Martinis and Mayhem

by Jessica Fletcher

  “No one. Oh, I mentioned the possibility to an old friend.”

  “Who happens to be?”

  “Chief Inspector George Sutherland of Scotland Yard.”

  “George? He’s a friend?”

  “Yes. You obviously know him.”

  “Sure. Hell of a guy. Worked his side of a murder case with me years back. He’s here in San Fran at the FBI seminar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give the crusty old Scot my best.”

  “In those words?”

  “Sure. That’s it for the list?”

  “I think so. No. I mentioned it to my publicity agent this morning when she called.”

  “What is your publicity agent’s name?”

  “Camille. Camille Inken. Surely you don’t think that—”

  He smiled and put the cap on his pen. “See, Mrs. Fletcher? You tell one person something, you tell half a dozen. And they tell another half dozen. Pretty soon, the entire population of San Francisco knows.”

  “Point well taken.”

  He stood and I followed his cue. “Feel safe enough to go back to the St. Francis? Like a lift?”

  “No, I’m fine. But thank you for the offer.”

  “I insist.”

  “Then, I guess I accept. Can’t say no to a detective when he insists.”

  He pulled a large manila envelope from a desk drawer and motioned for me to follow him. We climbed into his unmarked car parked in front of police headquarters, and minutes later were in front of the hotel. “Buy you a drink, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked. “I’m off duty.”

  “At this hour of the morning?”

  “Middle of the night for me. I’ve been on since midnight.”

  “I’m afraid a drink is the last thing I need, Detective Josephs. But thank you anyway.”

  “Mind if I ask you a favor?”

  “Ask and I’ll see if I mind,” I said.

  He hesitated before saying, “Believe it or not, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m writing a cop novel. I’m about halfway through. I’d really appreciate it if you’d take a look at it.” He smiled his most ingratiating smile, picked up the manila envelope from where he’d placed it between us, and handed it to me.

  I took it and said, “I’d be delighted and flattered to read it, Detective. And I’m sure you’d be willing to do a favor for me in return.”

  “Tell me what it is and I’ll decide.”

  “What’s fair is fair,” I said. “I’d like to see the files on the Steffer case.” I mirrored his smile.

  He smacked his lips and took a deep breath. “You drive a hard bargain for a writer, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Not such a hard bargain,” I said. “I’m not asking to take any files with me. I’d just like to peek at them. In your presence.” When he continued to ponder what I’d suggested, I added, “My publisher has published a number of very good books written by former law enforcement officers like yourself. If I think your manuscript has merit—”

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s a deal. But you’re not to breathe a word of this. Understood, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Understood.”

  “It’s strictly unofficial. On my off hours.”

  “Of course.”

  “When do you want to see the files?”

  “How about now? You said you were off duty.”

  “Okay. When will you read my manuscript?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Let’s go.”

  When we were back in his office, he told me to sit tight. He returned quickly. “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, here’s the Steffer files.” He handed me a disk. “You can access them on my computer here in the office, but you can’t leave with it. Understood?”

  “Loud and clear,” I said.

  His computer was on. He inserted the disk and pulled up the files. “You sit here, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve got something else to do. Anybody comes in, tell ’em you’re doing part-time work for me.”

  “Okay.”

  “And remember, Mrs. Fletcher, this is between you and me.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He left, and I scanned the first file:

  Phillipe Fernandez, driver with the Express Cab Service, claims to have driven Kimberly Steffer from the mall where Mark Steffer’s restaurant is located, to the Embarcadero Center. Fernandez gave a positive ID of Steffer. Said he picked her up at 3:15 P.M.

  As I wrote Fernandez’s name on a piece of paper, the door opened. It was Detective Josephs. “Find something interesting,” he asked, positioning himself to view the computer screen, and the paper on which I’d written the name. “Phillipe,” he said. “That’s the cabbie.” He rolled his eyes. “A monument to credibility. His glasses looked like aviator goggles.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that,” I said, remembering Bobby McCormick’s description of the taxi driver’s eyeglasses.

