Martinis and Mayhem Read online

  Again, my timing was good and bad. I arrived at the Top of the Mark at the optimum time for witnessing the arrival of the city’s fabled fog, that long-running theatrical event that is as much a tourist attraction in San Francisco as the cable cars and Alcatraz. By the time I was seated, the fog had obscured half the bridge, and was heading in my direction, swallowing buildings as it relentlessly made its predictable path across the city. As symbolic as it was of my horrifying experience on the bridge that morning, it was also mesmerizing. I stared at it until it had gulped the Top of the Mark, and me. And then, just as the fog had rolled in, so did George. He made his way quickly to my table, apologized for being late, and took the second chair. I had a half-finished perfect Manhattan in front of me. “Wonderful to see you, George,” I said. “Let’s find the waitress.”

  “Not for me,” he said. “I’ve had enough to drink at the party. Hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, let’s get ourselves some dinner, someplace quiet where you can tell me what’s upset you today.”

  Once a year—never more than that—I have a craving for sushi. I’d only had it twice before. The first time was in Tokyo, the second in New York. It will never rank on my list of favorite foods. But, as I say, I have this annual craving. And this was the night. Maybe stress and fear release some chemical in our bodies that activates a special taste gland. Maybe not. All I know is that George, dear man that he is, agreed to indulge my special need that evening, and took me to what is considered one of San Francisco’s finest sushi restaurants, Restaurant Isuzu, in Japantown.

  “You’re a real friend, and a trooper, to come here, George,” I said as we were seated in a pretty small room at the rear of the restaurant.

  “For you, Jessica, I will do anything. Even sushi. I rather like the place. Charming. Besides, it will broaden my horizons, but not my waistline. When you think about it, you don’t see many fat Japanese men or women.”

  “Sumo wrestlers?” I offered.

  “There’s an exception to everything.”

  “Thanks for stealing time for me, George. I know you’re terribly busy and—”

  He held up his hand. “Enough of that,” he said. “Now, tell me what has upset you this fine day.”

  “Someone tried to kill me this morning.”

  “I would say that warrants a bit of upset. Where did this happen?”

  “On the Golden Gate Bridge. I took that walk on the bridge I told you I was considering. Lovely morning. Lots of people doing the same thing. I stopped at mid-span to take in the views, and—well, someone tried to push me over the edge.”

  “What a horrible experience. You obviously managed to fight off the bleck.”

  “The what?”

  “The bleck. The scoundrel. Go on. Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him. Or her. When I fought back, the person backed off and disappeared into the crowd. I suppose if I’d turned around immediately I might have seen—the bleck—but I was too shaken.”

  A petite, pretty Japanese girl handed us warm towels to cleanse our hands, placed menus in front of us, and asked for our drink order. “Nothing for me, thank you,” I said. “Just some club soda.” George ordered a Japanese beer.

  “What did you do after it happened?” he asked.

  “I came back into town and went to the police. A Detective Josephs interviewed me. He says he knows you.”

  “Josephs? Yes, I vaguely recall someone with that name. Was he helpful?”

  “Yes. And no. He’s writing a novel and gave it to me to read.”

  “How inappropriate.”

  “Not really. We struck a deal. I read his novel in exchange for the opportunity to review the Kimberly Steffer files.”

  He sat back and slowly shook his head. “You amaze me, Jessica. Someone tries to kill you, yet you forge ahead trying to solve a murder that happened years ago, in order to save a woman you barely know.”

  “Just an old fubdub, I suppose.”

  “Fubdub?”

  “My turn to be colloquial. From Maine. Fubdub. A compulsive person. At any rate, that’s what I did.”

  “Is his novel any good?”

  “I don’t know because I haven’t read it yet. That’s on my agenda for later tonight. Maybe we’d better order.”

  We perused the menus. Everything sounded wonderful to me. I checked George’s expression. He looked pleased. “Find something you like?” I asked.

