How to Host a Killer Party (5 page)

“Well,” Ikea said, seemingly pleased at the turnout, “on behalf of the mayor and myself, we want to thank you all for coming tonight and helping with a great cause, uh . . .”

She paused and looked at the mayor for a moment, who quickly spoke up.

“The Alzheimer’s Association.”

Ikea nodded and flashed her artificially whitened smile at the group. Several people in the crowd whispered to each other and giggled.

Ikea turned to Mayor Green, looking puzzled. Looping her arm through his, I heard her whisper, “Darling? What’s . . .”

She left the question unfinished as the mayor grinned at her in gleeful anticipation. He raised his champagne glass and the smiling crowd followed suit.

“Surprise!” they all shouted.

Ikea frowned deep enough to require Botox. She scanned the room, nearly teetering on her spiky heels, then turned back to Mayor Green. “I don’t understand. Davin, what’s this all about?”

I cued the deejay to begin the “Wedding March.” The cheering crowd shuffled back against the cell bars, clearing a path down the middle of Broadway, as the minister stepped up to the portable altar set up at the end of the hall.

Ikea blinked several times. Under her breath, her smile frozen on her pale face, she hissed, “Davin, what the hell is going on?” As she spoke, she slowly withdrew her arm from the mayor’s and nervously ran the finger of her right hand up and down the stem of the champagne flute.

Mayor Green, still grinning like a teenager, took her diamond-studded left hand. “It’s our wedding, baby! I wanted it to be a surprise!”

Ikea stared at the mayor, openmouthed.

He raised his champagne glass. “So, are you surprised?”

Her smile unwavering, she slowly lifted her champagne glass and faced the crowd. I held my breath, waiting for a shriek of joy or a prenuptial kiss. The music quieted, the attendees grew hushed. All eyes were on Ikea.

For one quick moment she gave me a look I couldn’t read. Then she turned to the mayor and, with a twist of her wrist, flung the bubbly liquid into the mayor’s beaming face.

“How could you!” she said, her eyes as sharp as prison-house shanks.

The crowd gasped at the dramatic display as Ikea spun in her retro heels and stomped out of the cellblock, into the dark night. In the deadly silence that followed, I thought I heard a pin drop. The kind used to stick a voodoo doll.

The deafening crash that followed was the sound of my career hitting the cellblock floor.

I picked up a black-and-white-striped paper napkin embossed with the words “Davin and Ikea—Locked Together Forever” and offered it to the mayor. He snatched it out of my hands, wiped the champagne off his face, and darted after his bolting would-be bride. Chloe shot me a frantic look, then dashed after him.

I signaled to Raj to follow them. He saluted and tore out as if chasing an escaping convict. He was followed by a handful of other guests curious to see the drama unfold outside the cellblock.

“Want ads, here I come,” I mumbled, and took another swallow of champagne.

Delicia looked up at me, frowning. “Presley Parker! If you can manage a room full of screaming, hyperactive boys at a birthday party, you can certainly handle a little glitch like this!”

A “little glitch” being a stunned bride-to-be jilting her even more stunned future groom—the mayor of San Francisco, for God’s sake—then going AWOL from her own surprise wedding and reception. But Delicia was right, bringing to mind another one of my mother’s rules in her
How to Host a Killer Party
handbook on “How to Deal with a Disaster.” She’d had a few close calls herself on occasion and had shared her quick fixes in the book. Channeling my ADHD, I moved into fix-it mode.

“Berkeley!” I shouted across the room, then mimed
Start the music!
, cupping my ear and swaying back and forth. I waved to Rocco and gestured
Bring on the food!
, pointing to my open mouth, then waving in my arm. Finally I turned to Delicia and pretended to pour champagne down my throat.

I only pretended because I didn’t have an open bottle handy.

My spirited crew went to work—perhaps not quite as “spirited” as I. Berkeley cranked up the marriage-themed tunes, beginning with “Ball and Chain” by Social Distortion. Rocco brought out his mini-crab quiches and tuna tartar bites. And Delicia poured bubbly with both hands.

I headed for the outdoor platform and placed a call to Raj. When he didn’t answer, I left the first of half a dozen messages, then headed down a shortcut to the dock to search for Ikea myself. After fifteen minutes of scanning the landing area, questioning the ferry captains, and checking the public restrooms, I hiked back up to the cellblock, shivering from the fog-shrouded night, to check on the guests.

Puffing like a blowfish, I found the party people happy as bay clams, eating, drinking, dancing, and excitedly buzzing about the two guests of honor—the hot topic of the moment, perhaps of the year. I needn’t have worried about the entertainment. Who needed a bride and groom when you had juicy gossip like this?

A voice startled me from behind.

“Trouble in paradise?”

I whirled around to see the Crime Scene Cleaner guy grinning at me. I would have spilled my champagne all over him if there had been any left in my recently drained glass. Instead, I fumbled the empty glass and watched it tumble to the floor. Miraculously it didn’t break, having landed on the red carpet we’d rolled out for the occasion.

We both knelt down to retrieve it, but I beat him to it. While I was down there, I stole a quick glance at his shoes. New Balance Zips. Great for running, yet seriously comfortable. Not cheap.

Truth is, I have a sort of psychological shoe fetish. I’d worked my way through college selling everything from Birkenstocks to Blahniks, and learned more about people’s personalities from their shoe selections than all the psych classes I could ever take. Following even more in my mother’s footsteps, I thought about writing a book on the psychology of shoes called
How to Know People by the Shoes They Choose
, but I still hadn’t gotten past the cumbersome title.

