How to Survive a Killer Seance (2 page)

He sauntered over, looking incredible in his black leather jacket and black T-shirt with the red embroidered Crime Scene Cleaners logo and catchphrase—“Our day begins when yours ends.” His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his well-worn jeans and there were no bloodstains on his New Balance Zips. I wished I looked as good in the white “Easily Distracted by Shiny Objects” T-shirt and jeans I was wearing. Of course, he looked even better without anything on. Okay, so we’d become more than “just friends.” But I wasn’t ready to call him my “boyfriend” yet.

“Someone pop your balloon this morning?” he asked, obviously noticing my scowl.

I handed over the sign I’d snagged from the barracks door.

As he read it, his smile drooped.

“You’re freaking kidding me,” he said, only he didn’t use the word “freaking.”

“That’s what I said. How are we supposed to get inside? All my stuff is in there.”

Brad gave the notice back to me and sighed. “Well, I’m not too surprised. These barracks should have been condemned a long time ago. They’re falling apart—that’s why they’re so cheap to rent. And they light up like a month-old Christmas tree when there’s a match within a mile of the place. Remember that fire we had in the old building?”

How could I forget? I had almost been trapped in it. “But the low rent is the reason I took this place. Where am I going to go now? My Killer Party business isn’t exactly turning a profit yet.”

“I hear there are a few openings in Building One.” Brad glanced in the direction of the Administration Building, also known as Building One. The curved Streamline Moderne- style Art Deco building, erected for the Golden Gate Exposition of 1939, was one of a handful of original structures remaining on the island. Intended as an airport terminal, the building now housed a number of eclectic small businesses, including the Treasure Island Museum, Treasure Island Wines, and the Treasure Island Development Authority.

“I can’t afford the rent there! And besides, how is that place any safer? One big earthquake, and the ground beneath it will liquefy like Jell-O. The whole island is built on landfill, and none of the old buildings was constructed to handle a major jolt.”

“That might be a good negotiating point,” Brad said. He was taking this condemnation awfully well. “Plus, I know one of the administrators—Marianne Mitchell. Considering the circumstances, she’ll probably give us a deal.”

I checked my watch. “Meanwhile, I can’t get to my stuff, and I’m late to meet my mother for breakfast. She called this morning saying she had something ‘urgent’ to talk about.”

“She all right?” Brad asked. He and my mother seemed to have hit it off immediately when they’d first met. I think they talked about me behind my back.

“I hope so. She wouldn’t say more. But if she sees something she wants on the shopping network or doesn’t like the dessert they’re serving at the care center, she calls that ‘urgent.’ ”

“Do you need anything from your office right now?”

“I guess not, but I will soon. And so will Delicia and Berk and Raj and Rocco . . .” I listed the other corenters, who ran their own small businesses and shared the barracks building with me. They often picked up extra cash by helping me out with some of my bigger events. Dee dressed up in theme-fitting costumes, Berk videotaped the parties, Raj provided extra security when I needed it, and Rocco served as my caterer.

“I’ll get ahold of the housing inspector and see what I can do about getting our stuff. And I’ll talk to Marianne. I’m sure she’ll give us a deal you can afford. Besides, I thought you were doing well in your party planning business lately—”

“Event planning,” I said, correcting him.

He grinned at my insistence on calling my new career “event planning.” I thought it sounded a little less frivolous, especially with a name like Killer Parties.

“Whatever. You must have made some heavy change with that last event you hosted at the museum.”

It was true. I’d recently had some high-paying jobs—the mayor’s interrupted wedding, the de Young Museum mystery party. Unfortunately, both events had become victims of party fouls, which had not only been traumatic for everybody involved, but had nearly cost me my life in both cases. Still, in spite of the sensational headlines in the
San Francisco Chronicle
, people continued to call me for their parties. Apparently, guests like a little drama with their bubbly and balloons.

“I have to run,” I said to Brad, who already had his cell phone out, ready to call the powers that condemn buildings. “If you get inside, will you let me know? I’ve got half a dozen requests for events that I have to answer. I’m going to need them to pay my ever-increasing bills.”