  “Yes. They have tempura. Fried food always gets my vote. You?”

  “The Futomaki sushi sounds good to me. A little bit of everything, including octopus.”

  George’s expression changed to displeasure. I suppose considering where he’s from, sushi doesn’t appear on many pub menus. British food, including in Scotland where I’ve never been able to muster the courage to try haggis, has suffered for too long as offering up bad food. That was years ago. Some of my finest meals have been in the British Isles, especially a wonderful little pub George took me to one day for its famed shepherd’s pie. The owner swears he’s actually converted die-hard vegetarians to meat lovers. I didn’t argue with him after tasting it.

  George ordered his tempura, and I chose the sushi. I bit my lip when he requested that his tempura be well-done. He noticed my discomfort and said, “I like my fried food to be burned, Jess. The way my mother always cooked it.” Our waitress, who I’m certain didn’t understand him anyway, smiled and bowed.

  “Jessica, why didn’t you ring me up immediately to tell me what happened?”

  “I’m not sure. It wasn’t that I intended to keep it from you. I just preferred to tell you in person.”

  We talked of other things during dinner. It was over tea, and orange slices garnished with cherries, that I mentioned my confrontation with Ellie Steffer’s godmother in the lobby of the St. Francis.

  “That settles it,” he said.

  “Settles what?”

  “You’re moving tonight to the Mark Hopkins. I’ll arrange for a room on my floor. You mustn’t be in a hotel alone, not with the enemies you seem to have developed here in San Francisco.” He spoke with finality, as if what he’d said wasn’t open to discussion, and finished his beer.

  “George,” I said, “I appreciate your concern. Believe me, the moment I feel I’m in jeopardy, I’ll move. Right next door to you. In the meantime, I prefer to stay put. They’ve given me the most magnificent suite. The staff is bending over backward to make my stay comfortable. Unless there’s some dramatic reason for leaving, I prefer to stay put.”

  “Almost being pushed off the Golden Gate doesn’t qualify as a dramatic reason?”

  “Enough so to keep me off the bridge. But my suite and the hotel are perfectly safe.”

  “Then, I’ll move to your hotel.”

  “You can’t do that. You have the conference to consider. No, we’ll leave things just as they are. For the moment.”

  “You’re a dour woman, Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Dour? I don’t consider myself morose.”

  “You aren’t. You’re dour. A misconception about the Scottish language. Dour. Stubborn.”

  “That I can accept.”

  “Care for an after-dinner drink before I see you safely back to your hotel? Some silki perhaps?”

  I smiled. “It’s saki, George. Saki. Not silki. And no thank you. I’ve had quite enough to drink for one day.”

  We took a cab to the St. Francis, and he escorted me to my suite. The moment I opened the door, I knew something was amiss. Lights were on that I was certain I’d turned off. The TV was playing.

  “Hello?” I called.

  George’s five senses were instantly on alert. “Stay here, Jess,” he said. He slowly approached the living room. “Who’s here?” he barked.

  I came up behind him and saw a man slowly get up from a wing chair that faced the television set.

  “Detective Josephs!”

  “ ’Evening, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “How did you
get in here?” George asked.

  “I asked. The badge helped. How the hell are you, George?” Josephs came across the room, his hand extended.

  “Do I know you?” George asked.

  “Of course you do. Walt Josephs. San Fran P.D.”

  George shook his hand. “I think I remember,” he said. “Some conference a few years back.”

  “Right on.”

  “I still would like to know how—no, why you’re here, Detective Josephs,” I said.

  I picked up the ringing phone. “Mrs. Fletcher, Roy Kramer. Assistant manager.”

  “Yes Mr. Kramer?”

  “About the detective in your suite. We tried to dissuade him from entering, but he seemed to have official police business. I’ve checked his credentials with police headquarters, and they’re in order. He said he could get a warrant if I insisted. I just felt that it was more prudent to—”

  “No need to explain, Mr. Kramer. I would have done the same thing. But thank you for your concern.”

