Martinis and Mayhem

by Jessica Fletcher

  They shook their heads. Josephs grabbed another roll before the waitress took away the bread basket.

  George motioned everyone to lean closer. “Here’s what happens next,” he said in a stage whisper. “I’ve ordered a birthday cake for ‘my niece.’ Obviously, my niece isn’t here. More to the point, the only nieces I have are back in Scotland, and I didn’t think it wise, or cost-effective to fly them in for the occasion. At any rate, I requested that the cake not have a name on it. They treated it as a strange request, almost demanded that a name appear. But I held fast. The cake will simply say ‘Happy Birthday,’ and will contain thirteen candles.”

  “Thirteen?” Josephs asked, looking at each person at the table, his expression disbelief.

  George ignored him. “It is Mr. Frederickson’s policy to personally join in the singing of ‘Happy Birthday’ to everyone so honored in his establishment. Probably, a thwarted theatrical career. No matter. He will come to the table and join in. Is everyone ready?”

  We nodded. My stomach tightened. I felt Kimberly tense next to me, and gave her a reassuring smile. I looked to where Ellie sat with her mother and godmother. Their dinners had been served, but they seemed more interested in our table than what was on their plates. In a moment, their interest would be elevated tenfold.

  The kitchen door opened. Our waitress came through it carrying a small cake. Candles flickered and glowed, their flames bending with the breeze caused by her forward motion. I checked Ellie’s table again. All three women were watching, along with dozens of other diners.

  Robert Frederickson stood in the open kitchen doorway. He seemed unsure whether to follow the waitress and lend his voice to the singing. George noticed his ambivalence and waved for him to join the festivities. Other waiters and waitresses on their way to take part in the ritual singing that was part of their jobs detoured in Frederickson’s direction and, taking his arms and laughing, propelled him toward us.

  When they arrived, George motioned for the waitress to place the cake in front of Kimberly.

  “Time to take off the scarf and sunglasses, Kimberly,” I said.

  She slowly removed them, raised her lovely face, and looked directly at Frederickson, the warm candlelight from the cake rendering her natural beauty even more apparent. A waiter started the song: “... Happy Birthday dear Kimberly, happy birthday to you.”

  All eyes were on Frederickson as we harmonized with the chorus, badly, I might add. His mouth was open, but no musical sounds came from it. His eyes were large dishes. Together with his gaping mouth, he had the appearance of a handsome fish.

  The waiters and waitresses drifted away.

  “Time to blow out the candles,” I said. “Make a wish, Kimberly.”

  She closed her eyes tight, as though trying to shut out the horror of what she’d been through. Tears leaked through the creases. I stood and faced Frederickson, whose expression said it all. “Yes, Mr. Frederickson,” I said. “It’s Kimberly Steffer.”

  “What the hell is—?”

  “What’s going on,” I said, “is this.” I removed my wig and held it out as an offering to him.

  He recoiled, as though the wig were hot.

  “I don’t blame you for not wanting to touch it—again,” I said.

  His forced smile was painfully painted on.

  “This is the wig you bought as part of your efforts to frame Kimberly Steffer for the murder of her husband, Mark Steffer.”

  George stood, adding, “You should stay out of the haircutting business, Mr. Frederickson. Not a very appealing cut you gave it.”

  I turned in the direction of Ellie’s table. She, her mother, and her godmother were looking right at us. I held the wig high for them to see. “Maybe they’d like to join us,” I said to Detective Josephs.

  He went to their table. We saw him flash his badge, and engage in unheard conversation. The three women slowly got up and followed him to our table. Two men in suits, whom I assumed were the detectives sitting in the other room, suggested to the few diners in our room that they leave. Others in the large main dining room had become aware that something was up, and had come to the archways separating the rooms. The detective politely asked them to take their seats and to ignore what was going on. That task completed, they joined us.

  “What is this nonsense?” Nancy Antonio asked, her large face in a sneer.

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘nonsense,’ ” George said. “You know Mrs. Fletcher, of course.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  She ignored me, turned to Frederickson, and said, “What have you done?”

  He extended his hands in a feeble plea for understanding.

