How to Host a Killer Party (21 page)

I didn’t buy it.

Almost as if I were channeling automatic writing from the dead, I found myself writing down the name of the mystery man who’d shown up right about the time all this was taking place: Brad Matthews.

He’d been at the party: opportunity.

He had access to all kinds of chemicals and poisons: means.

But what would be his motive?

If he knew the mayor, he probably knew Ikea too.

How well?

And Andi?

I grabbed a black marker and obliterated his name. Underneath the heavy black mark, I jotted the initials KTBNL—Killer to Be Named Later. I didn’t want him to know I suspected him if he stumbled onto my notes. Meanwhile, I’d have to watch my back around him. If Brad was involved in this, I could be in big trouble.

Back to the femmes fatales. I had to find out more about Ikea in order to know who had the strongest motive. And I had to find a credible link between her and Andi Sax.

There’s a saying popular in my former teaching occupation: “Go ask the administrative assistant.” As Brad had pointed out, admins, including those at the university, were the ones to befriend if you wanted anything. Mine, Linda Barnes, had managed to get around all sorts of red tape, while keeping me supplied with materials I needed. She was also a great source of information about the subculture of academia. I learned from her that I might lose my job long before I was officially fired.

Chloe had been a good source of info on Ikea, but I had a feeling she knew more. I wondered if Andi Sax had someone like an administrative assistant. Surely she couldn’t have been the most successful event planner in the Bay Area all by herself.

I turned to the computer and did an Internet search for her company, Party People, then clicked the link to her site. The dazzling display, full of floating balloons and flashing lights, listed links to many of her biggest parties, along with her lengthy bio, suggested party themes, information on how to hire her, and her Party Talk blog. I scrolled down to the bottom of the home page and found, in fine print, a snail mail address. Andi had an office in Sausalito, just on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Grabbing my purse and a copy of the address, I was on my way out the front door when I bumped into Brad—literally—who was headed inside. As I hit solid muscle, I caught a whiff of lime. Beer? Or aftershave?

“Whoa! Where’s the fire?” he said, backing down the front steps. Brad Matthews always seemed to be running me off the path.

“Uh, I . . . was just about to run some errands. Party stuff, you know.”

He nodded a
Yeah, sure
kind of nod.

“What about you? In a rush to get back to work?” I said, massaging my shoulder where he’d slammed into me. If I didn’t stop getting hurt in the shoulder, I’d soon be needing rotator cuff surgery.

“Nope. Got some information for you.” He rubbed his chin. I was beginning to wonder what this “tell” meant—that he felt a little self-conscious? Or he was about to tell a lie?

“Oh? What did you find out?” I asked suspiciously.

He stuffed a hand in his pocket, pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper, and glanced at it. “Your friend, Rocco? Same poison, same MO—chocolates.”

I felt my stomach drop. I’d suspected as much, but the confirmation still hit hard. “How did you find out?”

“I have my sources,” he said mysteriously as he stuffed the note back in his pocket.

I looked down at him as he stood on the bottom step. “The police just
happened
to tell you this?”

He shrugged. “Like I said, they know me from my cleaning business.”

“So, how’s Rocco? Any news?”

He shook his head. “Still unconscious.”

Poor Rocco. He didn’t deserve this. I’d stop by the hospital later and check in on him. I stepped down the three stairs and started for my car.

Brad caught me by the arm. “Hey, wait a minute. It’s your turn.”

I looked at the grip he had on me. He released my arm and crossed his own arms, causing his biceps to double in size. The guy worked out, and his white T-shirt didn’t hide anything.

“My turn to what?” I said, stroking my arm as if he’d seriously wounded me.

He rolled his eyes. “Your visit with the mayor’s chick. What happened?”

“Oh.” I sighed. “Not much. She was kind of tight-lipped—you know how it is with them.” I decided not to mention the press conference fiasco.

Brad set his jaw and waited.

I sighed again. “Honest. She said there might have been some special interest groups urging Ikea to influence the mayor about the island, but she didn’t have anything concrete.”

“Hmmm,” Brad said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Think she’s hot for him?”