  When I hung up, Josephs said, “I found out something today I thought you’d be interested in knowing, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Such as?”

  “I hope you don’t think I’m pushy or anything, but I helped myself to a drink from your bar. I’m off duty. Happy to pay for it. Can I get you something, George?”

  “I suggest you tell Mrs. Fletcher what it is you’ve come here to tell her, and then leave, Detective. She’s had a long day and is quite fatigued.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know that. I hope you’re not too tired to read my book, though.”

  “We can discuss that later,” I said.

  We all took seats before Josephs, remnants of his drink in his hand, said, “Remember that guy you mentioned to me? Brett Pearl?”

  “The illustrator who worked on the books with Kimberly Steffer. Yes, I remember.”

  “And you know about the guy who went off the bridge today.”

  “I was in your office when you received the call.”

  “Seems they’re one in the same.”

  “Oh, my. You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. His father confirmed the identity down at the morgue.”

  “A suicide?” George asked.

  A shrug from Josephs. “The verdict’s out on that.”

  “Meaning there’s the possibility this Mr. Pearl was pushed off the bridge.”

  “Right on, George. A good possibility. We had a witness call this afternoon. Wouldn’t identify herself, but she said she saw a struggle on the bridge about the time Pearl must have gone over.”

  “An anonymous witness?” George said.

  “Just one witness?” I asked.

  “So far. Like in your case, Mrs. Fletcher, having lots of people around doesn’t mean anybody sees anything—or wants to talk about it.”

  “Brett Pearl’s death occurred shortly after the attempt on my life. Do you think it might have been the same person who tried to kill me?”

  Another shrug. “Could be. But I’ll tell you this. If that’s the case, you’re one strong lady. Not to mention lucky.”

  “How I successfully defended myself is an enigma, even to me,” I said.

  Josephs laughed. “Hey, you’re in California, Mrs. Fletcher. Must have been the power of positive thinking that saved you. We’re big into that out here. Mind over matter. A carrot juice once a day also helps. And plenty of sprouts.”

  “Or that dreadful sushi,” said George.

  “Do you have any suspects?” I asked.

  Josephs shook his head. “None, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could give us more information. Like, maybe you’ve remembered something else about what happened.” His eyes were hopeful.

  My blank look burst his bubble. “I’m afraid I haven’t had any flashbacks,” I said. “Or psychic experiences, for that matter.” My attempt at humor wasn’t appreciated.

  “Well, it was worth a shot,” he said, finishing his drink. “I know one thing.”

  “Which is?” George asked.

  “Some nut is running around San Fran pushing people off bridges. He’s one for two. This guy Pearl didn’t have his daily carrot juice like you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I intend to start drinking it from this moment on,” I said. “You said Brett Pearl’s father identified the body.”

  “Right.”

  “Would you be good enough to give me his address and phone number?”

  “Sure. I don’t have it with me. Give me a call at the office in the morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You can tell me then what publisher you think should publish my novel.”

  “Tell you what, Detective Josephs,” I said. “Instead of calling you, I’ll come by your office and spend a few hours looking at the Kimberly Steffer files. We can talk about your book then.”

  “Yeah. Okay. I can arrange that. Make it eleven.”

  “I’ll be there on the button.”

  As Josephs was leaving the suite, George Sutherland caught up with him at the door. I smiled as I heard him say, “Two things, Detective Josephs: One, you owe Mrs. Fletcher for the drink. Two, don’t ever enter her room again without her prior permission.”

  “Hey, lighten up, George.”

  “I believe the drink is five dollars.”

  “Five dollars? I had a thimble full.”

  “Five dollars.”

  Josephs handed him the money.

  “And did I make myself clear about not entering her room?”

  Josephs laughed. It was forced. “You Scotch are some strange breed.”