  “I imagine you look rather fetching as a blond,” George said to Nancy. “Jessica.” I handed the wig to her. “Try it on for size,” George said.

  She stood with her arms crossed over her ample bosom. “Where did you get that?” she demanded.

  “I gave it to them,” Ellie said in a voice so soft it was barely audible.

  ‘“You?” Joan Steffer blurted.

  “What are you trying to prove?” Nancy asked.

  “Your guilt in the murder of Mark Steffer,” I said. “Go ahead, Ms. Antonio. We’re all waiting.”

  Her defiant stance came as no surprise to me after my run-in with her in the hotel lobby. She pulled herself to full height and grabbed the wig from my hands. Joan Steffer, whose expression was sheer panic, turned to leave, but the two detectives blocked her path. “Stay around, Mrs. Steffer,” said George. “The show isn’t over yet.”

  Ellie Steffer stood between her mother and her godmother. She and Kimberly had been looking at each other ever since the confrontation began. Now she took steps toward Kimberly.

  “Ellie, stay away from her,” her mother ordered.

  Ellie and Kimberly cried as they threw their arms about each other.

  We all looked at Nancy Antonio, who continued to hold the wig. “Well, Ms. Antonio?” George said.

  Her mouth was a slash of anger as she pulled on the wig. “Satisfied?” she snarled.

  “As a matter of fact, we’re not,” I said. “I’d like to see it on Mrs. Steffer.”

  George and I exchanged glances. We’d discussed the trying on of the wig before entering the restaurant, and concluded that Nancy Antonio was too large a woman to have been mistaken for Kimberly Steffer, no matter what wig she wore. Joan Steffer was another story. She was Kimberly’s height, and shared her slender build.

  Nancy Antonio yanked the wig from her head and fairly threw it at her. “Go on, Joan,” she said. “Give ’em a show.”

  “I will not,” Joan said firmly.

  “Why not?” The question was asked by Ellie, who now faced her mother. They were no more than a foot from each other. “Why not, Mom?” she repeated. “Afraid?”

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “Of the truth coming out?”

  “You—” I thought for a moment Joan was about to physically attack her daughter. The intense dislike for each other was palpable.

  Joan forced a laugh. A guffaw actually. “Here,” she said, pulling on the wig. “Satisfied?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  George had left the room during the argument over the blond wig. He returned, followed by another gentleman who I knew was the cabdriver, Phillipe Fernandez, the one who’d testified at Kimberly’s trial that he’d picked her up at the mall, the one with the thick eyeglasses, the one who’d driven me one day in San Francisco. We’d paid him to wait outside until fetched by George.

  “Could this be the woman you drove from the mall to the health club, Mr. Fernandez?” George asked, pointing to Joan Steffer.

  “That’s her,” Fernandez said loudly. “That is the woman.”

  “Sure it wasn’t her?” I asked, indicating Kimberly.

  Mr. Fernandez leaned closer to Kimberly, then took in Joan Steffer again. “It’s her,” he said, his eyes focused on Joan.

  Throughout these exchanges, Robert Fredericks
on stood silently. He seemed to have regained a modicum of composure. His facial muscles had relaxed, and his pose was nonchalant. George and I turned to face him.

  “Very clever, Mrs. Fletcher, Inspector Sutherland. I’m impressed.”

  “Impressed that we’re pointing the finger of guilt at you, Mr. Frederickson?” George asked.

  He laughed. “You’re looking at the wrong person,” he said.

  “No, we’re not. You killed my husband, and a wonderful young girl’s father.” Kimberly’s voice was soft, its impact loud. She stood and faced Frederickson. As she spoke, her voice gained in volume and anger. “I’ve spent a good part of my life paying for your horrible, horrible crime,” she said. “In jail. I woke up every morning to the cold, dank reality of a prison cell while all of you wake up in your lovely homes, listening to the singing of birds, smelling a fresh-brewed cappuccino. Maybe a long, leisurely shower, or a Jacuzzi. Time spent choosing what to wear—silk or cashmere today, blue suit or brown? But I knew that when you looked at yourselves in the mirror, you knew that underneath your good looks were evil people.