  “Even the judge laughed when the defense demonstrated his less than twenty-twenty vision. But the jury didn’t seem to care. Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m glad to see I could be of some help. I’ll be here all day tomorrow if you want to call and let me know how much you enjoyed my manuscript.”

  “This is all I get to see of the Steffer files?” I said.

  “Afraid so. Look, maybe we can—”

  A man poked his head into Josephs’ office. “Walter, you on?”

  “No. I was just leaving.”

  “Sorry, babe, but you’re here, you catch it. We’ve got a jumper on Golden Gate.”

  Detective Josephs looked at me and frowned.

  “A jumper?” I asked. “Someone has jumped off the bridge?”

  “Who’s she?” the other detective asked about me.

  “A—friend. All right. Let’s go.” To me: “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. Call me tomorrow. Maybe we can work something out.”

  “I certainly will call you tomorrow,” I said, standing and getting ready to leave.

  “And hey, Mrs. Fletcher, be sure to read Chapter Four. Fry your hair. Have a nice day.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Police have ruled the plunge of a man early this morning from the Golden Gate Bridge an apparent suicide. It is the twenty-third suicide from the bridge this year. The victim’s identification is still being withheld, pending notification of family.” And now, turning to sports, here’s ...”

  I turned off the TV in my suite and shook my head. That was it? That was the extent of the play the media planned to give the story of a person leaping to his death from the world’s most famous bridge?

  I had to remind myself, of course, that jumping from the Golden Gate was not an especially unique or startling event in San Francisco, any more than a mugging was in New York City. Twenty-third suicide of the year? Back home in Cabot Cove, one suicide was big news, worthy of weeks of breakfast gossip at Mara’s Dockside Luncheonette.

  I then found myself wondering how the San Francisco police made a determination of suicide when someone fell to his death from the Golden Gate. Failing an eyewitness, how could anyone be certain that a victim hadn’t been pushed over the edge? Hadn’t been murdered?

  Someone had certainly tried to kill me that morning by “helping” me over the railing. And although there had been many other people within viewing distance of the event, no one seemed to have seen it happen. If my attacker had succeeded, I, too, would have been considered a suicide, although probably generating more media coverage because I was from out-of-town, and had achieved a modicum of fame through my books.

  I’d left police headquarters ambivalent about what to do, or where to go next. I decided as I walked that I’d been denying the impact of the attempt upon my life just hours earlier. Once I made that admission to myself, it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks, causing my legs to weaken, and my breathing to go shallow and rapid. I hailed a passing cab and told the driver to take me to my hotel. But I quickly changed my mind. I needed to eat, and to draw upon the splendid day it had become.

  The driver dropped me at Fisherman’s Wharf. I took a table in a ple
asant outdoor café, sated my sudden appetite with a large crabmeat salad and two glasses of iced coffee, and renewed my energy by soaking up the spirit of passersby as they went about their day on the famous wharf.

  I did some window-shopping back at Union Square before returning to my suite. The only purchase I made was a bouquet of fresh pink tulips from one of several flower markets on the square, the vendors owing their existence to Michael de Young who in the late 1800s allowed Italian, Belgian, and Irish youngsters to sell their flowers in front of his office building without police harassment. They were eventually licensed in 1904, and their colorful stands, along with the chess players, soapbox orators (shades of London’s Hyde Park Corner), panhandlers, and hand-holding lovers give the square’s famous park much of its character. I promptly placed my purchase in a vase supplied by room service. I often buy flowers for my hotel room when traveling because even the most opulent hotel benefits from personalizing.

  I was disappointed that George hadn’t called. I’d left a message for him after leaving police headquarters. Must be in meetings all day.

