Martinis and Mayhem

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I don’t want to put you on the spot, although I suppose that’s exactly what I’m doing. Don’t feel bad if you want to say ‘no.’ ”

  “Okay.”

  “I have a niece, Rhet, of whom I’m very fond. We have a close, loving relationship. Anyway, she’s a sophomore in high school, and believe it or not, she’s interested in going into public relations, or something along those lines. Her high school is pretty progressive. It actually has a class in PR, and Rhet’s enrolled in it. One of the things required of her is to coordinate a mock event. I took her to dinner last night because I had to review a god-awful place called ‘What’s to Eat?’ outside of Sausalito, for a new publication, a local parents’ newspaper. It’s one of those restaurants kids love and parents hate. It’s been around awhile.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of it,” I said, making a mental note to pursue it further with Camille at a later date. Maybe she picked up on something I’d missed, especially if she got to meet Mark Steffer’s former partner, Bob Frederickson.

  “Anyway,” Camille continued, “the place is too young even for Rhet, but I think she secretly enjoyed it. The reason I mention it to you, Jessica, is that during dinner, Rhet asked me for some help in her assignment. I had the brilliant idea that maybe she could coordinate an appearance by you at her school. I know you’re only in town for another couple of days, and I told her this. She said she could work fast to set it up. She’s a real mover and shaker.”

  “PR in her blood,” I said.

  Camille laughed, and shrugged.

  “Say no more,” I said. “I’ll do it. I always enjoy helping young people get started in their careers.”

  As the cable car slowed down, Camille said, “My stop. Jessica, you’re wonderful. I’ll make it up to you. How about dinner tonight? I’ve got an assignment to review another restaurant. It’s been around for a long time, too, but hasn’t been reviewed for a while. It just went through a renovation. I always bring guests. All the more people to try different dishes. I’d love it if you could make it. Won’t you say yes?”

  I didn’t hesitate to accept her invitation. George Sutherland was committed to dinner with colleagues. He’d asked me to join them but I’d declined, although we did arrange to touch base later in the evening.

  “I’d love to, Camille. I don’t have any plans.”

  “Reservations are at seven-thirty. I’ll pick you up at the hotel at seven.”

  I watched as Camille nimbly hopped off and walked down the street, her stride strong and purposeful, a professional woman knowing where she was going, and how to get there. Her life, it appeared to me, revolved around her career, as it does with so many women these days. I was happy she had a loving relationship with her niece to balance things a bit.

  I was flattered to be asked to do her niece a favor. But then it occurred to me that I’d have to speak to her high school class about something. What would that be? I knew one thing. I would not talk about journal writing. The last thing I needed was for some prepubescent teenager’s diary to be planted in my bag.

  I was having so much fun riding the cable cars around town that I almost forgot my appointment with Detective Josephs. I ran into police headquarters at five past eleven and asked the officer at the lobby desk for him. He phoned Josephs. “Third floor, ma’am,” he said.

  Josephs was waiting when the elevator doors opened. “Hello, there, Mrs. Fletcher. I was beginning to wonder whether you’d forgotten.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Just too enamored of your beautiful city. I’ve been cable car hopping.”

  “You can get arrested for that.”

  “Why?”

  “Cable car hopping. Fare beating.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t—maybe ‘hopping’ was the wrong word.”

  “I knew what you meant. Come on.”

  I followed him to his office and sat down in a chair he pulled out for me.

  “I’m glad you came by, Mrs. Fletcher. We’ve been getting some leads, although most aren’t panning out. But some are pretty interesting.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “First, Brett Pearl’s death is now ruled a homicide. ”

  “I don’t see how it could be considered anything else.”

  “Yeah. He was a children’s book illustrator. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “You know him, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “No. Kimberly Steffer did.”

  Josephs leaned back in his chair. I thought he might tip over.

  “He illustrated a few of her books,” I said. “And then he sued her. He claimed that because her books had done well, he deserved more money than he’d originally contracted for.”

  “How do you know all this, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “A friend of mine wrote about the case. Besides, my other friend, George Sutherland, did some investigating of the case on the British end.”

  “Your friend, George, has a nasty streak.”

  “No he doesn’t.”

  “I didn’t appreciate the way he talked to me when I was leaving your suite.”

  “He was protecting my interests.”

  “Lovers?”

  “Lovers? George and me? Of course not. Just good friends.”

