How to Host a Killer Party (2 page)

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:

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 naval 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.

If I didn’t pull this thing off, I’d be the first to commit career suicide.

My iPhone—a luxury I refused to give up—chirped, jolting me out of my thoughts of danger, detention, and death.
Missed call
, the screen read.

“Service is really spotty here,” Delicia said, checking her pink rhinestone-enhanced cell phone.

I nodded, then thumbed to the voice mail screen and found three messages waiting for me. The first was from my mother: “Pres, please call me! It’s urgent!” Even though she was safely in a care facility, to my mother, every call these days was “urgent.”

The second was from Chloe Webster, the mayor’s admin. “Presley? We have a serious situation. Call me ASAP.” And with Chloe, there was always a “serious situation.” I felt for her. She was seriously overworked and no doubt underpaid, but she seemed to thrive in her status as assistant to the mayor. She’d been instrumental in getting me hired for this gig.

I saved the messages, mentally promising to return the calls—if I could find a pocket of service—as soon as I finished the more pressing matter of decorating the cellblock.

I went on to the third message.

“Presley Parker? This is Detective Luke Melvin from the San Francisco Police Department, Homicide. Would you please return my call at your earliest convenience?”

A homicide detective?

Holy shit.

My first thought was: What would a San Francisco homicide detective want with me? This wasn’t about all those unpaid parking tickets, was it?

My second thought was: What had Mother done now? The last time the cops had called, she’d escaped from her care home and was found posing as a statue at the Museum of Modern Art. A nude statue. Things like that had happened more than once recently.

Shaking off other possibilities, my staff and I loaded into a small tram driven by a park ranger and headed up the zigzagging path toward Cellblock B, remaining party gear in hand. We were actually a ragtag bunch of entrepreneurs, all renting office space in an old military building not far from my condo on Treasure Island. The rumor that I’d be hosting a party for the mayor quickly spread through the building like a virus, and within the hour I’d hired TV chef Rocco Ghirenghelli as my caterer, filmmaker Berkeley Wong as videographer, and security guard Raj Reddy for added safety, in addition to Delicia, who pretty much did whatever I asked. Luckily they came cheap. Like me, they needed the money.

The ride up the steep hill was mostly quiet, all of us awestruck by the eerie surroundings. Delicia gazed wide-eyed at the cellblock as it came into view. Rocco sat stiffly, balancing on his lap several pink boxes of puff pastries and chocolates that he’d whipped up last night. Berkeley fiddled with the video camera perched on his shoulder. And Raj kept rubbing his shiny badge with a handkerchief as if it had magical powers.

The tram pulled up to the front of the cellblock with a jerk, and we unloaded our gear. I took a moment to scan the fog-enshrouded city skyline, but could barely make out Coit Tower through the thick covering. I headed inside to the main hallway, oddly named Broadway, that was flanked on either side by aging jail cells. The hall, wide enough to fit all the expected guests comfortably, would be the main party room. Delicia began unloading jail-themed decorations she’d helped me put finishing touches on last night—prisoner-style tin cups, brass jailhouse keys, striped uniforms and caps, and “Wanted” posters, each personalized for the invited guests.

Berkeley Wong, video camera still perched on his shoulder like a big black bird, began taping—and narrating—our setup efforts. “The Killer Party task force arrives at the infamous prison . . . ,” came his overly dramatic voice. “The highly trained team is about to give the penal institution an extreme makeover and turn the ghostly cellblock into a gala celebration. ‘Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.’ ”

Berkeley looked stylishly gay with his hedgehog hair, how-low-waist-can-you-go jeans, a long-sleeved “Hellboy—Visual Effects Crew” T-shirt, and red Chuck Taylor All Stars. I hoped to use his behind-the-scenes look at the mayor’s nuptials on YouTube as a marketing tool for my business. Berk apparently had a different vision; he saw it as his ticket into commercial work at CeeGee film studio, also located on Treasure Island. Berk was always “on”; I’d have diagnosed him as a mild manic. Since I was a former ab-psych instructor, diagnosing everyone I knew was an occupational hazard.

“The wedding,” he continued, using his Don Pardo voice from
Saturday Night Live
, “hosted by perky party planner Presley Parker—”

“
Event coordinator!
” I yelled at the camera. “And don’t call me perky.”

“
Whatever
,” Berk hissed, then continued, gangster style, just to irritate me. “Da nuptials’ll take place widdin da walls of notorious Cellblock B, and feachah a festive ball ’n’ chain theme.”

I glared at him as I set the shanklike knives on the buffet table. Berk gave me a sassy smile, then panned the inside of the monolithic cement structure, which was slowly deteriorating thanks to the corrosive effects of time, neglect, and salt air.

“ ‘What. A. Dump!’ ” he said, summing up the place with a line by Bette Davis. He was always tossing out famous movie quotes, hoping to beat me at Name That Film.

Not in the mood to play games, I ignored him as I surveyed the main hallway for places to hang the “Wanted” signs. The cement walls, covered in peeling pink paint, seemed to close in on me, and my first thought was to look for an escape route, much like the prisoners must have done the first time they shuffled down this infamous hall. I had a feeling I might need one if the party was a total disaster. The dull, thick bars, scarred by decades of angry or bored inmates, gave me a chill that ran down my spine to my cold toes. Or was it cold feet?

“Oh shit!” Rocco Ghirenghelli called from the cellblock dining area, distracting me from my claustrophobia. I headed down to the large mess hall where Rocco was preparing the food. Tall and pale, with a shaved head that disguised his receding hairline, he stood Birkenstock-sandal-footed in his once-white chef’s coat and pants, staring into a large pastry box as if it were Al Capone’s open crypt.