How to Host a Killer Party (16 page)

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Authors: Penny Warner

BOOK: How to Host a Killer Party
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“So who put it there?” Brad dropped the earring into my hand, then met my eyes. I shrugged. Maybe Duncan knew something more about it.
“Well,” Brad continued, “you’d better give it to Melvin. It might help take some of the suspicion off you.”
Or make things worse. I felt little beads of sweat break out on my forehead. How was I going to prove I’d really found the earring in the cache when the detective would probably assume I removed it from her body—after I killed her—and planted it there? Even Duncan couldn’t back me up, since I could have put it in there before I discovered it.
“My turn,” I said, shaking the negative thoughts away.
He shrugged. “Shoot.”
I reflexively glanced at his hidden gun. “Can you find out the results of Ikea’s autopsy?”
Brad slowly rose to his feet. “I’m a crime scene cleaner, Presley,” he said, finally using my first name. “And that’s a request, not a question. But I’ll see what I can do—
if
you keep me informed about anything else you learn. Deal?”
I pressed my lips together, then said, “Deal.”
He reached out a hand; I shook it. His was warm, firm, strong—and not very calloused for a janitor, I noted.
I wondered how mine felt to him. Cold, clammy, shaky? Like a murderer’s?
My office phone rang. I waited for Brad to leave before I answered it. He grinned as he closed the door behind him.
“Killer Parties,” I said. I really needed to rethink the name of my event planning business.
“Presley Parker?” a male voice whispered. I hadn’t recognize the caller ID. Crank call? I was about to hang up when the voice came again. “Pres?” This time it sounded urgent—and used my nickname. “It’s me. Rocco.”
“Rocco!” I glanced over at Brad’s office. He was busy at his desk. I spun around so he couldn’t see my face and said, “Where are you?”
“Quiet! Don’t say my name. Is anyone in your office?”
“No, why? What’s going on? Rocco, why haven’t you been to your office? You left the kitchen in a mess and—”
He cut me off. “Pres, listen. The chocolates. Were there any leftover chocolates in the kitchen?”
“No, they were all gone when we—”
“Shit!” he said, just before the line went dead.
Chapter 17
PARTY PLANNING TIP #17:
When your dessert soufflé falls flat, dump the disaster into the disposal and bring out your backup stash of gourmet chocolates. One bite of a Christopher Norman, MarieBelle, or Lake Champlain chocolate and your guests will be eating out of your hands.
I could tell by our brief telephone conversation that Rocco knew the chocolates had been poisoned.
Except, how would he—unless he poisoned them?
But he would never do that.
Would he?
I thought about the chocolates in my drawer, and a chill ran down my spine.
Brad! He still had the chocolates I gave him
. . . .
I ran from my office into his, sweat breaking on my forehead. “Spit that out!”
Brad stopped chewing and stared at me, his mouth frozen open.
“Spit it out!” I repeated and extended my hand. Obediently, Brad spit the saliva-soaked wad into my waiting palm.
I grimaced as I stared at the steaming glob of what looked like upchuck. “What the hell is this?”
“My breakfast,” Brad said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Cinnamon raisin bagel with walnut cream cheese. At least, it was.”
I flung the nauseating clump into his wastebasket as if it were covered in blood. “That’s disgusting!” I looked around for something to wipe off my hand and spotted his white jumpsuit.
Brad looked as if I were about to spew maggots. He leaped from his chair and caught my wrist. “Don’t even think about it.” Pulling open a file cabinet drawer, he grabbed a roll of paper towels and some disinfectant wipes and handed them to me.
I ripped off an arm’s length of paper towel and wiped my hand, then scrubbed it with the disinfectant as if it were highly toxic before tossing the refuse into the wastebasket.
“I don’t have leprosy.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “So, you want to tell me what the hell that was all about?”
I rubbed my hand on my pants, hoping to destroy any last germs. “I . . . those chocolates I gave you. I thought you were eating one. They may have been tampered with.”
Seemingly unfazed, he pulled open another drawer and removed the small box of chocolates I had given him earlier. Only now they were encased in a plastic Baggie. “You mean these?”
“Why are they in a bag?”
“I thought I’d take them down to the station and see if I can get someone to analyze them.”
“What! Why?” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Like you said. In case they’ve been tampered with.”
“But why would you suspect something like that?”
Brad folded his hands like some kind of patient counselor. “Look, Presley, I know about the poisoned chocolates. A friend of mine at the station just sent me a copy of the autopsy report. As you probably know, Ikea Takeda didn’t drown. She was poisoned. The tox scan found cyanide in the chocolate.”
Oh my God. Were Rocco’s chocolates really poisoned?
But how did Ikea get them?
And how did she end up in the water?
And what about Andi Sax?
He nodded toward my Welcome Wagon gift of chocolates. “I doubt these are poisoned, but I’m taking precautions. You don’t have any more of these stashed away, do you?”
I glanced toward my office. Only a desk full.
I wondered if I should tell him about Rocco’s odd phone call. After all, he’d shared the autopsy information with me. I reached out and closed his door to keep the other office mates from overhearing, then opened a folding chair that was propped against the wall and sat down.
I took a deep breath. “Listen. I need to tell you something. It’s about Rocco. He called a few minutes ago.”
Brad leaned forward conspiratorially. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He asked if there were any chocolates left in the kitchen, and when I said no, he hung up. That was it.”
“He needs to call the police. They’ll want to talk to him.”
I nodded. “I don’t know why he hasn’t come into the office yet. Maybe he figures he’s a possible suspect. But I’m sure he didn’t poison those chocolates. He’s just not the poisoning type.”
“Well, if they suspect
him
, that might let you off the hook.”
I shook my head. “I’m not going to shift the blame to him to save my own ass. He didn’t do anything wrong.” I hoped.
Brad swiveled to his computer and opened up a search engine I didn’t recognize—not Yahoo or Google. He typed the name “Rocco Ghirenghelli” and pressed ENTER.
“How did you know Rocco’s last name?” I asked. I didn’t recall telling him.
“It’s on the mailbox outside.”
Duh.
Seconds later the search brought up several links. Instead of clicking on Rocco’s Web site, Brad moved the cursor down to an article published in the
San Francisco Chronicle
a couple of months ago.
I skimmed the details over Brad’s shoulder—and caught a whiff of Brad’s herbal shampoo. I inhaled, deeply. Momentarily distracted, I forced my eyes back onto the screen and read the review.
Rocco Ghirenghelli, host of
Bay City Café
on KBAY, the San Francisco cable station, has been delighting hungry audiences for the past three years with his signature selections from local markets. Known for his unique Pacific Rim dishes, he often combines fresh catches from the bay with popular California produce. Among his award-winning specialties are his Crab and Avocado Tart in Quince Paste, Shaved Manchego with an Artichoke Chiffonade, Lobster Confit with Crispy Lavash, and Lemon Pepper Brined Mussels with Wilted Pea Sprouts. And what he does with chocolate is to die for.
Ah yes. The article brought back taste memories. I had sampled all of the above. They’d tasted like crab Pop-Tarts, artichoke paste, fish Jell-O, and rubber thingies. But people seemed to like his food. And the chocolates really were to die for. So to speak.
“It’s just a review,” I said to the screen. “What are you looking for?”
Brad typed “Department of Motor Vehicles” into the search engine. Up popped the Web page. He typed some numbers—an access code? And finally he typed in Rocco’s name. The screen filled with more numbers, as indecipherable as my college trig homework.
Brad leaned to the side so I could see the screen.
“What am I looking at?” I asked.
He pointed to a line that read “CPC 192b,” along with what appeared to be dates from over ten years ago.
“Yeah?”
“He’s a con,” he said matter-of-factly.
I stared at him. “What do you mean—like a con artist? Rocco? That’s ridiculous.”
“No, con, like convict. A 192b is a violation of the California Penal Code.”
I reread the line, then turned to Brad. “What’s a 192 whatever?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Manslaughter.”
 
