How to Host a Killer Party (3 page)

“What’s up, Rocco?” I asked, eyeing the perfect handcuffs and Maltese Falcons he’d formed out of chocolate. Tempted, I wondered whether he’d miss just one. . . .

“My balls are getting soft!”

He looked tired, judging by the suitcases under his eyes. No wonder. He’d pulled an all-nighter sculpting the impressive wedding cake, a giant ball and chain masterpiece covered in silver icing. Rocco dreamed of turning his culinary skills into national Food Network television, but so far he’d managed only to snag a weekly gig on a local cable show,
KBAY Café
. A master at “chocolate art,” he’d designed and created dozens of chocolate treats for tonight’s party. If I hadn’t known better, I would have recommended Prozac for his chronic depression.

I glanced down at the crab-filled pastry puffs he’d prepared the previous night. They looked more like pancakes, deflated thanks to the salt air. I picked up a party toothpick that sported a tiny skull-and-crossbones flag and stuck it into one of the mouth-sized morsels. “There. No one will ever notice your flat balls.”

Berkeley giggled. “I’ll have what he’s having,” he said, misquoting
When Harry Met Sally
. I threw a needle-sharp toothpick at him. Missed.

“I’m loving this!” Raj Reddy said, suddenly appearing behind me. He stood grinning at the interior of the cellblock. Glancing at me, he snapped to attention and saluted. “Where are you wanting me, boss?”

A wannabe cop, the Treasure Island security guard looked official in his perfectly pressed khaki uniform and shiny black military-style shoes. Definitely had a touch of OCD—obsessive-compulsive disorder. Raj had been an attorney in India a decade ago, but when he’d emigrated to the United States, his degree was not honored. In his mid-fifties, he felt he was too old to start over at the university, and went into security work. He seemed to love his job as head security guard on Treasure Island, where most of the crimes tended to be minor break-ins, petty vandalism, or public drunkenness. He especially relished the task of detouring tourists and paparazzi away from the CeeGee film studio, which was disguised in an old Pan Am hangar on the island.

At the moment, he looked prepared to take any and all prisoners, if Alcatraz happened to be missing some. I’d hired Raj for extra crowd control, and to make sure the latest special-interest demonstrators didn’t seize the prison and interrupt the ceremony for their own political agendas. Back in the late sixties, American Indian tribes had held Alcatraz hostage for more than a year and a half. With tonight’s well-publicized event hosted by our popular but controversial mayor, a demonstration was almost a given.

That would be the icing on the cake.

“How about blowing up some of those black and silver balloons with the helium tank?” I said to him, then turned to the others.

Delicia raised her hand as if she were in school. “Can I help greet the guests when they arrive? I think they’ll love my costume!” Dee definitely had a touch of narcissism.

“Sure,” I said to her, “but meanwhile would you set out the ball-and-chain centerpieces? And Berk, when you’re done shooting the ‘making of’ video for MTV, would you hang those mug shots of the guests?”

Raj saluted, Delicia clapped, and Berk stuck out his tongue at me.

In spite of the pressure, I was starting to feel good about my first big event. Having ADHD helped—it gave me plenty of energy and helped me multitask—as long as I kept it under control with gallons of caffeine. I’d discovered in high school that coffee, instead of stimulating me like it did other kids, calmed me down and helped me focus. No more Ritalin for me.

 

It was seven forty-five p.m. by the time we turned on the sweeping searchlights, stationed the uniformed “guard” cutouts, and switched on Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues.” Everything that could go wrong had—popped balloons, burned-out lightbulbs, missing chocolates—but Broadway looked like a scene from
Escape from Alcatraz
when we finished, with stuffed “prisoners” lying in their cots, fake guns poking out from the upstairs guard walk, and jail cell keys dangling from the bars. The chill from the unheated room only added to the authenticity. The setting would have impressed even a hardened ex-con like Martha Stewart.

I inhaled a deep relaxation breath, filling my lungs with the aroma of fresh crab balls mixed with salt air. As I exhaled, I mentally went over the party logistics one more time. This wedding
had
to be perfect. Not an easy task considering the gloomy location, the ridiculous theme, and the fact that it was a “surprise” for the bride.

Its only redeeming value was the mayor’s pledge to donate most of the proceeds to the Alzheimer’s Association. This was probably the only wedding in history where the guests paid to attend. But it was all part of the ruse to fool Ikea, the bride-to-be. Not an easy task, considering the woman was every bit as smart and savvy—and ambitious—as her political beau. Perhaps more so.

According to local gossip, Ikea seemed to have the mayor wrapped around her little acrylic fingernail. She’d managed to get him involved in all her pet causes: Save the Painted Ladies, Clean Up the Haight-Ashbury, Beautify the City Trash Cans, and even Renovate Treasure Island. Quite the dedicated citizen. Of course, if she got her way with TI, I’d soon be out of an office—and a home. Again.

I checked my cell phone clock for the umpteenth time. The hours had passed much too quickly. If everything went according to plan, the guests would arrive any minute, followed by Mayor Green and his unsuspecting fiancée of six months.

Time to panic.

“All right, everyone,” I called out. “Get into your costumes. We’re about to get this party started.”

As my crew headed for the public restrooms just outside the cellblock, costumes in hand, I checked my phone again to see if there were more messages. There were half a dozen new calls from the mayor’s office, three more from my mother, and another from SFPD, along with a
no service
warning across the screen. I stepped outside the cellblock to try to find service, then listened to the message from the police department.

“Presley Parker? This is Detective Luke Melvin from the San Francisco Police Department again. Please return my call as soon as possible.”

Shit. I was sure it had something to do with my mother. What else could it be?

I hiked a few feet away from the cellblock, pressed CALL BACK, and waited for an answer. I felt my underarms prickle at the deep sound of a man’s voice.

