Martinis and Mayhem

by Jessica Fletcher

  “As we say in Scotland, a thoroughly fousome man,” George said. “Most disagreeable.”

  “George.”

  “Yes?”

  “You do know how much I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”

  “I’ve done nothing.”

  “Moving over here to the St. Francis, listening to me, understanding me.”

  “I only wish we had more time together, Jessica, to develop that understanding.” We stood close to each other. I looked into his green eyes, gentle, kind eyes as I remembered them being the first time we met in London, over tea at Brown’s Hotel. Even though he’d been interrogating me at the time, and had actually considered me a possible suspect in the murder of my dear friend and reigning queen of mystery writing, Dame Marjorie Ainsworth, he was kind and considerate.

  “I would like that, too, George,” I said, averting my gaze and pretending to rearrange books that didn’t need rearranging.

  “You might have noticed, Jessica, that I’m quite fond of you.”

  I continued to focus on the books. He came up behind me and said, “I know I’m not the most handsome of men. Nor am I the success that you are. I am just a copper. But I sense a certain kinship between us. It’s the sort of feeling I haven’t enjoyed since my wife died so many years ago.”

  I turned. “George,” I said, “you are a very handsome man. And you are a great success. I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit to strong feelings for you, too. A kinship, as you put it. But we really don’t know much about each other. We really don’t know each other at all.”

  “You make my point exactly, Jessica. All I’m suggesting is that we create the opportunity to get to know each other better. It might turn out that familiarity truly does breed contempt. But I rather think it won’t. I think of you a great deal, Jessica, as I sit in my office, or take a holiday at what was my family’s home in Wick. And when I do, I can’t help but recite Robbie Burns to myself.”

  I smiled. “And what did Robert Bums write that I remind you of?”

  “A small ditty. A tribute to his wife. Let me see: ‘Of a’ the airts the wird can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie Lassie lives, The Lassie I lo’e best:’”

  “That’s—that’s very touching, George.”

  “Ah, good old Robbie Burns. Putting into words what we feel, but cannot say.”

  He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked deep into my eyes. His lips came close to mine. I took a breath, and closed my eyes.

  The phone’s first ring sounded as though it had been magnified a thousand times. It jolted my eyes open, and caused me to flinch.

  “Just another reporter,” said George.

  “Hello,” I said quietly.

  “Jessica?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jessica, what on earth is going on?”

  “Oh, hello Mort. Nice to hear your voice. Your timing is—wonderful.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. You caught me here. I was going out. How are you?”

  “Jessica Fletcher, you cut it out right now. We’ve got reporters crawlin’ out of the woodwork here. They keep sayin’ you flew back home today. Did you?”

  “I don’t think so, Mort. You reached me here in San Francisco.”

  “I know that. I got confused for a minute. You’ve got some explainin’ to do, young lady.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?” “‘Cause you can’t keep people in the dark like you’ve been doin’.”

  I laughed. “Oh, Mort, take it easy.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “If the press believes I flew home today, so much the better. Makes for a quieter and more peaceful time for me here.”

  His exasperated sigh blew in my ear. “At least I know you’re alive. Been gettin’ calls from damn near everybody here in Cabot Cove. Whole town saw the news on TV.”

  “Yes, I’m very much alive, Mort, and feeling just fine, thank you.”

  “You sound all right. If you didn’t, I’d be on the next plane to Frisco.”

  “I don’t think San Franciscans like to have their city called ‘Frisco,’ Mort. But I know you’d be here in a flash. It’s sweet of you to care that much.”

  “I’ve done it before. Remember?”

  “Oh, yes, I certainly do remember.” Fortunately, he couldn’t see me wince at the memory.

  “Jessica, is there any truth to this business about you bein’ pushed off the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mort, although I wasn’t pushed off. I hung on for dear life. I was taking a walk across the bridge, and someone tried to shove me off. Fortunately, didn’t succeed. I’m fine. Not a bruise or a bump. Except to my psyche.”

  “Did they get the guy?”

  “No. Or the gal. They have no suspects at this time.”

  “So why are you bein’ so darned jo-jeezly, Jessica? Get out of there and come home. That crazy city’s no place for you to be hangin’ around. They got more crazies out there per square inch than a nuthouse.”

  “It’s a wonderful city, Mort. I love it here. Almost as much as Cabot Cove. And I intend to stay for a few more days and have a real vacation. Please don’t worry. I can take care of myself. Besides, George Sutherland is here to keep an eye on me.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “So what do I tell these reporters?” he finally said.

  “Good question,” I said. “I’ll tell you what. I’m having dinner tonight with my publicist, Camille Inken. She’s terrific at what she does. I’ll ask her advice and let you know what she says.”

  “You say George Sutherland is with you?”

  “Yes. In fact, he’s right here at the moment. Want to say hello?”

  “Maybe another time. You aren’t thinkin’ of—?”

  “Of what, Mort?”

  “Of gettin’ involved with him.”

  “Ah, no—maybe. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “Depends. I don’t have a lot of trust in Limeys.”

