How to Crash a Killer Bash Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  How to Host a Killer Murder Mystery

  Teaser chapter

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  Praise for the Novels of Penny Warner

  How to Host a Killer Party

  “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

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

  —Denise Swanson, national bestselling author of Murder of a Wedding Belle

  “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 Flush and Molly Murphy mysteries

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

  —Elaine Viets, author of Half-Price Homicide

  “Fast, fun, and fizzy as a champagne cocktail! 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 Drive Time

  “A festive romp complete with chocolate, champagne, and murder. Really, it doesn’t get much better than this!”

  —Joanna Campbell Slan, Agatha Award-nominated author of Paper, Scissors, Death

  “I love how Penny mixes crime with confetti and crudite.”

  —Patty Sachs, PartyPlansPlus.com

  “The books dish up a banquet of mayhem.”

  —The Oakland Tribune (CA)

  “With a promising progression of peculiar plots, and a plethora of party-planning pointers, How to Host a Killer Party looks to be a pleasant prospect for cozy-mystery lovers.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Fans will enjoy this fun amateur-sleuth mystery starring a charming party planner who fears her business will go bankrupt if she wears stripes.”

  —The Merry Genre Go Round Reviews

  “This delightful cozy is filled with suspense, mystery, and a touch of romance. The wonderfully different, eclectic characters are delightful, as well as party-planning tips included at the beginning of each chapter.”

  —Reader to Reader Reviews

  “[V]ery readable . . . it’s no wonder Mrs. Warner is a bestselling author.”

  —Once Upon a Romance Reviews

  “Warner keeps . . . the reader guessing.”

  —Gumshoe

  Praise for Penny Warner’s Connor Westphal Mystery Series

  Dead Body Language

  “Delicious, with a fun, irreverent protagonist.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A sprightly, full-fledged heroine, small-town conniptions, frequent humor, and clever plotting.”

  —Library Journal

  “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

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, August 2010

  eISBN : 978-1-101-19826-1

  Copyright © Penny Warner, 2010

  All rights reserved

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  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.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my husband, Tom, who helps me clean up crime scenes. To my kids, Matt and Sue, Rebecca and Mike, who love to party. And to my mother, a continual inspiration in all things.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to everyone who helped with this book: To my talented writers’ group: Colleen Casey, Janet Finsilver, Staci McLaughlin, Ann Parker, and Carole Price. To Mirian (sic) Saez, Director of Treasure Island Operations, and Marianne Thompson, Treasure Island Development Authority. To Geoff W. E. Pike, my computer guru. To those who prefer to remain nameless: Security Guards at the de Young Museum, and on Treasure Island, Police Officers at the San Francisco Hall of Justice, and Members of the Treasure Island Yacht Club. And to my incredible agents, Andrea Hurst and Amberly Finarelli, and my amazing, insightful editor, Sandra Harding, at Obsidian Books

  “Hear no evil
, speak no evil—and you’ll never be invited to a party.”

  —Oscar Wilde

  Chapter 1

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #1

  When planning a Murder Mystery Party, make sure you don’t use real weapons as props. They may be too tempting for some of the guests.

  The murder weapon lay on a black velvet cloth, traces of blood so deeply embedded in the carved hilt that centuries of wear hadn’t eroded the terror it could still induce in the viewer.

  At least it looked like blood.

  In the dimly lit room, the ivory-and-jade dagger glowed an eerie greenish hue. I was dying to touch this exquisite artifact, which had been used countless times on helpless, horrified victims.

  I reached for it. My fingers collided with the cold protective Plexiglas case.

  Too bad it’s locked up, I thought. The real dagger would make the perfect weapon for the murder mystery play I’d be hosting the next evening at San Francisco’s world-renowned de Young Museum. Instead we would have to make do with a Styrofoam prop from the museum’s art restoration department.

  I set my vente latte on the top of the case and pulled out my iPhone to take a picture. Glancing at the security camera high on the wall, I noticed that the motion-sensing light was yellow. Alone in the room after hours, I was being watched—and probably filmed.

  A footfall creaked behind me.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  I snatched the latte from the top of the case.

  A hand clamped down hard on my shoulder, and I nearly dropped my coffee.

  I whirled around, raising the only weapon I had besides lukewarm coffee—a “Killer Parties” promotional pen. At a moment’s notice I was ready to stab—or at least heavily mark up—the shadowy figure. He stepped into the glow of a spotlight that illuminated the case.

  “There’s no food or drink allowed in here, ma’am,” the uniformed security guard said.

  I lowered my killer pen and caught my breath.

  “You scared the crap out of me!”

  The guard raised an eyebrow. Apparently he meant to scare the crap out of me.

  “Ma’am, you’re also not supposed to be in here after hours.”

  I raised my latte in apology. “Sorry. I just wanted to take another look at the dagger.”

  “I’m afraid the museum is closed to the public tonight.”

  “Oh, I’m not the public. I’m Presley Parker, the event planner for the mystery play tomorrow night. I have permission from Mary Lee Miller to be here.” That was stretching the truth a bit. I had permission to be in the museum for the rehearsal, not necessarily to have free run of the place.

  The security guard held up his flashlight and shone it on my face.

  “Oh yes, I recognize you. You’ve been here several times lately, haven’t you?”

  “Yep. Trying to get ready for the big fund-raiser.” I tried to sound casual.

  “Sorry about sneaking up on you. Didn’t mean to scare you. I know this place can get kind of creepy when there’s no one around.” He looked me up and down. I must have appeared suspicious, wearing an old-fashioned button-down jacket and loose-fitting khaki pants, not to mention the leather boots. He eyed the badge pinned on my lapel.

  I looked down at my outfit. “This is my costume,” I explained. “Tonight’s our dress rehearsal, and I’m going as Kate Warne, the first female Pinkerton detective.”

