Free How to Host a Killer Party by Penny Warner Page B

. . mishaps?”
    “Actually, I think you do. Someone overheard you last night threatening to kill Ms. Takeda.” He rapped his pencil eraser on the table lightly, as if accusing someone of murder was routine.
    “What? I certainly said no such thing!”
    He flipped through a few pages of his notebook. When he found what he was looking for, he read aloud. “ ‘Yes, I overheard Presley say, I’m gonna kill the bride. . . . ’ ”
    All the blood in my body rushed to my feet. The phone call I’d received—of my own voice—saying those very words. “That’s ridiculous!” I said, laughing too loudly. “Where did you hear that?”
    “I believe your exact words were”—he read his notes—“ ‘I’m going to slap the mayor, kill the bride-to-be ...’ ”
    Shit. Of course I’d said it. Under duress. Under the influence. “Well . . . if I said it at all, it was just a manner of speaking. Taken out of context. Stress release, you know? Everyone says it: ‘I’m gonna keel you!’ ” I tried to sound like Peter Lorre, but it came out sounding like Shrek with a bad cold. “Nobody really means that when they say it.”
    He made a note in his book. Apparently he didn’t share my understanding of the nuances of language.
    I leaned in, trying to read his scribbling upside down. “Who told you, anyway?”
    He flipped the notebook closed.
    “ ‘Everyone has something to conceal,’ Ms. Parker.”
    I recognized the quote instantly. How could a jerk like this be a fan of The Maltese Falcon , the best noir film ever made? I answered him in kind. “Well, Detective, ‘I won’t play the sap for you.’ ” I stood up and slung my knockoff purse over my shoulder like Brigid O’Shaughnessy.
    “ ‘It happens,’ Ms. Parker, ‘we’re in the detective business. . . . It’s bad business to let the killer get away with it.’ ”
    It took all I had to meet the detective’s gaze. “Am I under arrest?”
    “Not yet,” he said, grinning, his top lip slightly curled under. I swear he looked like Bogart at that moment.
    I felt a jolt of heat flush through my body.
    “But as they say, don’t leave town.”
    Sweetheart.

Chapter 9

    PARTY PLANNING TIP #9:
    Perfect parties, like perfect murders, are planned down to the last detail. And still, something invariably goes wrong.
    That’s why we have party planning handbooks and jail cells.
    I slammed the hell out of Detective Melvin’s door and stormed down the hall to the elevators. By the time I reached my car, fear had replaced anger—I could almost feel the handcuffs snapping around my wrists. And they weren’t made of chocolate.
    Two murders. Both linked to me. No alibi. Plenty of motive.
    Shit.
    I pulled the parking ticket off my car’s windshield, got into my MINI Cooper, and fought the thick traffic to the Bay Bridge, replaying the detective’s words on my way back to Treasure Island. The fog had abated, but the seagulls were out in force, and I only hoped my car wouldn’t be covered in gull guano by the time I arrived at my office.
    My MINI, like my office and my condo, was full of random party crap—medieval swords, Styrofoam ball-and-chains, sparkly ribbons, and “Killer Party” balloons. I’d gotten the car to save money—besides, it was so cute—then wished I’d bought a big SUV like everyone else on the road so I could haul all this stuff. A couple of black and silver balloons bounced around in the backseat as I drove over the retrofitted bridge toward the midway island turnoff.
    I still couldn’t believe it, but as ludicrous as it seemed, I was looking like Suspect Number One. I had to figure out a way to clear my own ass or I’d end up being arrested for a double homicide.
    I needed an alibi.
    Or an attorney.
    Or a ticket to Argentina.
    Or maybe I just needed to find out who killed those two women. I sure wasn’t going to get any help from that wannabe Sam Spade.
    Driving with one hand on the wheel, I reached the other hand behind me, feeling for