Martinis and Mayhem

by Jessica Fletcher

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  DANGEROUS CROSSING

  I’d been walking for half an hour. That should have put me at midspan. Judging from the cluster of people there, that was exactly the point I’d reached. Dozens of cameras were pointed in every direction.

  I slowly turned to take in 360 degrees of my surroundings. To my left were the hills of Sausalito and Marin County. With my back to the bridge railing, I could see over the traffic to the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. And then I returned to my original position, peering out over San Francisco Bay and across to the City by the Bay. It was like an Impressionist painting.

  What happened next was hardly impressionistic. It was more out of the school of “Art Brute”—brutal realism.

  I felt the strength of a hand, connected to a strong arm, grasp the back of my neck and shove me forward. Simultaneously, another hand—presumably belonging to the same person—grabbed the bottom of my Windbreaker and attempted to pick me up and over the railing....

  For Ted Chichak, who gives all agents a good name

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, December 1995

  Copyright © 1995 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a

  trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  eISBN : 978-1-440-67355-9

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  Chapter One

  People who don’t know Maine suffer from the delusion that it never gets hot there. They have this vision of perpetually cool summers and bitterly cold winters. But never heat, at least the way it’s experienced farther south, and in the big cities.

  Their assumption is wrong. Sure, it seldom heats up in Cabot Cove as it does in New York City, or Newark, or Washington, D.C. (no place gets as hot as Washington, D.C., in the summer, except perhaps Bombay, or Death Valley).

  But we do have our moments. As evidence, I offer August 17 of last year. It was 70 degrees when I awoke at six. I didn’t catch the humidity reading, but my damp skin told me the air had reached its saturation level. One more percentage point of moisture and the dam would burst. It was a Maine heat wave, pure and simple, one of those days when my hair wouldn’t need artificial resuscitation to bring its curl back to life.

  We’d been in the grips of record-breaking heat for three days, and it had begun to make people edgy. Everywhere I went I heard complaints: “Godfrey mighty! Ain’t this heat a killer? Haven’t seen anything so jo-jeezly since eighty-seven.”

  It’s all in the mind, I reminded myself as I put on the kettle for tea, and settled in my den to watch The Today Show. Willard Scott, my favorite weatherman, was tipping his toupee to a woman in Georgia celebrating her 106th birthday. His enthusiasm was contagious; I started to laugh as he switched to interviewing kids, whose mixed-breed dogs were entered in a show for non-purebreds, my favorite animals. And then it was on to the weather map, and his “pick city” of the day: San Francisco. I let out a small cheer because the weather in that jewel of a city was forecast to be a crisp, delightful 71 dry degrees, and was expected to remain that way throughout the weekend and into a good part of the next week.

  The reason for my armchair cheer was that I would be there to enjoy it. I was scheduled to leave for San Francisco the following morning to publicize my latest murder mystery, Blood Relations. The lure of San Francisco is always strong for me. But considering the difference in weather between there and Cabot Cove, the contemplation of the trip was especially delicious. A vision of enjoying succulent crab claws on Fisherman’s Wharf, and watching the cool, mysterious fog envelop the Golden Gate Bridge brought a smile to my face. “Better pack,” I said aloud as I peeled myself from the burgundy vinyl recliner in response to the whistling tea kettle.

  Usually, I’m packed well in advance of a trip. But the heat and humidity had been a deterrent. The past couple of days had been marked by a distinct lack of productivity in all things. Not much is air-conditioned in Cabot Cove, including my house (I suppose even we buy the myth of heat waves only happening in other places, despite knowing better). I’d dug out fans from the attic and set them up in strategic places. They helped; at least they kept the hot, heavy air moving.

  I went into the kitchen and poured the steaming water into a large copper pitcher already filled with several herbal tea bags. The room was now a sauna with the additional steam from the kettle. I went outside and placed the pitcher on a table on my brick patio, where the sun would steep it to perfection. After that it would go into my refrigerator. By lunchtime, I’d have an ample supp
ly of homemade iced tea that would impress even Martha Stewart. My iced tea had earned quite a following in town. If I bottled it for sale, the advertisement would read: Steeped the natural way in the glorious, bountiful Maine sun. And probably have the FTC after me.