We both rose. “Well, this isn’t exactly paradise, uh, Mr. . . . ?”

“Matthews. Brad Matthews,” he said, extending his hand.

I took it lightly, but his grip was strong. And warm. “Presley Parker,” I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “As for the bride-to-be, I’m sure she was a little shaken by the ‘surprise, ’ but no doubt the mayor will smooth things over. He’s good at that, as you may know. Anyway, I hope you’re enjoying the party.”

Brad Matthews took a sip of his drink, which looked more like water than champagne. “You’re right about that—he’s great at charming people.”

I frowned, wondering what he meant by that, but I couldn’t read his expression as he scanned the room. He had to have been a friend of either the mayor or Ikea to be invited to the event, but his tone was ambiguous. He turned his gaze on me. His dark brown eyes were penetrating.

Disconcerted, I traded my empty glass for a full one from a passing tray and shrugged. “Ikea’s probably disappointed she didn’t get to plan her own wedding. After all, most girls dream of this day from the age of three. To be surprised at your own wedding—it’s got to be a shock.”

Brad Matthews nodded. “Unique theme—the ball and chain. Your idea?”

“God, no!” I shook my head. “The mayor’s.” Speaking of whom, I wondered where he and his ex-bride-to-be had disappeared to. Time to call Raj for an update.

“If you’ll excuse me . . .” Before I could escape, Brad held out his hand again. “It was nice to meet you, Presley Parker.” This time I tried to match his firm, confident grip as I studied his large hand. No rings, not even a suntan ring where a former wedding ring might have been. “Don’t you have an office over on TI?”

I blinked. “How did you—”

Before I could finish, Raj burst through the doors of the cellblock, red-cheeked and puffing, his uniform disheveled for the first time since I’d known him. He bent over, trying to catch his breath. I set my glass down on a nearby table and dashed over to him.

“Raj, are you all right?” I put a comforting hand on his back.

He nodded, still gasping, and slowly straightened up.

“I was about to call you,” I said. “Did you find Ikea? Or the mayor?”

He shook his head. “No, no. I’m very sorry, but I am scouring the whole area and she is nowhere to be found. She has actually disappeared!”

I made a mental note to add another party tip to my mother’s book: “Try Not to Lose the Guest of Honor.”

I signaled for Delicia to get Raj a glass of water, then stepped outside and tried to phone Ikea, Mayor Green, and Chloe on my cell. No answer from any of them.

I was about to call the police when I caught a glimpse of the mayor staggering up the hill. I ran to meet him and took him by the arm, out of the chilly night air and into the cellblock. He looked as pale as the damp white shirt he wore, and was breathing rapidly enough to hyperventilate. His black-and-white saddle shoes were scuffed, his suit jacket was gone, but his stiff, gelled hair was still perfect. He grabbed an abandoned, half-empty glass of champagne and chugged it, then looked for another.

“Mayor Green, did you find Ikea?” I asked, pulling up a nearby folding chair for him to use. He looked as if he was about to collapse.

He shook his head and slumped into the chair. “I searched everywhere. I thought maybe she’d taken one of the ferries back, but no one seems to know.” He took another swig from his recently refilled champagne glass, and his breathing slowed. As he lifted his hand to wipe his forehead, I noticed one of his cuffs was wet, not just damp, as was one of his pants pockets. He caught my gaze and brushed at the damp spots.

“I ran down to the dock. . . . I saw something caught on one of the ropes near the ferries. . . . I leaned over to get it. . . .”

He pulled what looked like a drowned rat from his pocket. I recognized it immediately as a piece of Ikea’s fur wrap. He glanced at me with bloodshot eyes. Had he been crying? Or was the redness due to something else? “You don’t think she . . . fell in, do you? She can’t swim. . . .”

My stomach flipped. The champagne I’d drunk surged upward. I swallowed, trying to keep it down. Suddenly the door to the cellblock burst open again. I spun around, along with most of the now quiet guests, hoping, praying I’d see Ikea in the doorway.

Instead, Chloe stood there, tears in her eyes. She spotted the mayor and ran to him. “Mayor, are you all right? I’ve been looking all over for you! Did you find her?” She too was disheveled, out of breath, and goose-pimpled.

Mayor Green shook his head. “I think she may have . . .” He dropped his head in his hands.

Hovering over him like a prison matron, Chloe patted his sculpted hair. “No, no, Mayor, I’m sure she’s fine. She’ll turn up. You know Ikea—she has a flair for the dramatic.” She glanced at me, her eyes pleading for help.

“Chloe’s right,” I said uselessly. “Meanwhile, my security team is searching the area.”

Delicia appeared in the doorway, her face flushed with color, either from the night air or from hiking up the hill—or both. Puffing, she said, “I just saw one of the ferries headed back to the city. I think she may have been on board—”

Mayor Green rose from the chair. “Really? When?”

Delicia looked at her watch. “Uh, a few minutes ago. We can call the ferry company and check.”

“Did you actually see her?” I asked Delicia.

“No, but—”

Before she could respond, I heard a commotion at the far end of the cellblock, near what would have been the altar we’d set up for the nuptials. A young woman, blond, wearing a trench coat, had climbed up on the wooden structure. One of the guests appeared to be trying to pull her down.

The crowd gave a collective gasp as the twentysomething woman, barefoot, began to untie the belt on her coat. In seconds she had yanked it open and was standing in front of the gathered crowd, flashing the already stunned partygoers.

Her naked body was covered in ugly blisters and sores.

“Mayor Green is a murderer!” she screamed.