Martinis and Mayhem

by Jessica Fletcher

  “No. Sorry to say I haven’t. But I will.”

  “Yeah. Well, whenever you get around to it.” He asked George if he was having a good time in San Francisco.

  “Very nice, Detective. Mrs. Fletcher is seeing to that.”

  “I bet she is.” He returned his attention to the vista of city and sea, saying without looking at us, “We’ve determined that Pearl was pushed to his death between nine-ten and nine-fifteen. His body was discovered at nine-eighteen by a passerby in a boat. Which means he wasn’t down there very long. Just a couple of minutes.” He turned and faced me. “If I remember correctly, Mrs. Fletcher, you came into my office about nine-forty-five, give or take a few minutes. Let’s say for argument’s sake it took you half an hour to get to my office from the bridge. Fifteen minutes to get off the bridge, maybe ten, fifteen minutes in a cab. Add up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Witnesses place Pearl walking in this direction. Toward Sausalito. The same direction you were headed that morning. I figure he got pushed off at just about the same spot where you almost got it. That means you probably passed him on your way back to city side. Are you following me?”

  “Yes, I think so. But I don’t see the relevance of what you’re saying. Suppose I did pass him. What would that mean?”

  Josephs shrugged. “Could mean you knew he was going to be there.”

  “But I didn’t know he was going to be there. I didn’t know him.”

  “I’ve got somebody says you did know him, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “And who might that be?” George asked.

  “A confidential source.”

  “I assume you’ve heard of the decent concept of allowing citizens to face their accusers,” George said, not trying to disguise his anger.

  “Nice concept, George. But when you’re investigating a murder, nice concepts don’t help.”

  “Come, Jessica,” George said. “I think we’ve lingered long enough.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” Josephs said. “Did you know that Kimberly Steffer and Brett Pearl had an affair?”

  “No, I did not.” Kimberly hadn’t confided that in me. Nor had I read anything about it in her diary.

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  “That’s confidential, too, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Jessica,” said George. “Come.”

  “You’re a brave soul, Mrs. Fletcher, to be out walking the bridge again. Even with Scotland Yard at your side.”

  “Good day, Detective Josephs,” I said.

  George was openly angry about the conversation that had transpired. “His tone was accusatory. A thoroughly disagreeable man,” he said as we walked in the direction of the quaint town of Sausalito. “What cheek!”

  I laughed to make light of it. “He’s just a type,” I said. “Lacking in bedside manner. Interesting what he said about Kimberly having had an affair with her illustrator, Brett Pearl. I wonder if it’s true.”

  “Frankly, I wouldn’t believe anything that man says.”

  The Beat generation lives on; at least that’s the impression one gets when strolling the streets of Sausalito. It’s charming in a Bohemian way, although the artists and craftsmen who made the town of seven thousand so popular have pretty much abandoned it in favor of a community of houseboats at the north end. But the physical beauty of the town hasn’t changed, plummeting down from steep hillsides to the gently curving shoreline.

  “Reminds me of the Riviera,” George said as we promenaded along the main street.

  “I think they call it the Riviera of the West, or something like that,” I said. “Feel like coffee?”

  “Very much.”

  We entered the Alta Mira Hotel on Bulkley Street and asked if there was a coffee shop. The young woman’s answer was to escort us to a terrace that afforded a spectacular view of the city and bay. She offered us a table. “We’re just having coffee,” I said. “That’s fine,” she said.

  “Cappuccino, George?”

  “Fine.”

  “Two cappuccinos,” I said.

  She returned with our coffees, and the day’s newspaper. Neither of us would have bothered reading it, not with the view to enjoy. But there was no way to avoid the headline blaring out from the front page.

  ARREST IMMINENT IN BRIDGE MURDER.

  Just below the headline was a head shot of Brett Pearl. It provided my first glimpse of what he looked like—young, dark, brooding doe-like eyes, soft black curly hair.

  Only two paragraphs of the story were on Page One; it jumped to an inside page. I read it aloud for George’s benefit.

