The physical beauty of San Francisco. Excellent food. Bracing air. Friendly people. The anticipation of a week with Chief Inspector George Sutherland.
At that moment, according to Maslow, my sanity was beyond debate.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s seven o’clock, and sixty-one sunny degrees outside. Have a wonderful day.”
“I certainly intend to,” I said to the recorded wake-up message.
I’d decided to skip the gym that morning, and to ease into the day at a more leisurely pace. I’d done plenty of walking the night before. Besides, having decided to take a stroll across the Golden Gate Bridge would make up for any lost time on the exercise bike.
It had never occurred to me to take such a walk. But Robert Frederickson had suggested it. And the cabdriver who’d driven me down the hairpin turns of Lombard Street last night had casually mentioned that crossing the Golden Gate on foot was one of his favorite things to do on a day off.
And so I decided it offered a chance to do something different in a city rife with different things to do.
I wanted an early start; new adventures are always more enjoyable, at least to this early riser, when experienced in cool, crisp morning air. The vision of the bridge showered in the early morning light was palpably pleasant.
I turned on a small television set in the bathroom, adjusted the water in the shower, got in, shampooed with a lovely almond shampoo provided by the hotel, and was in the act of vigorously washing my hair when I heard the phone ring. Although there was a phone in the bathroom, it was on the opposite wall. I hate decisions like that. Do I step out of the shower and drip water all over the floor? Try to towel off in time to catch who was calling? Ignore it, and let voice mail take a message?
I opted for the latter course of action. I knew that callers would be asked by a live operator whether they wished to leave a message with her, or to record it on my Voice Mail. Either way, I’d get it once I was out of the shower—provided the caller wanted me to receive a message. I thought as I dried off with one of the oversize, plush velvet towels how convenient it would be to have a waterproof telephone in the shower.
I peeked into my bedroom and saw the flashing message light on that room’s phone. Wrapped in my towel, I punched in numbers to activate Voice Mail.
“Good morning to you, lovely lady. George here. You’ve evidently gotten off to an early running start to the day, one of many admirable traits I’ve observed in you. Unless, of course, you’re still sleeping, in which case I take back my compliment and will ring off in order not to disturb your much-needed slumber.” He paused to see whether I’d pick up. When I didn’t, he continued: “Jessica, the reason I’m calling is to give you the name of the gentleman I’d mentioned last night over drinks. You know, the illustrator for Kimberly Steffer’s books. His name is Brett Pearl.” He spelled it for me. “I looked the chap up in the phone book, and he’s listed as living in Sausalito, with an office in downtown San Francisco. Evidently doing quite well, wouldn’t you say? Have a good day, as you Americans are fond of saying, and be in touch. Bye for now.”
I slipped into the terry cloth robe bearing the St. Francis insignia, went to the desk in the living room, and found the white pages. I looked under Pearl. Pearl, Brett, 508 Birch, Saus.
Was it fate? I planned to cross the bridge from San Francisco to the Sausalito side. I wasn’t sure whether I’d do a round-trip walk, or take the ferry back to the city. A few hours in the quaint village of Sausalito would give me time to recover and to make that decision. And, of course, to drop in unannounced on Mr. Brett Pearl: “Hi, I was in the neighborhood and thought—”
But by the time I was dressed and ready to venture out, I thought better of that plan. Walk across the bridge, Jess, but don’t walk into trouble. What was that Scottish expression George Sutherland was fond of using? “Better mak your feet your friends.” Translation: “Run for your life.”
The taxi drove away, leaving me standing in awe at the San Francisco side of the almost two-mile-long, breathtaking red suspension bridge known worldwide as the Golden Gate. If it hadn’t been modern, it would certainly qualify as the eighth wonder of the world. The fact that it was created by man—its chief engineer was a gentleman named Joseph Strauss, who oversaw the four-and-one-half-year construction project that culminated in 1937 with the punch of a telegraph key three thousand miles away in Washington, D.C., by President Roosevelt. That resulted in horns and whistles, and the biggest peacetime concentration of naval war vessels in history.
I’d read that the bridge was 260 feet high at midpoint in order to allow the navy’s largest battleships to pass beneath it. I’d also read in my handy guidebook that on opening day, and before vehicles were allowed on it, more than 200,000 pedestrians swamped the bridge, their weight causing the center to drop as much as ten feet. Not to worry; it was designed to survive winds in excess of one hundred miles an hour, and to sway as much as twenty-seven feet at its center.
It wasn’t perfect bridge-walking weather. What had started as a sunny, calm day had quickly deteriorated into an overcast, windy one, at least where I stood. I’d dressed for it. You learn to anticipate weather turns in Maine. I wore an ivory cable-knit sweater, sweatpants, sneakers, and my red, white, and blue windbreaker.
