How to Host a Killer Party (35 page)

“When Ikea started to fade, I took the earring off, figuring I could use it as a plant later. Pike was supposed to place it in your office for the cops to find, but the stupid kid apparently dropped it on the way over there.”

I thought about the sequence of events that had followed: Duncan had found it, put it in the cache, and I’d discovered it soon afterward.

I met her eyes. “So you planned to make it look like me all along?” I mumbled the words around the slimy wad as best I could.

“Who better? You had the best motive. First you killed your party planner rival, Andi Sax. And then you killed the woman who ruined your big breakout party, Ikea Takeda. Made sense to me.”

“But why kill Andi? You murdered her even before you killed Ikea.”

“Andi, Andi, Andi.” Chloe sighed. “She just sort of got in the way. We had this fight about the party details—she hated the ball-and-chain theme—so I told the mayor he should fire her and hire someone who wasn’t such a diva. Andi was so mad about being let go that she told me she’d ruin the surprise for Ikea. And that, of course, would ruin my plan. So, before she left my office, I gave her some chocolates as a peace offering—chocolates I’d been practicing with—and promised I’d talk the mayor into hiring her for the next big function.”

Chloe was on a roll. She’d temporarily forgotten about the poisoned chocolates she’d been forcing me to eat. That was the trouble with sociopathic egomaniacs with delusions of grandeur—they felt like they were the only ones in the room. All I had to do was keep the questions coming. “What was Andi doing on Treasure Island that day?”

She laughed again. “I told her you were taking over the job and had stolen all the plans and ideas she’d already prepared. She said she was going straight over there to confront you about it. I guess she ate the chocolates on the way.”

I needed another question to keep her distracted. Fast. “But, uh, why Rocco?”

“Why not? I thought it would make you look extra guilty. The cops were already on your ass and I figured that would cinch it.” She waved the gun again. “Now, how about another chocolate? It’s time for your suicide. Obviously you’ve made a mess of things, the police are about to arrest you, and you can no longer live with your guilt. You used to be a psychologist. Isn’t that about right?”

I suddenly groaned, clutched my stomach, and bent over.

Chloe leaned forward in her chair.

Feeling her breath, I raised my head and spat the chocolate into her face.

“Ack!” she screamed, caught off guard. The gun went flying. I pulled my chocolate-covered hand out from under my leg and thrust the saliva-soaked poison-laden goo in her face, pushing her back as I smeared it. Rising up on one knee, my injured leg outstretched, I grabbed the helium tank that had tumbled out of the closet and brought it down on her head. She lost her balance and fell off the chair.

Using the closet doorknob for support, I pushed myself up and hobbled toward the front door of the condo. I shoved the overturned chair aside, yanked the door open, and limped out. I heard Chloe cough as I staggered into the carport.

I must have dazed her.

That wouldn’t last.

Outside, I saw a white SUV parked on the street.

Brad!

I dragged myself over and pounded on the door screaming his name. “Brad! Brad!” No response.

“He’s not in there,” a voice behind me called.

I turned to see Chloe in the doorway, her gun pointed directly at me. Her face looked like it was covered in shit. Ooey gooey chocolate.

I yanked open the side door of Chloe’s SUV and scrambled in, the pain in my leg throbbing with every move I made. I pulled the door closed and locked it, then strained to lock the rest of the doors.

Seconds later Chloe appeared at the driver’s side window waving the gun. I hunkered down out of sight, but I could still hear her voice.

“It’s okay, Presley. Lie down. Relax. It won’t be long now. You’ve had more chocolates than I’ve given anyone else.”

Was she right? Was it only a matter of minutes? Panicked, I stuck my fingers down my throat and tried to gag. How did bulimics do it?

Getting nowhere, I looked around, searching for—I didn’t know what. On the passenger seat I recognized Chloe’s Coach bag. Purse meant cell phone. Obviously she wouldn’t bring her own phone into my condo and risk having it go off while she lay in wait.

I grabbed the purse, emptied the contents out on the seat, and found the phone. As I flipped it open, I glanced back out the front window.

Chloe was gone.

I turned around.

Her face appeared in the passenger’s window. She began pounding on the glass like a madwoman. When she saw me with the phone, she froze, her lips pulled back into an ugly grimace. She knew what I was about to do.

Trying to stay focused, I punched in 911. When I looked up, Chloe had disappeared again. As I waited for an answer, she reappeared again at the driver’s side—this time lifting her gun to the window. Her arms shook as she held the gun in both hands. It was aimed directly at me.

A gunshot rang out.

The driver’s-side window shattered, filling the front seat with glass confetti. My ears rang as I gripped the phone tighter. I couldn’t hear whether anyone had answered the call. I couldn’t hear much of anything, except the ringing in my ears.

I crawled to the back and screamed into the phone. “Help! I need help! She’s got a gun. She’s trying to—”

Another shot rang out. A bullet whizzed by my head and ricocheted inside the SUV.

An arm reached in through the front window. The door opened.

Chloe was coming in.

I scrambled over the backseat and scrunched down, not breathing, not moving. I was clearly at a disadvantage. I was injured, I couldn’t hear anything, and I didn’t have a gun. I could only pray someone had heard my 911 call—and then I remembered. I hadn’t given my address. The police couldn’t trace a cell phone call.

A shadow moved across the ceiling of the SUV. Chloe was in the backseat. Moving my hand down and around the side of the seat, I felt for the lever that folds the seat. With all the strength I had left, I jerked it, throwing my weight against the seat. It fell forward and on top of Chloe.

