Martinis and Mayhem

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Neil! How wonderful to hear your voice. Where are you calling from? Wisconsin?”

  “This cheapskate calling long-distance?” His laugh was guttural and pleasantly recognizable. “I’m calling from right here in San Francisco. Want me to sing a chorus or two?” He began crooning the words to “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” He was so off-key it caused me to giggle.

  “Enough,” I said. “It’s a good thing you decided to make your living as a writer. I’m afraid a career on the stage is not in your future.”

  “You know how to hurt a man, Jess. No, I’m right here in the same city you are. Took a little tracking down, but perseverance prevailed. Any chance of us grabbing dinner tonight?”

  “A very good chance. I happen to be free.”

  “Wonderful. There will be three of us.”

  “Oh? Who’s the third person?”

  “My wife.”

  “Neil, that’s splendid news. When did you get married?”

  “Last week. Back home in Madison.”

  “I thought you were living in Milwaukee.”

  “I was, but then I got lucky, to say nothing of legitimate, and took an adjunct professor position at the University of Wisconsin. Teaching budding poets why they should consider another career. Jill and I are here on our honeymoon. Met her at the university. She teaches theater.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her,” I said.

  “An hour?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Someone recommended a terrific sushi place to me here in San Francisco. Restaurant Isuzu.”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Neil, you know I’m generally a very easy person when it comes to picking restaurants. I like just about everything. But since being in San Francisco, I’ve satisfied my urge for sushi for the next couple of years. Something else? Meat and potatoes?”

  “Hold on a second, Jess. Let me consult my list of recommendations. Okay. How about chicken or fish cooked over a wood fire? And mashed potatoes.”

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  He said we were going to a “hip” new place called LuLu, on Folsom Street, and that he and his bride would pick me up at the hotel in an hour.

  Neil’s call, and our dinner date, lifted my spirits. I showered, dressed in the most elegant evening attire I’d brought with me—certainly at least elegant for this non-fashion plate, whose taste runs more to sweatsuits and cardigan sweaters—and was waiting downstairs when they arrived.

  Although Neil Schwartz had thickened in the midsection, and had lost some hair, his simpatico personality hadn’t changed. Jill was a shade taller than Neil. Her hair was the color of strawberries, and hundreds of freckles on her broad face created a map of sorts.

  We all got along famously, lingering into the night at the cavernous restaurant whose food lived up to Neil’s advance billing.

  Over snifters of cognac, I said, “There is a certain irony in us getting together here in San Francisco.”

  He knew what I was getting at because he said, “The Kimberly Steffer case.”

  “Exactly. I suppose you’ve learned something of my involvement with it.”

  “Can’t miss it if you read the papers, and watch television. What was this business of you almost being pushed off the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  I sighed. “A frightening experience, although it could have been worse had my attacker been successful. I tend to forget about it until someone brings it up.”

  “Maybe Neil shouldn’t have,” said Jill.

  “No, no, I didn’t mean that. I read the chapter in your book, Neil, about Kimberly Steffer. As I recall, you didn’t take any sides concerning her guilt or innocence.”

  “That’s right. A lot of people didn’t think she did it. But I went with the trial, and the guilty verdict that came out of it. Have you joined the Kimberly Steffer Believer’s Club?”

  I nodded. “I’ve spoken with her a few times in prison. I do not believe she murdered her husband.” I held up my hands against the next obvious question. “I don’t have anything to base that on, Neil. No hard facts. But when you’ve spent your professional life dealing with murder—most of it fictitious, I acknowledge, but too often real—you develop a sense. By the way, a friend of mine, George Sutherland, is in San Francisco. He’s with Scotland Yard in London.”

  “You mentioned him to me in a letter awhile back.”

  “I suppose I did. A dear, dear man. I’ve managed to drag him into the Kimberly Steffer mess, and he seems to share my belief that she’s innocent. You wrote about her illustrator, Brett Pearl, in your book.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know he fell to his death from the Golden Gate at about the same time someone tried to push me over?”