But I wasn’t the only person to be undaunted by the wind and gray skies. Dozens of men, women, and children were on the bridge, some just completing their journeys, others starting out in the direction of Sausalito. I silently hoped they were all there to walk the bridge, and not to jump. In some quarters, the Golden Gate Bridge is as famous for those who don’t make the return trip, as it is for its beauty.
I looked across the length of the span. Silly, I thought, to feel so much trepidation. Hundreds of people did it every day. I’m not exactly fond of heights, but I don’t have any special aversion to them.
As I started out, I soon decided that the biggest threat to my safety were the automobiles whizzing by. The pedestrian walkway wasn’t very wide; the cars seemed to be too close for comfort.
I continued. The farther I went, the more spectacular the view became. Although it remained misty on the bridge, shafts of sun seemed to explode from the gray clouds above, spotlighting the city’s white and pastel buildings, and newer curtain-wall skyscrapers. Another shaft played on the millions of ripples in San Francisco Bay. It was spectacular; my gasp was involuntary.
I forged ahead, the wind stinging my face, the slight sway of the bridge beneath my feet actually pleasant, like being on a mighty ocean liner. The bay was dotted with sailboats and a few brave windsurfers.
Others on the bridge were in a good mood. Almost everyone smiled as they passed and said something in greeting, which I returned. I felt marvelous. My blood raced as I picked up my pace. How far had I come? I’d estimated it would take about an hour to complete the journey to Vista Point on the Marin County side. I’d been walking for a half hour. That should put me at mid-span. Judging from the cluster of people there, that was exactly the point I’d reached. Dozens of cameras were pointed in every direction.
Despite the number of fellow-tourists, I felt pleasantly alone. I could feel my heart beating in my chest, and I wiped at tears caused by the wind. As I drew deep breaths, I felt giddy. Did I look foolish? Childish? No matter. Times in our lives when we get to feel like children again are too precious to let pass.
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 the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Another 90-degree turn and I looked back to the direction from which I’d come. 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. Pissarro? Monet? Degas? Perhaps Renoir.
What happened next was hardly impressionistic. It was more out of the school of “Art Brute”—brutal realism.
It started when an especiall
y strong gust of wind caused me to throw back my head and to laugh. I closed my eyes for a second. And then 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.
I fought to maintain a hold. I shouted, but my voice was carried out to sea by the wind, inaudible to even me. I tried to twist in order to see who was trying to push me to my death, but failed.
And then, as suddenly and unexpectedly as this unknown person had come up behind me, he, or she, was gone. I was draped over the railing when the pressure ceased, gasping for breath, shaking uncontrollably. Finally—it seemed minutes, although it was only seconds—I stood and turned, my knees trembling to the extent I wasn’t certain they would support me. It had happened so fast that no one, it seemed, had seen the attack. They were too busy marveling at the views, and taking pictures of them.
Except for a young girl, perhaps ten, who said, “Are you okay, lady?”
“Yes. No. I mean—” I looked past her in search of the person who’d tried to kill me. Whoever it was had disappeared into the crowds walking the bridge that morning.
“Did you see who tried to push me over?” I asked her.
“Push you? No, ma’am. You look like you’re sick, that’s all.”
“Sick? No. I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
I knew that if I didn’t start walking again, the sudden nausea I was experiencing would worsen. I ruled out continuing to the Sausalito side of the bridge. I wanted to be back in San Francisco, in my suite, safe and secure. I also wanted to report the incident to the police.
Oddly, even though I was in a hurry, I started off walking slower than before in what might have appeared to be slow-motion determination, a drunk making sure each step connects with the ground.
But my need to get off the bridge took over, and I actually began to jog. Me, who has never jogged in her life. And finally, I broke out into a run, as if my life depended on it—which I was fairly certain it did.
I reached the San Francisco side in what might have been the fastest mile ever recorded by a female mystery writer from Maine who was on the wrong side of fifty.
Chapter Eight
“I was walking across the Golden Gate Bridge. I’d reached midway and had stopped to admire the scenery. Suddenly, someone, a man or a woman, grabbed me and tried to push me off. It happened so quickly that I really can’t provide you with any more details. I’m sorry.”
San Francisco Detective Walter Josephs looked as though he might be nearing retirement. His graying black hair was the consistency of steel wool, and was as tousled as mine, although he hadn’t had to cross a bridge to achieve it. There was a pretty good supply of stubble on his face that was not the result of attempting to grow a beard. More a matter of being in a hurry to get to work and deciding to skip the razor. He appeared to be tired, which might have been the reason he seldom looked at me as I recounted for him my frightening experience on the Golden Gate that morning.
He stopped writing on a pad, rubbed his eyes, glanced at me, and said, “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, you say someone tried to push you off the bridge. Go over it again with me, only try to be more specific this time around.” He wasn’t being nasty. He just had that flat way of saying things that cops develop over too many years of taking statements.
