Martinis and Mayhem Page 5

  “What’s she look like these days?” he asked.

  “Silver-blond hair cut smartly to the shoulders, almond-shaped face, elegant features, soft eyes. Sad eyes. Intelligent eyes.”

  “Sounds like she’s riding it out okay.”

  “I’m not sure I’d say that, Bobby.”

  He shrugged, torched another cigarette into action, adding to the room’s noxious smog. My eyes had begun to sting. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, of course not.”

  “Want one?” He extended the pack to me.

  “No, thanks. Too early for me. You say Kimberly Steffer was framed. Who framed her?” I coughed, and rubbed my eyes.

  “Wish I knew,” he answered. “I have my ideas, but that’s all they are. My ideas. Which don’t mean a damn thing in court. How about you, Jessica? Got any ideas about who might have framed Kimberly Steffer?”

  “No. I’m just beginning to learn about the case. Maybe after I’ve had a chance to read up more on it, I’ll come to some conclusions. With a little help from those in-the-know. Like a Bobby McCormick.”

  “I’m available anytime, Jessica. Things are slow this week. Just your run-of-the-mill dopers whacking each other. I like to see that. Saves lots of tax dollars. I keep hoping there’ll be another case like the Steffer one. Something to get my teeth into.”

  “You mentioned Kimberly had been at a mall. Why is that significant?”

  “That’s where her husband’s restaurant is located. He was found in his car around back. Kimberly claimed she wasn’t at the mall that day. But witnesses—especially that vision-impaired cabdriver—said otherwise.”

  “I see.” I stood and extended my hand across the desk. He took it in his large paw and slowly pushed himself up from his chair. “You know what I think?” he said.

  “What?”

  “I think you’re about to find yourself a cause in Kimberly Steffer. I think you might end up the best thing that’s ever happened to her. And if that’s the case, I’d like to tag along for the ride.”

  “Count on it,” I said. “Have you ever thought of installing some sort of exhaust system in here?”

  “No need. I have a window. Just can’t get it open. Painted shut. Keep in touch, Jessica.”

  “You can count on that, too.”

  Chapter Five

  “Hello, Kimberly.”

  Even through the Plexiglas window between us functioning as an airbrush of sorts, Kimberly’s natural beauty didn’t need its softening quality. She looked even more beautiful than when I’d first seen her the day of my talk. Her skin was flawless; no line or crease marred it. Her hair had the same radiant shine. But the sadness was still there in her eyes, pleading for understanding. Which I was at the Woman’s Correctional Facility to give.

  Her smile was small. “Hello,” she said.

  “I didn’t expect to be here again,” I said.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again, either,” she said.

  “But I assume you wanted to see me again.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “The book in my bag. It is yours?”

  Kimberly looked down at her lap and nodded.

  “It’s beautifully written,” I said. “You’re an excellent writer. I bought two of your children’s books. They’re wonderful.”

  Tears welled up in the comers of her eyes. Her “thank you” was barely audible.

  “Kimberly,” I said, getting as close to the partition as possible, “I’d like to help you. I find your story compelling. And you’re not the only one who believes in your innocence.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Really. Look. Ms. Steffer, I don’t know if I can help you. But maybe you can help me. Where should I begin?”

  “Begin?”

  “To help establish your innocence.”

  “You will?”

  “Where do I start?”

  She replied without hesitation. “Call Ellie. She’s my stepdaughter. The daughter of Mark’s first wife, Joan. I think Ellie knows what really happened to Mark.”

  “She lives with her mother now?”

  “No. She lives with her godmother, Nancy Antonio, Joan’s best friend. Ellie was a rebellious teenager, especially after her parents’ divorce. She ran away. The only way she was coaxed back was a promise that she wouldn’t have to live with her mother. She wanted to live with Nancy. Strange—at least it is to me—that Nancy and Joan are still best of friends. Last I heard, anyway. I think Joan was relieved, actually, to be rid of Ellie on a daily basis. She resented the responsibility of being tied down by a youngster. Let me put it this way. Joan would never win the PTA award as mother of the year.”

  “Where do Ellie and Ms. Antonio live?”

  “I heard they moved, but I believe they’re still in the Bay Area.”

  “Kimberly. Do you know who killed Mark?”

  Her eyes locked on mine. The tears were gone. “No,” she said. “I wish I did.”

  We fell silent, each occupied with our own thoughts. I knew I’d have to be leaving soon. The guard kept glancing at a giant clock hanging over our heads. Our visit was almost up.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, Mark had a partner in the restaurant he owned. Robert Frederickson. I never trusted Bob from the day I met him. With Mark’s death, Bob ended up owning the restaurant.”

  “What’s it called?” I asked.

  “It’s called, ‘What’s To Eat?’ It’s in Sausalito.”

  “You say you didn’t trust your husband’s partner. But do you think he was capable of murdering your husband?”

  “In my opinion, Bob Frederickson is capable of anything. Including murder if it helps him get what he wants.”

  “Was he considered a suspect? Did the police question him?”

