Martinis and Mayhem

by Jessica Fletcher

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she shouted, causing me to distance the receiver from my ear. Then she guffawed. “Let me get this straight. Kimberly told you to phone here and ask for Ellie? Is this some sort of joke? Who the hell are you anyway?”

  “I’m a writer, Ms. Antonio. I was visiting—”

  “The murder mystery writer?”

  “Correct. I recently visited the Women’s Correctional Facility to speak to some inmates there about writing. I met Kimberly Steffer under that circumstance.”

  “Well, now, that’s just terrific,” she said, sarcasm scorching the phone line. “What is Kimberly about to do, Mrs. Fletcher? Sell her story for a million bucks? Collaborate with you? What a great idea. But I assume you know that Kimberly is in prison because she committed a horrible crime. Murder! She murdered her husband. Is that the sort of person you like to collaborate with?”

  “I’m not collaborating with—”

  “Who do you think you are, Mrs. Fletcher? How dare you call here and bother Ellie for your own monetary gain? The poor girl has been through enough. I suggest you leave her—us—alone, or I’ll call my attorney. Good-bye!”

  I gently replaced the receiver in its base. She was right, of course. Who did I think I was calling this youngster whom I didn’t even know, and whose father had been brutally murdered? To top it off, I’d called on the suggestion of her stepmother, who’d been convicted of taking her father from her through the unspeakable act of murder.

  I spent the next few minutes in my suite at the St. Francis considering what had transpired that day—my brief meeting at the Women’s Correctional Facility with Kimberly Steffer at which I pledged my best efforts to exonerate her of the murder of her husband; my conversation at the Chronicle with Bobby McCormick, and his expression of belief in Kimberly’s innocence ; lunch at What’s to Eat?, and subsequent exchange with Mark Steffer’s former partner in the restaurant, Robert Frederickson, whom I labeled in my own mind as smarmy; and now my awkward, ill-advised call to Nancy Antonio in the hope of speaking with Kimberly’s stepdaughter, Ellie.

  I had to admit to myself that I hadn’t made much headway. Not that I expected my initial efforts to shed sudden bright light on things. But I had hoped to learn something, anything that would, if nothing else, give me—as well as Kimberly Steffer—a reason for optimism.

  I sat back in my chair and expelled a sustained breath. Kimberly’s journal was on a table next to me. I picked it up and began reading again. The fact that I dozed off says nothing about my interest in the journal. It had been a long and stressful day.

  I awoke with a start at five. I heard the phone ringing, but it sounded far away. Very far away. In another state. Another world.

  I stood groggily and tried to hone in on the location of the phone. Phones. The suite had more phones than my house back in Cabot Cove.

  I realized one was on the table next to where I’d dozed off. “Hello?” I said, sounding drunk.

  “Jessica?”

  “Yes. George?”

  “Yes” came through a familiar laugh. “I’m here. In San Francisco.”

  “You are? Of course you are. I was sleeping and—”

  “Sorry to have awoken you.”

  “No, please. How wonderful to hear your voice. You’re at the Mark?”

  “Yes. Just checked in. I wondered if you were up to a welcoming drink. Presumptuous, of course, to suggest a formal welcome for me but—”

  “I think it’s a splendid idea.”

  “Ill head there straight away.”

  “I have a better idea, George. Give me a half hour and we’ll meet at the Top of the Mark, right where you are. The views are splendid.”

  “I know those views well, Jessica. But they’ll be twice as appealing with you at my side.”

  Trust George Sutherland to say the right thing, at the right time.

  As I entered the sweeping, circular room that is the Top of the Mark, I scanned tables in search of George. No sign of him. But I did see what I was certain were groups of law enforcement officers. Not that any of them were personally familiar to me. It’s just that with rare exceptions, cops, at least American cops, are easy to spot in any room, in any hotel in the world. There’s something about them, a self-assuredness that comes with the power they’re capable of wielding, a set of the jaw, their choice in suits, and most of all a constant sense of their surroundings that civilians simply don’t have. I should add that this easy recognition doesn’t always hold true for the swelling numbers of female cops. Maybe that’s why they’ve proved themselves to be especially effective when being nondescript is important.