  “Scotch is a whiskey, Detective. I am Scottish. A Scotsman. Good evening.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Considering everything that had happened to me that day, I slept peacefully and awoke rested. I dressed in my favorite jumpsuit, a subtle pink affair, and sneakers. After a bountiful breakfast of eggs, bacon, sourdough bread, and fresh-squeezed orange juice at New Dawn, a café touted to me by Camille Inken as having the city’s best breakfast, I waited on the comer for the Powell—Hyde Line cable car to rumble to a stop. I hadn’t taken a cable-car ride in years. My destination was unclear. But that’s the beauty of San Francisco’s cable cars. You pay your fare and can jump on and off at random (especially if you’re wearing a jumpsuit). I purchased a ticket that allowed me unlimited transfers for a three-hour period. Just in case I decided to keep riding until it was time for my eleven o’clock meeting with Detective Josephs.

  I’d managed to read most of his partially completed manuscript before falling asleep, and finished it over breakfast. To be kind, it was dreadful. I never knew so many four-letter words existed in our language. The most popular of obscenities seemed to be used as an adjective for every other word in the text.

  My reaction to what he’d written posed a dilemma for me, one that I’ve assiduously tried to avoid throughout my professional life. Agreeing to read what someone else has written places a large burden on the reader. What if you don’t like it? What do you say? I’ve come up with a standard reply, so to speak, that combines gentleness with honesty. But it’s awkward, at best.

  Especially, when you want something in return, in this case sustained time with the Kimberly Steffer files at MPD. That necessitated being less than honest with Detective Josephs. Calculating on my part? Absolutely. But as my darling deceased father was fond of saying, “Necessity is the mother of invention.” I’d be gently honest with Josephs after perusing the files. Until then, I’d be creative in how I deflected his questions about my response to his manuscript.

  And so armed with my MUNI San Francisco Street and Transit Map in case I got lost, I set out for a few hours of happy cable-car sight-seeing.

  Yesterday’s ripple of heat that seemed to surprise the natives was still with us. But nothing like what I’d left back home in Cabot Cove. The newspaper and the TV weathermen reported that the insufferable heat over the Eastern Seaboard, held in place by stationary high pressure near Bermuda—a classic �
��Bermuda High”—had broken all records, not only for temperatures, but for the length of time it had gripped the region. Compared to Maine, Northern California’s minor-league heat wave was winter-like. The humidity was low, and the sun disappeared frequently behind a collage of puffy clouds.

  San Francisco is one of those rare cities that looks as good up close as it does from hundreds of feet above while making a final approach into San Francisco International Airport. Adding to the city’s natural physical attractiveness is its people. They seem to mirror the rough-and-tumble, freewheeling history of the city, its gold rush days, its open society that has kept it in the forefront of social change. San Francisco’s citizens also, it seems to me, reflect the sort of happiness that comes with living in a physically beautiful place.

  I held on tight as I hung off the steps of the cable car. We came into another stop, where a knot of tourists, heavy video cameras swinging from their necks and pulling their heads forward, waited to board. To my surprise, I saw a familiar face in the crowd. Camille Inken spotted me at the same time, and her face lit up with a large smile. She climbed on next to me. “Jessica! What a surprise,” she said, managing to give me a hug before the car lurched forward. “I’ve been wondering how you’ve been doing. In fact, I left a message on your voice mail a little bit ago. I would have called sooner, but I knew you were anxious for some R and R, and didn’t need intrusions.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “Sorry I missed your call this morning. I got an early start. I had breakfast at a marvelous small restaurant. The coffee they serve is out of this world. The guidebooks are right. You folks here take your coffee as seriously as your Napa Valley wines.”

  “You should have called me,” Camille said. “I would have joined you. I didn’t have any breakfast plans.”

  “Actually, it was a last-minute decision. The dining room at the hotel is excellent, but I wanted to get out in the city, eat where the locals do.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I called this morning for several reasons. Besides wondering how you were doing on your mini-holiday, I wanted to ask a favor.”

  “Oh?”