my God. First the police. Now the governor.
What was in the rest of that newspaper article?
Chapter 12
PARTY PLANNING TIP #12:
Personalize your party setting to the theme.
Host an Over-the-Hill milestone at a mortuary, a Redneck bash at a trailer park, or a Murder Mystery at a haunted mansion.
Although I had my reservations about Brad Matthews, I set them aside when he offered to help clean up and remove all the rotting fish carcasses from last night’s wedding prep. “No charge,” he’d said, grinning in an attempt to make up for giving us a scare. Meanwhile Delicia and I went to work on the countertops, appliances, and floors, mainly by squirting everything with Lysol and other mysterious chemicals Brad brought in, until the whole office building reeked like a hospital. I had to admit, we did an impressive job. Now that we wouldn’t be poisoned by botulism, we’d no doubt be asphyxiated by industrial-strength cleaners.
Poisoned.
I returned to my office and slumped into the seat at my desk, trying to ignore the strong smells coming from the kitchen and the new activity in the office across from mine. Not easy for a person with ADHD. Dropping my purse in the middle of the desk sent yellow sticky memos fluttering around like giant confetti. I leaned over to pick up a handful that had sailed to the floor and caught a glimpse of the new guy across the hall.
Stripping.
I watched as the white jumpsuit fell to the floor like shriveled snakeskin, leaving behind yet another outfit, this time a well-filled-out white T-shirt with the company logo embossed on one pocket and low-rise, well-worn jeans. His shoes: New Balance. Not a blood spatter on them.
He caught me peering and grinned.
I snatched the notes off the floor and spun around, trying to focus on the stack of calls I’d gotten while at the police station. But when Brad left his office to retrieve more boxes from his killer SUV, I stood up in the hall and leaned in to check out his stuff.
Everything was sealed with crime scene tape.
So what did he have in those boxes besides bottles of poison?
Poison. There was that word again.
“Can I help you?” Brad said, startling me from behind.
I jumped. “I . . . was looking for today’s newspaper. Delicia!” I called out, trying to cover my snooping. I spun around, took a few steps, and leaned into her office. “I can’t . . . um, find the Chron . Did you do something with it? I’ve searched all over. . . .”
“I think I left it in the kitchen,” Delicia said, eyeing me oddly. “I’ll get it.” She popped up from her chair and bounced down the hall. I returned to my desk, ignoring Brad’s eyes on me, and riffled through the pile of messages again. Two were from Chloe at the mayor’s office, both marked “Urgent!” They probably wanted their money back. Tough.
I took a second look and realized Chloe’s messages were dated yesterday. Probably more pre-wedding panic attacks. One was about the reception food. “Did the caterer know that Chilean sea bass was endangered? The mayor didn’t feel it was politically correct to serve it. Could it be replaced with Dungeness crab, the ‘new lobster’?”
I wadded up that message and its twin—one about a couple of last-minute guest additions—and tossed them into the wastebasket.
The next five were from my mother, also marked “Urgent!” as usual. I set them aside, promising myself I’d see her as soon as I had a moment. I knew she was lonely—and confused—and my visits had a way of grounding her, at least temporarily. Thankfully the return phone number wasn’t the San Francisco Police Department.
The rest of the messages were from a variety of businesses, all wanting parties.
Friends of the San Francisco Library: “We’d like to do a Murder Mystery set in the stacks. . . .”
Gay Pride Coalition: “Can you do a kind of Queer Eye Makeover party for the Exotic Erotic Ball? . . .”
Glide Memorial Church: “Looking for an American Idol
What was in the rest of that newspaper article?
Chapter 12
PARTY PLANNING TIP #12:
Personalize your party setting to the theme.
Host an Over-the-Hill milestone at a mortuary, a Redneck bash at a trailer park, or a Murder Mystery at a haunted mansion.
Although I had my reservations about Brad Matthews, I set them aside when he offered to help clean up and remove all the rotting fish carcasses from last night’s wedding prep. “No charge,” he’d said, grinning in an attempt to make up for giving us a scare. Meanwhile Delicia and I went to work on the countertops, appliances, and floors, mainly by squirting everything with Lysol and other mysterious chemicals Brad brought in, until the whole office building reeked like a hospital. I had to admit, we did an impressive job. Now that we wouldn’t be poisoned by botulism, we’d no doubt be asphyxiated by industrial-strength cleaners.
Poisoned.
I returned to my office and slumped into the seat at my desk, trying to ignore the strong smells coming from the kitchen and the new activity in the office across from mine. Not easy for a person with ADHD. Dropping my purse in the middle of the desk sent yellow sticky memos fluttering around like giant confetti. I leaned over to pick up a handful that had sailed to the floor and caught a glimpse of the new guy across the hall.
Stripping.
I watched as the white jumpsuit fell to the floor like shriveled snakeskin, leaving behind yet another outfit, this time a well-filled-out white T-shirt with the company logo embossed on one pocket and low-rise, well-worn jeans. His shoes: New Balance. Not a blood spatter on them.
He caught me peering and grinned.
I snatched the notes off the floor and spun around, trying to focus on the stack of calls I’d gotten while at the police station. But when Brad left his office to retrieve more boxes from his killer SUV, I stood up in the hall and leaned in to check out his stuff.
Everything was sealed with crime scene tape.
So what did he have in those boxes besides bottles of poison?
Poison. There was that word again.
“Can I help you?” Brad said, startling me from behind.
I jumped. “I . . . was looking for today’s newspaper. Delicia!” I called out, trying to cover my snooping. I spun around, took a few steps, and leaned into her office. “I can’t . . . um, find the Chron . Did you do something with it? I’ve searched all over. . . .”
“I think I left it in the kitchen,” Delicia said, eyeing me oddly. “I’ll get it.” She popped up from her chair and bounced down the hall. I returned to my desk, ignoring Brad’s eyes on me, and riffled through the pile of messages again. Two were from Chloe at the mayor’s office, both marked “Urgent!” They probably wanted their money back. Tough.
I took a second look and realized Chloe’s messages were dated yesterday. Probably more pre-wedding panic attacks. One was about the reception food. “Did the caterer know that Chilean sea bass was endangered? The mayor didn’t feel it was politically correct to serve it. Could it be replaced with Dungeness crab, the ‘new lobster’?”
I wadded up that message and its twin—one about a couple of last-minute guest additions—and tossed them into the wastebasket.
The next five were from my mother, also marked “Urgent!” as usual. I set them aside, promising myself I’d see her as soon as I had a moment. I knew she was lonely—and confused—and my visits had a way of grounding her, at least temporarily. Thankfully the return phone number wasn’t the San Francisco Police Department.
The rest of the messages were from a variety of businesses, all wanting parties.
Friends of the San Francisco Library: “We’d like to do a Murder Mystery set in the stacks. . . .”
Gay Pride Coalition: “Can you do a kind of Queer Eye Makeover party for the Exotic Erotic Ball? . . .”
Glide Memorial Church: “Looking for an American Idol
Similar Books
