Martinis and Mayhem (3 page)

True crime was not Neil’s genre. Most of his writing had resulted in books of poetry, published by small, off-the-beaten-path publishers. But Neil had been a New York City cop before retiring to Maine to indulge his love of poetry. His experiences on the mean streets of Manhattan gave his poetry an edge that set it apart. Of course, it was a good thing he had his cop’s pension. Poetry writing doesn’t pay many bills.

While others watched the movie, I went back to my laptop and the outline for my next book. Before I knew it, the captain informed us we were beginning our descent into foggy San Francisco.

“Is San Francisco your final destination?” asked Eric, one of the flight attendants working the flight. I knew his name from the silver-winged name tag he wore. He leaned on the armrest of the unoccupied seat next to me.

“Yes. And happily so. It’s one of my favorite cities.”

“Mine, too,” he said. “Well, better bring your seat back up, Ms. Fletcher. Well be landing in a minute.”

The captain came back on the public address:
“Folks, I’ve got good news for you. It’s a beautiful seventy-one degrees in San Francisco. Couldn’t ask for a better forecast. It’s been a pleasure serving you. If you’re continuing on with us, well look forward to carrying you to your next destination. If not, enjoy your stay in the City by the Bay.”

 

My confidence in Willard Scott’s weather forecasts affirmed, I gathered my things. Music was piped into the cabin—Tony Bennett’s
I Left My Heart in San Francisco.
And I couldn’t help but think of Scotland Yard Inspector George Sutherland.

I found the limo driver who’d been dispatched by my publisher to drive me into town, breathed in the cool, invigorating air as he held open the door for me, and sat back in the spacious rear seat and sighed.

Sometimes, things are so good you can hardly stand it.

 

 

 

 

 

The Queen of England had once stayed in my suite at the Westin St. Francis. Although I pride myself in not overly responding to celebrity, I must admit to a certain thrill at walking the same floors as that regal lady, tracing the footsteps of a Who’s Who of world leaders and dignitaries.

It was called the Windsor Suite, on the thirty-first floor. I didn’t dare ask what my publisher was paying for it, although I did eventually learn that it went for $1500 a night, a queenly sum. Its views were splendid: I looked out over Union Square to the downtown area, and to Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill. I could see the Bay Bridge to Oakland, and the lovely bay it spanned. The Santa Cruz Mountains near San Jose were also visible.

There was a large dining room, a sumptuous bedroom, living room, baths the size of my living room back home, and a second bedroom off the dining room that also opened into a second suite on the floor, the Bayview Suite, slightly smaller but no less opulent.

My goodness, I thought, slightly embarrassed by having been given such a wonderful suite, and for all the fuss made of my visit by the hotel staff. I gave myself a tour, stopping to inhale the lovely aroma of two dozen red roses that graced a coffee table, and to sample from a platter overflowing with fruit and cheese and other delectables that sat temptingly on the bar.

The hotel itself, I knew, was considered one of the world’s finest. That assessment by world travelers received no argument from this lady.

The week had flown by, as busy weeks always tend to do. My schedule was choreographed by a well-informed and highly organized publicist, Camille Inken, with whom I had dinner almost every night. Camille was a petite thirty-five-year-old with ink-black hair and a delicate, dusty rose complexion. Her calf muscles were like a ballerina’s; so many women in San Francisco build shapely legs trudging up and down its fabled hills.

When I felt comfortable enough with Camille, I asked if she was married and had a family. She said without any defensive regret or sadness, “No time for that in this job, Jessica. Maybe someday, but not right now.” She had, to my ear, the hint of a Southern accent. When I mentioned that, she laughed. “It happens when I’m tired,” she said. “Whenever I’m beat, I end up with a Southern drawl. Don’t ask me why. Better than mumbling, I suppose. This is one lady who won’t be leaving her heart in San Francisco, Jess. Not only was I born here, I intend to die here.”

