Martinis and Mayhem (7 page)

“Here you go,” she said, pulling out a wooden chair with a pig’s head carved into its back. “Have you ever dined with us before?”

“No.”

“Well, remember to ask your waitress when she comes to the table, ‘What’s to Eat?’ ”

I laughed. “And if I don’t?”

“You have to go to your room without dinner.” Unsure of whether I’d taken her seriously and was offended, she quickly added, “Just kidding.”

“Yes, I was sure you were.”

The moment the hostess disappeared, an “Annie” look-a-like with a gingham apron wrapped around her small frame appeared at the table. Her name tag read MOM. “Hello,” she said, “and welcome. How are you today?”

“Very well, thank you.”

We looked at each other. She held a large menu in her hands. “Oops,” I said. “Almost forgot. What’s to eat?”

She handed me the menu and said she’d be back for my order.

I seriously considered ordering a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which would have been a nice departure from the heavy, elegant foods I’d been indulging in for the past week. The last time I’d ordered peanut butter and jelly, the waitress in the Boston luncheonette told me that it was only offered on the children’s menu. Since I wasn’t a child, I couldn’t have one. Needless to say, I never returned to that restaurant.

I chose a tuna sandwich on whole wheat, and an iced tea. When it was served, I asked the waitress if Mr. Frederickson was in. She said he was, and offered to get him. “Who shall I say wants to see him?”

“Mrs. Fletcher.”

A few minutes later, a handsome, forty-something man headed my way. “Hello. I’m Robert Frederickson,” he said when he reached the table. He was tall and reed-thin, allowing an obviously expensive gray pinstripe suit to fall nicely on his frame. Every black hair was in place. His tan was a deep copper. “What can I do for you?” he asked, the tan accentuating the whiteness of his teeth.

It was a reasonable question. Fortunately, I’d decided during lunch the approach I’d take if I got to meet him.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Frederickson. My name is Jessica Fletcher. You have a wonderful place here. I wish I’d brought along someone three-quarters my age so that I could taste some of the more whimsical items. Like the ‘Barney the Purple Dinosaur Dessert Sandwich.’ I’m afraid I’d feel silly ordering it for myself.”

Frederickson laughed. “No need to feel silly in this restaurant, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s what What’s to Eat? is all about. Is that why you wanted to see me? If so, I give you permission to indulge yourself in the Barney sandwich, the Mickey Mouse sundae, even the Mr. Rogers lollipop.”

I laughed along with him. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll no longer hesitate to let the child in me out. But that really isn’t why I wanted to meet the owner. The fact is, I’m a mystery book writer. For adults. But my agent, and my publisher, have suggested I begin a series of murder mysteries for younger people. Children’s mysteries. I’m about to start the outline for the first book in the series and, frankly, came here today because I’d heard a great deal about What’s to Eat? I wanted to scope it out as a place to set a possible scene. I always enjoy weaving real places into my books.”

Frederickson arched his back like a cat as he extended his arms in front of him, laced his fingers together and stretched, then used both hands to pat hairs on his head that weren’t out of place. “A scene?”

“Yes. I figured kids would better enjoy reading a murder mystery novel if they were familiar with the settings.”

“Will you excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher? I’ll be right back.”

He returned, a dazzling smile painted on his handsome face. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I didn’t catch your name at first, or at least didn’t connect it with the famous person you are. You are
the
Jessica Fletcher, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“Of course you are. Mind if I sit down?”

“Please.”

When he was seated, and had carefully crossed his legs and checked the creases in his trousers by running thumb and forefinger down them, he said, “Mrs. Fletcher, I am truly flattered that you would consider setting a scene in What’s to Eat?. I mean, who wouldn’t be flattered? But I’m afraid—”

“Of what?” I asked sweetly.

“Of what? Oh, no. I’m not afraid—of something. What I mean is, it’s really not something we’d be interested in becoming involved with. At least not at this time. A rain check? In one of your future books?”

“I’m disappointed to hear that, Mr. Frederickson. I’m quite impressed with your restaurant and was excited about the possibilities of using it in my book.”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe another time. By the way, could I ask a favor of you?”