  “Ironic, isn’t it, that I preferred to wake up as me, in a prison cell, rather than you and the lies your lives represent. I thought of you every morning, Robert. And you, Nancy, and Joan. Because I didn’t have proof that you killed Mark, I could only take comfort in knowing that I hadn’t. I didn’t kill anyone. But you did!” She said it directly to Robert Frederickson.

  Frederickson wasn’t quite as composed as when Kimberly had started talking. He fidgeted with his hands and looked nervously from face to face. “Look,” he said, “you two have done your snooping around and figured out a few things. But you’re talking to the wrong person. You’ve got the ones you want right in front of you.” He looked first at Nancy Antonio, then at Joan Steffer.

  “But you bought the wig,” I said.

  “Prove it!”

  “As easily done as said,” I said. “The Wonderful World of Wigs, Mr. Frederickson. You purchased a shoulder-length blond wig there. We’ve entered the computer age. You should know that, being a successful businessman. You purchased this wig using your American Express card. Every wig paid for by credit card at that shop is recorded. The moral, I suppose, is to never leave home with it.”

  He said nothing.

  I continued: “Must have been quite a shock to learn that Kimberly had her hair cut shorter that day, and not just a trim. A whole new look. That left you no time to buy a new wig. Not on the eve of the big night.”

  “Excuse me,” Frederickson said, “I have a restaurant to run.” Detective Josephs stepped in front of him as he took a step toward the main dining room. “Hey, look,” Frederickson said, indicating people in both archways watching what was unfolding in our room. “We’re making a scene here.”

  “That’s the last thing you should be concerned about, Mr. Frederickson,” George said.

  “So I bought a damned blond wig,” Frederickson said. “That doesn’t make me a murderer.” He looked at Nancy Antonio. “I bought it for her.”

  “Shut up, Bob,” Nancy said.

  I held up my hands and said, “Let me tell you what I think happened here.” I looked to Ellie. This was going to be difficult for her to hear. “The night of Mark’s murder was one of his weekly scheduled visitations with Ellie. He was to pick her up at her godmother’s house at five for dinner, and return her home by nine. It was a weekly event. Joan, her mother, was there. As usual, she instructed Ellie to wait outside for her father. She did that and—”

  “Can I finish the story, Mrs. Fletcher?” Ellie asked. She stood close to Kimberly; they held hands. Kimberly smiled warmly at her. “You told me to wait outside like you always did,” Ellie said, looking at her mother. Her voice was strong and clear. “So I did. But. Daddy never came. I went back inside to tell you, Mom, but you said Daddy had called and said he couldn’t make it because of some business emergency. That didn’t make any sense to me. Daddy never did that. He always showed up. But I couldn’t ask you because it would make you mad. Everything always makes you mad. So I went back outside and waited and waited until it got dark. I remember feeling so alone and angry. I even thought that maybe I’d never see my father again. I said that to you, Mom, when I finally gave up waiting and came back inside. But you laughed at me.” She paused for a few seconds to wipe tears from her face. So did I.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she continued. “Later that night I heard the garage door open. I got up and looked out my window. I saw Daddy’s car being driven into the garage. I thought it might be Daddy, but then saw that the driver had blond hair. I came downstairs and saw Nancy. And you, Mom. You looked so different wearing that blond wig. Remember? You saw me leaning over the banister and started screaming at me. Nancy grabbed the wig off your head and told me to go back to bed.

  “I had plans to go shopping with Kimberly at the mall that morning. You’d said it was okay for me to do that. You even encouraged me to go with her. That was really strange because you were usually against my seeing her. While I was getting dressed that morning, I heard the car start up in the garage. I looked out my window and saw you drive off, Mom.”

  Now she started to cry openly.

  “What I didn’t know was that my daddy was in the trunk. You killed him that night. You and Mr. Frederickson and Nancy.” She buried her face in her hands, and Kimberly hugged her.

  “I need to finish,” she said, taking a deep, prolonged breath. “I remembered at breakfast, you said I couldn’t go to the mall, Mom, because you said Kimberly had called to cancel and was worried about where Daddy was. I wanted to call her, but of course you said I couldn’t. You hadn’t told me the real reason I wouldn’t be seeing Kimberly, that Daddy was dead, and that Kimberly would be blamed for his murder.”