  Still in my nightgown, I was in the process of dragging a large suitcase from a hall closet when the doorbell rang. I peeked through lace curtains covering my front bay window and saw the patrol car belonging to Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Mort Metzger, parked in my driveway. Even though Mort and I have been friends for years, and he’s pulled into my driveway hundreds of times, my heart always skips a beat when I see his official car arrive, afraid that this is the one time he’s not paying a social call, but is bringing some sort of bad news.

  I threw on a pastel pink robe over my nightgown, and opened the door.

  “Gorry, Jess, it’s hot,” he said, dramatically wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Eight-thirty in the morning and already it’s eighty-five. Can’t hardly breathe with the humidity. Not fit for man or beast.”

  “Especially beasts,” I said. “With all that fur. Come in. The fans are going full tilt.”

  He continued to complain as he stepped inside. “I’ll tell you one thing, Jessica, timing is everything, like they say. You are one lucky lady to be leavin’ this tomorrow. Give anything to climb on that plane with you. Watched The Today Show this mornin’. Willard Scott, he picked San Francisco as havin’ the best weather in the whole dam country. High out there only supposed to get up to about seventy.”

  “Seventy-one,” I said, smiling.

  “Well, whatever,” he said. “I was on my way to work but couldn’t stop thinkin’ about a cool, tall glass of Jessica Fletcher’s iced tea.” He took off his hat and headed straight for the kitchen table.

  “You’re right, Mort. Timing is everything. And you’re too early. The iced tea won’t be ready until lunchtime.”

  “I suppose a tall glass of ice water would do,” he said grumpily, sitting and plopping his broad-brimmed tan Stetson hat on the table.

  “Weather’s got you in a foul mood,” I said, taking a glass from a cabinet.

  “Can’t expect much otherwise,” he said. “Put plenty of ice in it. Can’t get much that’s worthwhile done in this weather. My damn uniform is stickin’ to me like it was glue. Already got that damn heat rash all over my chest. Run out of the medicine Dr. Hazlitt gave me. I’m itchin’ like a thousand no-see-ums got under my shirt.”

  “Here you go, Mort. A nice glass of cold water with plenty of ice.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “Will I see you at lunch? Seth said he’d be over about noon.”

  “Will the tea be ready by then?” he asked in the same sort of serious tone used when reading someone his rights.

  “Yes.”

  ‘Then, you can count on me bein’ here, Jess. Can’t miss your goin’-away lunch, can I?”

  “Or my iced tea.”

  He drained his glass and stood. “Well, got to be running along. Damn car’ll overheat if I hit traffic. Got tourists all over the place. Think they’d stay home in this kind of weather. Car’s been actin’ up lately. Got a radiator problem.”

  “Not a good thing for a police car,” I said, walking him to the door.

  “These tourists buzz around in their cars with their air conditioners goin’ full-blast. A fella would think they’d melt without their AC. Thanks for the water, Jess. See you later.”

  I watched him get into his car and curse under his breath as he touched the hot steering wheel. Nothing like a heat wave to bring out the worst in people, I thought.

  And nothing like a trip to breezy San Francisco to get away from it.

  “This is, hands down, the best iced tea I’ve ever had, Jess,” said Seth Hazlitt, physician and friend of long-standing. He’d approached the mug of amber liquid as if he were tasting fine wine. First he breathed in its aroma, then gently swished it around in the mug before ingesting a small amount with an audible slurp. He allowed the tea to linger, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to go all the way with his tasting ritual, which would have dictated spitting the tea out rather than swallowing it. The only handy “spittoon” was a bucket of ice I’d placed on the table. He spared me that.

  “Lovely lookin’ lunch,” he said, taking in the platter of cold cuts and assorted salads.

  “Leave room for dessert,” I said. “Sherbert and fresh fruit salad.”

  As we ate, talk turned to my trip to San Francisco.

  “How long will you be there?” Seth asked, refilling his plate with Virginia ham and shrimp salad, and taking another piece of crusty fresh-baked French bread from Sassi’s Bakery.

  “About a week. It’ll be a busy one. I’ve got a full schedule of book signings, cocktail receptions, and publicity meetings. I’ve also committed myself to the Women’s Correctional Facility outside San Francisco.”