“Detect—Mel—” Static.

I could barely hear him and spun around, trying to catch sound waves—or whatever they were. “Uh . . . yes, this is Presley Parker. I believe you called me? Is this about my mother?”

“No, ma’am. I’m calling—another ma—You know—woman named—Drea?”

“What?” I pressed my hand over my other ear. “I’m sorry . . . you’re breaking up. I can hardly hear you. What did you say?”

“I said—know—An—”

“Sorry—and what?”

“—drea Sax,” he said loudly through the crackle.

“No, I . . . wait. You mean Andi Sax. Yes . . . I mean no, that is, not really. Why?”

I wondered what the infamous Party Queen was up to now. Was she jealous I’d gotten the mayor’s wedding? Was she trying to sabotage my first big event?

“I—come down—station—a couple of ques—you.”

Squinting as if that would help me hear better and twirling around like a whirling dervish trying to capture phone rays, I shouted, “What? I can’t hear you.”

He repeated most of the words and I filled in the blanks: “Come down to the station. I have a couple of questions to ask you.”

“Uh . . . I can’t right now. I’m in the middle of something. What’s this all about?”

Silence.

I thought for a moment I’d lost the connection. Then his voice came back on the line, and for once—and unfortunately—I heard him loud and clear.

“Andrea Sax was found dead early this morning.”

Whoa. I didn’t even know the woman, and I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. The blood in my head rushed to my feet and I had to squat to keep from falling over.

“Ms. Parker?” I heard a tinny voice from my phone. I brought the phone back to my ear.

“Ms. Parker? Are you there? Ms. Parker?”

“Dead?” I whispered. Then I got my voice back. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m afraid not. I need you to come down—”

“What happened?” I said, interrupting him. I stood up slowly, using the side of the building for support.

“We’re not—” Static. Then, “According to her BlackBerry calendar—your—last scheduled—”

“What?” I rasped, struggling to find my voice again.

“Ms. Parker, I need you to come by the station—answer a few questions,” Detective Melvin said, ignoring my question.

I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “I told you, I can’t right now. I’m . . . hosting a wedding . . . a fund-raiser. . . .”

“I’m going to have to send an—” More static.

Before he could say more, I added, “For Mayor Green . . . It’s his surprise wed—er, big fund-raiser. I’m sure you’ve heard about it—for Alzheimer’s.”

Another moment of silence. I thought I had lost him for good, but his voice came on the line, less insistent. “Tomorrow morn—nine sharp—”

The line went dead.

Dead.

Just like Andi Sax. Dead. How was that possible?

Unable to wrap my mind around this stunning blow, I tried to pull my thoughts together and focus—not easy for someone with ADHD. A homicide detective wanted to question me. What had he said . . . that my name was in her calendar? Why? I could easily imagine Andi Sax sticking pins in a voodoo doll with my image, what with my getting the mayor’s job. But why would I be her last scheduled appointment? I’d had no plans to meet with Andi Sax. Ever.

Zombielike, I stood holding the dead phone, trying to absorb the news.

“Pres? Presley? You okay?”

I looked at my phone, thinking the detective had come back on the line, then realized it was Delicia, standing beside me. I whirled around and saw her frowning. Blinking myself back to the task at hand, I headed for the cellblock, with Delicia trailing behind me, pelting me with questions.

“Did you get the phone to work? Who were you talking to? Are you all right?”

Ignoring her and forcing thoughts of the detective’s call aside, I began my own series of questions. “Where’s the champagne? Are the appetizers ready? Why can’t I hear the music?”

Focus, Pres, focus
, I said to myself, repeating my mantra.
You have a wedding to host, not a funeral. Let’s get this party started.

Delicia pointed to a three-foot metal sculpture, supposed to be a mini-guard tower, sitting on a table covered with a black-and-white striped cloth. It looked more like an oil rig, with champagne bubbling up through the middle and spilling over the sides into a crystal bowl. “There’s more champagne hidden under the tablecloth,” Dee explained. “The appetizers are all arranged on metal prison trays and ready to be set out with the arrival of the first guests. The deejay is taking a smoking break but he’ll be back. And the place looks amazing!” She caught my glassy stare and raised a well-plucked eyebrow. “Pres, are you sure you’re—”

I blinked, then darted over to the champagne table, ducked under the table skirt, and pulled out a bottle. Aside from the occasional glass of white wine, I wasn’t much of a drinker. My mom’s fourth husband had died as a result of alcoholism. But seconds later I held a full glass—and gulped half of it down.

“Presley!” Delicia said. I turned around. She had attracted the attention of Rocco, Berkeley, and Raj, who stood in various areas of the room gaping at me as if I’d swallowed poison.

“It’s only wine,” I said, then waved them off, finishing the last drop with a lick of my lips. “I’m . . . fine. Really. Just a little pre-party pick-me-up.”

Hold it together, Pres
, I told myself.
It’s almost party time. No one needs to know anything about Andi Sax—at least, not until
after
the wedding.
Still feeling a little unsteady, I poured myself another glass.

Delicia tore her gaze from me to check her watch; then she clapped her hands like a cheerleader. “Okay, people, the guests will be arriving any second! Make sure you’re in your costumes and ready to greet them!”

Dee’s up-with-people voice brought me out of my near coma. I nodded to let her know I was back. Slightly tipsy, but back. And I had a new tip to add to my mother’s
How to Host a Killer Party
book regarding “Hosting While Under the Influence: Probably Not a Good Idea.”

“Rocco, set out the crab balls and chocolate Maltese Falcons,” I directed. “Berk, videotape a sweep of the party room before it fills up with wannabe criminals and crime solvers. Raj, take a last look around and make sure Alcatraz hasn’t been invaded by party crashers.”