I laughed. “Who? Chloe? For the mayor? No way. She’s not his type.”

“Oh, you can tell people’s types?”

“I read people like fortune cookies. I have a background in psychology, remember. Abnormal psychology, as a matter of fact.” I eyed him.

“Really?” he said, his voice full of doubt.

I looked down at his shoes. “New Balance athletic shoes. Expensive. Good for both work and play. But awfully clean, even for a crime scene cleaner.”

He checked his shoes, then looked up at me and smiled, obviously impressed. “What do your shoes say?”

I glanced at my black, round-toed Mary Janes. “Isn’t it obvious? Comfortable, casual, but still feminine.” Talking about my own shoes reminded me of my skates—and the chocolates that someone had placed inside.
Better get moving, Pres
, I told myself,
before Detective Melvin shows up with a pair of prison slippers
. Definitely not my style.

He watched me as I moved on to my car.

“MINI Cooper, eh?” he called out. “Does what you drive mean something too?”

“Sure. It means I’m smart with money, but playful, independent, yet flirty. . . .” I stopped before I told him too much. Instead, I nodded toward his SUV parked next to mine. “Your SUV? All business. Dirty—could use a wash. A magnetic sign for easy removal. And paneled—no way to see what you’re hiding inside.”

He laughed. “That’s just for work.”

“Really? So what’s your other car?”

“A Harley.”

It figured.

 

As I drove over the Golden Gate Bridge toward the boutique town of Sausalito, I wondered if tourists were a little disappointed to find the famous Art Deco bridge painted bright orange instead of gold. What they didn’t know was that the bridge had been named after the Golden Gate Strait—the entrance to the San Francisco Bay—not the color.

In addition to walking across the Golden Gate, committing suicide from the bridge has been a popular activity. Someone once said, “The Golden Gate Bridge is to suicides what Niagara Falls is to honeymooners.” Years ago, one of my college friends jumped from the bridge just before finals. It haunts me to this day. I can’t think of a worse way to die, but when she talked about it a few days before she jumped, she’d romanticized it, imagining it to be some kind of swan dive. In essence, it was. Still, even though we’d talked about it, I didn’t think she would follow through.

Ironically, she’d planned to be a psychiatrist.

There had been lawsuits and demands to erect barriers—one led by my mother—and a recent exposé by a renegade filmmaker who had actually videotaped jumpers in the act. But even after the city put up the barriers, the suicides continued.

As an abnormal psychology instructor, I retained morbid facts like these: A bridge jump is called a 10-21 in police code; every two weeks someone jumps from the bridge; there have been twelve hundred jumps since the bridge opened; only twenty-six people have survived.

And the most common fear among San Franciscans is gephyrophobia—the fear of crossing bridges. I have a touch of it—especially when being run off the road by a white SUV.

Another irony—now I lived in the middle of a bridge. In earthquake country.

In truth, death by jumping isn’t romantic at all. People don’t hit the water cleanly, like an Olympic high diver. After the four-second fall, they hit the surface at about seventy-five miles per hour, and die of multiple blunt-force injuries—bruised, broken ribs; lacerated spleens, lungs, and hearts; bleeding from the ears; snapped vertebrae, ruptured livers, and heads smashed like day-old Halloween pumpkins. According to those few who have survived, many change their minds—just after they let go. For most, it’s too late. And if the bodies aren’t found immediately, they sustain “severe marine depredation”—shark attacks, feeding crabs, and other indecencies. That’s the kind of stuff kids remember from their field trips. And every time I drive over the bridge, I think about all that crap.

When I reached the end of the span, I spotted the familiar rainbow tunnel that leads to Sausalito. Driving out the other side, I was greeted by houseboats on the right and stilted houses on the left. In this cute little bayside town, neither type of lodging came cheap.

After cruising the cute downtown area three times in search of parking, I finally found a car pulling out from a metered space close to my destination and hovered until I could take over the spot. I got out of the car and looked up at the three-story artsy-craftsy building with boutiques—cookie boutiques, clothing boutiques, jewelry and juice boutiques, scrimshaw and T-shirt boutiques, even dog and cat boutiques. I thought about picking up some new toys for Cairo, Fatman, and Thursby, but a glance at a price tag for a fake mouse sent me running from the place.

