Martinis and Mayhem (12 page)

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.”

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?”

“I don’t want to put you on the spot, although I suppose that’s exactly what I’m doing. Don’t feel bad if you want to say ‘no.’ ”

“Okay.”

“I have a niece, Rhet, of whom I’m very fond. We have a close, loving relationship. Anyway, she’s a sophomore in high school, and believe it or not, she’s interested in going into public relations, or something along those lines. Her high school is pretty progressive. It actually has a class in PR, and Rhet’s enrolled in it. One of the things required of her is to coordinate a mock event. I took her to dinner last night because I had to review a god-awful place called ‘What’s to Eat?’ outside of Sausalito, for a new publication, a local parents’ newspaper. It’s one of those restaurants kids love and parents hate. It’s been around awhile.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” I said, making a mental note to pursue it further with Camille at a later date. Maybe she picked up on something I’d missed, especially if she got to meet Mark Steffer’s former partner, Bob Frederickson.

“Anyway,” Camille continued, “the place is too young even for Rhet, but I think she secretly enjoyed it. The reason I mention it to you, Jessica, is that during dinner, Rhet asked me for some help in her assignment. I had the brilliant idea that maybe she could coordinate an appearance by you at her school. I know you’re only in town for another couple of days, and I told her this. She said she could work fast to set it up. She’s a real mover and shaker.”

“PR in her blood,” I said.

Camille laughed, and shrugged.

“Say no more,” I said. “I’ll do it. I always enjoy helping young people get started in their careers.”

As the cable car slowed down, Camille said, “My stop. Jessica, you’re wonderful. I’ll make it up to you. How about dinner tonight? I’ve got an assignment to review another restaurant. It’s been around for a long time, too, but hasn’t been reviewed for a while. It just went through a renovation. I always bring guests. All the more people to try different dishes. I’d love it if you could make it. Won’t you say yes?”

I didn’t hesitate to accept her invitation. George Sutherland was committed to dinner with colleagues. He’d asked me to join them but I’d declined, although we did arrange to touch base later in the evening.

“I’d love to, Camille. I don’t have any plans.”

“Reservations are at seven-thirty. I’ll pick you up at the hotel at seven.”

I watched as Camille nimbly hopped off and walked down the street, her stride strong and purposeful, a professional woman knowing where she was going, and how to get there. Her life, it appeared to me, revolved around her career, as it does with so many women these days. I was happy she had a loving relationship with her niece to balance things a bit.

I was flattered to be asked to do her niece a favor. But then it occurred to me that I’d have to speak to her high school class about
something
. What would that be? I knew one thing. I would not talk about journal writing. The last thing I needed was for some prepubescent teenager’s diary to be planted in my bag.

 

I was having so much fun riding the cable cars around town that I almost forgot my appointment with Detective Josephs. I ran into police headquarters at five past eleven and asked the officer at the lobby desk for him. He phoned Josephs. “Third floor, ma’am,” he said.

Josephs was waiting when the elevator doors opened. “Hello, there, Mrs. Fletcher. I was beginning to wonder whether you’d forgotten.”