  The room was filling quickly, and I decided to grab a table. I’d been seated at one of the last remaining window tables, and a waitress had taken my order, when George made his entrance. He spotted me right away and threaded his way through knots of people with surprising grace for a big man. He stopped a few times to greet colleagues also attending the seminar, finally reached my table, and smiled broadly.

  I stood. We shook hands. He kissed my cheek and said, “How do you do it, Jessica?”

  “Do what?”

  “Manage to look younger with each year.”

  “First of all, I don’t. Second, I love hearing it.”

  He sat across the small table from me, casually crossed one leg over the other, and sighed. “It is very good to be here with you,” he said. “Very good indeed.”

  “For me, too,” I said.

  We took a moment to scrutinize each other. No one would argue George’s Scottish heritage. His cheekbones were prominent, his nose aquiline, his skin ruddy. A few extra strands of gray now blended at the temples with his brown hair tinged with red. He was dressed as he was the first time I met him for tea at Brown’s Hotel in London; dark brown tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, a V-neck sweater the color of a fresh-baked biscuit, white shirt, brown tie, tan slacks, and ankle-high brown boots polished to a deep sheen. But what I remembered most—and that was still abundantly evident—was the kindness in his eyes, which were the color of Granny Smith apples. I’ve never tried to define “handsome,” but George Sutherland would certainly do.

  “Let’s get the nitty-gritty out of the way,” he said. “How long will you be in town?”

  “Another week. I’ve already been here a week. My latest book has finally hit the bookstores, and I’ve fulfilled my obligatory book-signing appearances, not to mention television and radio appearances in New York, Boston, and Chicago. San Francisco marks the end of the tour. I’ve decided I deserve a vacation, so I’m tacking on an extra week here.”

  He asked our waitress what single-malt scotches were available, and chose a Knockando on the rocks.

  “You’ve traveled a long way from Scotland to have a single malt scotch,” I said.

  “Can’t afford to drink it at home,” he said.

  We toasted when his drink arrived, the rims of our glasses touching as gently as a kiss.

  “All right, Jessica, you go first. You have six minutes to fill me in on the past year.”

  “I thought I did that in my last letter.”

  “You tried. But I think I know you better. Your life sounded—well, sounded as though it lacked its usual excitement.”

  “Hardly. But the sense of excitement quickly wanes after the rush of it is over.” I brought him up to date on a few aspects of my recent life that hadn’t made it into my letter. “Your turn,” I said. “You have five minutes.”

  “You’ve stolen a minute from me.”

  “So that we can get through with the ”This Is Your Life’ portion of the evening, and get on to more substantive things.”

  “All right.” He was finished in two minutes. “Now, your turn to provide ‘substance.’ ”

  “Will murder do?”

  “Fiction or fact?”

  “Fact.”

  “Yes, I think that will do just fine. You’re involved again.”

  “You make it sound nefarious o
n my part.”

  “Dangerous is more like it, Jessica. You do know I’m quite fond of you, and worry when you stray from your trusty typewriter and intrude on my turf.”

  “Your turf?”

  “Real murder. My bailiwick. If you insist upon becoming involved in the real thing, I suggest you apply for a job with the Yard.”

  “I’d love it.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you would. Has this murder in which you’re currently interested fallen into your lap, as they say? Or is it something you’ve pursued?”

  “It fell into my lap. Or, more accurately, it fell into my briefcase.”

  “Did it? Sure you didn’t instigate things? We have a saying in Scotland: ‘He that blaws in the stoor fills his ain een.’ ”

  “Whoever said that Scots speak English was wrong. And what does that mean?”

  “He that stirs up trouble, finds himself in it.”

  “Lesson received and understood. George, does the name Kimberly Steffer ring a bell?”

