“George? A delightful man.”
“You—?”
“No. Just a friend. A very good friend.”
“Uh-huh. How about having him join us for dinner tonight?”
“I think he’s committed.”
“Too bad. I’d get a kick out of chaperoning you two.”
“We don’t need a chaperon.”
“Uh-huh.”
George returned and accepted our dinner invitation. He’d “cleared the decks” for the rest of his stay in San Francisco, including his dinner plans that evening.
“Great,” Camille said. “I’ve got to be running along. A million things to do before I pick you up for dinner. See you two at seven?”
“Well be waiting,” George said.
“Now, Jessica, if anyone disturbs you—any member of the press—refer the call or inquiry to me,” Camille said as she poised at the door. “I know most of them. Believe me, they’re a harmless bunch. See you tonight.”
“Lovely woman,” said George as he sat on the couch.
“And very efficient. Can I fix you a drink?”
“Thank you, no. I’m sleepy enough as it is. Would you mind if I stretched out for a short nap in my new bedroom?”
“Of course not.”
“By the way, Jessica, the prince’s security entourage has been put on full alert. Seems he received a death threat.”
“Oh?”
“Somewhat unsettling isn’t it, staying in the same hotel in which someone has received a death threat?”
“Even more unsettling is to be staying in a hotel in which two people have received them. Especially when you’re one of them.”
“Yes. Shouldn’t have brought it up. Wake me in an hour?”
“Count on it,” I said.
Chapter Thirteen
It had started to pour in San Francisco as George and I came down to the lobby to wait for Camille. We stood at a front window and looked out over the glistening street. People scrambled for cover beneath umbrellas, or newspapers held over their heads.
“There she is, George.”
We ran through the rain to a silver-gray Lincoln Continental that pulled up to the curb. Camille opened the rear door and waved us in. She looked ready for a splashy evening on the town. Her makeup was perfect, her hair swept up into a chiffon, and she was draped in an elegant black silk cape.
We tumbled into the car, our coats dripping water onto the red leather seats.
“Sorry I didn’t get out to help you,” the driver said over his shoulder.
“I would have questioned your sanity if you had,” I replied.
He laughed. “Where to, Ms. Inken?”
“Coit Tower, please.” To us: “I thought you might like to share one of my favorite sights.”
“Hardly a night for sight-seeing,” George said.
“Perfect night for seeing this sight,” said Camille. “It’s spectacular in the sun, but even more breathtaking in the rain.”
“Sounds like what a Scotsman might say,” I said, squeezing George’s arm.
“Ay. I’ve been droukit more than once back home.”
“Droukit?” Camille and I said in unison.
“Soaking wet. We do get a wee bit of rain now and then where I come from.”
“Where is your home?” Camille asked.
“A place in Scotland you’ve probably never heard of,” George replied. “A small town far north called Wick.”
“Near John o’ Groat’s,” Camille said.
“Right you are, Ms. Inken.”
“I’ve been there. One of the most beautiful natural sights I’ve ever seen was in Wick, Scotland. Right on the coast. I’ll never forget it. Or the horizontal rain.”
George laughed. “It does tend to come at you in a funny way when the wind is blowing hard.”
“Sounds intriguing,” I said.
“But not enough for me to entice you to visit me there, Jessica,” George said.
“Oh, you must go, Jess,” Camille said.
“I’d love to but—”
“Work on her this evening, Ms. Inken. My family home in Wick sits on a bluff overlooking the very sights you mention. Big house. Fourteen rooms, and all empty most of the year, ’cept for a caretaker and his wife. I rent it out to tourists now and then, but make sure it’s empty when I visit.”
Camille looked at me and raised her eyebrows into question marks. Her smile was knowing, almost wicked.
“One of these days,” I said.
“That’s progress,” said George.
We parked near the famed Coit Tower, on top of Telegraph Hill, the first West Coast telegraph station that transmitted messages notifying the arrival of ships from the Pacific. The rain had let up sufficiently for us to get out of the limo, but the wind had picked up, not quite enough to create the “horizontal rain” of northern Scotland, but enough to whip the drizzle and fog into grotesque, eerie swirls of light and dark.
“Spectacular,” I said, looking through the mist out over the bay and the city.
“Like Wick?” Camille asked George.
“Not quite, but close enough.”
The heavens opened again, and we sought the warm, dry refuge of the limo. “Where to now?” I asked Camille.
“To eat.”
As we headed back toward center city, Camille told me that her niece’s assignment had changed at the last minute. “Her teacher felt it would be more fitting for a class in public relations to stage a mock press conference for you, Jess, instead of simply having you speak.”
“Sounds like an interesting idea,” I said.
“Rhet will schedule and handle a press conference at which you’ll announce a motion picture deal for one of your books. A fake movie deal, of course.”
“A shame it has to be fake,” I said. “I could use a movie deal. It’s been awhile.”
“Speaking of press conferences, Jess, how did your sheriff friend back in Maine make out? Did he hold one like I suggested?”
I shook my head. “I called him right after you made that suggestion, but he decided issuing a written statement would suffice.”