Brad said, “Hold on,” to the person on the other end of the phone, then covered the mouthpiece and nodded toward the paper in my hand. “That’s a misdemeanor, you know,” he whispered.

“What?” I asked.

“Removing the sign. See the fine print at the bottom?”

I wadded up the stiff paper and threw it at him, snowball-style. Missed by a mile.

“And that’s littering,” he called out as I headed for my car. “A hundred-dollar fine and a week of roadside cleanup!”

Ignoring him, I hopped into my red MINI Cooper. When I looked back, Brad was at the barracks door, holding the padlock in his hands. Knowing him, I was sure he wouldn’t wait for any official to unlock the building. He’d MacGyver it open himself.

 

I drove along Avenue of the Palms, up Macalla to the Bay Bridge entrance. It was getting tougher to merge onto the bridge these days, thanks to generally increased traffic and bridge retrofitting. Finally I was able to squeeze in front of a slow-moving truck. I plugged earphones into my iPhone and listened to songs from my mother’s day—Frankie Valli, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, and of course Elvis Presley. Thanks to her, I loved the music of the fifties. By the end of “The Great Pretender” by the Platters, I had arrived in front of the assisted-living facility off Van Ness where my mother currently resided. I parked the MINI in the loading zone and headed for the front door.

Using my passkey, I entered the building and found my mother waiting for me in an upright wing chair by the fireplace. She’d dressed more for a tea party than breakfast, in a coral sweater set and a floral skirt. Still somewhat old-school San Francisco, she never went anywhere without her hair and makeup done. At least she didn’t insist on wearing gloves and a hat, like her mother had.

A handful of other residents sat around the “social room” at tables or in groups, many in wheelchairs, doing crafts and handiwork, playing cards and board games, or idly watching a morning newscast on TV. I glanced at the screen and saw a head shot of an older man, with a caption underneath that read: “Computer whiz found dead in his office.” I couldn’t hear the details, but the man looked slightly familiar to me.

“Presley!” Mother called, waving me over and distracting me from my distraction. She turned to a handsome silver-haired man in a suit who sat opposite her and spoke to him animatedly. She touched his hand every now and then as she made her point, and laughed flirtatiously after he spoke. Luckily I couldn’t hear what they were discussing. Sex, no doubt, knowing my mother. Mother had been something of a party queen in her day, and early-stage Alzheimer’s disease hadn’t hindered her ability to charm men. She seemed to have a new beau every few weeks, even though sometimes she couldn’t remember all of their names.

She spotted me and waved; the gentleman stood up and pulled at his suit jacket with one hand, the other falling to his side.

“Presley! You’re here!” Mother reached out and pulled me down into a chair next to her. “I want you to meet Stephen Ellington! He’s new here, and we’re already great friends.”

I’ll bet, I wanted to say. Instead, I took the high road. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ellington.” I clasped his cool, papery hand with mine and shook it. One of his blue eyes squinted as he gave a half smile.

“Stephen, this is my daughter, Presley. She’s a party planner, just like her mother!”

“Event planner,” I corrected her; then by way of explanation, I began rambling. “I used to teach at the university—abnormal psychology—until I was downsized—”

Mother cut me off. “Stephen is joining us for breakfast, dear. I hope you don’t mind.”

I eyed my mother. She was up to something.

“You said you had something urgent to talk about.” I forced a cordial smile in her direction. “Wouldn’t you rather just the two of us—”

She interrupted me again. “Oh no! Stephen is the reason I wanted to see you. We have a very important matter to discuss with you—something I mentioned a few weeks ago, after your party at the museum. Remember?”

Not really, I thought. But I remembered that that party had turned out to be a disaster. “Sure,” I said as I headed for the desk in the lobby and signed us out. Stephen held the door as we made our way to the street. “That’s my car there,” I said, pointing to my illegally parked MINI. Sizing up Stephen’s tall, lanky frame, I pressed my lips together, then said, “It’s going to be tight.”