  “Sure. But he had an alibi.”

  “All right,” I said. “There’s your stepdaughter, Ellie, to contact. And I think a meal at What’s To Eat? is also in order.” The guard used a hand gesture to inform me it was time to leave. “I’ll be back, Kimberly. In the meantime, don’t lose faith.”

  “I didn’t have much faith after my conviction, but I do now that someone like you has taken an interest.”

  “I’ll do what I can. I’d like to keep your diary for a while. I have it with me, and if you’d rather I—”

  “Keep it as long as you like, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve started another.”

  “Good. I’ll be in touch.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and smiled as the guard waved her toward a door leading back to the cell blocks. Her head was down as she left the room, but I was certain her mood was elevated.

  And I had a lot of work to do.

  What’s to Eat? fell into the category of “family restaurant.” More accurately, it spoke to the dining needs of children. The exterior walls were painted bright red, yellow, and blue. The signage was written with some of the letters backward, obviously inspired by Toys ’R’ Us. An enormous playground with state-of-the-art equipment spread out behind the restaurant and around one side. The parking lot in front could accommodate at least a hundred cars, and virtually every spot was filled by the time my cabdriver dropped me at the canopied entrance.

  I entered and immediately felt out of place. The vast expanse of the main dining room was filled with young mothers and their even younger children. No business lunches at What’s to Eat? I thought as a hostess, barely out of childhood herself and wearing what appeared to be Judy Garland’s dress from The Wizard of Oz, greeted me with startling enthusiasm. “Hi,” she bubbled. “How many?” She had to yell over the din of a hundred children, made worse by a tin ceiling that caught every decibel, magnified it, and tossed it back at the customers’ ears.

  “Just me,” I said loudly. “And something as far away as possible from that.” I pointed to a round table of a dozen kids and their mothers. Colorful balloons on long, ribbon tethers reached for the ceiling. A pile of wrapped presents cluttered the floor. A birthday party.

 
“Sure,” said the hostess. She pronounced it the way comedians always make fun of the way California’s “Valley Girls” talk. I smiled and followed her as she bounced across the main room to a blessedly quiet, all things being relative, back room that was tastefully decorated in more subdued pastels. I silently pledged to generously tip her on my way out for sensing that I was not interested in singing “Happy Birthday” to anyone.

  “Here you go,” she said, pulling out a wooden chair with a pig’s head carved into its back. “Have you ever dined with us before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, remember to ask your waitress when she comes to the table, ‘What’s to Eat?’ ”

  I laughed. “And if I don’t?”

  “You have to go to your room without dinner.” Unsure of whether I’d taken her seriously and was offended, she quickly added, “Just kidding.”

  “Yes, I was sure you were.”

  The moment the hostess disappeared, an “Annie” look-a-like with a gingham apron wrapped around her small frame appeared at the table. Her name tag read MOM. “Hello,” she said, “and welcome. How are you today?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  We looked at each other. She held a large menu in her hands. “Oops,” I said. “Almost forgot. What’s to eat?”

  She handed me the menu and said she’d be back for my order.

  I seriously considered ordering a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which would have been a nice departure from the heavy, elegant foods I’d been indulging in for the past week. The last time I’d ordered peanut butter and jelly, the waitress in the Boston luncheonette told me that it was only offered on the children’s menu. Since I wasn’t a child, I couldn’t have one. Needless to say, I never returned to that restaurant.

  I chose a tuna sandwich on whole wheat, and an iced tea. When it was served, I asked the waitress if Mr. Frederickson was in. She said he was, and offered to get him. “Who shall I say wants to see him?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher.”

  A few minutes later, a handsome, forty-something man headed my way. “Hello. I’m Robert Frederickson,” he said when he reached the table. He was tall and reed-thin, allowing an obviously expensive gray pinstripe suit to fall nicely on his frame. Every black hair was in place. His tan was a deep copper. “What can I do for you?” he asked, the tan accentuating the whiteness of his teeth.

  It was a reasonable question. Fortunately, I’d decided during lunch the approach I’d take if I got to meet him.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Frederickson. My name is Jessica Fletcher. You have a wonderful place here. I wish I’d brought along someone three-quarters my age so that I could taste some of the more whimsical items. Like the ‘Barney the Purple Dinosaur Dessert Sandwich.’ I’m afraid I’d feel silly ordering it for myself.”

  Frederickson laughed. “No need to feel silly in this restaurant, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s what What’s to Eat? is all about. Is that why you wanted to see me? If so, I give you permission to indulge yourself in the Barney sandwich, the Mickey Mouse sundae, even the Mr. Rogers lollipop.”

  I laughed along with him. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll no longer hesitate to let the child in me out. But that really isn’t why I wanted to meet the owner. The fact is, I’m a mystery book writer. For adults. But my agent, and my publisher, have suggested I begin a series of murder mysteries for younger people. Children’s mysteries. I’m about to start the outline for the first book in the series and, frankly, came here today because I’d heard a great deal about What’s to Eat? I wanted to scope it out as a place to set a possible scene. I always enjoy weaving real places into my books.”