“What was he going to write?” asked George.
“Camille had a good suggestion, George. Tell them the truth, except the part about my still being in San Francisco. Tell them it was a frightful experience, that I took a vacation someplace else to recover, and that I wanted privacy.”
“I like the last part best,” George said. “I just wish the first part was true, that we’d—that you’d gone someplace else to get over it.”
Our driver came to a stop, jumped out of the car, and came around to the back door carrying a large green-and-white golf umbrella. It was raining hard again as we got out and tried to huddle beneath the umbrella. It wasn’t until we were standing directly in front of the restaurant that I realized where we were. The building’s facade was elegant black marble. The door was bright gold. Of course. We were having dinner at Restaurant Isuzu, where George and I had dined the previous night. I looked back at George, who was too busy opening the door for us to notice where he was. We stepped inside and were being helped out of our raincoats when he laughed and said, “Well, what do you know.”
Camille didn’t hear him because she’d sought out the maître d’ to inquire about our reservation. I whispered to George, “Let’s not say anything.”
He grinned and agreed.
The maître d’ approached and said, “Mrs. Fletcher. What a pleasant surprise. So good to see you again so soon.”
“You’ve been here before?” Camille asked.
“Yes,” I answered sheepishly. “Last night. George and I had dinner.”
“I’m sorry,” Camille said. “If I’d known, I would have—”
“Not another word,” I said. “George and I are very fond of sushi. Aren’t we, George?”
“What? Oh, yes, indeed. Can’t seem to get enough of it.”
The host said, “I was disappointed last night, Mrs. Fletch
er, that I failed to ask you if you would be so kind to pose for a picture that we could hang on the wall.” He pointed behind us. “We think of it as our celebrity wall. Your photo would be a special treasure.”
“After dinner,” Camille snapped.
I didn’t know whether she was annoyed at the photo request, or that we’d been at Restaurant Isuzu before. All I knew was that I was a lot more willing to honor this photo request than I’d been with Robert Frederickson at What’s To Eat?.
As the maître d’ took my arm, Camille said, “I’m really sorry to be bringing you back here.”
“But I’m so glad we’re back,” I said. “The food is heavenly, and so is the service. We had a memorable meal.” I didn’t add that the previous night’s dinner had sated my yearning for sushi for six months. Maybe a second helping so soon would result in a cumulative effect, lasting a year.
Camille and I ordered saki. George stayed with the same Japanese beer as the previous night. He lifted his glass to us and said, “To the joys of sushi, the staff of every Scotsman’s life.” We laughed and clinked rims. He turned to me. “Enjoy your silki, Jessica.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Good morning, Jessica.”
“Good morning, George.”
“Wake you?”
“I was half awake. Now I’m all the way there.”
“Lovely evening.”
“Yes, it was. I hope two consecutive nights in a sushi restaurant won’t permanently upset your digestive tract.”.
“Not at all. The tempura was as good second time around as it was first. Ready for our stroll?”
“What stroll?”
“Across the bridge. Splendid day for it.”
“Across the bridge? The Golden Gate?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were joking when you suggested it last night.”
“Hardly. I’ve never done it. You have. And I would welcome your expertise, as well as your companionship.”
“George, I don’t think I can—”
“You know, Jessica, when you fall off a bicycle, it’s best to get right back on.”
I laughed. “I’m well aware of that sage advice, George. But falling off a bike, and falling off the Golden Gate Bridge, are two very different things. A scraped knee from one. A watery death from the other.”
“I promise that the worst thing will happen to you is a scraped knee. Well?”
“Get the bikes ready.”
We met downstairs for a breakfast of sourdough croissants and tea, hailed a cab, and were soon standing at the San Francisco end of the soaring, majestic, rust-colored bridge. The weather was perfect. There was considerably less wind than the day of my first venture across the span.
“Ready?” asked George, a broad smile on his tanned, handsome face. He wore a Harris tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, tan twill slacks, shirt and tie, and sported a red scarf wrapped casually about his neck in the fashion of 1930s open cockpit aviators. His face was like that of a veteran pilot, too, deeply creased from having squinted for too many hours into a strong sun. His sunglasses had brown lenses, and gold wire frames.
I’d chosen to wear what I’d worn on my first jaunt across the bridge, ivory cable-knit sweater, sweatpants, sneakers, and red, white, and blue windbreaker.
“Yes,” I said, trying to force my voice to sound confident. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Then, off we go.”
He set a quick pace—George was an avid walker back in London, always opting to use foot power rather than riding the double-decker buses, or using the city’s famed black taxicabs. I huffed and puffed initially to keep up, but soon fell into his rhythm. The bright, warm sun polished my skin, the wind kissed my face. A feeling of euphoria came over me; the smile on my face was involuntary and pleased. Like the first time on the bridge.
We slowed our pace. George walked almost sideways so that he could admire the view as he went. I had trouble looking anywhere but straight ahead. I was afraid that if I looked out over the railing, I’d panic and have to call off our walk.
“Hard to imagine that one earthquake, one tremor, could wipe out all this beauty,” George said into the wind.