  Both Neil and Jill sat up straighter.

  “My God,” said Jill. “Did the same person who tried to kill you push him over?”

  “I would say that’s a reasonable assumption,” I responded. “The question is, who is that person?”

  The subject changed to something more pleasant. As we chatted enthusiastically, I glanced at my watch. Almost eleven. “Would you excuse me while I make a phone call?” I said.

  I dialed the Westin St. Francis from a pay phone and asked for George Sutherland’s room. I reached his voice mail. “George, this is Jessica. I’m at a delightful dinner with old friends. Well, at least one of them is an old friend, Neil Schwartz. He’s here on his honeymoon. He, his wife and I have been celebrating a bit. I hope you’re all right. If I get back to the hotel by midnight, I’ll give you a call. If not, well do as you suggested and meet up in the morning. Sleep tight. And don’t worry about me. I’m in good company.”

  As it turned out, Neil and Jill dropped me at the hotel a few minutes past midnight. I checked my voice mail the moment I got to my suite. The message from George said: “I checked for messages a bit ago, Jessica, and received yours. Glad you’re having a splendid evening with friends. My evening has developed into a rather interesting one, the details of which I will relay to you when we gather forces in the morning. Breakfast at seven? Don’t forget you are to meet the young Ms. Steffer at nine. Sleep tight yourself.”

  I must admit I was worried about George, but I was also fatigued. After a few minutes of television, I climbed happily into bed and was asleep, it seemed, the moment my head touched my pillow.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Scotland Yard Inspector George Sutherland is what you might call an even-tempered human being. Few highs, and even fewer lows in mood and behavior. Calm and rational, levelheaded, and very much in control of his emotions.

  Which is why I was somewhat taken aback when I met him the following morning in the lobby of our hotel. There was a distinct bounce to his step. His greeting of me was unusually expansive. “Ah, good morning my dear lady,” he said beaming. “Have you looked outside? What a magnificent fat day.”

  “Yes. It looks like we’re in for a spell of nice weather. Are we having breakfast here in the hotel?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, his tone still a few levels above what it generally is. “I always like to sample the best a city has to offer. I thought breakfast at the Buena Vista was very much in order this morning. I understand its breakfast offerings are unparalleled. Besides, it is close to Ghirardelli Square, where you are to meet with the mysterious Ms. Steffer.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at his ebullient mood. He’d obviously had an enjoyable evening, and had slept soundly after it. “All right,” I said. “Breakfast at the Buena Vista it is.”

  We exited our taxi and stepped into the famous saloon, where Irish coffee had been introduced to America. The place was jammed even at that early hour. The large, round tables were communal; we waited until two chairs opened up at one, joining six other diners. We placed our breakfast orders—pancakes, two eggs over-easy, and bacon for George; scrambled eggs, dry, and toast for me.

  The food was delicious. So was the conversation with our tablemates, two of whom were British on a stopover in Sa
n Francisco en route to Hong Kong.

  I tried to get George on the subject of the previous evening, but was unsuccessful. He simply continued the conversation with others at the table. Finally, when I asked him again, he said, “In all due course, Jessica. That was a delicious breakfast. I think we’d better head for your nine o’clock appointment.” .

  We walked the short distance from the Buena Vista to Ghirardelli Square and found the Mermaid Fountain in the central plaza. We were a half hour early for my rendezvous with Ellie Steffer. We bought two cappuccinos to go from a nearby coffee shop—there seemed to be coffee shops everywhere—and took them to an empty wrought-iron table in the central plaza. “This is as good a place as any for me to wait for her, I suppose,” I said.

  “Yes,” George agreed. “Quite centrally located, with a view of the entire area. I suppose I should make myself scarce.” He looked across the plaza to another group of tables partially obscured from our view. He laughed. “I feel very much like a house detective in a seedy hotel, hiding behind a potted palm in search of unsavory goings-on.”

