Martinis and Mayhem (2 page)

“Weather’s got you in a foul mood,” I said, taking a glass from a cabinet.

“Can’t expect much otherwise,” he said. “Put plenty of ice in it. Can’t get much that’s worthwhile done in this weather. My damn uniform is stickin’ to me like it was glue. Already got that damn heat rash all over my chest. Run out of the medicine Dr. Hazlitt gave me. I’m itchin’ like a thousand no-see-ums got under my shirt.”

“Here you go, Mort. A nice glass of cold water with plenty of ice.”

“Much obliged.”

“Will I see you at lunch? Seth said he’d be over about noon.”

“Will the tea be ready by then?” he asked in the same sort of serious tone used when reading someone his rights.

“Yes.”

‘Then, you can count on me bein’ here, Jess. Can’t miss your goin’-away lunch, can I?”

“Or my iced tea.”

He drained his glass and stood. “Well, got to be running along. Damn car’ll overheat if I hit traffic. Got tourists all over the place. Think they’d stay home in this kind of weather. Car’s been actin’ up lately. Got a radiator problem.”

“Not a good thing for a police car,” I said, walking him to the door.

“These tourists buzz around in their cars with their air conditioners goin’ full-blast. A fella would think they’d melt without their AC. Thanks for the water, Jess. See you later.”

I watched him get into his car and curse under his breath as he touched the hot steering wheel. Nothing like a heat wave to bring out the worst in people, I thought.

And nothing like a trip to breezy San Francisco to get away from it.

 

“This is, hands down, the best iced tea I’ve ever had, Jess,” said Seth Hazlitt, physician and friend of long-standing. He’d approached the mug of amber liquid as if he were tasting fine wine. First he breathed in its aroma, then gently swished it around in the mug before ingesting a small amount with an audible slurp. He allowed the tea to linger, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to go all the way with his tasting ritual, which would have dictated spitting the tea out rather than swallowing it. The only handy “spittoon” was a bucket of ice I’d placed on the table. He spared me that.

“Lovely lookin’ lunch,” he said, taking in the platter of cold cuts and assorted salads.

“Leave room for dessert,” I said. “Sherbert and fresh fruit salad.”

As we ate, talk turned to my trip to San Francisco.

“How long will you be there?” Seth asked, refilling his plate with Virginia ham and shrimp salad, and taking another piece of crusty fresh-baked French bread from Sassi’s Bakery.

“About a week. It’ll be a busy one. I’ve got a full schedule of book signings, cocktail receptions, and publicity meetings. I’ve also committed myself to the Women’s Correctional Facility outside San Francisco.”

Mort put down his large mug of iced tea and asked, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Writing,” I said. “I’ll be speaking to some of the inmates about writing.”

Seth winked at me and threw Mort a smile.

“Makes sense, I suppose,” he said.

“Apropos,” Seth said. “Can’t think of a better place to be discussin’ how to write murder mysteries.”

“That’s not what I’ll be talking about exactly,” I said. “Actually, I’m going to focus on journal writing. You know, writing about feelings, drawing from personal events and experiences.”

“How come?” Mort asked.

“Because I truly believe in prison reform. Journal writing could be an important part of that reform. Sometimes you never know you have certain feelings about something until you see them in black and white, on paper.”

“I suppose,” said Mort, reluctantly. “Only it seems to me, we try to do too much rehabilitatin’ and not enough punishin’.”

“Two ways to look at it,” said Seth.

And a debate was launched over the role of prisons. I used the opportunity to clear the table, and to pack a few more things. When I returned from the bedroom, a truce had been called and the conversation was back to less controversial subjects.

“I was toyin’ with the idea of goin’ to Frisco myself this weekend,” Mort said.

“Really?” I said.

“ ’Course, it’s too late now. Had to sign up for the seminar a month or two ago.”

“And what seminar would that be?” Seth asked.

“On law enforcement. Sponsored by the FBI. All the big shots will be there. Sort of an annual thing. I went to it once, about five years ago. Down in Houston, Texas. Learned an awful lot, and the parties were pretty good. Haven’t been back, though. Haven’t been able to get away.”

“I remember when you went,” I said. “Did you say it’s sponsored by the FBI?”

“Yup.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “I wonder if my friend George Sutherland will be attending?”

Mort and Seth exchanged looks. “Friend?” Seth said, pixie in his voice and smugness on his round face.

“Yes,
friend,”
I said.

“Why not give him a call,” Mort suggested. “Find out.”

“I think I will,” I said.
“After
you’re both on your way.”

George Sutherland was, indeed, a friend, although I’d be less than honest not to admit that I sometimes wished our relationship would blossom beyond simple friendship. I’d never expressed this to Mort and Seth, but they knew. My tone of voice, I suppose, when speaking of George; and my tendency to talk too much about him. All those telltale signs that people who know you well pick up on.

We met in London a few years ago. I was addressing a conference of mystery writers, and staying with an old and dear friend and colleague, Marjorie Ainsworth. At that time Marjorie was the reigning queen of the mystery genre. Tragically, she was murdered in her mansion while I was a houseguest, and I ended up being dragged into solving her murder. That’s when George Sutherland entered my life.

George is an inspector for Scotland Yard, in London. He’s Scottish by birth, his family having come from the northern town of Wick. He’s urbane, handsome, charming, and displays a quick wit. Ooops. There I go again waxing poetic about him.

You might think in listening to me—Seth and Mort certainly do—that I’ve fallen in love with George Sutherland. That isn’t true. Nor does he love me. We don’t know each other well enough for that to have happened.

But we do have a strong, and mutual respect and liking for each other. And we both know—and I realize I’m speaking for him—that were we to decide to explore whether our relationship might move to another plateau, the chances are good that it would make that leap.

