Martinis and Mayhem (23 page)

“Yes. He’s an acquaintance. Is it unusual for a man to buy a wig?”

“Oh, no. I’d say our sales are pretty much evenly divided between men and women.”

“Female impersonators?”

“Some. The cast from Finocchio’s and Beach Blanket Babylon are steady customers.”

“I would imagine.”

“But most men who buy wigs are—” She smiled knowingly. ‘They buy them for wives and girl-friends. You know, to change the way they look. To inject some spice, some change in their love-making.”

“I see.”

“I hope this has been helpful, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Oh, you’ve been very helpful Ms.—”

“Warren. June Warren. Say, Mrs. Fletcher, could I ask a favor of you?”

“One favor certainly deserves another,” I replied.

“There’s a bookstore in the mall. Only a few stores down. Your new book is called—?”

“I want to buy a copy and have you autograph it for me.”

“I’d be delighted.”

“You watch the shop. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later I left The Wonderful World of Wigs knowing three things: That Robert Frederickson had bought a blond wig there; that someone had given it a haircut to make it shorter; and that at least one copy of my newest novel had been sold.

That latter fact paled in comparison to the meaning of the first two realities.

“It’s all set with Josephs,” George said, sounding pleased. “He’ll bring Kimberly to the restaurant.”

“Wonderful.”

“Ms. Steffer will be there celebrating her birthday?”

“Yes. Her mother and Nancy Antonio balked at first. But Ellie said they quickly changed their minds after receiving a call from Robert Frederickson.”

“Undoubtedly, telling them I would be there.”

“Undoubtedly.”

 

The plan George Sutherland and I concocted to force Mark Steffer’s killer into the open took shape over a series of meetings spanning a night and a day. We’d met up the evening of my discovery at The Wonderful World of Wigs—that Robert Frederickson had purchased a shoulder-length blond wig there, and that someone had subsequently trimmed it into a shorter version. George’s imagination went into high gear.

He approached the creation of a workable scheme like an architect planning a bridge or skyscraper, or a football coach coming up with an offense for the big game. Come to think of it, he plotted things out the way I do when planning my mystery novels: Charts linking one character with another, events interlocking and leading to an inevitable conclusion.

Of course, I’m able to control the outcome in my books. In the case of Mark Steffer’s murder, George and I could only hope that what we put into play would lead to the conclusion we desired, identifying the real murderer, and by extension proving Kimberly Steffer innocent.

 

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. “Let’s go.”

The doorman whistled us a cab.

“Have you got the wig, Jess?” George asked after we’d settled in the backseat.

“Right here in my bag.” I pulled it out and held it up to ambient light coming through the cab’s window. “How do you think I’ll look as a blond?” I asked.

“As beautiful as with your natural hair,” he replied.

“You should have been a diplomat,” I said, placing the wig on my head and adjusting it by touch.

“Nice,” he said. “But they’ll still know it’s you.”

“I’m sure of that. But seeing me wearing it should set a few teeth on edge.”

He laughed softly. “Of that, I’m sure,” he said. “Oh, yes. Of that, I’m certain.”

We said little else to each other during the ride, and I contented myself with gazing out the window. I was nervous about the confrontation that was about to happen. At the same time, a sense of exhilaration took hold. If things went as planned, the Kimberly Steffer “cause” I’d taken on would be over. Over for Kimberly, over for Ellie Steffer, over for me, and over for George. Of course, I was also aware that I was embarking on another “wig caper”—shades of my New York adventure a few years ago. In that instance, I used a wig to go undetected for enough time to race home to Cabot Cove in search of the answer to a murderous question. Here, in San Francisco, I was wearing it for shock value.

Darkness shrouded the City by the Bay. It glistened through the window, the surrealistic shapes of buildings and neon signs enhanced by a mist that glazed the glass. I was so engrossed in thought, I didn’t realize that George had taken my hand. It felt good.