I found Party People on the third floor of the high-rent building. The door stood open to a cluttered store with narrow aisles filled with party supplies. A woman wearing a plastic tiara sat behind a cramped counter covered with Halloween party favors. Fake lips. Rubber ears. Bleeding fingers. The kind of crap I love.

She looked up from an Oriental Trading Company catalog when I stepped on the PARTY HERE! mat, which instantly played a version of Eddie Murphy’s “Party All the Time!”

That would get annoying fast.

I looked around, envious of all the party props available. A life-sized Brad Pitt posed between Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston, and other giant cutouts of famous stars were propped here and there. Mylar balloons in various shapes and metallic colors hung from the ceiling, above piles of Balloon Time! helium kits. Aisles were packed with themed paper products and props, everything from tropical luaus to over-the-hill birthdays. Apparently Andi’s business had been doing well for her to have so much party stuff on hand. I could barely afford to order it over the Internet in time for each event.

“Can I help you find anything?” the woman said, resting her hand on the catalog. Her name tag, pinned to a pink top that read “Princess in Waiting” in rhinestones, said “Staci McLaughlin.” She looked familiar. I wondered if I’d met her somewhere.

“Yes, hi. I’m Presley Parker.”

The woman sucked in a breath at the sound of my name and sat up. “Oh dear.”

Apparently she’d heard of me. “I was sorry to hear about Andi,” I said quickly. “Are you her . . . partner?”

She stood, closing the catalog slowly, and came out from behind the counter. The pink top was filled to capacity by her ample bosom and matched a long silky pink skirt, also studded with rhinestones. Pink ballet slippers peeked out from under the hem of her skirt. I felt underdressed in my black jeans, blue SFSU T-shirt, and sockless Mary Janes. “You’re the one who took over planning the mayor’s wedding, aren’t you?”

I nodded, distracted by her costume. “Love your outfit,” I said, trying not to giggle.

“Andi likes—er, liked me to dress up for the customers. Helps sell the merchandise. Today I’m Pretty, Pretty Princess.” She spun around, then curtseyed.

“Very . . . pretty,” I said, mortified for her. I glanced around the crowded store to collect my thoughts, then turned back to her. “I wondered if you could tell me a little about Andi. I’m trying to help the police find out who might have had a reason to harm her.”

She shook her head, nearly dislodging her crown, and took a moment to push it back into her puffy hair. “They’ve been here already—the police. I told them what I could, which wasn’t much. It’s all so sad.”

Funny. She didn’t look all that sad in her pink getup. “What did you tell them?”

She took in a deep breath before speaking. “That I don’t know anyone who would want to kill her, if that’s what you’re asking. Not even after that thing with the mayor.”

“That thing?”

“You know. That little tiff she had with him a couple of weeks before the wedding. But—”

“What kind of tiff?”

She shrugged. “I overheard her arguing with him on the phone, something about how ridiculous the wedding was becoming. You know, the ball-and-chain theme. Having it on Alcatraz. Andi thought it was all terribly tacky. Andi didn’t do tacky. But when he fired her, she was pretty upset. Then hiring you only made it worse.”

I forced an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that, but I had nothing to do with any of it. I just got the call one day—”

She waved me silent. “I know, I know. It’s not your fault. Andi could be a bit of a diva. Actually, we aren’t—weren’t—exactly partners. She did all the party planning; I run the boutique. But I helped her out a lot. And, of course, she had a freelance staff that worked for her too.”

“Freelance?”

“Oh, no one permanent, other than me.” She gave a little princess laugh. “Truth is, no one would work for her for very long. Like I said, a bit of a diva. I only got along with her because we kept our businesses separate. And she knew if she didn’t treat me well, I wouldn’t give her a big discount on all the party stuff she needed.”

“Do you have any names of these freelancers?”

She shook her head. “They came from a temp agency. No one lasted more than once or twice. Except me. Like I said, I helped out when I could.”