Martinis and Mayhem (6 page)

My nose started to itch; a major sneeze was in the offing. I figured the room hadn’t been dusted for the duration of McCormick’s tenure at the paper.

Bill Hudson blessed me, and laughed. “I have an interview to do in a couple of minutes. Make yourself at home, if that’s possible. Stop by my cubicle on your way out.”

“Shall do. And thanks for everything.”

I didn’t sit because there was no place to sit, except for McCormick’s chair behind the desk. The only other chair in the room was piled high with record albums. I perused the top LPs. All rock ’n’ roll from another time.

I was in the process of reading plaques on the wall, mostly awards McCormick had garnered from area press associations, when he entered the office. “Well, Mrs. Fletcher, welcome to McCormick’s lair. Ask me to find anything. There’s a place for everything in here, including its occupant.” He struggled past debris to reach his chair and fell heavily into it. Then he slung his large feet up onto the desk, realized I had no place to sit, came back around to where I stood, removed the albums from the visitor’s chair and put them on the floor. Finally, he gestured for me to take the seat. He made his way back to his chair, got his feet up on the desk again, and smiled. “So, have you come here to steal some good plot ideas? The world’s getting weirder and weirder. Don’t need fiction anymore, do we? It’s got to the point where a fiction writer’s imagination can’t hold a goddamn candle to real life.”

“Right you are,” I said, shaking my head. “It makes my job that much tougher. Yours, too, I imagine.”

“Yeah, it does. When I first came here, I covered what I call ‘monotonous murder.’ Same story, different cast of characters. Now the stuff I see turns even my stomach. And I’ve got a stomach made of steel, Mrs. Fletcher. Chili peppers go down easy and stay that way. Never took a Turn in my life. But the way people go around killing other people these days chums me up now and then. Some of it’s not even fit for a family newspaper, but readers are different these days, too. Can’t get enough blood and guts it seems. Weirdness on all sides. Surrounded by it.”

I listened patiently as he continued his take on the deterioration of the human condition.

“But not up to me to judge anybody, huh, Mrs. Fletcher? I have a job to do. I do it. They want gore, I give ’em gore. Factual gore. Not like the gore you make up in your books.” He let out a thunderous laugh, ending with a coughing spasm which, along with a massive filled-to-the-brim ashtray, testified to a two-pack-a-day smoking habit. Probably why he’s got his own office, I thought. The air in the room was stale and odorous. The newsroom was undoubtedly a smoke-free zone. Same with the cubicles lined up next to each other, with their open tops that allow smoke to drift from one to the other. Unpleasant for nonsmokers.

“Move over, Stephen King,” McCormick continued. “Move over, Jessica Fletcher. Here comes
real
life.” He lit a cigarette, coughed, and spread his hands out in a welcoming gesture. “So, where do we begin?” he asked, eyeing several “While You Were Out” memos.

“What did you mean when you said you wouldn’t be surprised to be covering another Kimberly Steffer trial?”

He replied without looking up, “I said that, Mrs. Fletcher, because I don’t think Kimberly Steffer is guilty.”

“Really?”

“That’s right. Nothing ever really linked her to the crime except a bunch of goddamn coincidences. In my opinion, if you ask me—and it looks like you are—I think she was framed. Set up. Her attorney tried to get that across to the jury but fell flat on his smug face. They never found the gun. They found her fingerprints in the car, but it was her husband’s car, for crying out loud. Why wouldn’t her fingerprints be in there? Her biggest mistake was going to the mall the day he was found murdered. And that could have been coincidental. But they found receipts in her purse that showed she’d been there that day, and the jury latched on to it because the prosecutor made damn sure they did.”

Still not looking at me, he continued.

“Yeah, sure, the cabdriver who allegedly picked up a woman fitting Steffer’s description at the mall that day made points for the prosecution. But hell, he wore glasses thick as Coke bottles. And the testimony from other so-called prosecution witnesses was weak. Who were they?” He glanced at me. I shrugged. “I’ll tell you who they were. Her husband’s ex-wife, and the ex-wife’s best friend. You look up the word ‘biased’ in any dictionary, you see pictures of those witnesses.”

I laughed.

“Not funny.”