We sat silently, the rhythm of the wipers on the windshield, the whoosh of tires on wet pavement, our regular breathing and an occasional beep of a horn the only sounds. And then, as if a film director had cued the sound track, Tony Bennett singing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” oozed from rear speakers. Like a scene from an old-fashioned love story, I thought. George squeezed my hand and held it tighter for the rest of the trip.

Eventually, our driver pulled into the parking lot of What’s to Eat?. Precipitation had stopped; our anticipation had dramatically increased.

“George. Look,” I said, pointing to a small white Toyota parked in the first row of cars. Getting out of it were Ellie and Joan Steffer, and Nancy Antonio.

“Bingo,” George said. “So far, so good.”

I smiled at the use of his newly acquired American expression, wondering how it would go over back home in Great Britain.

George leaned forward and placed his hand on the driver’s shoulder. “Don’t drop us off at the entrance just yet,” he said. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to drive us about a bit.”

“Sure,” the driver responded. He was an older man wearing a checkered green cap and a gray wool cardigan sweater. Tired eyes said he’d seen it all.

“Take us over there,” George said, indicating a far comer of the large front parking lot.

We watched from that vantage point as Robert Frederickson came through the restaurant’s front door to greet Ellie, her mother and godmother. He wasn’t smiling. No one was. Poor Ellie, I thought. She’d been dragged along for what promised to be a distinctly unpleasant evening at the expense of her mother and godmother. But if the evening turned out as George and I hoped, Ellie would see her birthday wish fulfilled. Kimberly Steffer would be a free woman.

After Frederickson and the new arrivals were inside, another taxi pulled into the lot.

“Is that him?” I asked.

“I’m sure it is. Yes. See? He’s parked where I instructed him to park.”

I nodded. “It really might work,” I said.

“Hopefully. I’d still feel better if you didn’t insist upon being with me,” George said quietly.

“Not a chance,” I said. “If you’ve come here tonight to deliberately put yourself in harm’s way, you’re going to have to put up with me at your side. I consider myself your partner. Partners stick together.”

After a deep, pained sigh, he tapped the driver on the shoulder and said, “You can take us to the entrance now.”

As we pulled up, we could make out Frederickson’s strong, handsome profile through a window. George paid the driver and opened the taxi’s door for me. We walked up the short yellow brick path to the front door, George humming a few bars of “We’re Off to See the Wizard.”

“I wish I could kick my heels three times and be home,” I said.

We stepped inside and were face-to-face with Robert Frederickson.

“Good evening,” George said. “I’m Scotland Yard Inspector Sutherland. I have a reservation.”

Frederickson heard what George said, but his attention was solely on me, more accurately on my newly acquired blond hair.

“Mrs. Fletcher?” he said.

“Good evening, Mr. Frederickson. How nice to see you again.”

“You look—”

“Different? Must be this wig I’m wearing. I’ve always wanted to be a blond. How do I look?”

“You look—” Frederickson turned to George: “You said when you made the reservation that you were bringing your niece for a birthday dinner.”

“Absolutely correct,” George said, his smile wide and engaging. “My niece is running late. She should be here any minute. Mrs. Fletcher is joining us to help celebrate the occasion. Perhaps we could enjoy a drink while we wait for her. You do serve alcohol?”

“Yes, but this is a—”

“A family restaurant catering to children,” George said.

“That’s correct.” Frederickson took two menus from a rack on the wall and escorted us to the same room at the rear where I’d had lunch, evidently reserved for adult, whiskey-drinking interlopers at What’s to Eat?. I looked around the main room on our way through for signs of Ellie, but didn’t see her.

We were seated at a table set for six. “Enjoy your meal,” Frederickson said, handing the menus to George.

“I’m sure we will,” George replied. Frederickson’s eyes locked with mine before he walked away and disappeared through swinging doors leading to the kitchen.

A young waitress bounced over to take our drink orders. We pretended to study the menu, although the whimsically named entrees were furthest from our minds.

“Interesting menu,” George said, smiling.

“Plenty of things on it to satisfy you,” I said.

“No sushi.”

“No sushi.”

Our waitress returned with our drinks. “These are compliments of Mr. Frederickson,” she said.