I felt her thrashing through the seat. Digging in my pocket, I grabbed a handful of still-gooey chocolate and shoved it in her open mouth. If it didn’t poison her, hopefully it would choke her—at least long enough for me to get the hell out of there.

I hurled myself over the seat, my leg screaming in pain. Ignoring it as best I could, I scooted headfirst out the driver’s side door and onto the pavement. As I hit the road, skinning both my hands as I caught myself, I turned over and gave the door a shove with my good leg.

A screech of tires filled the air.

I could hear again!

I pushed myself up into a sitting position and spotted another white SUV zooming up behind Chloe’s SUV.

Pike—Chloe’s thug?

I started to crawl away as the door to the second SUV flew open. The driver shot out and quickly ducked out of sight behind the opened door. A gun appeared over the top of the door.

Oh shit. There was no way I was going to get away now.

“Police!” a familiar voice called out. “Drop the weapon! Now!”

Brad!

“She’s back there,” I squealed, pointing toward the backseat of Chloe’s SUV. Brad approached, holding the gun at arm’s length with both hands. With his head, he gestured for me to lie low.

He pulled the driver’s door open.

I could hear Chloe coughing and gagging inside.

Brad aimed his gun toward the sound. A moment later, I heard Chloe’s gun hit the windshield after her attempt to either drop it or throw it at Brad. She slowly rose, chocolate smeared over her face. She raised her chocolate-covered hands.

Together, I’m sure we made quite a sight.

“Get out of the car,” Brad commanded, gesturing with the gun as he moved around the front windshield. The side door opened. He waited for her to step out, never lowering his gun. Pulling out cuffs hidden beneath his shirt, he slammed her against the car and cuffed her.

Raj pulled up in his beat-up old Chevy and hopped out. He ran over to me and helped me to the curb. I couldn’t stand on my bruised leg and possibly broken ankle, so he eased me down.

“I just got your call, Ms. Presley. Are you all right?”

“Call an ambulance, Raj,” Brad ordered. With one hand against Chloe’s back, he pulled out his cell with the other. He punched three numbers—the police.

I knew it. Brad was much more than a crime scene cleaner.

And thank God for that.

“You lied to me!” I yelled at Brad from my hospital bed as he entered my room.

“You lied to me,” he replied calmly, and sat down on a nearby chair. He’d obviously cleaned up from arresting criminals. His wavy brown hair was neatly combed, his jeans were fresh, and he wore a blue T-shirt with the Crime Scene Cleaners logo emblazoned on the front. But it was his smile that made me self-conscious. I pulled down the hospital gown, tried to fluff my hospital bed hair, and licked my lips wishing I had some lip gloss.

He picked up the remote and switched the TV to mute. Dr. Phil rambled on, using his pop psychology on some neurotic couple, but I could no longer hear his down-home soliloquies.

“So they pumped your stomach, huh?” he said, smiling with empathy.

“Yeah, not fun. My throat still aches from the tube.” In fact, it hurt even more now, making me wish I hadn’t yelled at him a moment ago.

“Heard you have a broken ankle”—he glanced at the foot-to-knee cast—“along with multiple contusions and abrasions on your leg, and a sore mouth.”

Yeah, from tripping and falling on my way home, getting in a fight with Chloe, and holding quantities of poisoned chocolates in my mouth. Plus a huge headache—from the poison? Or the car accident? Luckily, the doctor had promised I could go home—with crutches—after a few more hours of observation.

In the meantime, I was lying in a hospital bed watching Dr. Phil talk about people who had stressful lives. Ha.

“Are you even a crime scene cleaner at all?” I asked hoarsely, then coughed. It hurt to talk. My voice changed to a rasping whisper. “Or are you really some kind of undercover cop?”

Brad gave his lopsided grin and shrugged. He looked great in his blue shirt, while I felt like a hag in my tent-shaped hospital gown.

I eyed him as he pulled up a chair next to me, seeing him in a completely different light. Someday I’d have to ask him about the accidental shooting of the disabled man that must have had a huge impact on him. No one walked away from something like that without a degree of posttraumatic stress disorder. But now was not the time.

“How did you know I was in trouble?” I asked. “Were you spying on me? Did you hope to catch me in the act of murdering my next victim?”

He laughed. “No. I told you, I knew you didn’t do it. It was the mayor who sent me to TI to keep an eye on you. He’s not as stupid as Ikea sometimes made him appear. When he started receiving death threats about his upcoming decision for the island, he suspected the vandalism there was somehow connected. I was hired to check it out. Turns out he was right about that. Chloe managed to find a punk named Geoff Pike to do some of her dirty work. All except the murders. She saved those for herself.”

“So you’re not really a cop?”

He shook his head. “I do a little private investigating. For SFPD, the mayor. This time I was hired to find out what was up.”

“And did you?”

“With a little help from you,” he acknowledged.

“You bet your ass. Did they catch that Pike guy?”

“Oh yeah. We found all kinds of information about him locked in a file in Chloe’s office. Tracked him down to the apartment she’d rented him on the island. When he found out about the murders, he gave her up.”

“Wow. I never realized how much power an administrative assistant had.” I paused. “But that doesn’t answer how you found me—and so quickly.”

“I was in the office when your call to Raj came in. I just beat him to the scene.”

I smiled.

“Doc says you can go home soon,” Brad added. “Thought I’d give you a lift.”

“Thanks. Not sure I want to get back into another SUV anytime soon though.” I took a sip of water. Even that hurt. “Have you seen Rocco?”

Brad nodded. “Good news. He’s awake, alert, and out of danger. Can’t remember much about what happened to him—something about chocolates—but other than that, he seems fine. He’ll be released in another day or so.”