“Favor?”

“A picture of you with me? I have a number of celebrity pictures in my den at home.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Mostly sports figures when they come here to promote the restaurant. Just take a minute.”

I didn’t agree. But while I waited for the check, he disappeared, returning with a young man carrying a camera.

“I was waiting for a check,” I said.

“No check, Mrs. Fletcher. On me.”

The three of us walked through the main dining room, which by now had quieted down, and stepped outside. “Right over there,” Frederickson said. “By the sign.”

“All right,” I said. I posed next to him as the young man clicked off a few shots.

“Thanks, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe when it’s developed, you’ll sign one to me.”

“I don’t think I’ll have a chance to do that,” I said.

“Tell me where you’re staying. I’ll put a rush on these and personally deliver them to you tomorrow. You can sign it then. I like them when they’re signed. Makes them seem more personal. Don’t you agree?”

“Thanks for lunch.”

“You have a car?”

“No. And I forgot to call for a cab.”

“Petey, get your car and drive Mrs. Fletcher back to San Francisco. Drop off the film at a one-hour place. Wait around until it’s ready.”

I protested, but Frederickson insisted. He asked where I was staying. I told him. I asked how long What’s to Eat? had been in business.

“Five years next winter.”

“Are you the sole proprietor?”

“Yes, I am. Well, better get back to the salt mine. Enjoying San Francisco?”

“Very much. Any suggestions for this inveterate tourist?”

“I suppose you’ve done all the usual stuff. Ever walked the Golden Gate?”

“Walked it? The bridge, you mean?”

“Yeah. Great views of the city on a nice day. Give it a try.”

“I just might. I have a free day tomorrow. What’s the weather forecast?”

“Same as always. Anything possible. Well, Mrs. Fletcher, thanks for calling on us. I’ll look forward to reading one of your books someday.”

“That would be nice, Mr. Frederickson.”

The waitress who’d served me came running through the front door to where we stood. She carried what appeared to me to be a doggie bag. At least it looked like one. It had a dog’s face on it. A long pink dog’s tongue secured the top.

“For you,” she said breathlessly.

“I’m afraid you’ve brought this to the wrong person. I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t leave a crumb on my plate.”

“Compliments of Mr. Frederickson,” she said.

“Really?” I glanced at Frederickson, peeled the pink tongue from the bag and peered inside at something bulky wrapped in bubble-gum pink paper. I opened that up, too. It contained an enormous sandwich, and a large purple dinosaur cookie stuffed with gobs of whipped cream.

“Something to remember What’s to Eat? by,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t think I need this to remember What’s to Eat?” I said. “Believe me, Mr. Frederickson, I won’t forget you.”

A few hours later, the young man called “Petey” swung by the hotel with the prints. I came to the lobby and signed one: “To Robert Frederickson. Jessica Fletcher.” Ordinarily, I would have said something cordial, like “Best Wishes,” or, “All the Best.” I wasn’t in the mood.

I returned to the suite and followed through on a decision I’d made to place a call to the home of Nancy Antonio, Ellie Steffer’s godmother, in the hope of speaking with the teenage girl. It was answered on the first ring.

“Hello. May I please speak to Nancy Antonio?”

“Speaking.”

“I was actually calling in the hope of speaking with Ellie.”

“Ellie? Do I know you?”

“No. We haven’t met. My name is Jessica Fletcher.”

“What is your name?”

“Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher.”

“And you wish to speak with Ellie.”

“That’s right.”

“Concerning what?”

“A—personal matter.”

“You’re aware that Ellie is a child?”

“Yes.”

“You say we haven’t met. How did you get my number? And what is this ‘personal matter’ you want to talk to her about?”

I decided honesty was the only policy to follow at this point. “I was given your name by Kimberly Steffer, and got your number from Information,” I said.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she shouted, causing me to distance the receiver from my ear. Then she guffawed. “Let me get this straight. Kimberly told you to phone here and ask for Ellie? Is this some sort of joke? Who the hell are you anyway?”

“I’m a writer, Ms. Antonio. I was visiting—”

“The murder mystery writer?”