“I—”

He lit up another cigarette. I now viewed him through a blue smoky haze. “Unfortunately, the jury bought it,” he said. “The prosecuting attorney did a hell of a good job pinning the rap on Kimberly Steffer. Her attorney was a pompous dunce. She didn’t have a chance.”

“Mr. McCormick, is—”

“Call me Bobby. Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m too old to be called Bobby. But one look at me, and you know I’m not a ‘Robert.’ ‘Bob’ sounds dumb to me, like some dork in a bad radio commercial. So it’s always been Bobby.”

“All right. Bobby it is. Bobby, is Kimberly Steffer currently at the Women’s Correctional Facility?”

“Yup. She’ll be there a long time unless she can come up with some hot-shot attorney with brains this time around to get her another trial. So, Mrs. Fletcher, how come you’re interested in this case?”

“Jessica,” I said. “Or, Jess.”

“Right. So? What’s with the interest in Kimberly Steffer?”

“I was at the Women’s Correctional Facility yesterday. I spoke to some of the inmates about writing. I think one of the women in the audience was Kimberly Steffer. At least I assume it was her. She asked some interesting questions. I’ve been thinking about her ever since. There’s a quality to her—if it was Kimberly Steffer—that’s appealing.” I didn’t intend to tell McCormick, or anyone else for that matter, about the diary she’d planted in my bag. He’d want to see it, but it would be an act of betrayal on my part to share it with anyone—unless, of course, there was a compelling reason, a reason that would help Steffer.

“What’s she look like these days?” he asked.

“Silver-blond hair cut smartly to the shoulders, almond-shaped face, elegant features, soft eyes. Sad eyes. Intelligent eyes.”

“Sounds like she’s riding it out okay.”

“I’m not sure I’d say that, Bobby.”

He shrugged, torched another cigarette into action, adding to the room’s noxious smog. My eyes had begun to sting. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“Oh, no, of course not.”

“Want one?” He extended the pack to me.

“No, thanks. Too early for me. You say Kimberly Steffer was framed. Who framed her?” I coughed, and rubbed my eyes.

“Wish I knew,” he answered. “I have my ideas, but that’s all they are. My ideas. Which don’t mean a damn thing in court. How about you, Jessica? Got any ideas about who might have framed Kimberly Steffer?”

“No. I’m just beginning to learn about the case. Maybe after I’ve had a chance to read up more on it, I’ll come to some conclusions. With a little help from those in-the-know. Like a Bobby McCormick.”

“I’m available anytime, Jessica. Things are slow this week. Just your run-of-the-mill dopers whacking each other. I like to see that. Saves lots of tax dollars. I keep hoping there’ll be another case like the Steffer one. Something to get my teeth into.”

“You mentioned Kimberly had been at a mall. Why is that significant?”

“That’s where her husband’s restaurant is located. He was found in his car around back. Kimberly claimed she wasn’t at the mall that day. But witnesses—especially that vision-impaired cabdriver—said otherwise.”

“I see.” I stood and extended my hand across the desk. He took it in his large paw and slowly pushed himself up from his chair. “You know what I think?” he said.

“What?”

“I think you’re about to find yourself a cause in Kimberly Steffer. I think you might end up the best thing that’s ever happened to her. And if that’s the case, I’d like to tag along for the ride.”

“Count on it,” I said. “Have you ever thought of installing some sort of exhaust system in here?”

“No need. I have a window. Just can’t get it open. Painted shut. Keep in touch, Jessica.”

“You can count on that, too.”

“Hello, Kimberly.”

Even through the Plexiglas window between us functioning as an airbrush of sorts, Kimberly’s natural beauty didn’t need its softening quality. She looked even more beautiful than when I’d first seen her the day of my talk. Her skin was flawless; no line or crease marred it. Her hair had the same radiant shine. But the sadness was still there in her eyes, pleading for understanding. Which I was at the Woman’s Correctional Facility to give.

Her smile was small. “Hello,” she said.

“I didn’t expect to be here again,” I said.

“I didn’t expect to see you again, either,” she said.

“But I assume you
wanted
to see me again.”

“Yes, I did.”

“The book in my bag. It is yours?”

Kimberly looked down at her lap and nodded.

“It’s beautifully written,” I said. “You’re an excellent writer. I bought two of your children’s books. They’re wonderful.”

Tears welled up in the comers of her eyes. Her “thank you” was barely audible.