“Dear, why don’t you let Stephen drive? Then you can sit in the backseat. You’re shorter than he is.” I’m five ten, and there was no way I was going to scrunch myself into that tiny backseat. Besides, the old guy probably didn’t have a license, and I wasn’t about to let some stranger drive my car. Granted, in spite of his age—I guessed him to be in his seventies—and a slight droop on the left side of his mouth when he smiled, his cheeks were a robust color and his eyes twinkled devilishly. I wondered why he was living at the care home. If he had Alzheimer’s like my mother, it wasn’t something I could easily spot.

“I have an idea,” I said. “Let’s walk. Mel’s Drive-in serves breakfast, and it’s only a few blocks away.”

Mother looked at Stephen, and he nodded.

“Let me move my car so it doesn’t get towed,” I said.

Mother and Stephen chatted in front of the building while I drove up the street in search of a legal parking place. I managed to squeeze in between a Smart Car and a VW bug. Then I locked the car and headed down the hill. Stephen was just closing his cell phone as I approached.

“Shall we?” I said, leading the way to the drive-in turned diner chain. The fifties decor, popular with tourists, featured wall-mounted push-button mini-jukeboxes that I’d loved as a kid. Mother came for the freshly squeezed orange juice, the silver-dollar pancakes, and crispy bacon. Why the woman didn’t have high cholesterol, clogged arteries, and a weight problem was a mystery to me.

We nestled into a cozy padded booth, me on one side, Mother and her “date” on the other. I ordered a low-fat blueberry muffin, strawberries, and a double latte. Mother gave her usual order and Stephen had a three-egg omelet called Herb Caen’s Favorite—ham and cheese—and black coffee.

Silence settled over the three of us for a brief moment after the waitress left. My mind flashed back to the man’s face I’d seen on the newscast at the care center. I was sure I’d recognized him but couldn’t come up with the details of where or when. But the silence didn’t last long, not with my mother. “So, Presley,” she said, placing a hand on Stephen’s hand that rested on the table. “We have a job for you! Remember when I mentioned I’d met someone at the center and his son was interested in having a big party?”

Ever since I’d started Killer Parties, my mother had been booking me for parties at the care center. I’d already hosted a Red Hat Party and a Hot Flash Fiesta for her lady friends, but had put her off when she suggested a Mardi Gras Mixer. Knowing Mother, I had a feeling there would be boob-flashing beads involved.

“Not really,” I said truthfully. “Things were kind of a blur after that party.”

“Well, Stephen’s son, Jonathan, is president of his own computer company, and he’s about to announce an amazing new product. Stephen wants to help Jon promote it by organizing a party for him. Apparently the product is something that could revolutionize the movie business, so the guests would include a bunch of special-effects bigwigs like George Lucas, Phil Tippett, and what’s his name—that guy from CeeGee Studios.”

The details sounded vaguely familiar. I looked at Stephen. “Does your son know about your plans?” A few months earlier, I’d hosted a “surprise” wedding event for the mayor, which had backfired because the bride wasn’t in on the planning. I didn’t relish doing any more surprise parties like that in the near future.

“Oh yes,” Stephen said, glancing at my mother, his eyes sparkling. “In fact, he’s looking forward to meeting you.”

I blinked. This party sounded like it had started without me.

Mother’s red-lipsticked smile went into overdrive. “Presley, don’t you remember? He wants a Séance Party!”

“A Séance Party . . .” I repeated. Suddenly it was all coming back to me.

“Yes! And he wants to hold it at the Winchester Mystery House!”

I felt a chill run down my back. Oh God, I thought I’d dreamed that part. I’d visited the hundred-plus-roomed house on a scouting trip when I was in sixth grade. The mansion, built by Sarah Winchester to appease spirits she suspected of haunting her, was filled with secret passageways, winding hallways, stairs that went nowhere, and rampant ghost sightings. It had scared the crap out of me back then.

“I remember,” I said, “but why there?”

Mother glanced at Stephen; they both looked like giddy teenagers. “Because Jonathan wants to bring Sarah Winchester back from the dead!”