  “George is from Scotland.”

  “Scotch, either.”

  I didn’t bother correcting him.

  “They all sound good when they talk—real cultured and all that—but that doesn’t mean you can trust ’em. I read about all those sex scandals they have every day over there. Pretty important people, too.”

  “Mort, I really have to run. I’ll talk to Camille tonight and call you first thing in the morning.”

  “Okay, Jess, but hurry it up. And watch yourself with this Sutherland fella.”

  “I certainly will. Say hello to everyone, and tell them I’m alive and kicking.”

  I hung up and looked at George, who stood at the window, a bemused smile on his lips.

  “Sorry,” I said, “I have a call to make.”

  “Would you like me to leave?”

  “Of course not. Not a personal call. In fact, it occurs to me that I might be able to coerce you into joining forces with me.”

  “Sounds intriguing.”

  I dialed the operator. “This is Jessica Fletcher. I’d like the number for the Women’s Correctional Facility in Oakland.”

  I glanced up at George, whose response was to lower himself into a chair and to slowly shake his head.

  I dialed the number given me. “Hello,” I said. “I’d like to inquire about visiting an inmate this afternoon. Her name is Kimberly Steffer. I’ve visited her before. My name is Jessica Fletcher. I believe I’m included on the list of visitors she’ll see.” He consulted the list, confirmed I was on it, and gave me the visiting hours.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll be there.”

  George joined me on the couch. “I know, I know,” I said. “I’m a dour woman.”

  “Yes, you are, Jessica. And worse. Of course I’ll accompany you. You might as well get used to the fact that I intend to be at your side every moment we have together in this jewel of a city. I only ask that we stay off bridges, and do our level best to avoid that annoying Dete
ctive Josephs.”

  I couldn’t help but giggle. “Not long ago, when I was in New York promoting another of my books, Manhattans and Murder—I believe I sent you a copy—I had to disguise myself in order to buy some peace and quiet. Silly wig, big sunglasses. I looked like a fool. A real lumper’s helper, as we say back home. When that adventure was over, I pledged that I would never put myself through such nonsense again. So, George, if you see me in a wig and oversize sunglasses, you have my permission to put on the straitjacket, and physically place me on a plane back east.”

  “Fair enough.” He kissed me on the cheek and stood. “Where to first?” he asked, grinning.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Thank you for coming again,” Kimberly Steffer said. Her tone was solemn.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “This gentleman with me is Detective Sergeant George Sutherland. He’s with Scotland Yard in London, and did some investigating in your case there.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said in her British accent. “I’ve heard your name. I believe you tried to help me.”

  “Without much success, I’m afraid,” George said. There had been a few minutes of tension when we’d arrived at the facility because George’s name wasn’t on Kimberly’s list of approved visitors. But his credentials, which he proudly displayed, and a call to Kimberly, did the trick.

  “Kimberly,” I said, “I assume you’ve heard that Brett Pearl is dead.”

  She studied my face. Her soft, round eyes narrowed. “No, I didn’t know that. I don’t keep up with the news in here. How did Brett die?”

  His body was found yesterday floating beneath the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said, her hands covering her mouth. “That’s awful.” She paused. “But I’m not surprised. Brett was depressed a lot. He had that sort of personality. Downbeat. Seeing the worst in things. Brett’s glass was always half empty. But he was talented. Very talented.”

  “He didn’t commit suicide, Kimberly. The police have ruled his death a homicide.”

  “Homicide? You mean someone caused him to fall from the bridge?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Any suspects yet?” Kimberly seemed to ask it more out of curiosity than concern.

  “None, as far as I know.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, her voice void of emotion.

  I didn’t know the extent of their relationship, although considering his lawsuit against her, I presumed it wasn’t especially cordial. From her reaction, I’d say I was right.

  “There’s more,” I said. “I was nearly pushed off the bridge shortly before Brett Pearl’s body was discovered.”

  “What?” She said it loud enough for the guard to look over. “What happened?” she whispered, leaning in.

  I kept my voice low. “I was taking a walk across the bridge when suddenly, out of nowhere, someone grabbed hold of me and tried to push me over. Fortunately, I managed to hang on.”

  “How terrible. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Still a little shaken by the experience whenever I think of it, but otherwise okay.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “It obviously had to do with me, and the fact you’ve gotten involved with me.”

  “Perhaps. There’s something else I need to tell you.”

  I recounted my confrontation with Ellie’s godmother. As I spoke, she became visibly upset. Her mouth tightened, and her eyes narrowed into angry slits.

  When I was finished, she spoke in a firm, controlled voice. “I worry so about Ellie because of Joan, even though Nancy has virtual custody of her. Joan has an enormous influence over her—after all, she is her real mother—and Ellie loves her. That’s understandable. But Joan is an evil and sick woman. Mark knew better than anyone what she was really, truly like, although I’ve had my share of encounters with her to attest to her wickedness.”

  “Wicked enough to have killed Mark?” George asked.

