How to Host a Killer Party (25 page)

After watching Brad’s SUV pull away, I closed the door and scanned the room. Shit! I’d meant to clean up earlier, but I hadn’t expected company—and I’d been a little distracted with the murders on my mind—so I hadn’t gotten around to it. What kind of impression had all this chaos made on Brad Matthews? As a crime scene cleaner, he’d no doubt seen worse. Right?

So why was I overthinking this?

“Boys! Suppertime!” I poured rainbow-colored kitty food into the cat bowls, each labeled with the owner’s personality: “Attack Cat,” “Fat Cat,” and “Scaredy Cat.” I’d once read a book on cat personalities, written by an imminent psychologist. She’d studied cats using the California Personality Index (CPI), the Myers-Briggs Personality Profile Analysis, and the Kiersey Temperament Sorter, and had come up with cat personalities similar to people—Sexy Cat, Hyper Cat, Psycho Cat, Diva Cat, Bossy Cat, Attack Cat, Lazy Cat, and Scaredy Cat.

If only people were as easy to analyze and diagnose. How would I classify Brad Matthews? Diva? Bossy? Attack? Psycho?

Sexy?

Enough. Bedtime.

 

My body might not have been tossing and turning, but my mind was doing flips. Maybe I couldn’t sleep because there were three cats lying on my legs. Or maybe it was Killer to Be Named Later. I couldn’t escape the fact that someone was trying to make me look like a murderer, if not trying to kill me.

I got up, straightened my flannel cat pajamas that had become twisted, pulled out my notes, and sat on the floor with a box of granola. Scanning the chart I’d made, I filled in some of the blanks, using a basic axiom of psychology: All behavior is motivated.

In other words, whoever killed the two women had motives. Including the mayor. Once again the seven deadly sins reared their ugly heads. The way the detective probably saw things, he suspected me of greed (I wanted the party business all to myself?), envy (I was jealous of Andi?), wrath (I secretly disliked Ikea?), and pride (I was embarrassed about the mayor’s silly theme?).

All I was missing were lust, sloth, and gluttony.
I could be guilty of gluttony
, I thought, as I stuffed another handful of granola in my mouth.

I kept circling back to the mayor. He was the one link to everyone, dead or alive. But he couldn’t have pulled off those two murders without some help. Was there someone willing to do anything for the mayor—in order to get what he, or she, wanted?

Like Dakota Hunter, who wanted TI for a casino? Or Spaz Cruz, who wanted to keep it for the film industry? Or the admiral, who thought it should be a monument to the navy? Or Siouxie, who thought the mayor was “murdering” the island?

Or someone else entirely?

I threw my pen down. I was too tired to think clearly. Heading for bed, I just hoped I could eventually drift off if I counted sheep instead of suspects. Switching off the light, I lay back and pulled up the comforter.

Something was wrong.

My cats. All three of them had disappeared from their usual spots on the bed. “Boys?” I called.

No sign of them. I rolled out of bed and took a quick tour of the house to see whether they were eating my spilled cereal, playing in the toilet, or hiding in my laundry pile.

Nope.

I heard a noise. A low guttural growl. Coming from under the bed.

I got on my knees and peeked. Six eyeballs glowed in the darkness.

“Boys? What are you doing under there? Come here, kit—”

A thud. Outside the front door.

Cairo, aka Scaredy Cat, hissed. The blood in my veins turned cold.

In the darkness, I fumbled for my purse, finally locating Brad’s business card at the bottom and my cell phone. Not daring to turn on the light, I touched the phone and called up the keyboard.

Before I could tap the number, the phone rang. Blocked number.

“Brad?” I answered, whispering urgently. “Brad, if that’s you, there’s someone here. Outside.”

I listened for a response. Silence.

The line went dead.

“Shit!” I checked the business card and tapped out Brad’s number.

“This is Brad Matthews at Crime Scene Cleaners. If you wish to leave a message . . .”

“Shit! Shit!”

Another thud. Just outside the front door.

My mouth went dry. In the darkness, I felt my way to the kitchenette and lifted a knife from a drawer. My hand was shaking so badly, I nearly dropped it. I crept back to the bedroom, bumping into a wall along the way, closed the door, and crawled under the bed with the cats. I lay there covered in dust bunnies, knife in hand, and listened for the intruder, hoping I had the nerve to slice his Achilles tendon, like the kid did in
Pet Sematary
.

Or at least cut off a toe.

 

I awoke, startled. Minutes had become hours. I must have been truly exhausted to have drifted off to sleep in spite of the scare, because the next thing I knew it was morning and I was lying in a pool of drool. At least it wasn’t blood. I had a stiff neck, cramped fingers, and ached everywhere else. My cats were long gone. I slithered out from under the bed, sweeping the floor with my pajamas as I went. Slowly I sat up, unkinking my stiff joints with every movement.

At first glance, the room looked undisturbed. Using the bed for support, I drew myself up to stand, cursing my useless cats, who had abandoned me in my time of peril, and brushed off the cat hairs and accumulated dust. I found the boys curled up cozily on my warm, soft comforter, where I should have been. I thought about calling Brad again and took a look outside to see if his SUV happened to be there. No sign of it. He’d mentioned something about sleeping near the office building to keep an eye on things. Oh well. In the daylight, things looked less menacing.

After a long hot shower that loosened my muscles and washed away most of the tension, I dressed in my favorite black jeans, “Go Directly to Alcatraz” T-shirt, and red flip-flops. I whipped up a triple latte and sat down with the morning paper.

