Martinis and Mayhem (8 page)

I stood. We shook hands. He kissed my cheek and said, “How do you do it, Jessica?”

“Do what?”

“Manage to look younger with each year.”

“First of all, I don’t. Second, I love hearing it.”

He sat across the small table from me, casually crossed one leg over the other, and sighed. “It is very good to be here with you,” he said. “Very good indeed.”

“For me, too,” I said.

We took a moment to scrutinize each other. No one would argue George’s Scottish heritage. His cheekbones were prominent, his nose aquiline, his skin ruddy. A few extra strands of gray now blended at the temples with his brown hair tinged with red. He was dressed as he was the first time I met him for tea at Brown’s Hotel in London; dark brown tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, a V-neck sweater the color of a fresh-baked biscuit, white shirt, brown tie, tan slacks, and ankle-high brown boots polished to a deep sheen. But what I remembered most—and that was still abundantly evident—was the kindness in his eyes, which were the color of Granny Smith apples. I’ve never tried to define “handsome,” but George Sutherland would certainly do.

“Let’s get the nitty-gritty out of the way,” he said. “How long will you be in town?”

“Another week. I’ve already been here a week. My latest book has finally hit the bookstores, and I’ve fulfilled my obligatory book-signing appearances, not to mention television and radio appearances in New York, Boston, and Chicago. San Francisco marks the end of the tour. I’ve decided I deserve a vacation, so I’m tacking on an extra week here.”

He asked our waitress what single-malt scotches were available, and chose a Knockando on the rocks.

“You’ve traveled a long way from Scotland to have a single malt scotch,” I said.

“Can’t afford to drink it at home,” he said.

We toasted when his drink arrived, the rims of our glasses touching as gently as a kiss.

“All right, Jessica, you go first. You have six minutes to fill me in on the past year.”

“I thought I did that in my last letter.”

“You tried. But I think I know you better. Your life sounded—well, sounded as though it lacked its usual excitement.”

“Hardly. But the sense of excitement quickly wanes after the rush of it is over.” I brought him up to date on a few aspects of my recent life that hadn’t made it into my letter. “Your turn,” I said. “You have five minutes.”

“You’ve stolen a minute from me.”

“So that we can get through with the ”This Is Your Life’ portion of the evening, and get on to more substantive things.”

“All right.” He was finished in two minutes. “Now, your turn to provide ‘substance.’ ”

“Will murder do?”

“Fiction or fact?”

“Fact.”

“Yes, I think that will do just fine. You’re involved again.”

“You make it sound nefarious on my part.”

“Dangerous is more like it, Jessica. You do know I’m quite fond of you, and worry when you stray from your trusty typewriter and intrude on my turf.”

“Your turf?”

“
Real
murder. My bailiwick. If you insist upon becoming involved in the real thing, I suggest you apply for a job with the Yard.”

“I’d love it.”

“Yes, I’m sure you would. Has this murder in which you’re currently interested fallen into your lap, as they say? Or is it something you’ve pursued?”

“It fell into my lap. Or, more accurately, it fell into my briefcase.”

“Did it? Sure you didn’t instigate things? We have a saying in Scotland: ‘
He that blaws in the stoor fills his ain een.’ ”

“Whoever said that Scots speak English was wrong. And what does that mean?”

“He that stirs up trouble, finds himself in it.”

“Lesson received and understood. George, does the name Kimberly Steffer ring a bell?”

“Of course,” he replied, not even blinking. “Pity what happened to her. She’s the young writer—children’s books, if I’m not mistaken—who murdered—allegedly—her husband. Name, Mark. Owned a restaurant here in San Francisco. She was born and raised in England but moved here when she married the chap. Our infamous British tabloids loved that case. Practically got as much coverage as Fergie and Di.”

I nodded in appreciation of his powers of recall.

“Why do you ask?” he said.

“A complicated story, George, which should come as no surprise considering I’ve ended up involved— to a degree. A couple of days ago I visited a women’s prison outside San Francisco. My publicity agent arranged for me to speak to the inmates about writing. I emphasized journal writing.