  “You can stay right here with me if you wish.”

  “No. As we agreed, my presence might inhibit the young lady from being candid. She obviously has something very important on her mind, and it seems you are about to become the recipient of whatever that is. I’ll be over there.”

  He started to walk away.

  “George,” I said.

  He stopped and turned. “Yes, Jessica?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  His smile was again expansive. “As my dear, departed father said, patience is truly a virtue. This afternoon.”

  “I have to wait until this afternoon to find out what you did last night? To find out why you’re in such wonderful spirits this morning?”

  “Exactly. I’ll be right over there in case you need me.” With that, he took purposeful strides in the direction of his secluded vantage point.

  I sat at the table and sipped my cappuccino. George’s festive demeanor had kept my mind from dwelling upon the meeting I was about to have with Ellie Steffer. But now as I sat alone, I was bombarded with a series of thoughts and concerns.

  What if, instead of Ellie, her mother, Joan, or godmother, Nancy Antonio, showed up? My one run-in with Ms. Antonio had been enough to last me a lifetime. It was possible that either woman might keep Ellie’s appointment for her. Nancy Antonio had been sitting right outside the school when Ellie left. Then again, she might not have known of my appearance. I decided to go on the assumption that she did know, and be on the lookout for her.

  And what of Ellie’s mother? I’d yet to meet her. But maybe Ellie had told her that I’d been at her school for my mock press conference.

  As these, and other thoughts came to me, I decided it was a fruitless exercise to worry about things that were not, at least as yet, reality. I would find out soon enough what the morning held for me.

  Provided, of course, that Ellie or someone showed up. I was thinking of the possibility that no one would arrive at Ghirardelli Square when I looked across the plaza and saw Ellie standing at its perimeter. She surveyed the area, looking for me, I assumed. And then I saw Camille’s niece, Rhet, come to Ellie’s side. Interesting, I thought. I knew they were friends from their interplay at school. But why would Rhet accompany her to meet with me? That would mean, I surmised, that she knew what was going on.

  I was tempted to stand and wave, but didn’t. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, or to the fact that we were meeting. I didn’t have to. Rhet spotted me, said something to Ellie, and the girls approached.

  “Hello, Rhet,” I said. “Hello, Ellie.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher,” Rhet said enthusiastically. Ellie averted my eyes, focusing her attention on some unseen point in the distance.

  “Join me?” I asked. “I have coffee from that shop over there. Can I get you girls something?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Rhet said. She turned to Ellie, who had turned deadly serious. “Ellie, come on, this was your idea.”

  I sat silently and waited for Ellie to make a decision whether to sit or to bolt. Eventually, she took a chair next to Rhet.

  “Do they have lemonade?” Ellie asked, looking in the direction of the coffee shop.

  “I would imagine,” I said. I pulled a five-dollar bill from my purse and placed it on the table. “My treat. But hurry back.”.

  Instead of both girls leaving the table, it was Ellie who walked away carrying the money. When she was out of earshot, Rhet leaned closer and said, “She’s really scared to be talking to you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Because—well, because if her mother or her godmother knew she was here, she’d be in big trouble. I mean b-i-g trouble.”

  “And I certainly wouldn’t want to be the cause of that,” I said. “Rhet, did either Ellie’s mother, or Ms. Antonio, know that I made a presentation at your school?”

  “Oh, boy, no. If they knew Ellie had come to school that day to hear you talk, they would have been furious.”

  “What a difficult way for a young girl to live,” I said, shaking my head. “I feel sorry for her.”

  “So do I. That’s why I came with her today.”

  “You’re obviously a good friend.”

  “I like Ellie. I wouldn’t say we’re real close, but I enjoy being with her. She’s very smart. I just wish she wasn’t so sad.”

  “Having your father murdered must leave a terrible mark on you,” I said.