  “An arrest is imminent in the death of Brett Pearl, the man police now say was pushed to his death from the Golden Gate Bridge. This paper has learned that police are holding a former roommate of Pearl’s as their prime suspect. Pearl, a noted illustrator of children’s books, had been a collaborator with children’s author Kimberly Steffer, who was convicted of the murder of her husband, Mark Steffer, three years ago, and is currently incarcerated at the Women’s Correctional Facility. Sources further claim that the tip leading to Pearl’s former roommate came, in fact, from Ms. Steffer herself.”

  I handed the paper to George, who continued reading. He gave me a summary as he went.

  “The former roommate is a chap named Norman Lana. That’s the chap Ms. Steffer mentioned. She said we should talk to him. Let me see. According to this reporter, an anonymous source—Lord, when will the press stop quoting unattributed sources?—this unnamed source says that this Lana fellow and Pearl had a fight the night before Pearl’s demise. The fight became violent, and police were called to the scene. Lana was brought in for questioning late last night.”

  He handed the paper back to me.

  “Following the tip, ostensibly from Kimberly Steffer, police went to the restaurant, ‘New Dawn,’ where Lana had worked as a waiter for the past three months, and he was taken in for questioning. Lana was still being detained at press time, although he had not been formally charged with the murder.”

  The final paragraphs said: “In a related incident involving noted mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, police refuse to speculate whether an attempt to push her off the bridge within minutes of the Pearl incident is, in some way, linked to his death.”

  “I wonder why Josephs didn’t mention this to us a few minutes ago,” George said, his face set in a very serious frown.

  “I know what I want to do,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Meet again with Kimberly Steffer. Excuse me.”

  I found a phone, called the correctional facility, returned to the table, and said, “Drink up, George. Visiting hours are limited today. It’s already eleven. We have to be there by noon.”

  Kimberly looked exhausted. The harsh overhead lights in the Visitor’s Room didn’t help. Circles under her eyes had weight to them. She was even paler than usual.

  “Kimberly,” I said, “the police have taken into custody Brett Pearl’s former roommate, Norman Lana. The press claims that the authorities acted on a tip they received from you.”

  “That’s not true,” she said in an almost inaudible voice.

  “And we were told this morning by a Detective Josephs that you and Pearl had had an affair.”

  She laughed sarcastically. “Brett was hardly my type, Mrs. Fletcher. Where did they ever get that idea?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All unsubstantiated gossip,” George said, “and without attribution.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Kimberly said in that same soft, defeated voice.

  “It matters to Mrs. Fletcher,” said George. “One bloody rumor is that she was out on the Golden Gate the other morning to meet with Brett Pearl. The same morning he fell to his death, and she was almost pushed over.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Kimberly. “But it isn’t my fault. Nothing is my fault. I’m the one sitting behind bars.”

  “I understand how you feel,” I said. “It must be di
fficult to keep yourself thinking positive, to not give up. Playing the victim won’t help, though. Yes, you’re behind bars for a crime I’m convinced you didn’t commit. But Brett Pearl is dead, and Norman Lana is evidently about to be charged in that murder.”

  “In other words, Ms. Steffer,” George said, “while Mrs. Fletcher is squarely in your comer, you’re going to have to keep your chin up and not feel sorry for yourself.”

  I studied Kimberly’s face. George’s words had an impact. I wasn’t sure if she was going to cry or going to express anger. Quivering lips and glaring eyes can be precursors to either reaction.

  Sadness prevailed. “I know,” she said to me. “But it isn’t easy being here for something you didn’t do. I almost think it was better before you came to see me, Mrs. Fletcher. You gave me hope. It was easier when I didn’t have any.”

  “Under that philosophy, you now have double reason to feel that way. Inspector Sutherland believes in your innocence, too.”

  “I know that, and I’m sincerely grateful to both of you. It’s just that—” She swallowed hard and turned her head to hide tears from us.

  “It’s all right, Kimberly,” I said. “I know you’re upset. Is there anything else? Are you feeling okay physically?”

