Martinis and Mayhem (22 page)

“I have to admit I am. Not that there’s any reason for you not to have dinner with Bobby McCormick. But he is, after all, the reporter who followed the Kimberly Steffer trial so closely. I would have thought—”

He raised his eyebrows into question marks, something I’m physically unable to do.

“I would have thought that you’d have told me of your plans to be with him.” Was I sounding irrational?

His only response was to nod, which said he was waiting to hear what else I had to say.

“George, please don’t misunderstand. I’m not implying that you have any obligation to keep me informed of your whereabouts. But it was Bobby McCormick you had dinner with. You know how interested I’d be in that. And, I must admit, I can’t help but wonder why I wasn’t invited.”

George sipped his cappuccino, and so did I. We’d decided to linger in Ghirardelli Square and had replenished our coffees.

“Well?” I said.

He smiled. “Jessica, I know exactly how you feel. And maybe I was insensitive to your needs in this regard. It is your case, this Kimberly Steffer matter.”

“I’m not claiming proprietary interest, George.”

“I know you’re not. The truth is, I needed to learn some things to help you, to help
us,
with this case. I thought Mr. McCormick would open up more to me—than to you.”

“Guy talk?” I asked.

George laughed.

I couldn’t help but join in. “Okay,” I said. “I’m not nearly as upset as I probably appeared. Let’s just forget it.” Which I hoped he wouldn’t do.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Jessica.”

“Why?” I asked, pleased.

“I’m happy to tell you why. After a couple of glasses of Glenlivet—by God, that stuff is good; if it weren’t such a bloody fortune back home—I convinced Mr. McCormick to run another story about Kimberly. Sort of a follow-up.”

“A follow-up? Based upon what? Reporters usually don’t resurrect an old story unless there’s a new angle.”

“Ah, but there is.”

“Me?” I asked. “Because I’m involved?”

“No, dear lady.
Me.”

“You? What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that he is going to write that I, a high-ranking Scotland Yard inspector, have decided that Miss Kimberly Steffer has been wrongly

accused of the murder of her husband. Not only that, the article will point out that I am in San Francisco to prove her innocence to the world.”

“You are?”

“I am as far as the readers of Mr. McCormick’s newspaper are concerned. And, hopefully, find the real murderer.”

“I—”

“Most important, Jessica, it will take the focus off you. I’ve been worried about what happened to you on the bridge that morning. I don’t think it was coincidental. But McCormick’s story might make whoever is after you realize they’re after the wrong man—the wrong woman. I’m the one they should have tried to push off the Golden Gate Bridge. I want to expedite things. I feel we’re close, yet so far from getting to the truth. I can taste it. Hopefully, someone—
the
someone responsible for Mark Steffer’s death—will take the bait and try to get rid of this snoopy Scotsman. If it works—bingo! That is the correct American expression, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“Now, if I’d told you about my plan before meeting with Mr. McCormick, you’d surely have tried to talk me out of it. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“No. You’re right. I’ll even admit that I like your scheme. I see why you’re held in such high regard. A veritable Sherlock Holmes.”

“And you, Jessica? My Dr. Watson?”

“Pleased to be.”

He lifted his almost empty, foam-rimmed, oversize cappuccino mug to mine. “To the new firm of Sutherland and Fletcher. Or Fletcher and Sutherland. Whichever you prefer. Cheers.”

“Cheers. Now what, Mr. Holmes?”

“Let’s see. I presume Mr. Bobby McCormick has already filed his story, hopefully in time for today’s late edition. I suggest we sit tight, just as we are. Enjoy the sunshine and this pretty city. I have a few hours of work to log, and a series of faxes to get off to Scotland Yard before the day escapes me. Your plans?”

“I was going to the San Francisco Zen Center. I understand they have a fabulous restaurant there. Greens, it’s called. The views across the bay to the Golden Gate are breathtaking, according to Camille. Not up your alley, though, George. Strictly vegetarian.”

“Then, I won’t feel deprived not accompanying you. My only concern is having you out of my sight. Why not invite Camille to join you?”

“Don’t be silly, George. Not much can happen in broad daylight.”

“As I recall, your incident on the bridge didn’t happen at midnight.”

“Beside the point. I’m looking forward to lunching by myself today.”

“Then, take this.” He handed me a beeper.

“Beep me at some point just to check in,” he said. “If it goes off, you’ll know I’m beeping you, since I’m the only one who knows your number. Go immediately to a phone and call the number that you read on the beeper. That’s where I can be reached. Your beeper number, by the way, is three-three-four. My number is five-seven-eight. Beep me if you need help, or just want to talk.”

“I’ll feel like a doctor. Or a drug dealer.”

“A thin line between them at times. Let’s meet back at the hotel for afternoon tea at four.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

George eyed the bag containing the wig Ellie had given me. “What do you make of that?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“Want me to take it back with me to the hotel?”

I was about to say yes but changed my mind. “No, that’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just put it in here.” I shoved the plastic supermarket bag into my dependable fake Chanel bag that I’d been lugging around San Francisco since arriving. Inside was also Kimberly’s diary; I wanted to read portions of it again over lunch in the hope of something jumping out at me from the page. Some overlooked clue, some sudden insight that would help put the pieces of the puzzle together.