  “Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, don’t kid a kidder. I pick up on those things. That’s what I’m paid for.”

  “Then I have to say you’re being overpaid, Detective Josephs.”

  He held up his hands in mock defense. “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, don’t get your dander up. So, what do you think of my book?”

  “Your book. Yes. I read it last night with great interest. It is—interesting. Yes, definitely interesting.”

  “Hey, that’s great. You’ll give it to your publisher?”

  “I, ah—I really need time to read it again. I read it fast. Skimmed it, you might say. I always skim something the first time. Then I go back to pick up the—finer—details. The subtle things.”

  “Sure. That’s the way to do it.”

  “You’re aware that Kimberly Steffer has dual citizenship,” I said quickly, happy to change the subject. “British and American.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “Brett Pearl was also British.”

  “That’s right.”

  “My friend, George Sutherland, became involved in the case when Kimberly’s parents contacted him in London. George tried to interview Brett Pearl at Kimberly’s parents’ urging. But Pearl wasn’t very cooperative.”

  “I see,” said Josephs. “How long do you plan to stay in San Francisco?”

  “Through the weekend. George and I—my friend, Detective Sutherland, and I plan to take some time to enjoy the city. We also thought we’d take a ride into the wine country. I’ve never been. I understand it’s lovely.”

  “Yeah. Take plenty of bread and cheese. All the wine tastings can get you crocked unless you’ve got something in your stomach.”

  “Good advice. Now, you said you could arrange for me to spend some time with the Kimberly Steffer files. I’m ready to get started.”

  “Bad time, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know, I know. But the only way I can do it is sub rosa, off the books as they say. Unofficial. Too many brass around this morning.”

  “That’s very disappointing,” I said. “I came here specifically for that purpose.”

  “Have to be another day, Mrs. Fletcher. Sorry. Look, while you’re in San Francisco, I think you should have protection.”

  “Police protection?”

  “Right. Hate to have anything happen to a famous mystery writer on my watch.”

  “Oh, Detective Josephs, that isn’t necessary, I assure you. After all, I have one of Scotland Yard’s finest to protect me from harm.”

  I knew the minute I said it that I shouldn’t have. Josephs’ smirk confirmed it. “Where’s he staying?” he asked. “At the Mark?”

  “Yes. Where the conference is.”

  “I thought he mi
ght have moved over to the St. Francis.”

  His implication was annoying, but I said nothing.

  “So, how long before you read my book again? You know, to pick up on the subtle points.”

  “Hard to say, Detective. My schedule is pretty booked up for the rest of my stay here. I’ll have to find some—unofficial time.”

  Had he gotten my meaning? That two could play at the game of putting off what the other wanted? He toyed with a paper clip he’d straightened out. After a few moments of silence, he placed his hands flat on his desk and pushed himself up from his chair. “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher. Thanks for stopping by. My advice is for you to enjoy the city and the Napa Valley, tool around with your Scotch buddy, Sutherland, and stay out of the Kimberly Steffer case. What happened to you on the bridge is cause for concern. And now with this Brett Pearl’s murder, I think your best bet is a low profile. Play tourist, not detective.”

  “He’s Scottish,” I said. “Scotch is a whiskey. And yes, Detective, I hear you.”

  “Come on,” he growled.

  “Where?”

  “Your hotel. I’ll drive you.”

  “I thought you were on duty.”

  “I am. Duty means protecting our citizens and visitors. I’ll give you a lift.”

  He left the office, and I followed. We got in his unmarked car and headed for the St. Francis. As he drove, I took out a small notebook I always carry with me and made a note to phone the prison as soon as I got back to my room, to arrange to visit Kimberly Steffer. She’d probably read about her former illustrator’s death plunge from the Golden Gate, and I wanted her reaction to it, hopefully to learn more about Brett Pearl and the legal action he’d brought against her.

  As we approached the hotel, it was obvious that something unusual was afoot. There were television remote trucks parked in front; a swarm of what appeared to be press clogged the sidewalk. My first thought was that a famous person had checked in. The hotel has been known since its opening in 1904 as the focal point of San Francisco’s celebrity set. On any given day, its twelve hundred rooms and suites might house a visiting head of state, a film star, or a Washington bigwig.

  But as I exited the car, the sinking realization that the press was waiting for me hit my stomach like a Greek pastry.