  “Fighting a cold, that’s all,” she said. “Sniffles and a sore throat. Nothing compared to when your spirit gets sick.”

  “Of course,” I said. “We came here because I wanted to hear from your mouth that this rumor of an affair between you and Brett Pearl is just that, a rumor without foundation.”

  “Brett and I never had an affair.”

  “And to confirm that it wasn’t you who informed the police about Norman Lana’s possible involvement.”

  “I did not do that.”

  “I believe you, Kimberly. We’ll be going. But well be back soon. In the meantime, Kimberly, don’t lose your faith. If you do, I’m liable to lose mine.”

  George and I took a taxi back to the hotel.

  “Well?” I asked as we stood in the lobby, poised to go to our respective rooms.

  “I’ve always believed in her innocence, Jessica. That opinion hasn’t changed. But there was something in her demeanor today, almost theatrical, that bothered me.”

  “I defer to your experience in sizing up accused criminals. Can you be more specific?”

  “No. But we have a saying in Scotland. ‘There’s nocht sae queer as folk.”’

  “Which means?”

  “The heart of man, or woman, is more unfathomable than all other natural phenomena. Roughly that.”

  “Meaning she might have had an affair with Brett Pearl?”

  “Of course. I have an old Scottish saying for you, too, my dear Jessica.”

  “I’m all ears, as we say.”

  “ ‘Ye breed o Saughton swine, your neb’s never oot o an ill turn.’ ”

  “Sounds dreadful.”

  “It can be. It means, loosely, that you are never happy unless you are uprooting something and making trouble.”

  “You’re not the first person to have told me that, George.”

  “But the first to say it in Scottish.”

  “Yes. Somehow, it sounds more palatable in a foreign tongue. Bailing out?”

  “To the contrary. I’m very much in. You won’t get rid of me that easily. What’s next, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Joan Fontaine,” I answered matter-of-factly. “Or Vivien Leigh. Of course, I’d be pleased if Angela Lansbury played me in a film version of my book.”

  I’d been asked the question by a student in Rhet’s public relations class.

  “Who are they?” a girl asked.

  I looked to George, who failed to suppress a smile.

  “They’re very fine actresses,” I replied.

  “How about Julia Roberts?” someone asked.

  “Or Madonna,” another suggested.

  “I’m afraid Julia Roberts would be a little too young to play me,” I said pleasantly. “And Madonna? I’m not quite sure she would be—well, right for the part. Next question. Yes, young man?” I pointed to a student whose hand was raised. It was refreshing to see hands go up instead of questions being shouted, like in the real world of press conferences.

  “Michael McCoy with the San Francisco Chronicle, ma’am.”

  I had to smile. His intense seriousness was adorable. And he was visibly nervous. “Mrs. Fletcher, answer me just this if you will. Mrs. Fletcher, let me ask you—” He fumbled with pages of his notepad and started again. “Ah, yes. Okay. Mrs. Fletcher, will you be involved in the adaptation of your book into a movie script?”

  Several other students laughed. In addition to taking himself so seriously, the young man had a stammer, as well as a severe case of acne. I was glad to see the teacher motion for his peers to quiet down.

  “That’s a very good question, Mr.—McCoy, was it? I’m glad you asked it.” He seemed pleased. “Many novelists see their manuscripts fall into the hands of someone else,” I said. “Professional screen-writers. When this happens, you run the risk of having your art, your ‘masterpiece,’ interpreted by someone who doesn’t capture the essence of what you’ve written. On the other hand, some book writers are asked to adapt their own work for the screen. Doing that can be a mixed blessing. The money is nice, of course. And the temptation is always strong to be involved in the process to minimize the risk of a bad adaptation. But, Mr. McCoy, to answer your question, I think I’ll stay out of the process of making my book into a motion picture. Screenwriting is not ‘my thing,’ as you might put it, so I’ll leave it to the pros and hope for the best.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said proudly.

  “Thank you for asking, Mr. McCoy.”

