Martinis and Mayhem (16 page)

“Ready?” asked George, a broad smile on his tanned, handsome face. He wore a Harris tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, tan twill slacks, shirt and tie, and sported a red scarf wrapped casually about his neck in the fashion of 1930s open cockpit aviators. His face was like that of a veteran pilot, too, deeply creased from having squinted for too many hours into a strong sun. His sunglasses had brown lenses, and gold wire frames.

I’d chosen to wear what I’d worn on my first jaunt across the bridge, ivory cable-knit sweater, sweatpants, sneakers, and red, white, and blue windbreaker.

“Yes,” I said, trying to force my voice to sound confident. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then, off we go.”

He set a quick pace—George was an avid walker back in London, always opting to use foot power rather than riding the double-decker buses, or using the city’s famed black taxicabs. I huffed and puffed initially to keep up, but soon fell into his rhythm. The bright, warm sun polished my skin, the wind kissed my face. A feeling of euphoria came over me; the smile on my face was involuntary and pleased. Like the first time on the bridge.

We slowed our pace. George walked almost sideways so that he could admire the view as he went. I had trouble looking anywhere but straight ahead. I was afraid that if I looked out over the railing, I’d panic and have to call off our walk.

“Hard to imagine that one earthquake, one tremor, could wipe out all this beauty,” George said into the wind.

“Not a pleasant contemplation,” I replied, aware that the bridge was probably the worst place to be if an earthquake hit.

“Takes a bit of courage to live out here,” he said.

“Depends on your philosophy,” I said. “It’s a perfect place for fatalists.”

“Are you a fatalist, Jessica?”

“To an extent. I believe in taking charge of one’s life. I don’t believe in luck. I think we make our own luck. On the other hand, there are things beyond our control.”

“Like an earthquake.”

“Like an earthquake.”

“Love?”

“Love? I’ll have to think about that.”

I started walking again. George caught up, and we continued at a leisurely gait.

“Jessica, I’ve been thinking,” he said, grabbing my arm and bringing us to a halt.

I swallowed hard. My heart skipped. My legs felt weak. We’d reached the halfway point of our walk. We were mere yards from where I’d nearly been pushed off the bridge. I looked down to the glistening water and small boats bobbing about. It came back to me with the force of a horse’s hoof to my stomach. I shuddered.

“Are you all right?” George asked. He saw that I wasn’t, and embraced me.

“Look,” he said. “The view is beautiful. Take a peek. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I lifted my head slowly. Secure in the comfort of his strong arms, I turned to share his view of San Francisco’s breathtaking skyline.

“From this vantage point, Jessica, everything seems possible. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Let’s continue,” I said.

“No. Let’s stay here for a moment and talk.”

“About?”

“At this lovely moment, I wish to say that I enjoy your company more than anyone I know. More than any woman I’ve met since my wife died. I think you are a wonderful woman, Jessica. I do hope you know that.”

He looked down into my eyes and smiled.

“Well, I certainly know it now,” I said, “although I must admit I had a hunch about it the past few days.”

“I suppose I have made it obvious,” he said. “Not very subtle, I’m afraid.”

I laughed. “Oh, no, George, a lot more subtle than most men I know. And I think you are very special, too. I trust
you
know that.”

“I’d hoped you’d felt that way. What I’m getting at, Jessica, is that I think we should—”

“What
I
think, George, is that we’d better finish our walk and get off this bridge before there
is
an earthquake.” I realized my comment could have been taken two ways. I also knew that he wouldn’t make something of the second, corny interpretation.

He said, “Not so fast. We have precious few moments to talk like this. This is perfect. We’re surrounded by beauty. We’re alone. Well, sort of alone. And I haven’t finished saying what I wish to say.”

I waited.

“I’ve been thinking—Ms. Inken firmed my resolve last night—I’ve been thinking that it’s time for you to visit me in Scotland.”

“And I’d love that.”

“Loving the idea, and acting upon it are two very different things, Jessica. I want you to make a commitment to come to Wick, and to stay in my family home for a few weeks. You could come for the Christmas holidays. Wick might not offer the same sort of festivities as your Cabot Cove, but it has its own special way of celebrating.”

“I don’t think I could be away from home at Christmas,” I said.

“I seem to remember you recently spent a fateful Christmas in New York City.”

He was right. I’d been there a few years ago on a book-promotion tour, and ended up deeply involved in murder and police corruption.

“I assure you Wick will be considerably less turbulent than New York City,” he added.

“I don’t doubt that for a moment.”

A middle-aged couple passed, arm in arm.

“I’d love to visit you in Scotland,” I said.

“Marvelous. I’ll reserve your flight as soon as I return home.”

“Let’s walk,” I said.

We hooked arms and continued in the direction of Marin County. George talked the entire way about what my visit to Wick would entail. Holiday parties with old friends, festive dinners with remaining members of his family, and time in London to take in some theater. The more he talked, the less ambivalent were my feelings about finally agreeing to make the trip. But I had strong mixed emotions. It would undoubtedly be a lovely experience, one I would treasure for the rest of my life. But there was the parallel feeling that to visit him there would force us together faster than I was ready for. Maybe I’d never be ready for another commitment to a man. Although my late husband had died years ago, I still felt a commitment to
him,
not in a ghoulish or warped sense; I was free to meet and marry someone else, literally and psychically. But whether that was in my future plans was something with which I’d not yet chosen to grapple.

We reached the other end of the bridge and walked through a parking lot to an overlook. It wasn’t until we were practically on top of it that I noticed the marked San Francisco MPD squad car.