  “Of course,” he replied, not even blinking. “Pity what happened to her. She’s the young writer—children’s books, if I’m not mistaken—who murdered—allegedly—her husband. Name, Mark. Owned a restaurant here in San Francisco. She was born and raised in England but moved here when she married the chap. Our infamous British tabloids loved that case. Practically got as much coverage as Fergie and Di.”

  I nodded in appreciation of his powers of recall.

  “Why do you ask?” he said.

  “A complicated story, George, which should come as no surprise considering I’ve ended up involved— to a degree. A couple of days ago I visited a women’s prison outside San Francisco. My publicity agent arranged for me to speak to the inmates about writing. I emphasized journal writing.

  “When I got back to town, I was surprised to discover that one of the inmates had planted a large black book in my bag. It turned out to be a diary. A diary filled with accounts of a trial, and proclaiming the author’s innocence.”

  “And the author was Kimberly Steffer.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Go on,” he instructed.

  “I read the diary and was mesmerized. So I went back to the prison and met with Ms. Steffer. We spoke briefly in the Visitor’s Room, and she divulged some interesting facts to me.”

  “Such as?”

  “She mentioned a partner in her husband’s restaurant as being capable of the murder. And she mentioned a stepdaughter, who she believes knows who really killed her husband.”

  “I can see why your interest has been piqued.”

  “I’m not convinced she murdered her husband,” I said.

  “Nor am I.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “No. Kimberly comes from a lovely, close family. Some members of that family paid me a visit at Scotland Yard when Kimberly was charged with her husband’s murder. I listened to their pleas, of course, and was sufficiently impressed to personally look into the case. There wasn’t much I could do. San Francisco is hardly my jurisdiction. But I did try to gather what information was available to me. I called Ms. Steffer’s defense attorney here, even got hold of the prosecutor in the case. The case against her was purely circumstantial. No eyewitnesses. No smoking gun or bloody dagger. A combination of a zealous and skilled prosecuting attorney pitted against what, in my judgment from afar, was a somewhat inept defense attorney.”

  “Did her family give you any tangible information that might help establish her innocence?” I asked.

  He shook his head. Then he leaned closer over the table, not so much because he didn’t want to be overheard, but to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. “Nothing tangible, Jessica. But I believed her family. Hardly what a veteran, hard-boiled officer of the law should be doing, but I did. Believed them, that is. I vividly remember looking into her father’s eyes and knowing that everything he said about his ‘little girl’ was true. That she was, indeed, a genteel writer of children’s books, incapable of killing anyone. Her father also convinced me of his daughter’s love for this man, Mark, whom she’d married. I found it as inconceivable as did he that his daughter had murdered him.”

  “Sheer instinct on your part,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never considered you to be hard-boiled.”

  “I have my moments. There was some especially gripping testimony from a cabdriver, as I remember, and accounts from several other witnesses.”

  “Some with axes to grind,” I offered. “At least according to Kimberly.”

  “I heard that, too. Scuttlebutt from American colleagues. I received a touching thank-you note from her family for my efforts. It made me want to do something more than make a few phone calls. But my hands were tied. Have you run across the illustrator for her books?”

  “Illustrator? No. You obviously know a lot more about the case than I do. I just got started.”

  “I can’t remember the bloke’s name. He’d had a legal problem with Ms. Steffer sometime before her husband’s murder. It seems he sued her in court here in The States.”

  “Sued her for what?”

  “It came down to, I believe, his claim that she owed him money. I have no idea what the amount was, but it did revolve around a contract that existed between them. Coming back to me now. He alleged that his percentage in their contractual arrangement should have been considerably higher because the books went on to become international best-sellers. He didn’t prevail in that suit. After all, a written agreement is just that. He returned to London after his defeat in your courts.”

  “Was he questioned about the murder?”