  “I think Mrs. Fletcher has time for one more question,” Rhet said. She’d introduced me to open the mock conference, and stood to my right. Her aunt Camille beamed proudly from the last row of the small room. George Sutherland, trooper that he was, sat in the midst of the students, his raincoat tossed casually on a chair next to him, his expression a combination of respect and mirth.

  “Yes?” I said, pointing to a tall girl sitting directly behind George.

  She stood and said in a clear, firm voice, “I’m Ellie Steffer, with the San Francisco Examiner, Mrs. Fletcher. I know you’ve written many books. Are all of them murder mysteries? Have you ever written about anything else?”

  Ellie Steffer!

  Having her stand there surprised me so much that her question passed directly through my brain and out my short-term memory. I looked to George, whose wide-open eyes and furrowed brow said clearly that he, too, knew who she was.

  “Would you mind repeating the question, Ms. Steffer?” I said.

  “Sure.” She looked down at a pad of paper and repeated it.

  “As a matter of fact, I have written about things other than murder,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t testify to the shock I still suffered. “Early in my writing career, I wrote two short novels dealing with relationships, at least from the perspective of how a young woman—probably too young—viewed them. One was eventually published to resounding silence from readers and critics alike. It was then I turned to writing about murder, which was just beginning to emerge as a popular genre of book. I’ve never looked back. Does that answer your question?”

  “Yes, it does. Thank you.”

  I desperately wanted to reverse roles, to fire questions at her. Rhet ended the conference, thanked me for being there, and wished me great success with my new book and its film version. She handled herself like Camille, poised and professional. Little doubt she’d be a success one day in whatever field she chose to pursue.

  The teacher joined us as the students filed from the room. I looked to where Ellie had sat. She was still there.

  Rhet extended her hand. “Mrs. Fletcher, thank you so much. You were wonderful.”

  “Congratulations to you, Rhet, on a fine job yourself. Your aunt is obviously
pleased, and justifiably proud.”

  “You bet I am,” said Camille.

  “Certainly worthy of an A,” George said to Rhet’s teacher.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” replied the teacher.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Rhet said. “I told your driver to be back at eleven-thirty.” She checked her Swatch Watch. “Great. Eleven-thirty on the dot.”

  “Coming, Ms. Steffer?” I asked as we headed for the door.

  Ellie continued to sit.

  “Come on,” Rhet said, waving to her.

  Ellie slowly got up and joined us.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, this is a friend of mine, Ellie Steffer,” Rhet said.

  “Nice to meet you Ellie,” I said. “This is Scotland Yard Inspector George Sutherland.”

  “Scotland Yard,” Rhet said with a chuckle. “Boy, I’m impressed.”

  I desperately wanted to pull Ellie aside, but knew I couldn’t do that. As we progressed toward the lobby, the two girls fell behind, but not so far that I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Ellie said to Rhet, “No. Don’t.”

  “Why not?” Rhet said. “She won’t mind.”

  I stopped and said, “What won’t I mind?”

  “Ellie wants your autograph, Mrs. Fletcher, but she’s embarrassed to ask you for it.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Ellie handed me her notepad. As she did, our eyes met. There was an unstated awareness on her part of who I was, and why we shared a special knowledge. Somehow, I had the distinct feeling she wanted to speak with me as much as I wanted to talk to her. It took every ounce of willpower for me not to say something to encourage further conversation. Instead, I dutifully wrote: “To Ellie. Good Luck. Jessica Fletcher.”

  We continued to the lobby. Through floor-to-ceiling windows I saw the driver holding open one of the car’s rear doors. During a final round of good-byes, I decided I would not allow the moment to pass without, at least, making some meaningful contact with Ellie. But another sight through the windows stopped me from following through. Ellie’s godmother, Nancy Antonio, was seated on a wooden bench not far from the main door. Without another word, Ellie stuffed the paper with my autograph into a pocket of her green school warmup jacket, exited the school, and went directly to where Nancy Antonio waited. She looked back once. Our eyes locked through the glass.