“Kimberly,” I said, getting as close to the partition as possible, “I’d like to help you. I find your story compelling. And you’re not the only one who believes in your innocence.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really. Look. Ms. Steffer, I don’t know if I can help you. But maybe you can help me. Where should I begin?”

“Begin?”

“To help establish your innocence.”

“You will?”

“Where do I start?”

She replied without hesitation. “Call Ellie. She’s my stepdaughter. The daughter of Mark’s first wife, Joan. I think Ellie knows what really happened to Mark.”

“She lives with her mother now?”

“No. She lives with her godmother, Nancy Antonio, Joan’s best friend. Ellie was a rebellious teenager, especially after her parents’ divorce. She ran away. The only way she was coaxed back was a promise that she wouldn’t have to live with her mother. She wanted to live with Nancy. Strange—at least it is to me—that Nancy and Joan are still best of friends. Last I heard, anyway. I think Joan was relieved, actually, to be rid of Ellie on a daily basis. She resented the responsibility of being tied down by a youngster. Let me put it this way. Joan would never win the PTA award as mother of the year.”

“Where do Ellie and Ms. Antonio live?”

“I heard they moved, but I believe they’re still in the Bay Area.”

“Kimberly. Do you know who killed Mark?”

Her eyes locked on mine. The tears were gone. “No,” she said. “I wish I did.”

We fell silent, each occupied with our own thoughts. I knew I’d have to be leaving soon. The guard kept glancing at a giant clock hanging over our heads. Our visit was almost up.

“Mrs. Fletcher, Mark had a partner in the restaurant he owned. Robert Frederickson. I never trusted Bob from the day I met him. With Mark’s death, Bob ended up owning the restaurant.”

“What’s it called?” I asked.

“It’s called, ‘What’s To Eat?’ It’s in Sausalito.”

“You say you didn’t trust your husband’s partner. But do you think he was capable of murdering your husband?”

“In my opinion, Bob Frederickson is capable of anything. Including murder if it helps him get what he wants.”

“Was he considered a suspect? Did the police question him?”

“Sure. But he had an alibi.”

“All right,” I said. “There’s your stepdaughter, Ellie, to contact. And I think a meal at What’s To Eat? is also in order.” The guard used a hand gesture to inform me it was time to leave. “I’ll be back, Kimberly. In the meantime, don’t lose faith.”

“I didn’t have much faith after my conviction, but I do now that someone like you has taken an interest.”

“I’ll do what I can. I’d like to keep your diary for a while. I have it with me, and if you’d rather I—”

“Keep it as long as you like, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve started another.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch.”

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled as the guard waved her toward a door leading back to the cell blocks. Her head was down as she left the room, but I was certain her mood was elevated.

And I had a lot of work to do.

 

What’s to Eat? fell into the category of “family restaurant.” More accurately, it spoke to the dining needs of children. The exterior walls were painted bright red, yellow, and blue. The signage was written with some of the letters backward, obviously inspired by Toys ’R’ Us. An enormous playground with state-of-the-art equipment spread out behind the restaurant and around one side. The parking lot in front could accommodate at least a hundred cars, and virtually every spot was filled by the time my cabdriver dropped me at the canopied entrance.

I entered and immediately felt out of place. The vast expanse of the main dining room was filled with young mothers and their even younger children. No business lunches at What’s to Eat? I thought as a hostess, barely out of childhood herself and wearing what appeared to be Judy Garland’s dress from
The
Wizard of Oz, greeted me with startling enthusiasm. “Hi,” she bubbled. “How many?” She had to yell over the din of a hundred children, made worse by a tin ceiling that caught every decibel, magnified it, and tossed it back at the customers’ ears.

“Just me,” I said loudly. “And something as far away as possible from that.” I pointed to a round table of a dozen kids and their mothers. Colorful balloons on long, ribbon tethers reached for the ceiling. A pile of wrapped presents cluttered the floor. A birthday party.

“Sure,” said the hostess. She pronounced it the way comedians always make fun of the way California’s “Valley Girls” talk. I smiled and followed her as she bounced across the main room to a blessedly quiet, all things being relative, back room that was tastefully decorated in more subdued pastels. I silently pledged to generously tip her on my way out for sensing that I was not interested in singing “Happy Birthday” to anyone.