  The guard surveyed the room—probably making sure I hadn’t stolen anything—then looked back at me. “So what are you doing up here? Isn’t that event taking place on the main floor?”

  “Uh, I just wanted to see the dagger once more, to make sure the art department copied it accurately. After all, I can’t have six of the world’s most famous fictional detectives trying to murder the museum curator with a rubber knife, can I?” I gave a nervous laugh.

  He didn’t crack a smile.

  “And you are . . . ?” I reached out my hand.

  Stone-faced, the guard shook it. “Sam Wo. Head of security.”

  I took a moment to study—and diagnose—him, a habit I’d formed while teaching abnormal psychology at San Francisco State University. He was Asian, in his sixties, and shorter than me by several inches. His hand was small, dry, and ringless; I noticed a contrasting tan line around his wedding ring finger. He wore black faux-leather loafers, the discount variety from Target or Walmart popular with underpaid service employees. From his impeccable uniform and well-worn but polished shoes, I guessed he had a touch of OCD—obsessive-compulsive disorder—a trait well matched to this particular detail-oriented job.

  “I wish Ms. Miller would tell me when people are going to be running around the museum after closing.” Eyeing me again, he added, “So you’re the one who’s putting on this mystery thing?”

  “That would be me. And I’d better get back to the rehearsal. Make sure no real murders are being committed. Although I suppose if that happened, you guys could figure out whodunit pretty quickly.” I nodded at the nearest camera, watching us.

  “True. This wouldn’t be the best place to kill someone. The cameras are motion-triggered—that’s how I knew you were here. Just be careful about touching the cases. You could set off an alarm.”

  My eyes widened. “Really? Are the alarms that sensitive?”

  “Sure. Especially the ones with priceless pieces inside, like that Dogon statue over there.” He gestured toward a nearby case.

  I glanced at the piece he was referring to and grimaced. The grotesque three-foot statue looked to be carved out of wood. Shaped like a human body, the figure had long pendulous breasts that hung nearly to the waistline. But that wasn’t the disturbing part. Dangling from just under the waist—and nearly reaching the feet—was an equally pendulous penis.

  The guard broke into a grin, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. We don’t have alarmed exhibits here. That’s an East Coast thing. But I love to tease the schoolkids when they come. They couldn’t care less about the art. All they want to know is whether anything’s ever been stolen and if we have alarms.”

  “You’re quite the kidder, Sam Wo,” I said, forcing a friendly laugh. A little surprised at the low-level security, I glanced back at the case holding the ceremonial dagger. “Seriously, has there ever been a theft?”

  “No, ma’am. Surprising, perhaps, since we have more than twenty-five thousand works of art from around the world. Top names, too—Homer, Cassatt, Frank Lloyd Wright. But we still manage to keep an eye on things.”

  I scanned the room filled with incredible artifacts from Oceania, Mayan, African, and Andean cultures. “So you’ve never had a problem?”

  “Not on my watch. At least, not with thefts. This is a friendly museum, a museum for the people, not like some of those hoity-toity ones back east. The biggest problem we have are the transients who come to the Friday-night open house for the wine parties and end up drunk and lying on the marble floor.” Sam Wo chuckled. His stiff official manner had softened, replaced by an easy manner and a contagious laugh. Being in charge of these irreplaceable objects insured for more than $90 million would have made me nervous, but Sam Wo appeared relaxed.

  “What about fakes?” I said, lowering my voice to sound conspiratorial. “I mean, does the museum have any art scandals I could include in the script?”

  “You mean like questions of provenance?”

  I made a face. Museum-speak was a whole new language for me.

  His face lit up. I had a feeling he got pretty bored on the job and loved the opportunity to share his authority and expertise with the public.

  “Provenance means where the objects come from and whether they’re authentic.”

  “That’s a concern in this day and age?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Some museums take a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ attitude. But not the de Young. Our curator only works with reputable dealers.”

  I sensed his feeling of pride about the objects that surrounded him.


  “There are museums that don’t?” I took a sip of my now-cold latte. It was my third today, but I needed regular doses to help control my ADHD—attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. It was either triple the caffeine or go back to Ritalin, which pretty much turned me into a zombie. Old psychology secret: While caffeine is a stimulant for most people, for those of us with ADHD, it does the opposite and calms us down.

  Sam Wo shone his flashlight around the room while he talked, as if it were habit. “I guess you didn’t hear about the Getty or the Met scandals. They made the news a few years ago. There were questions about how they acquired some pieces.”

  “You mean they had fakes?” I stole another glance at the encased dagger, wondering how one could tell a replica from an authentic piece. I’d been impressed with how much the Styrofoam stage dagger looked like the real thing, right down to the dried-blood effect.

  “More like they were ‘taken without permission,’ ” he said, making finger quotes. He stepped over to another display and shone his flashlight inside the case. “See these ceramic bowls and whatnot? They’re authentic. We have the documentation to prove their provenance. But similar ones were recently acquired illegally at another museum.”

  Surprised, I asked, “How does that happen?”

  “Some museums aren’t as careful as the de Young. They’ll deal with the black market.”

  “Where does the black market get them?”

  Sam tucked his thumbs into his black leather belt. “Professional thieves usually steal them from the country of origin and sell them to questionable curators who think art should be ‘shared with the world for the greater good.’ But if you think about it, it’s like taking pieces of the Statue of Liberty and displaying them at, say, a museum in Egypt.”

  I saw his point. Not only was I unaware that this kind of looting occurred, I was impressed that a security guard knew so much about art. More than I did, anyway. My walls tended to display classic posters for movies like The Maltese Falcon, and my “display cases,” aka table- and desktops, showcased party props and event catalogs. I guessed Sam Wo had absorbed a lot just by osmosis.