  Now I took over: “I know what happened next,” I said. “I know it from the diary Kimberly has kept since going to prison. She gave me that diary when I visited her there. What you’d actually done that morning, Joan, was to call Kimberly to say that Ellie couldn’t join you. You told her Ellie was sick and still sleeping. A lie. But then you encouraged Kimberly to buy Ellie a little something to make her feel better about having missed out on her mall excursion with you. According to what Kimberly wrote in her diary, you sounded anxious that she buy Ellie a gift. A big change in what had been your earlier attitudes toward her and her relationship with Ellie. In any event, she took your suggestion and went to the mall in search of a gift for ‘the sick child.’

  “Joan, you drove the car to the mall that morning and parked it in a remote spot in the lot, locked it, and went inside. Several hours later you called a taxi service. This gentleman, Mr. Fernandez, picked you up and. dropped you off at the health club. Knowing that Kimberly worked out at that same club, you went there hoping the cabdriver would recall having dropped you off there. You’d told Mr. Fernandez that your car had broken down at the mall, which was why you needed the lift. Of course, you were wearing the blond wig Mr. Frederickson purchased for you, and that had been cut to a shorter length to match Kimberly’s short haircut the day before.

  “When Mark hadn’t returned home the night before, Kimberly called Ellie to see if he might be there. Joan told Kimberly that Ellie was still sick and in bed. Meanwhile, Mr. Frederickson here called the police to inform them that his business partner hadn’t shown up at the restaurant, and that he was worried because he wasn’t answering his beeper, either. The police found Mark’s car at the mall, and arrested Kimberly as a prime suspect in the murder.

  “Everything was going smoothly for the three of you,” I continued. “Kimberly did shop at the mall that day, charging several items on her charge card, including a pretty shirt for Ellie. She shopped because you urged her to, Mrs. Steffer, lying when you said Ellie was sick and would appreciate a nice gift. So Kimberly did as you suggested, just as planned. The night you actually killed Mark also went smoothly. You, Ms. Antonio, got Mark to agree to meet you to talk about some bogus traumatic s
ituation Ellie was undergoing. You thought this lie wouldn’t be noticed. But Ellie overheard your call to Mark and it puzzled her. What traumatic situation was she facing? None as far as she knew. But she rationalized it away. She was so used to dysfunctional family life that nothing was beyond possibility.

  “Mark loved his daughter dearly. When he received that call, he readily agreed to meet with you. How sad. A loving father comes to discuss his daughter’s problems with someone he assumes has her best interest in mind, but instead faces a murderess. Is that when you shot him, Nancy, and dragged him into the car. Ellie saw you arrive at home that night wearing the blond wig. You pulled the car into the garage. What happened then, Ms. Antonio? Did you stuff his body into the trunk all by yourself, or did Joan help you?”

  George, Detective Josephs, and I took in Frederickson, Joan Steffer, and Nancy Antonio. Their reactions to what had been said were markedly different. Joan Steffer, who hadn’t exhibited much bravado when the confrontation started, had now assumed a nasty, defiant edge. Robert Frederickson looked as though someone had pricked his confidence balloon, not sure whether to run, cry, or both. Nancy Antonio’s posture was what interested me most. This formidable woman’s face had sagged and softened. There was a vulnerability in her large brown-green eyes that wasn’t there when the evening started. She was staring at Frederickson as though expecting him to do something to put an end to all this. To snap his fingers and take her away from it.

  I turned to Ellie, who was now composed. “Ellie,” I asked, “do you know any reason your mother, your godmother, and Mr. Frederickson would have wanted to kill your father?”

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Frederickson said sharply. “All I did was buy the wig for them because Nancy asked me to. There’s no crime in buying a wig.”

  “Are you saying that it was these two women who murdered Mark Steffer?” I asked.

  “I suppose so.”

  “You bastard,” Joan Steffer snarled.

  Frederickson held up his hands in mock defense. “Hey, no need to get testy, Joan. All I know is that if what Mrs. Fletcher and her Scotland Yard friend says is true, you’ve got yourself a pretty big problem.”