There was an added plus in having Camille as my local publicist and escort. Besides running her own successful public relations business, she moon-lighted as a freelance restaurant reviewer for area newspapers and magazines. That proved fortunate for my taste buds, but not for my waistline. I was wined and dined in all the right places—Compton Place Dining Room, Donatello, a barbecued quail flamed tableside at Chinatown’s Celadon that was, as they say, to die for, a heavenly
coulibiac
of salmon at Masa‘s—and then, last night, a legendary California dish,
Celery Victor,
in the St. Francis’s elegant Victor’s, thirty-two stories up affording breathtaking views of the Golden Gate Bridge and the city’s skyline. The restaurant was named for Victor Hirtzler, the French chef who cooked for two decades following the earthquake, and who gave birth to the popular California cuisine now being served in restaurants around the world.

The hotel’s spa and health club received a regular visit from me each morning.

This morning was no exception. I’d already ridden ten miles on a stationary bike, worked out on a fancy weight machine, showered, dressed, and was on my second cup of coffee when the first call of the day jarred my reverie. I checked the clock: 6:29. I’d left a six-thirty wake-up call.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Jessica. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

What an odd wake-up call.

“Hello?” I said again.

“Jessica. It’s Camille.”

“Oh, good morning, Camille.”

The second line rang. “Camille, hang on a minute.”

“Hello?” I said to the second caller.

“Good morning Mrs. Fletcher. This is your wake-up call. It’s six-thirty, and fifty-nine degrees outside. Have a wonderful day.”

I would have said “thank you” but it was a recorded message. Even the wake-up system was first-rate at the hotel. If I hadn’t picked up for the recorded message, a live operator would have called immediately.

I pushed LINE ONE and retrieved Camille. “Camille?”

“Yes, I’m still here. Boy, you’re a busy lady this morning.”

“Just my wake-up call.”

“Oh. Sorry to have woken you.”

“You didn’t. I’ve been up since five-thirty. Already put the gym through its paces.”

“Good. I’m calling this early because there’s been a scheduling change. My mess up.
Today
is the day you’ll be visiting the Women’s Correctional Facility. Not tomorrow. Sorry. Hope this won’t inconvenience you.”

“Not at all, although I will need some extra time to get ready for it. What time am I expected?”

“Not until two-thirty. We can skip breakfast if you’d like. Maybe you’d prefer to order room service. We don’t have to leave the hotel until one-thirty.”

“That will be fine. I was going to do some sight-seeing and shopping this morning, but I’ll just put it off until tomorrow. I am free tomorrow morning, right?”

“Absolutely. You have the lunch interview with the book reviewer from the
Examiner,
but that’s it.”

“Splendid.”

“How about meeting downstairs for lunch at noon? That will give you the morning to prepare for the prison visit.”

“Sounds good to me. See you then.”

The change in schedule actually worked out better for me.

I’d intended to call George Sutherland in London before leaving Cabot Cove to see whether we could meet up in San Francisco, but he beat me to it. He apologized for not having called sooner, explaining that his decision to attend the criminal investigation had been a last-minute one. He’d been working on a difficult case, and wasn’t sure he’d be able to break away. But then the prime suspect in the case suddenly confessed, freeing George up to make the trip. He’d be arriving tomorrow night, and was staying at the venerable Mark Hopkins, on Nob Hill. We’d agreed to touch base after his arrival, and to try and find some time together that weekend.

 

“How far is the prison, Camille?”

Camille and I rode in the back of a white stretch limo that had been waiting in front of the hotel when we finished lunch. It was well stocked with cold bottles of Perrier, as well as a variety of alcoholic beverages. There was a cheese platter, red and white wine, and a state-of-the-art stereo system playing one of my favorite pieces of classical music, Mozart’s 40th and 41st “Jupiter” Symphonies.

“What a coincidence,” I said as the stirring music filled the limo. “One of my favorites. My favorite version, too. George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra.”

Camille laughed. “We checked,” she said. “Your publicist back in New York gave me a list of your favorite music.”

“I’m touched—and impressed.”

“I just want to make sure your trip is a pleasant one, that’s all. Part of the job.”

“Well, here’s to a job well-done,” I said, lifting my Perrier to her Orangina.

Our driver was a rotund, jovial man who had gone out that morning and purchased a copy of my new book,
Blood Relations.
I’d happily signed it to him and his wife before pulling away from the hotel. Now we were on our way across the Golden Gate Bridge.

“I must admit I’m nervous,” I said after we’d crossed the span and headed north toward red-wood country.