No mention of Rocco in the hospital—apparently not newsworthy enough. But there was a small story on the fire at my office building. The police were looking at it as part of the recent break-ins and vandalism on the island.

“These acts of violence are no doubt connected to the current power struggles over the future of Treasure Island,” Mayor Green was quoted as saying, “and they won’t be tolerated. I’ve increased security on the island and am looking into all possible sources of these malicious acts. In the meantime, I will hold my decision about the destiny of this historic piece of land until the perpetrators have been arrested and brought to the full measure of the law.”

The mayor could use a good editor, but one thing was clear: He was pissed. Did his anger—or was it overreaction?—have anything to do with the fact that his future bride had been found floating nearby?

The plot had thickened. The mayor had indicated the recent trouble might have been connected to the groups demanding to see their visions of the island become a reality.

A knock on the door interrupted me from scanning the rest of the article. I went to the door and peered through the peephole.

Brad Matthews stood on the other side, holding two paper cups of what I guessed was coffee and a white bag filled with—please God—some kind of pastry. I checked to see that the fly on my black jeans was zipped, tugged down the hem of my “Alcatraz” shirt, and licked the coffee ’stache off my lips before opening the door.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

He held up the coffees and bag. “Brought you breakfast. Thought you might need something to start your day, like me.” This didn’t look like a man who’d slept in his car. His jeans were spotless, the black T-shirt fresh out of the laundry, and the black leather jacket was the icing on the cake. Even the soul patch on his chin had been neatly trimmed.

Did he think I needed
him
to start my day—or the coffee?

I widened the opening to let him in.

“Rough night?” he said, giving me a once-over.

Did I look that bad? I ran my fingers through my still-damp hair and brushed at the few cat hairs that decorated my shirt.

“How did you know?” I said, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

He nodded toward the knife on the table. “Awfully big knife for buttering toast.”

“Oh, that. I thought I heard a noise last night, after you left. I guess it was nothing.”

Brad’s expression sobered. He looked me over.

“What’s wrong with your face?”

I glanced in the toaster reflection and saw the sleep crease that ran across my cheek. That’s what happens when you sleep on the floor. “Slept wrong,” I said, rubbing the line on my face.

Pushing aside the newspaper and placing the coffees on the small table, Brad sat in one of my two wooden kitchen chairs and took the lids off the paper cups. “Saw you drinking a latte the other day, so I figured it was your drink of choice.”

I glanced at my espresso machine and half-full commuter mug, then smiled at him. So he’d been profiling me, just as I’d been profiling him. I wondered why. Did he still think I had something to do with the murders? As attractive as he might be—and he was—my suspicions of him were never far from my thoughts.

“I can always use another jolt of caffeine,” I said, taking the cup. I filled my mug with the still-warm latte, then stole a glance at his cup. No milk, no whipped cream, no nonsense. Just black. He opened the white bakery bag and pulled out two cinnamon raison bagels spread with cream cheese. They too were still warm. I took a huge bite before saying another word, then licked my fingers. Pastries from the Job Corps culinary school could not be beat.

I caught him watching me. “Thorry. Hungry. Thanks,” I said with my mouth still full.

“This isn’t strictly a social call,” Brad said, setting down his cup after a sip of his coffee.

“What do you mean?” I said, joining him at the table.

“Melvin thinks he knows who set fire to your office building. Fire chief found the hot spots—the sources of the fire. One in the kitchen and one in the reception area.”

I set my coffee down and licked my top lip. “That’s great. Do they know who did it? Did they catch him?”

He took another sip of his coffee, as if it were liquid courage.

I leaned in. “So? Tell me.”

He shrugged. “The fire marshal had some of the ash analyzed.”

“And?”

He looked down at his coffee. “It was highly flammable material. Only took a match to get it going. In another few minutes, the whole building would have been an inferno.”

And I would have been smokin’. . . .

He pulled a small, rolled-up sheet of paper from his pocket, uncurled it, and held it up for me to see. I recognized it immediately—one of the fake mug shots of the mayor I’d had made up for the party. “That’s one of the decorations from the wedding. Where did you get that?”

“Melvin found it in your office. Apparently one just like it was the source of the fire. The chemicals used to make the photocopy made it catch quickly.” Brad took another sip of his coffee. There was something he wasn’t telling me.

I sat back, having suddenly lost my appetite for carbs, sugar, and caffeine. “So . . . someone went into my office, took a couple of leftover posters, and used them to light the fire? For God’s sake, who?”

Brad looked up at me. “The detective thinks it was you.”

I put down my coffee, forgetting all about Brad’s untouched bagel, which had been on my mind seconds before. “Why would Melvin think I set fire to my own building? That’s ridiculous.”

He shrugged casually. “Get rid of evidence?”

“Shit. I gotta get out of here.” I stood up and grabbed my SFSU hoodie and knockoff purse and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Brad stood up, coffee in hand, and followed me.

I spun around. “If Melvin thinks I set the fire, that’s probably all he needs to arrest me! I’ve got to find out who did this before he locks me up. Once he does that, there’s no way I’ll be able to prove my innocence. He thinks I did it, and someone is helping him along with that ridiculous assumption.”

I stepped out the door and waited for Brad to clear the entryway so I could lock up.

“How about I come with you?”

“Why?” I crossed my arms. “What do you really want, Brad?”

He shrugged. “Well, I don’t have any pressing crime scenes to clean up right now. And . . .” He looked away.