For now, Inspector George Sutherland and mystery writer Jessica Fletcher were content to keep in touch across the vast Atlantic Ocean by letter and by phone. Good friends. Nothing more.

“Mort, do you have information on when and where the law enforcement seminar is being held?” I asked.

“I think I saved the invitation. I get one every year. I’ll look for it when I get back to the office and give you a call.”

 

“Hello. This is Jessica Fletcher. I wonder if you could help me. I’m curious if ...”

“The mystery writer?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, boy. My wife won’t believe this.”

“I’ll write a letter if that will help.”

“You will? That’d be great.”

“I was curious whether an old friend of mine will be attending the conference next week. His name is Sutherland. Inspector George Sutherland of Scotland Yard, London.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, Mrs. Fletcher. Inspector Sutherland usually attends every year. By the way, my name’s Ted Wilcox. Special Agent, FBI, San Francisco office. I’m in charge of registration for the conference.”

“It’s a pleasure to talk to you, Agent Wilcox.”

“Would you like to register, Mrs. Fletcher? It’s been closed for a few weeks, but for you I’d be happy to make an exception.”

“Oh, no, no. I’ll be in San Francisco next week and thought I’d look Inspector Sutherland up. We— we were involved together in a case in London a few years ago.”

“Sounds interesting. Want me to leave a message for him on our message board?”

“Not necessary. I’ll catch up with him when I can. My schedule is going to be insane. Thanks again.”

“No problem, Mrs. Fletcher. I love your books.”

I thanked him, hung up, and smiled. What a pleasant surprise it would be to see George again. I did wonder why he hadn’t called to tell me he’d be in the United States. I’m sure he had his reasons. No matter. The trip to San Francisco was looking better all the time.

“Can I get you a drink, Mrs. Fletcher?”

I don’t consider myself an extravagant person, but I do love to fly first-class. Not only is the service better—here we were still on the ground and I was already being asked if I wanted a drink—but I always experience less jet lag after flying up-front. Maybe it’s psychological, but the more pleasant the trip is, the less problem I have adjusting to the time difference and its effect upon my circadian body rhythms.

“That would be lovely. A Perrier with lime.”

The drink was welcome because the cabin was stuffy. I browsed the in-flight magazine, wanting to order everything advertised in it, skimmed that morning’s
Boston Globe
provided by the flight attendant, considered dragging my new toy, a Compac Contura laptop computer, from beneath the seat in front of me but decided work could wait, and chose instead to begin reading a book I’d brought along. I clumsily dug it out from my oversize Chanel-spin-off black bag, and read the complimentary comments about the book on the front and back covers provided by other authors. The book was called
Scarlet Sins,
and was written by an old friend, Neil Schwartz. Everyone seems to be old friends of mine these days, both in age and duration of friendship.

Neil and I shared a special relationship, having both lost spouses in the same month. I’d drawn a lot of strength from his friendship during that time. Without him, my mourning and healing processes might have been even more painful, and gone on a lot longer.

We’d spent many afternoons and evenings together. So many, in fact, that people began to talk. We shared memorable dinners on those first long, frigid Maine winter nights when I would still automatically set the table for two.

But soon, as often happens, time took its course, and our co-dependent relationship—no negative connotation—began to fade, aided by Neil’s announcement one evening at dinner that he was moving back to his roots in Wisconsin where his daughter and grandchildren lived. We kept in touch, but it wasn’t the same.

Then, last week, this copy of his book arrived, inscribed to me by Neil:
“To my dear friend Jessica Fletcher, whose only crime is in living so many hundreds of miles away.”

Scarlet Sins was a collection of true murder cases. I opened to the first chapter, which was about a British-born woman, Kimberly Steffer, accused of the murder of her husband, Mark Steffer. I certainly recognized her name, and remembered reading bits here and there about the murder, and the subsequent trial at which she was convicted. She’d made a name for herself as the author of children’s books. But not children’s books as we generally think of them. Kimberly Steffer wrote stories centering around children’s causes and issues—poverty, abuse, single-parent households—themes reflecting the reality of the contemporary child’s world.

How sad, I thought, for her to have ended up a convicted murderess. Incredible how very talented people can destroy their lives in the name of love.

For some reason, I didn’t want to read, at least not at that moment, about a famous writer murdering her husband. I’d have to be in a different mood for that. I skipped to the next murder case covered in Neil’s book and began reading.

The case in Chapter Two was familiar to me, thanks to network television movies based upon the incident. It was the story of two brothers serving life sentences for having killed their sister. The three siblings were actually triplets. The boys’ defense lawyers claimed during their separate trials that their triplet sister was the one who’d been spared years of physical and sexual abuse heaped upon the brothers by their parents. They said she’d repeatedly threatened them that if they went to the authorities to tell of the abuse, she’d deny that it ever happened. Without her corroboration, no one would believe them.

I closed the book, closed my eyes, and was sadly pondering all the dreadful things that can happen in people’s lives, when we were pushed away from the gate and headed for an active runway. I was glad no one sat next to me because as I looked out the small window at the steam rising from the ground, at the barren strips of runway, with half-dead weeds and dandelions, I thought of my dead husband and started to cry softly. It had been a long time since I cried for him. I didn’t fight it. I knew that it was all part of the process, and probably long overdue.

My tears stopped as the captain applied maximum thrust and we rolled down the runway. Moments later we were airborne and climbing to our announced cruising altitude. I freshened up in a lavatory, returned to my seat, opened my laptop, and went to work. I needed to think about things less gruesome than brothers killing sisters and wives killing husbands, something light like the outline for my next murder mystery. At least it’s fiction. The blood isn’t real, although I always try to make it sound as though it is.

I napped after lunch. As I dozed off, I thought of Neil Schwartz, of his book, and of the support we’d found in each other after the death of our respective spouses.