Uh-uh. No way.
Not Rocco.
Yes, he was a little eccentric. What semi-celebrity chef isn’t? But he wasn’t a murderer. Or a manslaughterer.
I crossed my arms. “I don’t believe it. If he really did . . . kill someone, I’m sure it was an accident.”
Brad glanced back at the screen, as if avoiding my eyes. Odd.
“How did you get that stuff, anyway?” I nodded at the screen, referring to his ability to access the information.
He shrugged. “Like I said. I have friends at 850 Bryant. We work hand in hand.”
“Yeah, about that . . .”
“Look, Presley,” he said, finally meeting my penetrating stare. “Rocco’s obviously in some kind of trouble. He’s gone AWOL from his job. His chocolates were probably poisoned. He has a record. And you just got a suspicious phone call from him. If you know anything, you need to—”
I stood up. “I don’t! All I know is he called me and hung up before I could find out what was going on.” I headed for the door, then turned back. “I thought we were going to help each other.”
He threw his hands up in surrender. “Me too. I told you about the autopsy. Now it’s your turn. It’s called quid pro quo.”
“I did! I have! I—”
I heard the front door of the barracks creak open, interrupting me from my defense. I stole a peek out the door—two men in suits had stepped in and were glancing around the reception area. I recognized the one with the slicked-back hair immediately: Detective Luke Melvin.
Any chance he was here to hire my services for the next Policemen’s Ball? Not likely.
“I gotta go,” I whispered and slipped out the door, hoping the detective hadn’t spotted me yet. I ducked into Delicia’s office, startling her, and scrambled under her desk, startling her even more. My thinking was, if they couldn’t find me, they couldn’t arrest me. Scrunched into a human ball between Dee’s legs, I whispered up to her, “Where is he?”
Delicia leaned down and whispered, “Who?”
“Stop talking to your crotch! They’ll see you. Pick up the phone and pretend to talk.”
Frowning, she did what I told her.
“Now, where’s the detective?”
She swiveled in her chair, almost rolling over my fingers. “He’s talking to the new guy—Brad.”
“Can you hear what they’re saying?”
Seconds passed. I couldn’t see her face. “I think they’re talking about . . . you. They keep looking toward your office.”
Great.
I hoped Brad wouldn’t give me up. This would be a test of his sincerity about wanting to help me.
“What are they saying now?”
“Shhh! I can’t hear them when you keep interrupting. Besides, the detective is a mumbler. There’s another cop with him . . . uh-oh. He’s . . . going into your office. You left the door open.”
What was that dickwad doing in my office? Wasn’t that illegal without a warrant? “What now?”
“Uh, he’s looking around. . . . Wait, he’s sitting at your desk. He’s . . .”
“What?”
Delicia didn’t answer. I pinched her ankle. She jumped. Her knee hit my chin. We both said, “Ouch!”
Rubbing my chin, I asked, “What’s he doing?”
“Quiet—they’ll hear you. I don’t want to be charged as an accomplice if you’re arrested, you know.”
I pounded one of her purple Crocs. She had a pair in every color.
“Okay, he’s picking up something from your desk. . . . A sheet of paper . . . He’s getting up. . . . He’s taking it to the other cop.”
Sheet of paper? What sheet of paper?
My notes about Ikea’s and Andi’s deaths!
I sat up and bumped my head underneath the desk. Shit! I rubbed the bump.
“Wait—he’s bringing it back to your office. . . . He’s putting it on your desk. Uh-oh.”
“What?” I pulled on Delicia’s long patchwork skirt like a kid wanting her mother’s attention.

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