How to Host a Killer Party (23 page)

“Because you were at her wedding the night she died.”

She stopped petting and stared up at me. Her green eyes flashed in the late afternoon light. “Wait a minute. I was only there to make a statement. That’s how I fly. You can’t think I had something to do with her death?”

“No, no, of course not.” Maybe. “But you might have seen something that night that could help.” Like someone poisoning chocolates. “Does anything stand out in your mind?” Say, murder?

She shrugged. “All I saw was a bunch of rich drunk people, oblivious to the fact that wildlife is dying on Treasure Island while they get wasted on Alcatraz. That’s the only reason I was there—to get Mayor Greed to save TI.”

I nodded. “How’s that going?”

“Sucks. Ikea was supposed to talk to the mayor and get him to come around. My group, Endangered Earth, paid her a lot of money for her help. Now everyone’s mad at me because the bitch is dead, the money is gone, and we’ve got squat.”

“You
paid
Ikea?” I asked, surprised at this revelation.

“Duh,” she said, playing with the beaded necklaces around her neck. “Isn’t that the way things really work in this capitalist society? She promised—practically guaranteed—the mayor would agree to our demands—I mean, requests. Said she had a lot of influence over him. Even told me to show up for that little demo I put on.”

“She
told
you to come and do that?” Holy crap. I guess she didn’t know it would be her wedding reception entertainment.

She laughed. “How else do you think I got into the party?”

“Why did she want you there?”

“She said my demonstration—I call it performance protest—would help sway the mayor to my side. She was supposed to talk to him right after the gig. Said she’d have it locked in and TI would be turned into a natural habitat for the seals and shit, after all the toxic waste was cleaned up.”

“And for that you paid her? How much?”

Siouxie patted the dog. “A lot.”

“How much is a lot?”

She met my eyes. “A lot lot.”

“How does a group like yours get a lot lot?”

She laughed. “Bake sales.”

“Drugs?”

“No!” she snapped. Was she overreacting? She stood, brushed off the back of her dress, and stepped up to the front door. “I mean, well, I work at Pot for Patients, the medical marijuana outlet. Part-time. But that’s not dealing.”

“You get welfare, but you work part-time?” I asked.

She shrugged. “You just have to know how to work the system, you know? Listen, I gotta go. You’re a psychologist, right? So everything I just told you is in confidence, right? I don’t want anyone to know I paid that bee-otch all that money. Someone might start asking the wrong questions.”

I rose and wiped off the back of my black jeans, praying I hadn’t sat in something. Just to make sure, I pulled my T-shirt down over my butt. Ignoring her question, I asked, “So after you paid Ikea, you found out she wasn’t going to help you after all?”

She spun around. “Anything Ikea did, she did for herself. She couldn’t have cared less about doing the right thing for the planet—not even for a bagful of cash. Unfortunately, I figured that out a little too late. Stupid me.”

She turned the knob. I took a step toward her. “Susan, where did you go that night, after your ‘performance’?”

She looked startled. “How did you know my real name?”

“One of the newspaper articles mentioned it.”

Nodding, she pressed her lips tightly together, then said, “I came back here, of course. I wasn’t about to hang around for champagne and cake—” She stopped suddenly. “Wait a minute. You really
do
think I had something to do with her death. Now you’re asking me if I have an alibi? Fuck off, you psycho headshrinker.”

Siouxie stepped through the front door, then turned to the dog and said, “Cujo! Sic ’er!” before slamming the door shut.

I looked at the dog, ready to run, my heart pounding.

The dog lifted his head, looked at me, then laid his head back down.

And farted.

While driving back to TI, I added Susan’s name to my short but growing list of possible suspects. The young woman had a motive—she hated Ikea. And she had opportunity—she’d been invited to “crash” the party. As for method, she could easily have poisoned the chocolates when no one was looking. No one noticed her until she began her “performance.”

And she’d tried to bribe Ikea for control over TI. She’d paid a lot of money—
whose
money was still in question—but hadn’t gotten what she wanted. Had Siouxie killed her after she learned Ikea wasn’t going to follow through?

As for the money, was Siouxie selling drugs to support her causes? In addition to defrauding the welfare department, she was working part-time at Pot for Patients. Perhaps she also did a little embezzling? Sold some on the side? Her house had certainly reeked of the stuff.

The fog was rolling in over the Bay Bridge, bringing with it an eerie, luminous cast to the evening. I checked my cell phone clock. Good God. It was after seven. Too late to track down anyone else. The rest would have to wait until tomorrow.

I rubbed the back of my neck, stiff from the tension of the day. And I was hungry. I could hear my stomach growling over the Morrissey song on my radio. No doubt I probably had a hundred messages waiting for me back at my office. Passing up the turnoff for Yerba Buena Island, I took Avenue of the Palms to the Snack Shack, bought a crab Louis and a beer to go, and headed for the office barracks.

As I headed into the building, Berkeley was on his way out, camera in tow. “You’re baaaccckkkk!” Berk said, misquoting either
The Shining
or
Poltergeist
. He held the door for me. “Thought maybe you’d skipped town, gone to Argen-tin-a.” He sang the last word, à la
Evita
.

“Errands,” I said, to avoid a long explanation. I glanced at his ubiquitous camera and remembered something. “Berkeley, did the cops take all your footage from the party?”

“Yep,” he said, then grinned.

“You made a copy!”