  Frederickson arched his back like a cat as he extended his arms in front of him, laced his fingers together and stretched, then used both hands to pat hairs on his head that weren’t out of place. “A scene?”

  “Yes. I figured kids would better enjoy reading a murder mystery novel if they were familiar with the settings.”

  “Will you excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher? I’ll be right back.”

  He returned, a dazzling smile painted on his handsome face. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I didn’t catch your name at first, or at least didn’t connect it with the famous person you are. You are the Jessica Fletcher, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Of course you are. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Please.”

  When he was seated, and had carefully crossed his legs and checked the creases in his trousers by running thumb and forefinger down them, he said, “Mrs. Fletcher, I am truly flattered that you would consider setting a scene in What’s to Eat?. I mean, who wouldn’t be flattered? But I’m afraid—”

  “Of what?” I asked sweetly.

  “Of what? Oh, no. I’m not afraid—of something. What I mean is, it’s really not something we’d be interested in becoming involved with. At least not at this time. A rain check? In one of your future books?”

  “I’m disappointed to hear that, Mr. Frederickson. I’m quite impressed with your restaurant and was excited about the possibilities of using it in my book.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe another time. By the way, could I ask a favor of you?”

  “Favor?”

  “A picture of you with me? I have a number of celebrity pictures in my den at home.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Mostly sports figures when they come here to promote the restaurant. Just take a minute.”

  I didn’t agree. But while I waited for the check, he disappeared, returning with a young man carrying a camera.

  “I was waiting for a check,” I said.

  “No check, Mrs. Fletcher. On me.”

  The three of us walked through the main dining room, which by now had quieted down, and stepped outside. “Right over there,” Frederickson said. “By the sign.”

  “All right,” I said. I posed next to him as the young man clicked off a few shots.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe when it’s developed, you’ll sign one to me.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have a chance to do that,” I said.

  “Tell me where you’re staying. I’ll put a rush on these and personally deliver them to you tomorrow. You can sign it then. I like them when they’re signed. Makes them seem more personal. Don’t you agree?”

  “Thanks for lunch.”

  “You have a car?”

  “No. And I forgot to call for a cab.”

  “Petey, get your car and drive Mrs. Fletcher back to San Francisco. Drop off the film at a one-hour place. Wait around until it’s ready.”

  I protested, but Frederickson insisted. He asked where I was staying. I told him. I asked how long What’s to Eat? had been in business.

  “Five years next winter.”

  “Are you the sole proprietor?”

  “Yes, I am. Well, better get back to the salt mine. Enjoying San Francisco?”

  “Very much. Any suggestions for this inveterate tourist?”

  “I suppose you’ve done all the usual stuff. Ever walked the Golden Gate?”

  “Walked it? The bridge, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Great views of the city on a nice day. Give it a try.”

  “I just might. I have a free day tomorrow. What’s the weather forecast?”

  “Same as always. Anything possible. Well, Mrs. Fletcher, thanks for calling on us. I’ll look forward to reading one of your books someday.”

  “That would be nice, Mr. Frederickson.”

  The waitress who’d served me came running through the front door to where we stood. She carried what appeared to me to be a doggie bag. At least it looked like one. It had a dog’s face on it. A long pink dog’s tongue secured the top.

  “For you,” she said breathlessly.

  “I’m afraid you’ve brought this to the wrong person. I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t leave a crumb on my plate.”

  “Compliments of Mr. Frederickson,” she said.

  “Really?�
�� I glanced at Frederickson, peeled the pink tongue from the bag and peered inside at something bulky wrapped in bubble-gum pink paper. I opened that up, too. It contained an enormous sandwich, and a large purple dinosaur cookie stuffed with gobs of whipped cream.

  “Something to remember What’s to Eat? by,” he said.

  “Oh, I don’t think I need this to remember What’s to Eat?” I said. “Believe me, Mr. Frederickson, I won’t forget you.”

  A few hours later, the young man called “Petey” swung by the hotel with the prints. I came to the lobby and signed one: “To Robert Frederickson. Jessica Fletcher.” Ordinarily, I would have said something cordial, like “Best Wishes,” or, “All the Best.” I wasn’t in the mood.

  Chapter Six

  I returned to the suite and followed through on a decision I’d made to place a call to the home of Nancy Antonio, Ellie Steffer’s godmother, in the hope of speaking with the teenage girl. It was answered on the first ring.

  “Hello. May I please speak to Nancy Antonio?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I was actually calling in the hope of speaking with Ellie.”

  “Ellie? Do I know you?”

  “No. We haven’t met. My name is Jessica Fletcher.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher.”

  “And you wish to speak with Ellie.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Concerning what?”

  “A—personal matter.”

  “You’re aware that Ellie is a child?”

  “Yes.”

  “You say we haven’t met. How did you get my number? And what is this ‘personal matter’ you want to talk to her about?”

  I decided honesty was the only policy to follow at this point. “I was given your name by Kimberly Steffer, and got your number from Information,” I said.