  “Especially when the person who did it isn’t in jail, and the one who didn’t do it is—in jail, I mean.”

  “You’re talking about Kimberly Steffer.”

  “Yes. Kimberly Steffer was not—”

  Rhet stopped speaking as Ellie returned to the table carrying two plastic cups of lemonade. She resumed her chair and took a cigarette from the pocket of her black leather jacket. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “Of course not. We’re outdoors.” I was tempted to lecture her on the dangers of cigarette smoking, but decided it wasn’t my place. Nor was it the time.

  Ellie inhaled deeply, and twirled the used match between her thumb and index finger.

  “Ellie, I don’t want to pressure you. But you did ask that we meet this morning. Both you girls are cutting school today?”

  “Yes,” Rhet said. She looked at Ellie. “She’s my bad influence.” She laughed lightly to let her friend know she wasn’t being serious.

  “Well, I hate to be an accomplice to this crime,” I said, “but here I am. What’s on your mind, Ellie? You left a note in my friend’s raincoat at school. I took it seriously when you said you’d be here this morning because, like it or not, I have become involved with you and others in your family. Why don’t you tell me what brings us here today. Believe me, I will do nothing to cause you trouble, or to hurt you. My goal is to get to the bottom of your father’s murder. You can trust me. You can speak freely with me.”

  It looked as though she was about to open up. But three young people dressed in garish clothing—was it Halloween?—appeared and began to perform for those of us in the plaza that sunny morning. One played the guitar; the other two combined dance and mime to tell a story of sorts. I might have enjoyed watching their performance had I not felt annoyance at their intrusion. The girls watched the troupe with interest; I wondered whether that was the end of any serious conversation. It was Rhet who directed everyone’s attention back to the table. She said to her friend, “Go on, Ellie. Get it off your chest. You can trust Mrs. Fletcher. Tell her everything.”

  The words came from Ellie’s mouth as though a tape recorder was playing them back. “She didn’t do it. My mother and godmother hate you. They’d kill me if they knew I was here this morning. My mother went down to Los Angeles. Nancy had a business meeting in Oakland.”

  I glanced to where George had taken up his position behind the greenery. I could barely s
ee him, but knowing he was there was comforting. I turned my attention to Ellie. “When you say she didn’t do it, you mean your stepmother, Kimberly.”

  “I never called Kimberly my stepmother. I always called her mom.”

  “Tell me how you know she didn’t kill your father, Ellie. This might be painful for you to speak about, but—”

  “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” the young girl said. Her face was now set in determination, as though she had summoned up every ounce of steel in her body to get through what she was about to say. “Kimberly is in prison, and she shouldn’t be.”

  “I agree with you,” I said.

  “You’ve been visiting Kimberly in prison, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “I heard my mother and Nancy talking about it. Nancy said she told you off the other day at your hotel.”

  I smiled. “I suppose ‘telling me off’ pretty much sums it up. May I ask you a question, Ellie?”

  “Sure.” She sipped her lemonade.

  “Why do you live with Nancy and not with your mother?”

  “Because my mother doesn’t want me.” She said it so flatly, so matter-of-factly that my heart hurt for her.

  “How is Kimberly, Mrs. Fletcher?” Ellie asked. She started to cry, silent tears running down her full cheeks. Rhet put her arm around her.

  “Kimberly is doing as well as can be expected, I suppose. Prison is a terrible place to be. But she seems determined to make the best of it, and to leave it as soon as possible. I’m dedicated to helping her do that.” I paused and scrutinized Ellie’s face. “You love Kimberly, don’t you?”

  The tears continued. “I love her very much. I wish she had been my mother.”

  “Do you think your love for her is clouding your judgment about her guilt?” I asked.

  As she wiped her tears with the back of her hands, a defiant expression crossed her face again. She sat up straight, looked me in the eye, and said, “No, Mrs. Fletcher. It isn’t that I don’t think she killed my father, I know she didn’t.”