How to Host a Killer Party Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  How to Host a Geocaching Treasure Hunt

  Acknowledgements

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for the Novels of Penny Warner

  How to Host a Killer Party

  “Penny Warner blends humor and mayhem to create a unique mystery full of fun.”

  —Denise Swanson, national bestselling author of Murder of a Royal Pain

  “Penny Warner dishes up a rare treat, sparkling with wicked and witty San Francisco characters, plus some real tips on hosting a killer party.”

  —Rhys Bowen, award-winning author of the Royal Spyness and Molly Murphy mysteries

  “Penny Warner’s scintillating How to Host a Killer Party introduces an appealing heroine whose event skills include utilizing party favors in self-defense in a fun, fast-paced new series guaranteed to please.”

  —Carolyn Hart, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Award-winning author of Dare to Die

  “There’s a cozy little party going on between this cover. Don’t miss Penny Warner’s new series.”

  —Elaine Viets, author of Killer Cuts

  “The winning and witty Presley Parker can plan a perfect party—but after her A-list event becomes an invitation to murder, her next plan must be to save her own life.”

  —Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha Award-winning author of Prime Time

  Dead Body Language

  “The novel is enlivened by some nice twists, an unexpected villain, a harrowing mortuary scene, its Gold Country locale, and fascinating perspective on a little-known subculture.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “What a great addition to the ranks of amateur sleuths.”

  —Diane Mott Davidson, New York Times bestselling author of Fatally Flaky

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, February 2010

  Copyright © Penny Warner, 2010

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18471-4

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  To Connie, my inspiration, to Matthew, Sue, Rebecca, and Mike, my biggest fans, and to Tom, the mystery man in my life

  “The dying process begins the minute we are born, but it accelerates during parties.”

  —Carol Matthau

  Chapter 1

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #1:

  No matter how crazy the gig, the client is always right.

  And no matter how crazy the client, the event planner is liable.

  Through the thick morning veil of San Francisco fog, all I could make out from the ferryboat deck was the eerie silhouette of an island. It loomed like a giant corpse floating in the bay, its form eaten away by the relentless waves.

  I shivered in the penetrating cold as the wind off the Pacific whipped through my purple and gold San Francisco State University hoodie and my black jeans. Even the venti latte, my antidote for my ADHD—attention deficit/ hyperactivity disorder—couldn’t keep this California native warm.

  Slowly, like a desert mirage, the apparition began to take shape.

  Alcatraz.

  I felt goose bumps break out as I thought about the former home of organized crime boss Al “Scarface” Capone, “Creepy” Karpis, “Machine Gun” Kelly, and Robert “Birdman” Stroud. The island exuded a mystique that thrilled tourists and frightened schoolchildren. No wonder this notorious maximum-security prison was the most popular attraction in Northern California. Although no longer home to the most incorrigible criminals, it still housed plenty of legendary ghosts.

  Tonight the inhospitable island would play host to the party of the century: San Francisco mayor Davin Green’s “surprise” wedding to his socialite fiancée, Ikea Takeda. I held up the wedding invitation I’d created for the event and scanned it.

  WANTED!

  A WARRANT has been issued REQUIRING

  your APPEARANCE

  At the Capture and “SURPRISE” Wedlock of

  MAYOR DAVIN GREEN

  to

  MS. IKEA TAKEDA

  WITNESSES Will Be Remanded into

  Custody on: OCTOBER 1

  CONFINED at: Alcatraz Island

  DETAINED from: 8 p.m. until Midnight

  ADDITIONAL REMARKS: Come As Your

  Favorite Criminal or Crime Solver

/>   $200 Tax Deductible Donation will go to

  the Alzheimer’s Association

  ~ REWARD ~

  Seafood Buffet catered by Rocco

  Ghirenghelli, KBAY-TV’s “Bay City Chef”

  ~ CAUTION! ~

  Anyone caught warning the alleged Bride-

  to-Be will receive a mandatory

  20-years-to-life of public service.

  For information concerning this docket,

  contact:

  PRESLEY PARKER—“KILLER PARTIES”—

  415-BALLOON

  It would be the biggest event since Caruso sang at the Met.

  Or the biggest disaster since the 1906 earthquake.