We shared a cab; first stop, the Zen Center at Fort Mason, originally a depot for war supplies to the Pacific during World War II. The monstrous, three-story, yellow-stucco building housed several small museums, as well as the restaurant, Greens. I watched as the cab pulled away to take him back to the hotel.

The Zen Center was a bit too esoteric for me. I quickly walked through two of the four museums, stopping to admire little. Fortunately, it was already lunchtime. The contemporary artwork gracing the walls of Greens was far more pleasing to my eye than what I’d seen in the museums. So was the splendid view from my waterside table. I ordered a mineral water and lentil salad, took out Kimberly’s diary, and read the page to which I happened to open first.

 

 

I stuffed the diary into the bag, took out the blond wig, and looked it over until finding a label. Written on it were a series of numbers, and HOUSE OF WIGS: SAUSALITO.

 

 

Bingo!

I thought of George and smiled. Should I beep him to let him know of my whereabouts? Instead, I paid the check, and bounced down the stairs to the street where I found a cab idling.

“You wouldn’t know where the House of Wigs is would you?” I asked enthusiastically as I opened the door to the cab.

“Yes, ma’am,” the driver sang. “The Sausalito Mall. Been driving these streets twenty-four years.” I immediately liked him, not to mention the fact that something told me I was about to hit gold.

The Wonderful World of Wigs was a more elegant shop than its overblown name suggested. It sat along with a hundred other shops and stores, some small, some large, in the Sausalito Mall, which looked like any other mall except that it was in California. Everything looks different in California.

I looked in the window at the display of wigs on white plastic heads, the heads looking like hard-boiled eggs. There was no one else in the shop, so I went in: “No, thank you,” I said in response to an offer of help from a middle-aged woman with a Dolly Parton blond hairdo that I assumed was a wig, not because it looked like one but because she worked in a wig store. That sort of reasoning would never hold up in court.

“Just browsing,” I said pleasantly, perusing the dozens of wigs on display. Mirrors. everywhere flashed my image back at me from myriad angles.

After a few minutes, the clerk—was she the owner? I wondered—said, “Sure I can’t be of help?”

“Well, maybe you can,” I said. “But I’m not in the market for a wig. I’m interested in this one.” I opened my bag, pulled out the wig Ellie Steffer had given me that morning, and handed it to her.

“What about it?” she asked.

“I suppose the first question I have is whether this particular wig was purchased at this store.”

“Oh, yes. It has our label sewn into it. See?” She pointed to it.

“Of course,” I said. “Silly of me not to have noticed.”

“Is there something wrong with it?” she asked.

I was tempted to comment that it might have been worn by a murderer. Instead, I replied, “Not at all. It’s a lovely blond wig. You wouldn‘t—I suppose you wouldn’t—”

“Your face is familiar.”

“Oh?”

She snapped her fingers a few times, and screwed up her face. “Jessica Fletcher. The mystery writer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What a pleasure.” She extended her hand.

“Thank you,” I said, taking it.

“What did you want? You said I probably wouldn’t have something.” Before I could respond, she added, “Anything you want, Mrs. Fletcher. Just name it. I’ve read some of your books. They’re wonderful. You’re wonderful.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“I read about what happened to you on the bridge. Terrible. So many sickos running around these days. Business is down here because women are afraid to go to malls. Not that we have many problems at this one. It’s very well run. But still—”

“You wouldn’t by chance have a record of when this wig was purchased?” I asked. “And by whom?”

“I think I can get that information for you. We’re a service-oriented store. It’s the only way to stay in business. Give service. We keep careful records on all our customers. It’s all in our computer. Don’t know what we’d do without the computer. We used to keep records by hand until we—”

“I’d really appreciate it,” I said. “I don’t have much time.”

“Just give me a minute, and I’ll look it up for you.”

I followed her to the rear of the store where the computer sat on a small neat desk. She keyed in some entries, and a series of sales records filled the screen. “See?” she said. “Each wig we sell is identified by a serial number we assign.” She leaned close and peered at the screen, one finger on a key that caused the records to flow vertically. “Let me see that again.”

I handed her the wig I’d brought with me.

“Oh, yes. Here we are. The number on this wig is four-ten.” She continued scanning files until stopping at the one she’d sought. “That’s funny,” she said.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

She looked up at me. “This is wrong. According to our records, number four-ten is a shoulder-length blond wig.”

My heart skipped a beat. My supposition was moving closer to reality.

“Wait a minute,” she said. She took the wig in her hand and ran her fingers through it, stopping to inspect a few individual strands of hair. “This wig has been cut,” she said. “It’s easy to see if you look closely. In its original state, when it was sold, it was shoulder-length blond. This wig has been cut shorter.”

“Do your records indicate who purchased this wig?” I asked.

She returned her attention to the computer screen. “I’ll need to pull up another file,” she said. “Here we go. WIG NUMBER FOUR-TEN. AMERICAN EXPRESS. ROBERT FREDERICKSON.”

I said nothing.

“Do you know Mr. Frederickson?” she asked.