Look forthe woman
. This advice had certainly been true in
The Maltese Falcon
. Brigid O’Shaughnessy was the real clue, not the black bird. Hitchcock had called this the McGuffin, and defined it as something that seemed to be the pivotal point of the mystery, when in fact it was simply misdirection—there was so much more going on.

In this case, there were two femmes—both connected to the mayor.

Speaking of femmes, I made a U-turn out of the dead-end street in front of city hall and headed up Van Ness to my mother’s care facility. I parked on a side street and walked half a block to her building, inhaling the smell of roast beef and gravy coming from Tommy’s Joynt, my mother’s favorite lunch spot. Entering the three-story renovated Victorian home, I waved to Holly Dietz, one of the LVNs at the front desk. The tantalizing aroma of Tommy’s Joynt evaporated among the heavy odor of cleaning products, mildew, and leftover cafeteria food.

“She’s in the community room,” Holly called cheerily. It took a special kind of nurse to work in a facility like this, and I was grateful for her.

I spun on my flat Mary Jane heels and headed over to the “Grand Parlor,” where half a dozen elderly men and women were sitting in comfy chairs, chatting, playing games, or watching TV. My mother, who never watched TV, didn’t like small talk, and only hosted games—never played them—sat alone, hunched over a craft table filled with papers.

“Hi, Mom!” I said almost as cheerily as the nurse. Sitting down opposite her, I gave her a quick once-over in an attempt to evaluate her status. Today she wore a bright orange floral dress and scuffed black heels; she’d twisted her hair into a French roll and tied a green ribbon in it. Her makeup, albeit a little heavy for daytime, was expertly done, and her manicured nails were painted bright red. A throwback to the Donna Reed/June Cleaver days, my mother was not the type to sit in a housecoat and slippers with no makeup or unstyled hair, no matter what the circumstances. She had “an image to preserve,” she often told me.

She looked up as if she’d been expecting me—and I was late.

“About time,” she said, placing a colorful piece of paper in a large binder.

“Whatcha doing?” I asked, noticing a pile of old photographs taken at some of her favorite parties years ago. I cleared a small shoe box off of a chair, set it on the floor, and sat down opposite her.

“I’m scrapbooking. It’s the latest thing. I’m putting all my party pictures together so I can present them to clients and show them what I’ve done.”

“Great idea,” I said, sifting through a few of the photos. There were two schools of thought in dealing with Alzheimer’s patients—either try to bring them back to reality or go along with their fantasies. I chose the latter. She was happier that way.

I looked down at the floor. Next to her feet were three more shoe boxes filled with more photos. “Wow, you’ve got a lot.”

“That’s why I’m making each scrapbook a different theme—just like a party. This one is for my political parties. That one will be for my surprise parties, those over there for weddings and showers, and then I’ll make some for my children’s parties.” She pointed to a stack of binders on a chair next to her. It would take her years to finish all her planned projects.

I noticed her
How to Host a Killer Party
book lying open, facedown, on the table. I lifted it up and found it had been cut to pieces.

She caught my surprised look and said, “Oh, I’m adding pages from my book. . . .” She took the book from me, flipped through what was left of it, and found the page on party themes. She ripped it out. “Like this.”

She began cutting out the page with scalloped scissors. While she worked, I watched her artfully arrange photos, party tips from her book, and what she called “embellishments” on the page. I had to admit, she had a knack for this. My mother seemed to be good at whatever she did, even with Alzheimer’s.

I lifted a shoe box, set it on my lap, and flicked through the pictures. Some were familiar to me and brought back memories from my childhood and teen years; others were new to me. I was halfway through the box when I discovered a photo of a man I recognized. I pulled it out and held the faded snapshot up for my mother to see.

“Mom, do you know this man?”

Over the top of her decorative reading glasses she glanced at the photo of the man in a military uniform. Returning to work, she said, “Sure. That’s Gene. He was such a sweetheart.”

Gene? “You mean, you knew Admiral Eugene Stadelhofer?”

“Of course. Handsome, isn’t he? I hosted a party for him a few years back, when he retired from the navy. Why? Do you know him too?”

I inserted the photo back into the box. “He’s . . . uh, trying to get the mayor to erect some kind of military monument on Treasure Island. Did you know him well?”

She looked at me and smiled wickedly.

Oh. My. God. Don’t tell me he’d been another one of her many “paramours,” as she called them.

I set the box on the floor and stood up. “Well, I can see you’re busy, so I’m going to take off. I’ll come again soon, okay?”

She nodded, concentrating on her page layout.

“Do you need anything?”

“No, I—” she started to say, then added, “Oh! More of this.” She held up some sort of tape dispenser. “I go through them like chocolate.”

Chocolate. Great. “Okay, Mom. Well, take care of yourself. You look wonderful.”

“You too,” she said, peering over her glasses. “And say hello to Gene for me when you see him.”

I headed for the door, then had a thought and turned back to my mother. “Mom? Would you like to go on an outing with me, maybe later today?”

She brightened. “Certainly, dear. I always enjoy our outings. Where are we going this time? Sausalito? Tiburon? Angel Island?”

“How about Yerba Buena Island?” I said. It was about time my mother saw her old “paramour” again.

 

Driving home, I thought about my mother’s connection to the admiral. What had their relationship been? More than I wanted to know, that’s for sure. But maybe she could help me get the opportunity to question the admiral about his ties to Treasure Island—and possibly Ikea Takeda. Maybe the admiral had more of a connection to Ikea than anyone suspected. . . .

A chill ran up my back, and I shuddered. Was it possible the admiral had something to do with Ikea’s murder? Even more disturbing—could my mother have been romantically involved . . . with a potential murderer?

Whoa. Where had that thought come from?

 

When I arrived at my desk, the office across from mine was curiously deserted. Where was our crime scene cleaner? Cleaning up after another crime? There was something about that man I didn’t trust. And yet he seemed so—

The phone rang.

Not in the mood to talk, I let the machine answer. Turned out to be another request for a party, this time from someone at Pier 39. I wondered what kind of event this tourist area wanted. Didn’t matter, as long as it didn’t involve another body.

I got out my notes and updated the list of people I wanted to question about the mayor and his connection with Ikea and Andi. Although I was tempted to put a big fat circle around the mayor’s name, it seemed unlikely that he’d kill his own fiancée—at a wedding he himself had planned. Still, stranger things had happened, especially in the name of passion. Maybe she’d said or done something that really, really ticked him off. And maybe the wedding party was just a cover.

But how did Rocco tie in to all this? Although he had means and opportunity, he had no motive—that I knew of. Still, the physical evidence didn’t bode well for him.

I was convinced Ikea’s drowning and Andi’s car crash had been misdirections. Poison via Rocco’s chocolates was the real MO. But there was no way I was going to add Rocco’s name to the suspect list—he was a victim, I was certain of that. The only other possibility was that he’d attempted suicide. But why?