How to Host a Killer Party: A Party-Planning Mystery (Party Planning Mystery) by Penny Warner

Author:Penny Warner
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780451229304
Publisher: Signet
Published: 2010-02-02T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

PARTY PLANNING TIP #21:

To personalize your party for the guest of honor, secretly interview friends and family to find out little-known facts--such as her first job, his first car, their first date. Then use those telling details to make the event memorable.

"Cherchez la femme," I said aloud as I got into my MINI Cooper. Look forthe woman. This advice had certainly been true in The Maltese Falcon. Brigid O'Shaughnessy was the real clue, not the black bird. Hitchcock had called this the McGuffin, and defined it as something that seemed to be the pivotal point of the mystery, when in fact it was simply misdirection--there was so much more going on.

In this case, there were two femmes--both connected to the mayor.

Speaking of femmes, I made a U-turn out of the dead-end street in front of city hall and headed up Van Ness to my mother's care facility. I parked on a side street and walked half a block to her building, inhaling the smell of roast beef and gravy coming from Tommy's Joynt, my mother's favorite lunch spot. Entering the three-story renovated Victorian home, I waved to Holly Dietz, one of the LVNs at the front desk. The tantalizing aroma of Tommy's Joynt evaporated among the heavy odor of cleaning products, mildew, and leftover cafeteria food.

"She's in the community room," Holly called cheerily. It took a special kind of nurse to work in a facility like this, and I was grateful for her.

I spun on my flat Mary Jane heels and headed over to the "Grand Parlor," where half a dozen elderly men and women were sitting in comfy chairs, chatting, playing games, or watching TV. My mother, who never watched TV, didn't like small talk, and only hosted games--never played them--sat alone, hunched over a craft table filled with papers.

"Hi, Mom!" I said almost as cheerily as the nurse. Sitting down opposite her, I gave her a quick once-over in an attempt to evaluate her status. Today she wore a bright orange floral dress and scuffed black heels; she'd twisted her hair into a French roll and tied a green ribbon in it. Her makeup, albeit a little heavy for daytime, was expertly done, and her manicured nails were painted bright red. A throwback to the Donna Reed/June Cleaver days, my mother was not the type to sit in a housecoat and slippers with no makeup or unstyled hair, no matter what the circumstances. She had "an image to preserve," she often told me.

She looked up as if she'd been expecting me--and I was late.

"About time," she said, placing a colorful piece of paper in a large binder.

"Whatcha doing?" I asked, noticing a pile of old photographs taken at some of her favorite parties years ago. I cleared a small shoe box off of a chair, set it on the floor, and sat down opposite her.

"I'm scrapbooking. It's the latest thing. I'm putting all my party pictures together so I can present them to clients and show them what I've done.

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