  And I, Presley Parker, was the lucky event coordinator.

  This wedding is going to be the death of me, I thought, balancing my latte on the boat’s guardrail. I shredded the biodegradable invitation into confetti and ceremoniously sprinkled it like cremated ashes into the San Francisco Bay. I only hoped it wasn’t a symbolic gesture.

  The sudden blast of a warning alarm startled me, sending another chill over my already goose-pimpled flesh. I grabbed the ferry railing, nearly spilling my precariously balanced drink, and pulled my hood up over my bobbed auburn hair.

  Prison breakout?

  Nothing so exciting. Just the familiar but disquieting sound of the ubiquitous foghorn. As a seagull swooped down, I lost my grip on my latte and watched my life’s blood tumble overboard. I cursed into the deafening sound.

  Great. Now I’d probably be arrested for polluting the bay.

  Even worse, there was no Starbucks on Alcatraz.

  At least, not yet.

  “Land-ho, Presley!” Delicia Jackson, my thirtysomething part-time assistant, called too cheerily between foghorn blasts. She appeared behind me in her quilted green parka, which made her look as if she’d been entombed in a giant bunch of grapes. Cupping her hand over her forehead like a pirate at sea, she squinted into the fog, then pointed to our destination.

  “Good thing too,” Delicia said, shivering in spite of the puffy jacket that nearly reached to her matching green Crocs. Her toes had to be icicles; mine were cold even in my black Uggs. “I’m getting seasick.”

  “How are the others doing?” I asked, referring to my minimal staff.

  “They’re inside. Too cold out here for those lightweights.” When she wasn’t helping me host fund-raising events and kids’ birthday parties for extra cash, Delicia was a part-time actress and full-time drama queen. A mixture of many cultures, she was stunningly beautiful, with smooth mocha skin, long black hair, and disconcertingly blue eyes. Girls loved her as characters Belle and Ariel when she performed at my young clients’ birthday events.

  “Only three hours till showtime!” Delicia said, tapping her princess watch with a sparkly nail. Being an actress, she spoke mostly in exclamation marks.

  “What was I thinking?” I shouted through the rumble of the boat engine, the squawk of the seagulls, and the relentless fog blasts. “This is going to be a disaster.”

  “It’s going to be off the hook!” she shouted back. “Perfect for your extreme career makeover!”

  Extreme indeed. How did a university instructor like me end up as an event planner? I shook my head, recalling the day six months before—my thirtieth birthday, to be exact—when I’d received the notice in my campus mailbox at San Francisco State University:

  “Due to budget cuts . . .”

  I hadn’t bothered to read the rest. I knew what it said. All of us part-timers had seen it coming. My department, psychology, had been hit especially hard. And my specialty, ab-psych—abnormal psychology—was one of the first to go.

  That week had gone from bad to worse. Not only had I lost my job, but my mother had been diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer’s, and my so-called boyfriend, a professor of criminology at SFSU, had dumped me for a grad student. I hated being a cliché.

  But event planning? That was a stretch. Then again, maybe not. Back in the days of San Francisco café society, my mother had been famous for her Pacific Heights parties, entertaining everyone from the mayor to the governor. I’d grown up helping her fold napkins into swans and drape fur coats in the guest room (when I was done trying them on).

  She’d even written a how-to book on the subject called How to Host a Killer Party, a best seller in its day. When I started doing event planning, I found her party-hosting hints handy, like “How to Hire a Killer Caterer” and “How to Handle a Party Pooper.” But instead of following in her high-heeled footsteps, I had originally gone the more academic route, like my father. Now it looked as if I had inherited her legacy after all.

  “I didn’t necessarily want a new career, Delicia,” I said, tightening the strings on my hood. “But after being downsized thanks to the governor’s slash-and-burn method of fixing the education budget, I didn’t have much choice, did I? It was this or coffee barista. I should have taken the java job.”

  “Hey, you’re a great party planner! That Harry Potter party you gave last night? It was awesome! Seriously. And that Teen Twilight party? Getting Duncan Grant to play the vampire was a stroke of genius. You managed to make a nerd look hot—at least temporarily.”