  I looked at my watch. The afternoon had slid by too quickly. It was almost five o’clock. I was tired, could easily have succumbed to fatigue and taken a nap. But I didn’t want to do that because I knew I’d wake up groggy and lacking energy. George’s conference would be winding down for the day. Should I try to call him again? I decided instead to head for the Mark Hopkins, call him from the lobby, and take my chances that he’d be free for the evening.

  I really needed to talk to him about my misadventure that morning. I’d thought about calling Mort or Seth back home to discuss the incident, but didn’t want to worry them. In the past, when I’d called from a distant city to report an attempt on my life, or some other imbroglio in which I’d become embroiled, they’d responded by jumping on a plane and racing to my side. Sort of the “damsel in distress” reaction. But I didn’t want that. Despite their sterling intentions, they invariably complicated things for me. Bless them. But better they remain in Cabot Cove.

  Discussing my incident on the bridge with Detective Josephs that morning hadn’t done much to satisfy my need to share it with others. I glanced over at a table on which I’d put his manuscript. I’d promised to read it that night, which I would do, of course. But he wouldn’t get any substantive response to it from me until he’d lived up to his part of the bargain. I needed more time with his computer files on the Mark Steffer murder case. You give a little, you get a little. You give a lot, you get a lot. That would be my operative ground rule from now on when dealing with the detective.

  As I closed my door behind me, I heard the faint ringing of the phone inside the suite. Go back and answer? By the time I dug out my magnetic card, aka key, from my purse, it would probably be too late. Whoever was calling could leave a message. If it was George, I’d see him soon enough.

  As I rode down in the elevator, I changed my mind about surprising George at the Mark Hopkins. Simply showing up would place an unfair pressure on him in the event he’d made other plans for the evening, personal or professional.

  The lobby of the St. Francis was bustling that late afternoon. Well-dressed businesspeople mingled with less well-dressed tourists, many of whom had made the hotel’s famous lobby part of their sight-seeing itinerary. The St. Francis is considered by travel writers to be the grand belle of San Francisco hotels, with its stately marble columns, breathtaking oversize flower arrangements, and rococo gold balconies.

  There was a pay phone on a wall next to a house phone that sat on a marble shelf. A woman was on the house phone. As I approached, she slammed down the receiver and spun around. The anger on her face mirrored what she’d done to the phone.

  I stopped to wait for her to walk away. But she didn’t. She remained there, mumbling to herself, her face twisted in rage, her hand still gripping the receiver.

  I decided to avoid her and to look for another pay phone. As I headed for a long, sweeping hallway off the lobby, a loud female voice from behind stopped me in my tracks. “Mrs. Fletcher!”

  I turned to see the same woman who’d vented her anger on the telephone walking toward me. Her eyes were open wide, her lips squeezed tightly together. Every vein in her neck had swelled. She was a big woman with a big bosom, and with a mop of brown, frizzy hair topping off her frame. Everything about her was large, including her vocal cords.

  She growled my name again, punctuating it this time with a question mark. She stopped a few feet away, shifted her weight to one leg, and crossed her arms over her chest. We held our standoff until she again said my name. This time it was punctuated with a strong exclamation point.

  She seemed to be summoning me to come to her, a school principal beckoning a naughty student. I spun around with the intention of getting away from her. She was either a crazed fan, or a woman who should have stopped using drugs years ago. Either way, the morning’s bizarre attempt on my life had sharpened my instincts, to say nothing of my sense of self-preservation. I headed for the front desk.

  “Mrs. Fletcher!”

  I faced her again. She’d come up directly behind me; she was within strangling distance, and breathing hard, eyes screaming. Then, she said in a much lower voice that trembled, “I am Nancy Antonio. Ellie’s godmother.”

  “Oh.”

  I looked around. A clerk at the desk had come to where I stood. “Can I help you, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.

  “No. I—Look, Ms. Antonio, I want you to know that I am truly sorry for making that phone call.”

  “As well you should be.” She spoke slowly, deliberately, every word enunciated.