“Detective Josephs,” I said. He was leaning on the rail looking out over the city and bay.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Inspector.”

George grunted a greeting.

“We must stop meeting like this, Mrs. Fletcher,” Josephs said, tossing George a small smile.

“We just walked across the bridge,” I said.

“Got back on the bike, huh?” said Josephs.

“You might say that. Mind if I ask what you’re doing here? You’re out of your territory.”

“That’s right. Pretty morning. Thought Id drive over and take in the scenery.”

“Anything new on the drowning?” George asked.

“Brett Pearl? No. Sometimes you get a fresh perspective on a case when you look at it from a different angle.”

“From this side of the bridge, instead of the other?” I said.

“That’s right, Mrs. Fletcher. Hey, by the way, did you get a chance to have a closer read of my book?”

“No. Sorry to say I haven’t. But I will.”

“Yeah. Well, whenever you get around to it.” He asked George if he was having a good time in San Francisco.

“Very nice, Detective. Mrs. Fletcher is seeing to that.”

“I bet she is.” He returned his attention to the vista of city and sea, saying without looking at us, “We’ve determined that Pearl was pushed to his death between nine-ten and nine-fifteen. His body was discovered at nine-eighteen by a passerby in a boat. Which means he wasn’t down there very long. Just a couple of minutes.” He turned and faced me. “If I remember correctly, Mrs. Fletcher, you came into my office about nine-forty-five, give or take a few minutes. Let’s say for argument’s sake it took you half an hour to get to my office from the bridge. Fifteen minutes to get off the bridge, maybe ten, fifteen minutes in a cab. Add up?”

“Yes.”

“Witnesses place Pearl walking in this direction. Toward Sausalito. The same direction you were headed that morning. I figure he got pushed off at just about the same spot where you almost got it. That means you probably passed him on your way back to city side. Are you following me?”

“Yes, I think so. But I don’t see the relevance of what you’re saying. Suppose I did pass him. What would that mean?”

Josephs shrugged. “Could mean you knew he was going to be there.”

“But I didn’t know he was going to be there. I didn’t know
him.”

“I’ve got somebody says you
did
know him, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“And who might that be?” George asked.

“A confidential source.”

“I assume you’ve heard of the decent concept of allowing citizens to face their accusers,” George said, not trying to disguise his anger.

“Nice concept, George. But when you’re investigating a murder, nice concepts don’t help.”

“Come, Jessica,” George said. “I think we’ve lingered long enough.”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Josephs said. “Did you know that Kimberly Steffer and Brett Pearl had an affair?”

“No, I did not.” Kimberly hadn’t confided that in me. Nor had I read anything about it in her diary.

“How do you know this?” I asked.

“That’s confidential, too, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Jessica,” said George. “Come.”

“You’re a brave soul, Mrs. Fletcher, to be out walking the bridge again. Even with Scotland Yard at your side.”

“Good day, Detective Josephs,” I said.

George was openly angry about the conversation that had transpired. “His tone was accusatory. A thoroughly disagreeable man,” he said as we walked in the direction of the quaint town of Sausalito. “What cheek!”

I laughed to make light of it. “He’s just a type,” I said. “Lacking in bedside manner. Interesting what he said about Kimberly having had an affair with her illustrator, Brett Pearl. I wonder if it’s true.”

“Frankly, I wouldn’t believe anything that man says.”

The Beat generation lives on; at least that’s the impression one gets when strolling the streets of Sausalito. It’s charming in a Bohemian way, although the artists and craftsmen who made the town of seven thousand so popular have pretty much abandoned it in favor of a community of houseboats at the north end. But the physical beauty of the town hasn’t changed, plummeting down from steep hillsides to the gently curving shoreline.

“Reminds me of the Riviera,” George said as we promenaded along the main street.

“I think they call it the Riviera of the West, or something like that,” I said. “Feel like coffee?”

“Very much.”

We entered the Alta Mira Hotel on Bulkley Street and asked if there was a coffee shop. The young woman’s answer was to escort us to a terrace that afforded a spectacular view of the city and bay. She offered us a table. “We’re just having coffee,” I said. “That’s fine,” she said.

“Cappuccino, George?”

“Fine.”

“Two cappuccinos,” I said.

She returned with our coffees, and the day’s newspaper. Neither of us would have bothered reading it, not with the view to enjoy. But there was no way to avoid the headline blaring out from the front page.

ARREST IMMINENT IN BRIDGE MURDER.

 

 

Just below the headline was a head shot of Brett Pearl. It provided my first glimpse of what he looked like—young, dark, brooding doe-like eyes, soft black curly hair.

Only two paragraphs of the story were on Page One; it jumped to an inside page. I read it aloud for George’s benefit.

I handed the paper to George, who continued reading. He gave me a summary as he went.

“The former roommate is a chap named Norman Lana. That’s the chap Ms. Steffer mentioned. She said we should talk to him. Let me see. According to this reporter, an anonymous source—Lord, when will the press stop quoting unattributed sources?—this unnamed source says that this Lana fellow and Pearl had a fight the night before Pearl’s demise. The fight became violent, and police were called to the scene. Lana was brought in for questioning late last night.”

He handed the paper back to me.

The final paragraphs said:
“In
a related incident
involving noted mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, police refuse to speculate whether an attempt to push her off the bridge within minutes of the Pearl incident is, in some way, linked to his death.”

“I wonder why Josephs didn’t mention this to us a few minutes ago,” George said, his face set in a very serious frown.

“I know what I want to do,” I said.

“What’s that?”