  “Event coordinator!” I reminded her. “And if I have to do one more birthday party for eight-year-old boys or twelve-year-old girls, I’m going to kill someone. Thank goodness this job came up. I still don’t know exactly how I managed to get it.”

  Maybe I was finally receiving the recognition I’d needed. I hoped tonight’s gig would get me more charitable events for important causes like Alzheimer’s research, and fewer food fights between Harry Potter wannabes. I was still finding blue icing highlights in my hair from last night’s frosting free-for-all.

  Raising money for deserving organizations was the real reason I’d gotten into event planning. Thanks to Mom, I knew the basics of the business. When I’d been at the university, I’d help coordinate a couple of fund-raisers for the library that had gone well. The mayor’s surprise wedding, although under the guise of a fund-raiser, would bring in a bundle for a cause dear to my heart. Since my mother had developed Alzheimer’s, I’d done a lot of research on this debilitating disease, which I’d quickly learned was the sixth leading cause of death in the US. Tears sprang to my eyes as I pushed thoughts of my mother’s grim future from my mind.

  “Are you all right, Pres?” Delicia asked, looking up at me.

  I wiped my eyes. “Of course. It’s just this fog. . . .”

  “Listen, Pres,” Delicia said, patting my arm. “You’ve hit the big time. You’ve snagged a superimportant shindig at a celebrated city landmark. Imagine! Presley Parker hosting Mayor Green’s wedding on the Rock!”

  “More like a carnival, don’t you think?” I mumbled. The guests had been asked to come in costume, dressed as their favorite criminals or crime fighters. Not my idea—the mayor’s. “And a decaying prison isn’t exactly the most elegant setting for a wedding. It’s Andi Sax who gets all the glam gigs at places like the de Young Museum and the Palace of Fine Arts.”

  Until the mayor’s wedding, Andrea Sax, San Francisco’s premiere party planner, was the go-to girl for all the best events—grand openings of prestigious restaurants, inaugurations of political figures, gala fund-raisers for significant foundations. No wonder. She’d long been established in the city and owned her own party supply store. That’s why I’d been so surprised when the mayor’s administrative assistant called and offered me this job. The event would be impressive enough to garner a lot of publicity, thereby bringing in more gigs—and more money. But I couldn’t help wondering why they hadn’t used Andi again, and I was certain I’d somehow gotten the job by default.

  “Well, bottom line—you need the money,” Delicia said, as if reading my thoughts. “Especially now that your mom has to have full-time care.”

  “You’re right about that.” I’d had to give up my overpriced Victorian flat in the Marina District and move to cheap former na
val housing on Treasure Island so I could afford her care facility in the city. Luckily TI, situated halfway between San Francisco and Oakland, was only a bridge-length away.

  Delicia reached up and picked something off my bangs. “Just a little blue frosting on your hair . . . although it does bring out your green eyes.”

  “Great. Exactly the professional look I was going for.” I pushed the hood back and gave my sticky hair a shake to fluff it up before the frosting set like concrete. I’d been too busy finishing up final touches for the wedding to wash my hair since the Potter party. Luckily a hat was part of my costume for the mayor’s event.

  I checked my watch: five fifteen p.m. Since Alcatraz was a national park, my crew and I couldn’t set up until the place closed. Before I knew it, it would be eight p.m. and the first guests would be arriving. As the ferry docked, I hustled my coworkers down the gangplank, all arms loaded with boxes of party crap. Most of the big stuff had already been delivered and was waiting for us in the cellblock. Glancing up at the ominous cement building at the top of the hill, I shuddered, hoping the ghosts of Alcatraz would be in a partying mood tonight. Remembering a docent’s spiel I’d heard on a school trip to Alcatraz, I recalled some stats about the island’s fascinating and fearsome history. For nearly thirty years, the grim maximum-security federal penitentiary had housed around fifteen hundred prisoners. Thirty-six had tried to escape from the Rock. Seven were shot and killed, two drowned, five were unaccounted for, and the rest were captured. Two prisoners made it to shore but were later captured and returned, and three more escaped the island, but not the water surrounding it—presumed drowned. That was it, unless you counted the twenty-eight who escaped by dying—fifteen of natural causes, eight murdered, and five suicides.