I told my story again, adding, “I wish I could be more specific, Detective Josephs. But the fact is, I simply did not have an opportunity to see the person who did it. I was too shaken. By the time I turned around he, or she, was gone. There were many people on the bridge today.”
“Usually are,” he muttered. “You don’t even know if it was a man or woman?”
“No.”
“You said whoever it was was pretty strong. Probably a man, huh?”
“A fair assumption, I suppose, but not necessarily an accurate one.”
He placed his pen on the pad and smiled for the first time. “I have to admit, Mrs. Fletcher, that I wondered whether you really were the Jessica Fletcher.”
I returned his smile. “I assure you I am.”
“Yeah. I know you are. You’re right. You are the mystery writer.”
“Yes, for better or for worse.”
“The reason I’m sure you are is that I read the article about you in the Chronicle. You look a little different than the picture they ran of you. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“What I’m thinking is that I can’t imagine why somebody would try to push you off the Golden Gate. I mean, if somebody wanted to kill you, there’s easier ways to do it. Shoot you. Run you over. Poison in your crabmeat. But you know all about that, killing off people in your books.”
“Somehow,” I said, “it sounds a lot more ominous when you’re talking about me.”
“I suppose it would.” He sat back and crossed his arms. “Know of any enemies here in San Francisco?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “Except that—”
He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, his eyes wider now as he awaited my explanation. “Except what, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Well, I wouldn’t swear that I’ve made enemies since coming here a week ago, but I have rubbed a few people the wrong way.”
“Have you? How?”
“I’ve been—I’ve been looking into a murder case that took place in this city a couple of years ago. The Kimberly Steffer case.”
“I know it well. Why?”
“Why am I looking into it?”
He nodded. “Basis for the plot of your next novel?”
“Hardly. That’s not the way I go about plotting my murders. I only write fiction. Not true crime.”
“Okay. So my question demonstrates a certain ignorance on my part about how murder mystery books get plotted. Why are you interested in the Steffer case?”
“I met Kimberly in prison last week. I went there to talk to the inmates about writing. She was in the audience.”
“Hmmmm,” he said. “How’s she doing?”
“As well as anyone can be expected under the circumstances. Not a very pleasant place.”
“Not supposed to be. So, Mrs. Fletcher, you still haven’t told me why you’ve decided to look into her case.”
“Some people think she’s innocent,” I said.
“Including you?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Include me,” he said without emotion or inflection.
“You?”
“Yup.”
“Did you investigate that homicide?”
“No. I’ve been on desk duty ever since some whack job high on something decided to shoot me in the back. Lucky I can walk.”
“How dreadful.”
“Yeah. He walked on a technicality. But no, Mrs. Fletcher, I wasn’t involved in the investigation into Mark Steffer’s murder. But I followed it close. Like most people, only I had a little more inside info.”
“I would imagine.”
“Between you and me, the investigation was not destined to win any awards for police work. A classic case of deciding who did it, and using what you come up with to ‘prove’ it. Like I said, that’s between us.”
“I understand.”
“She never should have been convicted. Not on what we turned up. Her lawyer was a joke. She had plenty of money but went for flash over substance. The jury must have been out to lunch.”
“Wasn’t there an appeal?”
“Sure. But the original judge had been okay. No errors. Just a lot of sighs at her attorney’s posturing. The verdict stood on appeal.”
“Not our system of jurisprudence’s finest hour.”
“I’ve seen worse, like in my case. Anyway, Mrs. Fletcher, you said in poking your nose into the Steffer case you might have made an enemy or two. Correction. I didn’t mean anything negative by putting it that way.”
“I didn’t take it negati
vely,” I said. “ ‘Poking my nose into it’ is an apt way of describing it. And yes, I might have rubbed someone the wrong way.”
“Who?”
I shrugged. “No one who knew I intended to take my stroll on the Golden Gate this morning.”
“Who did know?”
“No one.”
“Not possible.”
“It’s not?”
“No. How did you get to the bridge?”
“Cab.”
“Get the driver’s name?”
“No.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Westin St. Francis.”
“Nice hotel.”
“The best.”
“Nobody there knew you were planning your walk?”
“I don’t think so. Oh, I may have mentioned it to my waitress at breakfast this morning.”
“Uh-huh. Continue.”
“I think I told the doorman. I had to wait with him until he hailed a taxi for me. You aren’t suggesting that—?”
“Who else?”
“Let me see. The cabdriver who drove me last night. It was his suggestion that prompted me to do it.”
“Name?”
“No idea. Actually, he was the second person to suggest the walk.”
“Who was the first?”
“Robert Frederickson. He—”
“Mark Steffer’s former partner in that cutesy kids restaurant.”
“Exactly.”
“You get around, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I try.”
“Frederickson suggested you take that walk?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of Mr. Frederickson?”
“Handsome. A little too slick for my taste.”
He laughed. “Oily guy.”
“Yes.”
“Who else knew you’d be out on the bridge today?”
Martinis and Mayhem Page 7