  “I don’t know about here, but I contacted him. Ms. Steffer’s family raised his name with me. He didn’t want to meet with me, nor was he obligated to. We had a brief chat on the phone. I always remember his final comment. He said, ‘As far as I’m concerned, Kimberly got what she deserved.’ Or something equally poetic.”

  I shook my head. “I’m confused, George. Why would he murder Mark Steffer?”

  He finished his scotch, said with a shrug, “He wouldn’t be the first person to kill someone close to a hated rival. I asked whether you’d run across him because after staying in London for a short time—he’s British—he returned to The States to live. Out here on the West Coast.”

  He looked at his watch. “Good heavens, Jessica, I’m afraid I must run out on you. Tonight is the opening dinner. I still haven’t unpacked, and have business to tend to before the ‘festivities’ begin.”

  “I understand, George.”

  “Tell you what,” he said, “this series of seminars will keep me busy for the next couple of days. But I’ve made a hard-boiled decision as we’ve been talking.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve decided that I deserve a holiday, too. I intend to call my travel agent the moment I get to my room and book a later flight. A week later.”

  My pleasure was obviously written all over my face.

  “I’d like nothing more than to spend a week in this splendid city with an equally splendid woman named Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Sure you can?” I asked.

  “A chief inspector can do anything, Jessica.”

  I smiled. “Run along,” I said. “I don’t feel nearly as deprived losing you tonight, knowing I’ll have an entire week in your company.”

  “Care to attend some of the seminars?” he asked. “Might be instructive.”

  “Thanks for the offer, George, but I think not. I don’t want to develop a reputation for hanging around with the wrong crowd.”

  “A wise decision.”

  “Know what I think I might do tomorrow?”

  “No, what?” He looked for our waitress and reached for his wallet.

  “My treat, George.”

  “So you’ve become a woman of the ’nineties, Jessica.”

  “If buying you a drink labels me that, feel free to pay.”

  “Remember, ‘Fair maidens wear nae purses’ ”<
br />
  “Another Scottish expression?”

  “Yes. We Scots may have a reputation for being tight with money, but we balk at having women pay when in mixed company.”

  We both laughed.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “You were about to tell me what you might do.”

  “Oh. Right. Have you ever walked across the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  “No.”

  “Want to? If you do, I’ll postpone it until you’re free.”

  “Better do it while the urge is strong, Jessica. That’s what you have on tap tomorrow?”

  “Weather permitting.”

  “Well, whatever you do, do it carefully. Wear heavy shoes.”

  “Why?”

  “To give you ballast in a strong wind.”

  We both stood. He kissed me on the cheek. Our eyes lingered on each other as we promised to keep in close touch at our respective hotels. And he was gone, swallowed by the large crowd waiting at the captain’s desk for tables to open up.

  Chapter Seven

  Once George disappeared through the crowd, and buoyed by the thought of having him around for a whole week, I left the Top of the Mark to head out for some evening sight-seeing.

  Fisherman’s Wharf: I snacked on a crab cocktail from a sidewalk vendor, purchased a lovely tooled leather address book from a local artisan, and enjoyed a cup of Irish coffee at a communal table in the Buena Vista Café, where that scrumptious concoction was first introduced to this country by famed San Francisco columnist Stan Delaplane. From there, I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me down Lombard Street, “the world’s crookedest street,” which he did, and which I found to be fun even though I’d done it numerous times before.

  My internal dinner bell went off, and I headed for Chinatown, the Chinatown, for an appetizer of minced squab wrapped in lettuce leaves, and lobster broiled in ginger sauce, at Celadon.

  I arrived back at the Westin St. Francis at eleven feeling wonderful. I thought of Abraham Maslow, the pioneering psychologist, who identified one of the signs of sanity as having the ability to recognize and enjoy “peak experiences”—those moments, large or small, when you are at one with the world, and when your senses explode in celebration. A lovely climbing rosebush wet with dew; a sudden snap of cool air after a period of hot and humid weather; a baby’s smile; a lick from a loving dog’s warm, wet tongue.