“Not a pleasant contemplation,” I replied, aware that the bridge was probably the worst place to be if an earthquake hit.
“Takes a bit of courage to live out here,” he said.
“Depends on your philosophy,” I said. “It’s a perfect place for fatalists.”
“Are you a fatalist, Jessica?”
“To an extent. I believe in taking charge of one’s life. I don’t believe in luck. I think we make our own luck. On the other hand, there are things beyond our control.”
“Like an earthquake.”
“Like an earthquake.”
“Love?”
“Love? I’ll have to think about that.”
I started walking again. George caught up, and we continued at a leisurely gait.
“Jessica, I’ve been thinking,” he said, grabbing my arm and bringing us to a halt.
I swallowed hard. My heart skipped. My legs felt weak. We’d reached the halfway point of our walk. We were mere yards from where I’d nearly been pushed off the bridge. I looked down to the glistening water and small boats bobbing about. It came back to me with the force of a horse’s hoof to my stomach. I shuddered.
“Are you all right?” George asked. He saw that I wasn’t, and embraced me.
“Look,” he said. “The view is beautiful. Take a peek. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I lifted my head slowly. Secure in the comfort of his strong arms, I turned to share his view of San Francisco’s breathtaking skyline.
“From this vantage point, Jessica, everything seems possible. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Let’s continue,” I said.
“No. Let’s stay here for a moment and talk.”
“About?”
“At this lovely moment, I wish to say that I enjoy your company more than anyone I know. More than any woman I’ve met since my wife died. I think you are a wonderful woman, Jessica. I do hope you know that.”
He looked down into my eyes and smiled.
“Well, I certainly know it now,” I said, “although I must admit I had a hunch about it the past few days.”
“I suppose I have made it obvious,” he said. “Not very subtle, I’m afraid.”
I laughed. “Oh, no, George, a lot more subtle than most men I know. And I think you are very special, too. I trust you know that.”
“I’d hoped you’d felt that way. What I’m getting at, Jessica, is that I think we should—”
“What I think, George, is that we’d better finish our walk and get off this bridge before there is an earthquake.” I realized my comment could have been taken two ways. I also knew that he wouldn’t make something of the second, corny interpretation.
He said, “Not so fast. We have precious few moments to talk like this. This is perfect. We’re surrounded by beauty. We’re alone. Well, sort of alone. And I haven’t finished saying what I wish to say.”
I waited.
“I’ve been thinking—Ms. Inken firmed my resolve last night—I’ve been thinking that it’s time for you to visit me in Scotland.”
“And I’d love that.”
“Loving the idea, and acting upon it are two very different things, Jessica. I want you to make a commitment to come to Wick, and to stay in my family home for a few weeks. You could come for the Christmas holidays. Wick might not offer the same sort of festivities as your Cabot Cove, but it has its own special way of celebrating.”
“I don’t think I could be away from home at Christmas,” I said.
“I seem to remember you recently spent a fateful Christmas in New York City.”
He was right. I’d been there a few years ago on a book-promotion tour, and ended up deeply involved in murder and police corruption.
“I assure you Wick will be considerably less turbulent tha
n New York City,” he added.
“I don’t doubt that for a moment.”
A middle-aged couple passed, arm in arm.
“I’d love to visit you in Scotland,” I said.
“Marvelous. I’ll reserve your flight as soon as I return home.”
“Let’s walk,” I said.
We hooked arms and continued in the direction of Marin County. George talked the entire way about what my visit to Wick would entail. Holiday parties with old friends, festive dinners with remaining members of his family, and time in London to take in some theater. The more he talked, the less ambivalent were my feelings about finally agreeing to make the trip. But I had strong mixed emotions. It would undoubtedly be a lovely experience, one I would treasure for the rest of my life. But there was the parallel feeling that to visit him there would force us together faster than I was ready for. Maybe I’d never be ready for another commitment to a man. Although my late husband had died years ago, I still felt a commitment to him, not in a ghoulish or warped sense; I was free to meet and marry someone else, literally and psychically. But whether that was in my future plans was something with which I’d not yet chosen to grapple.
We reached the other end of the bridge and walked through a parking lot to an overlook. It wasn’t until we were practically on top of it that I noticed the marked San Francisco MPD squad car.
“Detective Josephs,” I said. He was leaning on the rail looking out over the city and bay.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Inspector.”
George grunted a greeting.
“We must stop meeting like this, Mrs. Fletcher,” Josephs said, tossing George a small smile.
“We just walked across the bridge,” I said.
“Got back on the bike, huh?” said Josephs.
“You might say that. Mind if I ask what you’re doing here? You’re out of your territory.”
“That’s right. Pretty morning. Thought Id drive over and take in the scenery.”
“Anything new on the drowning?” George asked.
“Brett Pearl? No. Sometimes you get a fresh perspective on a case when you look at it from a different angle.”
“From this side of the bridge, instead of the other?” I said.
“That’s right, Mrs. Fletcher. Hey, by the way, did you get a chance to have a closer read of my book?”
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