“About today? I am, too.”

“Why you?”

“I’ve never been inside a prison before, Jess. I’ve been having nightmares ever since arrangements were made for you to talk to the inmates there. I wake up in a cold sweat. In my dream, someone recognizes me as a serial killer the minute we’re inside, and they’ve locked the doors behind us. They toss me in a cell, no trial, no lawyers and I spend the rest of my life there.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s a terrible dream,” I said. “But just a dream—unless ...”

She, too, laughed. “Unless I am a serial killer.”

“Are you?”

“I once murdered six mosquitoes in a single night.”

“A veritable slaughter,” I said.

“Exactly. If I decide not to go in with you, please understand.”

“Absolutely not. We do it together, Camille, or not at all.”

“If you insist—boss.”

 

“This way, Mrs. Fletcher.”

We were greeted at the gate by the prison’s warden, a tall, rawboned gentleman with chiseled tan features, flowing silver hair, and wearing a bilge-green suit and black string tie tipped with silver. His name was Paul Pratt.

Warden Pratt led us across a dirt area surrounded by a tall metal fence topped with coils of barbed wire, and into a small wooden building attached to a much larger concrete structure. Two uniformed guards sat behind a scarred desk. They stood at our arrival. “This is Jessica Fletcher,” Pratt announced in a loud voice. “And this is Miss Inken.”

The guards mumbled a greeting. One of them unlocked a heavy steel door with a key from a chain holding dozens of keys, and stepped back to allow us to enter a long hallway in the main building. We passed beneath harsh fluorescent lights until reaching another metal door. A young guard with severe acne came to attention at the sight of Pratt. “Open up,” Pratt ordered. This door was swung open, and we stood at the crossroads of four corridors. I peered down each. They were lined with cells.

Camille and I followed Pratt—closely, I might add—as he headed for what appeared to be still another door at the far end of the corridor that intersected the crossroads from our right. I tried to look straight ahead, but that was impossible. To my left and right were female inmates. Some stood at the doors to their cells, arms hanging out, quizzical, sometimes with angry expressions on their faces. Others lounged on their narrow beds. I’d seen prison movies in which inmates yelled obscenities at visitors, but that didn’t happen here. The women looked lethargic, resigned, impassive, almost drugged. It was a sad sight. I glanced at Camille, whose face was set in grim determination, eyes straight ahead, brow tightly knitted.

We reached the door at the end of the hallway. Yet another guard was there to greet us. He started to pull out his keys, but Pratt stopped him. The warden turned to me and said, “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Fletcher. I wasn’t especially keen on your visiting. Frankly, I don’t see much good coming from it. These may be women, but they’re hard as any man. Some of them are murderers. Bank robbers. No pleasant talk about writing is going to change them. They have criminal minds, and they’ll always have criminal minds.”

“I really don’t know enough to debate it with you, Warden Pratt,” I said, forcing a smile. “All I know is that I’m here, and I presume the women I’m to speak with are there, behind that door. My suggestion is that we get on with it.”

“I wasn’t suggesting we not go through with it,” Pratt said, gesturing to the guard to open the door. “Not my call anyway. Damn Department of Corrections in this state has its own agenda. Rehabilitation, they call it. Fat chance of rehabilitating these women.”

I thought of Mort Metzger, who probably would agree with Warden Pratt. None of it mattered, however. My earlier apprehension was now replaced with determination to give the best presentation I possibly could to this audience, which represented a first for me. I didn’t doubt for a moment that Pratt was right. The women were in prison because they’d committed crimes, and had been convicted by juries of their peers. They were also human beings.

The door swung open to reveal a fairly large room in which two dozen women, wearing drab prison-issue dresses the color of dishwater, sat on black folding metal chairs. There had been obvious attempts at sprucing up the room. The walls were painted seasick institutional green, matching Warden Pratt’s suit. The floor was a hard yellow linoleum torn in many places. Two pots of dusty dried flowers sat on a low table, which I assumed was where I’d be sitting. These attempts to provide a more human atmosphere were valiant, but failed. The stark reality of the place negated any such attempts at injecting false humanity into the room. It was prison, pure and simple. It was depressing.