“Correct. I recently visited the Women’s Correctional Facility to speak to some inmates there about writing. I met Kimberly Steffer under that circumstance.”

“Well, now, that’s just terrific,” she said, sarcasm scorching the phone line. “What is Kimberly about to do, Mrs. Fletcher? Sell her story for a million bucks? Collaborate with you? What a great idea. But I assume you know that Kimberly is in prison because she committed a horrible crime. Murder! She murdered her husband. Is that the sort of person you like to collaborate with?”

“I’m not collaborating with—”

“Who do you think you are, Mrs. Fletcher? How dare you call here and bother Ellie for your own monetary gain? The poor girl has been through enough. I suggest you leave her—
us
—alone, or I’ll call my attorney. Good-bye!”

I gently replaced the receiver in its base. She was right, of course. Who did I think I was calling this youngster whom I didn’t even know, and whose father had been brutally murdered? To top it off, I’d called on the suggestion of her stepmother, who’d been convicted of taking her father from her through the unspeakable act of murder.

I spent the next few minutes in my suite at the St. Francis considering what had transpired that day—my brief meeting at the Women’s Correctional Facility with Kimberly Steffer at which I pledged my best efforts to exonerate her of the murder of her husband; my conversation at the
Chronicle
with Bobby McCormick, and his expression of belief in Kimberly’s innocence ; lunch at What’s to Eat?, and subsequent exchange with Mark Steffer’s former partner in the restaurant, Robert Frederickson, whom I labeled in my own mind as smarmy; and now my awkward, ill-advised call to Nancy Antonio in the hope of speaking with Kimberly’s stepdaughter, Ellie.

I had to admit to myself that I hadn’t made much headway. Not that I expected my initial efforts to shed sudden bright light on things. But I had hoped to learn something, anything that would, if nothing else, give me—as well as Kimberly Steffer—a reason for optimism.

I sat back in my chair and expelled a sustained breath. Kimberly’s journal was on a table next to me. I picked it up and began reading again. The fact that I dozed off says nothing about my interest in the journal. It had been a long and stressful day.

I awoke with a start at five. I heard the phone ringing, but it sounded far away. Very far away. In another state. Another world.

I stood groggily and tried to hone in on the location of the phone. Phones. The suite had more phones than my house back in Cabot Cove.

I realized one was on the table next to where I’d dozed off. “Hello?” I said, sounding drunk.

“Jessica?”

“Yes. George?”

“Yes” came through a familiar laugh. “I’m here. In San Francisco.”

“You are? Of course you are. I was sleeping and—”

“Sorry to have awoken you.”

“No, please. How wonderful to hear your voice. You’re at the Mark?”

“Yes. Just checked in. I wondered if you were up to a welcoming drink. Presumptuous, of course, to suggest a formal welcome for me but—”

“I think it’s a splendid idea.”

“Ill head there straight away.”

“I have a better idea, George. Give me a half hour and we’ll meet at the Top of the Mark, right where you are. The views are splendid.”

“I know those views well, Jessica. But they’ll be twice as appealing with you at my side.”

Trust George Sutherland to say the right thing, at the right time.

 

As I entered the sweeping, circular room that is the Top of the Mark, I scanned tables in search of George. No sign of him. But I did see what I was certain were groups of law enforcement officers. Not that any of them were personally familiar to me. It’s just that with rare exceptions, cops, at least American cops, are easy to spot in any room, in any hotel in the world. There’s something about them, a self-assuredness that comes with the power they’re capable of wielding, a set of the jaw, their choice in suits, and most of all a constant sense of their surroundings that civilians simply don’t have. I should add that this easy recognition doesn’t always hold true for the swelling numbers of female cops. Maybe that’s why they’ve proved themselves to be especially effective when being nondescript is important.

The room was filling quickly, and I decided to grab a table. I’d been seated at one of the last remaining window tables, and a waitress had taken my order, when George made his entrance. He spotted me right away and threaded his way through knots of people with surprising grace for a big man. He stopped a few times to greet colleagues also attending the seminar, finally reached my table, and smiled broadly.