“I soitenly did,” he said, nodding like Curly Howard and beaming with pride at his cleverness.

“Can I borrow it?”

“Help yourself. It’s in my office. Top drawer of the filing cabinet. Not quite ready for your close-up yet, but you’ll get the idea.”

“No problem. I just want to see what you’ve got. Is your door locked?”

“Yeah, but Raj has a key. Tell him I said to let you in.” He gave me Spock’s “Live long and prosper” hand sign.

Remembering the last time I’d asked Raj to open a door, I said, “Would you mind telling him? He’s gotten tight with the keys lately.”

Berkeley nodded and headed out the door to his VW camper, calling back, “E.T., phone Raj. Gotta run, Forrest, run. But I’ll be back,” he said, switching from
E.T.
to
Forrest Gump
to
Terminator
. It was mind-boggling—I didn’t know who I was talking to anymore.

I yelled back the titles, plus
The Three Stooges
,
Sunset Boulevard
, and
Star Trek
, before closing the front door, thankful Name That Movie was over. Glancing at the other offices as I headed for my own, I saw that Delicia was out—who knew where—Raj was just locking up, and the office across from mine was dark.

“Ms. Presley,” Raj called from down the hall. “I am opening Mr. Berkeley’s door for you now. But you must be remembering to lock it. I cannot be responsible for it if it is left unlocked, you see.”

“Thanks, Raj,” I said, unlocking my own office. “I promise. Where are you off to?”

“Actually, the Jack Jason movie is filming at Pier 39 tonight. Perhaps they are having a part for a security guard again. But my cell phone will be available for your call, if you are needing me.”

I nodded as I slung my purse on my desk and set down my salad and beer. “Good luck. Break a leg.”

Raj wrinkled his nose at me.

“It’s just an expression,” I explained.

“Oh, yes, yes. Well, then, you break a leg too. And an arm.” He laughed as he made his way out of the building.

The office grew uncomfortably quiet. I’d never felt unsafe working in my office at night alone. Until now.

Something strange was going on and it had to do with Treasure Island itself—at least in part. I pushed the feeling aside and dug into my crab Louis, hardly tasting it. When the phone rang, cracking the silence, I jumped.

After fumbling for the phone, I said, “Hello?” I could feel my heart racing under my T-shirt. Why was I so nervous? I’d been alone in the building before. Raj was just a phone call away. And I had my plastic sword.

“Hello?” I said again. No answer.

I hung up. It rang again before I could lift my hand from the receiver. I hesitated, letting it ring a few more times, then picked it up.

“Hello?” I said slowly.

I heard a voice whisper something I couldn’t make out.

“What?” I said stupidly when I should have hung up. But something about the whisper kept me on the line. What if it was Rocco calling from the hospital?

“Rocco? Is that you?”

Silence. Then the whispered voice came again. This time, in spite of the low volume, I heard it loud and clear:

“Got chocolate?”

 

I slammed down the phone, took a deep breath, then picked it up again, my hand shaking so hard I could barely dial Star-69. Blocked. Of course. What kind of obscene phone caller—or killer—would leave a callback number?

I slammed the phone down again.

What was that about? “Got chocolate?” As in poisoned?

Gathering my purse and food, I was about to get the hell out when I heard a noise at the front door.

Someone was jiggling the door handle.

I froze, listening, waiting for a key to unlock the door, for familiar footsteps to ring out in the reception room—the shuffle of Delicia’s bunny slippers, the squeak of Berk’s skull-covered Vans, the tap of Raj’s steel-toed military boots.

Nothing.

I dropped my food, ducked down behind my desk, hoping whoever was there hadn’t seen me through any of the windows. Of course, my office light was on. In fact, it was the only light on besides reception.

I switched it off, eased up, and tiptoed into the hallway, hoping the old floorboards didn’t give me away. Maybe the would-be intruder knew I was there, but at least he couldn’t see me now. And maybe, if I was careful, I could catch a glimpse of him in the reception room light.

The reception light went off.

Shit!

The building went pitch black. My eyes searched the darkness. I felt rivulets of sweat slalom down my back. My throat went dry. I could hear my heartbeat, amplified in my chest—and hoped the intruder couldn’t hear it too.

Scenes from old movies filled the blackness. I had learned a lot from those old films and had sworn off a few important things:

Never go into the cellar in your lingerie
(
Prom Night II
).

Never call out “Who’s there?” when you’re alone
(
Halloween 4
).

Never go into a dark room unarmed
(
Urban Legends 3
).

Suddenly, in the blackness, the phone rang. An icicle stabbed my heart.

And never answer the phone
(
Scream 1
,
2
, and
3
).

I whirled around and ran toward the kitchen. As soon as I stepped inside, I heard a loud thud at the back door.

Shit! Surrounded.

Then came more pounding—the sound of someone trying to break down the door. Shit! Shit! Was this the same person who’d been at the front door? Or were there two of them? If the place was surrounded, my only chance was to hide.

Where?

Under my desk? Been there, done that. Too obvious.

In the kitchen? There were several closets and cupboards that I could probably fit into.

Just as I started for the front office, the thudding returned at the front door, jarring my already jangled nerves. I ran back toward the kitchen, the only place I could think of to hide from the lunatic who was trying so hard to break in.

As I reached the kitchen, in the darkness I saw a light flickering from under the closed door. I froze, unable to move or think, just panting with fear.

Then I smelled the smoke!