  Mort put down his large mug of iced tea and asked, “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Writing,” I said. “I’ll be speaking to some of the inmates about writing.”

  Seth winked at me and threw Mort a smile.

  “Makes sense, I suppose,” he said.

  “Apropos,” Seth said. “Can’t think of a better place to be discussin’ how to write murder mysteries.”

  “That’s not what I’ll be talking about exactly,” I said. “Actually, I’m going to focus on journal writing. You know, writing about feelings, drawing from personal events and experiences.”

  “How come?” Mort asked.

  “Because I truly believe in prison reform. Journal writing could be an important part of that reform. Sometimes you never know you have certain feelings about something until you see them in black and white, on paper.”

  “I suppose,” said Mort, reluctantly. “Only it seems to me, we try to do too much rehabilitatin’ and not enough punishin’.”

  “Two ways to look at it,” said Seth.

  And a debate was launched over the role of prisons. I used the opportunity to clear the table, and to pack a few more things. When I returned from the bedroom, a truce had been called and the conversation was back to less controversial subjects.

  “I was toyin’ with the idea of goin’ to Frisco myself this weekend,” Mort said.

  “Really?” I said.

  “ ’Course, it’s too late now. Had to sign up for the seminar a month or two ago.”

  “And what seminar would that be?” Seth asked.

  “On law enforcement. Sponsored by the FBI. All the big shots will be there. Sort of an annual thing. I went to it once, about five years ago. Down in Houston, Texas. Learned an awful lot, and the parties were pretty good. Haven’t been back, though. Haven’t been able to get away.”

  “I remember when you went,” I said. “Did you say it’s sponsored by the FBI?”

  “Yup.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “I wonder if my friend George Sutherland will be attending?”

  Mort and Seth exchanged looks. “Friend?” Seth said, pixie in his voice and smugness on his round face.

  “Yes, friend,” I said.

  “Why not give him a call,” Mort suggested. “Find out.”

  “I think I will,” I said. “After you’re both on your way.”

  George Sutherland was, indeed, a friend, although I’d be less than honest not to admit that I sometimes wished our relationship would blossom beyond simple friendship. I’d never expressed this to Mort and Seth, but they knew. My tone of voice, I suppose, when speaking of George; and my tendency to talk too much about him. All those telltale signs that people who know you well pick up on.

  We met in London a few years ago. I was addressing a conference of mystery writers, and staying with an old and dear friend and colleague, Marjorie Ainsworth. At that time Marjorie was the reigning queen of the mystery genre. Tragically, she was murdered in her mansion while I was a houseguest, and I ended up bein
g dragged into solving her murder. That’s when George Sutherland entered my life.

  George is an inspector for Scotland Yard, in London. He’s Scottish by birth, his family having come from the northern town of Wick. He’s urbane, handsome, charming, and displays a quick wit. Ooops. There I go again waxing poetic about him.

  You might think in listening to me—Seth and Mort certainly do—that I’ve fallen in love with George Sutherland. That isn’t true. Nor does he love me. We don’t know each other well enough for that to have happened.

  But we do have a strong, and mutual respect and liking for each other. And we both know—and I realize I’m speaking for him—that were we to decide to explore whether our relationship might move to another plateau, the chances are good that it would make that leap.

  For now, Inspector George Sutherland and mystery writer Jessica Fletcher were content to keep in touch across the vast Atlantic Ocean by letter and by phone. Good friends. Nothing more.

  “Mort, do you have information on when and where the law enforcement seminar is being held?” I asked.

  “I think I saved the invitation. I get one every year. I’ll look for it when I get back to the office and give you a call.”

  “Hello. This is Jessica Fletcher. I wonder if you could help me. I’m curious if ...”

  “The mystery writer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, boy. My wife won’t believe this.”

  “I’ll write a letter if that will help.”

  “You will? That’d be great.”

  “I was curious whether an old friend of mine will be attending the conference next week. His name is Sutherland. Inspector George Sutherland of Scotland Yard, London.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, Mrs. Fletcher. Inspector Sutherland usually attends every year. By the way, my name’s Ted Wilcox. Special Agent, FBI, San Francisco office. I’m in charge of registration for the conference.”