“When I got back to town, I was surprised to discover that one of the inmates had planted a large black book in my bag. It turned out to be a diary. A diary filled with accounts of a trial, and proclaiming the author’s innocence.”

“And the author was Kimberly Steffer.”

“Exactly.”

“Go on,” he instructed.

“I read the diary and was mesmerized. So I went back to the prison and met with Ms. Steffer. We spoke briefly in the Visitor’s Room, and she divulged some interesting facts to me.”

“Such as?”

“She mentioned a partner in her husband’s restaurant as being capable of the murder. And she mentioned a stepdaughter, who she believes knows who really killed her husband.”

“I can see why your interest has been piqued.”

“I’m not convinced she murdered her husband,” I said.

“Nor am I.”

“You aren’t?”

“No. Kimberly comes from a lovely, close family. Some members of that family paid me a visit at Scotland Yard when Kimberly was charged with her husband’s murder. I listened to their pleas, of course, and was sufficiently impressed to personally look into the case. There wasn’t much I could do. San Francisco is hardly my jurisdiction. But I did try to gather what information was available to me. I called Ms. Steffer’s defense attorney here, even got hold of the prosecutor in the case. The case against her was purely circumstantial. No eyewitnesses. No smoking gun or bloody dagger. A combination of a zealous and skilled prosecuting attorney pitted against what, in my judgment from afar, was a somewhat inept defense attorney.”

“Did her family give you any tangible information that might help establish her innocence?” I asked.

He shook his head. Then he leaned closer over the table, not so much because he didn’t want to be overheard, but to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. “Nothing tangible, Jessica. But I believed her family. Hardly what a veteran, hard-boiled officer of the law should be doing, but I did. Believed them, that is. I vividly remember looking into her father’s eyes and
knowing
that everything he said about his ‘little girl’ was true. That she was, indeed, a genteel writer of children’s books, incapable of killing anyone. Her father also convinced me of his daughter’s love for this man, Mark, whom she’d married. I found it as inconceivable as did he that his daughter had murdered him.”

“Sheer instinct on your part,” I said.

“Yes.”

“I’ve never considered you to be hard-boiled.”

“I have my moments. There was some especially gripping testimony from a cabdriver, as I remember, and accounts from several other witnesses.”

“Some with axes to grind,” I offered. “At least according to Kimberly.”

“I heard that, too. Scuttlebutt from American colleagues. I received a touching thank-you note from her family for my efforts. It made me want to do something more than make a few phone calls. But my hands were tied. Have you run across the illustrator for her books?”

“Illustrator? No. You obviously know a lot more about the case than I do. I just got started.”

“I can’t remember the bloke’s name. He’d had a legal problem with Ms. Steffer sometime before her husband’s murder. It seems he sued her in court here in The States.”

“Sued her for what?”

“It came down to, I believe, his claim that she owed him money. I have no idea what the amount was, but it did revolve around a contract that existed between them. Coming back to me now. He alleged that his percentage in their contractual arrangement should have been considerably higher because the books went on to become international best-sellers. He didn’t prevail in that suit. After all, a written agreement is just that. He returned to London after his defeat in your courts.”

“Was he questioned about the murder?”

“I don’t know about here, but I contacted him. Ms. Steffer’s family raised his name with me. He didn’t want to meet with me, nor was he obligated to. We had a brief chat on the phone. I always remember his final comment. He said, ‘As far as I’m concerned, Kimberly got what she deserved.’ Or something equally poetic.”

I shook my head. “I’m confused, George. Why would
he
murder Mark Steffer?”

He finished his scotch, said with a shrug, “He wouldn’t be the first person to kill someone close to a hated rival. I asked whether you’d run across him because after staying in London for a short time—he’s British—he returned to The States to live. Out here on the West Coast.”

He looked at his watch. “Good heavens, Jessica, I’m afraid I must run out on you. Tonight is the opening dinner. I still haven’t unpacked, and have business to tend to before the ‘festivities’ begin.”