  Kimberly frowned. “I’ve always suspected that she had something to do with Mark’s death, Detective Sutherland. I’m certainly not claiming that she pulled the trigger. I could never prove that, of course. I suppose that’s why I’m sitting here talking to you through this piece of breath-stained Plexiglas. Hoping you—both of you?—might find proof that I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  I asked, “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Brett Pearl dead? Did Joan know him? Nancy Antonio?”

  “I don’t think so. I really don’t know, except that it wouldn’t have been through my introduction. His name is on some of my books, so they could have ‘known’ him that way.”

  “Did Mark ever have a run-in with him?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. You know that Brett sued me because the books we worked on together sold much better than anyone could have forecast. Mark was furious about the suit, and let Brett know it. Mark was, after all, my husband.”

  “Of course,” I said, noticing delicate tears form in her eyes.

  She sniffled. “Jessica, we may have not had a marriage made in heaven, but we had many pleasant things going for us. Mark wasn’t always by my side. He worked hard, long hours, and used what little free time he had to play golf.” She managed a small smile. “Which made me the classic golf widow. But he was always on my side. I took considerable comfort from that.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  The guard signaled that our time was up.

  “We have to leave, Kimberly. But we’ll be back.” I glanced at George, who nodded. “I can’t say for sure just when, but it will be within the next few days.”

  Which meant, I knew, having to extend my “vacation” in San Francisco. George, too.

  “Jessica, wait,” Kimberly said. She spoke rapidly and softly; I strained to hear her. “There is someone you might want to talk to about Brett’s death. Brett had a best friend by the name of Norman Lana. They were roommates for a spell. Brett never married. This roommate, Norman, was an odd chap. Mark never trusted him. No real reason for it. He just had a hunch about him. Norman supposedly had a dreadful temper. It’s funny because, to tell you the truth, I’d always found him to be pleasant. I actually enjoyed his company, even though we never spent much time together. He’d occasionally join us for a drink, that sort of thing. Norman was a lively, animated sort of fellow. I always suspected he was gay, but he never confirmed that to me. He was fun to be around.

  “But after Mark’s death, I’ve thought a lot about Norman Lana. Not just fleeting thoughts. I’ve wondered if he, somehow, for some reason, might have been involved in the murder.”

  “Time’s up, ma’am,” the prison guard said.

  “Better go,” Kimberly said. “I don’t want to be in trouble. It’s hard enough here without angering them.”

  “Of course,” I said. It was obvious that Kimberly had her eye set on an early release for good behavior. Better yet, for wrongful imprisonment, I thought as George and I left the visitation room.

  I was pleased to see that the TV remote trucks were gone when we pulled up in front of the St. Francis. We entered the lobby and were heading for the elevators when Camille Inken’s voice stopped me.

  “Camille. What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Checking up on my favorite author, that’s what. I heard the news. Everyone has heard the news. What a dreadful thing that happened to you, Jessica. Thank God you’re all right.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Camille. This is Detective-Inspector George Sutherland. Scotland Yard in London. We’re friends.”

  “A pleasure,” said Camille, shaking his hand.

  “The pleasure is mine, Ms. Inken. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you from Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Happy to hear that,” Camille said.

  “Who are those chaps over there?” George asked.

  We looked in the direction he’d indicated, where several very large men in suits, and who had “body-guard” wri
tten all over them, roamed the lobby. Their coiled earplugs did nothing to dash my evaluation of them.

  “Bodyguards to protect the prince of some country or other,” Camille said. “I asked the manager about them. I forget the prince’s name. His country, too, for that matter.”

  “Where is the press?” I asked.

  “Lucky you, Jess,” Camille said. “The prince is checking in this afternoon. One of the conditions for his stay here is that all press be barred from the hotel.”

  “That’s good news,” said George. “But there aren’t any reporters lurking outside, either.”

  Camille beamed. “I took care of that,” she said.

  “How?” I asked.

  “They think you’ve left town. I spread the word that you were flying back to Boston this morning. Unofficially, of course. By now, the airport should be overrun with them.”

  “Bravo, Camille,” George said.

  “But I don’t promise anything if we keep standing here in the lobby,” Camille said.

  We went to my suite, fixed ourselves cold drinks, and sat in the living room.

  “I spoke to Rhet, Jessica,” Camille said. “As you can imagine, she’s thrilled, absolutely thrilled that you’ve offered to speak. She’s in the throes of organizing the event. Is Friday okay with you? At ten? I need to phone her tonight to let her know.”

  “Looks like I’ll still be in San Francisco,” I said. “Sure. Friday at ten sounds fine.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to join us,” she said to George.

  I explained why I’d be going to the high school.

  “Delighted,” he said. “Provided I’m not required to do anything like making a speech.”

  “That’s a promise,” Camille said.

  “Would you excuse me for a few minutes?” George asked.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To send a fax to the office. I think I’d better inform them that my return will be delayed for an unspecified period of time.”

  “Sure that’s all right?” I asked.

  “No problem, Jessica. Be back in a jiffy.”

  When he was gone, Camille raised her eyebrows, and made the circular okay sign with her thumb and index finger. “What a doll,” she said.