  She uncrossed her arms. “Is there something you want to say to me, Mrs. Fletcher, now that we’re face-to-face?” She was calm now. Maybe she had mercury for blood.

  “No,” I said. “I should not have tried to call your goddaughter. It’s just that—”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Fletcher. You should not have tried to talk to my goddaughter. And if you ever try again, I’ll make you wish you were never born.”

  With that threat hanging in the air, she turned away and walked heavily, but quickly, through the lobby and out the revolving door.

  “Whew!” I said, resting my elbows on the front desk. The clerk asked, “Is everything all right, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes, everything is fine. Thank you for asking. I was about to use the pay phone over there and—”

  “No need to do that, Mrs. Fletcher. Use the hotel phone right here.”

  He reached for it, but I said, “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” I wanted privacy when I reached George Sutherland. I was no longer cavalier about whether he had other plans for the evening. I wanted his plans to include me, and hoped I’d reach him before he’d made another commitment. His comforting manner, to say nothing of a calming drink, were very much on my agenda.

  I retraced my steps in the direction of the pay phone next to the marble shelf with the intention of calling George. At first, I didn’t notice the small black leather purse next to the house phone. When I did, my heart tripped. Had it been left by the large, combative woman I’d just encountered? I looked around. I hadn’t seen anyone use that phone except for Nancy Antonio, although I’d been distracted by her and wasn’t keeping tabs.

  I approached the purse as though it might be hot. A ticking bomb. My initial thought was to bring it to the front desk for delivery to lost and found. But I suddenly had a vision of not making it to the desk, of Ellie’s godmother realizing she’d left her purse behind and returning for it, seeing me with it in my hands, and physically attacking me.

  I decided to leave it next to the phone where I’d found it. I wanted nothing more to do with this woman, or her goddaughter. I would continue to investigate Kimberly’s innocence, but would keep Ellie and the formidable Ms. Antonio out of it. At least for the moment.

  But as I started to walk away, my eye went to a small piece of paper peeking out from beneath the purse. I glanced left and right. Co
nfident that I wasn’t being observed, I slipped it out and read: “She’s staying at the Westin St. Francis. We’ve got to warn her off, make it clear that her snooping is not welcome.”

  I looked across the lobby and saw Nancy Antonio return through the revolving doors and head my way. I crumpled the note in my hand and quickly stepped behind a column that shielded me from her view, but that allowed me to observe her. She picked up her purse. A quizzical expression crossed her face as her eyes scanned the marble shelf, and then the floor. I held my breath. Would she extend the area of her search for the slip of paper to where I stood?

  I was able to breathe again a few seconds later when she walked away and left the hotel.

  Chapter Ten

  They say that everything in life is timing. That day, my timing had been at once splendid and at once dreadful.

  On the dreadful side, I’d chosen a bad time to take a walk on the Golden Gate Bridge, and to be looking for a pay phone in the lobby of the St. Francis.

  On the splendid side, my call to George Sutherland at the Mark Hopkins caught him for the few minutes he was in his room between seminar commitments. “Are you free this evening?” I asked.

  “Yes and no, Jessica. I’m hosting a cocktail party in twenty minutes. It seems we have more cocktail parties than working sessions, but I suppose that should come as no surprise.”

  “And after that?” I asked. “Free for dinner?”

  “With you? Of course. You sound upset.”

  “Do I? I’m trying not to. But yes, I am upset. I need to talk to you.”

  “I’ll pick you up in two hours. I’d come sooner, but this angersome party has me—”

  “I’m leaving the hotel, George. I’ll meet you at yours. Upstairs. At the Top of the Mark.”

  “Right on, Jessica. I’ll be there as soon as I’ve discharged my obligations.”

  Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been delighted to be given a table with an unobstructed view of the Golden Gate. But after what had happened to me that morning, I found the sight of it off-putting. No, eerie was more apt.