“I understand, George.”

“Tell you what,” he said, “this series of seminars will keep me busy for the next couple of days. But I’ve made a hard-boiled decision as we’ve been talking.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve decided that I deserve a holiday, too. I intend to call my travel agent the moment I get to my room and book a later flight. A week later.”

My pleasure was obviously written all over my face.

“I’d like nothing more than to spend a week in this splendid city with an equally splendid woman named Jessica Fletcher.”

“Sure you can?” I asked.

“A chief inspector can do anything, Jessica.”

I smiled. “Run along,” I said. “I don’t feel nearly as deprived losing you tonight, knowing I’ll have an entire week in your company.”

“Care to attend some of the seminars?” he asked. “Might be instructive.”

“Thanks for the offer, George, but I think not. I don’t want to develop a reputation for hanging around with the wrong crowd.”

“A wise decision.”

“Know what I think I might do tomorrow?”

“No, what?” He looked for our waitress and reached for his wallet.

“My treat, George.”

“So you’ve become a woman of the ’nineties, Jessica.”

“If buying you a drink labels me that, feel free to pay.”

“Remember,
‘Fair maidens wear nae purses’ ”

“Another Scottish expression?”

“Yes. We Scots may have a reputation for being tight with money, but we balk at having women pay when in mixed company.”

We both laughed.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “You were about to tell me what you might do.”

“Oh. Right. Have you ever walked across the Golden Gate Bridge?”

“No.”

“Want to? If you do, I’ll postpone it until you’re free.”

“Better do it while the urge is strong, Jessica. That’s what you have on tap tomorrow?”

“Weather permitting.”

“Well, whatever you do, do it carefully. Wear heavy shoes.”

“Why?”

“To give you ballast in a strong wind.”

We both stood. He kissed me on the cheek. Our eyes lingered on each other as we promised to keep in close touch at our respective hotels. And he was gone, swallowed by the large crowd waiting at the captain’s desk for tables to open up.

Once George disappeared through the crowd, and buoyed by the thought of having him around for a whole week, I left the Top of the Mark to head out for some evening sight-seeing.

Fisherman’s Wharf: I snacked on a crab cocktail from a sidewalk vendor, purchased a lovely tooled leather address book from a local artisan, and enjoyed a cup of Irish coffee at a communal table in the Buena Vista Café, where that scrumptious concoction was first introduced to this country by famed San Francisco columnist Stan Delaplane. From there, I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me down Lombard Street, “the world’s crookedest street,” which he did, and which I found to be fun even though I’d done it numerous times before.

My internal dinner bell went off, and I headed for Chinatown,
the
Chinatown, for an appetizer of minced squab wrapped in lettuce leaves, and lobster broiled in ginger sauce, at Celadon.

I arrived back at the Westin St. Francis at eleven feeling wonderful. I thought of Abraham Maslow, the pioneering psychologist, who identified one of the signs of sanity as having the ability to recognize and enjoy “peak experiences”—those moments, large or small, when you are at one with the world, and when your senses explode in celebration. A lovely climbing rosebush wet with dew; a sudden snap of cool air after a period of hot and humid weather; a baby’s smile; a lick from a loving dog’s warm, wet tongue.

The physical beauty of San Francisco. Excellent food. Bracing air. Friendly people. The anticipation of a week with Chief Inspector George Sutherland.

At that moment, according to Maslow, my sanity was beyond debate.

 

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s seven o’clock, and sixty-one sunny degrees outside. Have a wonderful day.”

“I certainly intend to,” I said to the recorded wake-up message.

I’d decided to skip the gym that morning, and to ease into the day at a more leisurely pace. I’d done plenty of walking the night before. Besides, having decided to take a stroll across the Golden Gate Bridge would make up for any lost time on the exercise bike.

It had never occurred to me to take such a walk. But Robert Frederickson had suggested it. And the cabdriver who’d driven me down the hairpin turns of Lombard Street last night had casually mentioned that crossing the Golden Gate on foot was one of his favorite things to do on a day off.