“How nice,” I said. I looked for him to acknowledge his gesture, but he was nowhere to be found. “Please thank him for us,” I said.

Our drinks were in front of us, but the waitress continued to stand there, hands resting on small hips.

“Yes?” George said, looking up.

“Oh, I forgot. What’s to eat?” I asked, turning to George. ‘There’s a protocol in this restaurant. You have to ask ‘What’s to eat?’ before you’re allowed to order. ”

“That’s right,” the waitress said, her small, round face breaking into a Vaseline-enhanced smile.

“If I don’t eat my vegetables, will I still get dessert?” George asked. I laughed. The waitress failed to see the humor.

“We’re waiting for the rest of our party before we order,” I said. “Besides, I haven’t had a chance to scan the menu. So many—wonderful things from which to choose.”

“I’ll be back,” said the waitress.

The minute she was gone, I looked through an archway into the larger main dining room. Frederickson had led Ellie, Nancy, and Joan to a comer table that afforded one of the chairs a view of us. Where had they been all this time? I wondered. Ellie was seated in the chair facing us. Our eyes met, but she quickly looked away.

“Don’t turn, George,” I whispered, “but they’re sitting in the main dining room. Behind you.”

“Ah, hah. Keep your eye on them, Jess.”

Our waitress returned.

“It seems the rest of our party has been held up,” George said. “I suppose we should order.” Once we had and the waitress was gone, George lifted his gin on the rocks to my white wine. “To Kimberly Steffer,” he whispered.

“Yes. To Kimberly. Hopefully, it won’t be a wasted toast.”

We made nervous small talk while waiting for our dinners, and for the next phase of our plan to kick in. I suffered a sudden twinge of apprehension. No, make that downright fear. George had decided on this scheme for two reasons: One, to flush out Mark Steffer’s real killer. And two, to shift the spotlight from me to him. It was that second reason that caused me concern. Bobby McCormick’s newspaper article made it clear that George Sutherland, Scotland Yard investigator, was in San Francisco to clear Kimberly Steffer’s name. Which meant, of course, that the real murderer might decide to do away with George Sutherland. Right there and then? At What’s to Eat?

But how might such an attempt on his life play out?

Poison in our food and drinks?

“George,” I said, placing my hand on his arm. “Maybe it isn’t such a good idea for us to be drinking and eating here.”

“Why? I’m sure the food isn’t terribly good, but—”

“Because Mr. Frederickson and whoever else he’s involved with might decide to add an extra spice, an extra ingredient that isn’t called for in the original reci
^p
e.”

“Yes. I see what you mean. But highly unlikely, wouldn’t you agree?”

“How is your gin?”

“Excellent.”

“No funny tastes?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I looked again at Ellie. Poor girl, I thought. A true victim.

“What time do you have?” I asked.

“Almost eight. Josephs and Kimberly are obviously tied up. Traffic, perhaps. Or maybe Josephs had trouble getting her out of prison.”

“I thought he’d received permission to bring her here.”

“Even so, there’s always the infernal paperwork. I just hope the judge who issued the order hasn’t changed his mind. It took courage on his part to do it, to say nothing of a surprisingly creative move for a judge. I also have to give Josephs credit for presenting a compelling reason to the court. I give that credit reluctantly, however.”

“I hope they show soon,” I said. “This waiting is getting to me.”

“Any sign of Frederickson reappearing?” George asked.

“No. He seated them but hasn’t come back to the table.”

“I wonder what he’s up to.”

“As long as it isn’t—”

The sight of Kimberly Steffer and Detective Walter Josephs entering the room stopped me in mid-sentence. Kimberly wore a dark scarf wrapped around her head, and oversize sunglasses. I checked Ellie’s table. I could see Nancy Antonio’s shoulder and a portion of Joan Steffer’s head. If they noticed the new arrivals, they didn’t indicate it by any sudden movements.

George stood and motioned for Josephs to come to our table. Kimberly kept her head down, and stayed close to the detective as they crossed the room.

“Sit down, sit down,” George said, holding out a chair for Kimberly to my left, which presented only her profile to Ellie and the others.