  “There she is,” someone shouted. The flock headed in my direction. Cameras flashed, and eager journalists, their beaks open wide as if mother bird had just come back, squawked questions at me as I tried to find an eye in the mass through which to thread myself. Josephs saw what was happening and flashed his badge: “Back off,” he yelled. “Let her through.”

  A narrow alley opened, and I moved quickly through it, with Josephs leading the way. The moment we passed through the doors and into the lobby, I saw George Sutherland standing at the reception desk. He stood on tiptoe and waved. Josephs and I went to him. I looked back over my shoulder. The press had stampeded through the doors and were closing in fast. Josephs turned and held up his hands, one holding his badge. I took advantage of the barrier he formed to ask George why he was there. As far as I knew, it was the final day of the conference at the Mark Hopkins, and he was to make a speech.

  “I came the minute I heard the news on the telly,” he said.

  “What news?”

  “About the attempt on your life. On the bridge.”

  “It was on television?” I said incredulously.

  “Afraid so, Jessica. They played it up big. Network, I think.”

  “Network? They’ll see it back in Cabot Cove.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Probably is more like it.”

  With the press held at bay, Josephs turned to us. “You responsible for this?” he asked George.

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “Gorry, what a mess,” I said.

  “What?” said Josephs.

  “She’s from Maine,” George said. “Come on, Jessica. Let’s get upstairs.” He took my elbow, and we made it to the doors of the outdoor glass elevators that provide its passengers a spectacular view of the city. An open door beckoned and we got in. With Josephs again protecting our rear, the doors closed, shutting out the clamoring members of the Fourth Estate.

  As we ascended—I wasn’t in any mood to appreciate the view—I said angrily, “I cannot believe this. I wanted a quiet few days here. Not a media circus. Not to have every move I make scrutinized by a pack of reporters.”

  The elevator stopped on Thirty-one, and the doors opened. “Come on,” George said. “My room is this way.”

  “Your room?” I said.

  Without another word, he led Josephs and me down the hall and into another suite adjoining my Windsor Suite. It was smaller than mine but equally as handsome.

  “This is your room?” Josephs said.

  “Certainly is,” George said.

  “What happened to the Mark Hopkins?” I asked.

  “Not as of this morning, Jessica. Seeing the story on the telly made up my mind. The last straw, you might say. I called, booked this room, and moved right over. This door connects to your second—empty—bedroom,” he said, directing it at Josephs.

  “George, it wasn’t necessary for you to—”

  Josephs gave me an infuriating wink and smile.

  “I don’t believe this, George,” I said. “This is a nightmare. What about your speech?”

  “Already gave it. Breakfast speaker. Best time. Everyone’s relatively awake. Went quite well, actually.”

  “You didn’t need this, either,” I said.

  The phone rang.

  “Let it ring,” George said.

  The message light was flashing furiously. I picked up the phone. A recorded voice told me I’d received twenty-one calls, and that there was no more room on the tape for messages.

  “Don’t mind me,” Josephs said as he went to the bar and poured himself an orange juice. He turned on the TV, tuned in a local channel on which the news was playing, and plopped into a chair. After one of two anchors reported on a robbery in Oakland that resulted in a store owner being killed, my face lit up the screen. It was a photograph that had been provided by my publisher for my publicity tour.

  The anchor handed it over to a reporter: “... Live at the Westin St. Francis where Mrs. Fletcher is staying. ”

  “Thank you, Wally. I’m here in the hotel lobby where Jessica Fletcher, America’s favorite mystery writer, has just arrived. She was escorted by a detective from the MPD, and they’ve gone upstairs, presumably to Mrs. Fletcher’s suite, accompanied by another man. According to what we’ve learned, an attempt was made on her life yesterday when an unidentified assailant tried to push her off the Golden Gate. I’ve also learned—and this is based upon unconfirmed reports—that while Mrs. Fletcher came to San Francisco ostensibly to hype her latest novel, her real reason was to reopen a murder case from the past, the murder of restaurateur Mark Steffer. Steffer, you might recall, owned a restaurant in Sausalito, What’s To Eat? His wife, noted children’s book author Kimberly Steffer, was convicted of that crime, and is currently serving time in the Women’s Correctional Facility. That’s about it from here, Wally. I’ll be standing by in case there are further developments. Back to you.”

  “The nerve,” I I said. “I came here to promote my book. Getting involved with Kimberly Steffer was an accident.”

  “I know,” George said. “Bloody press. The Italians call them Rapaces. Ghoulish vultures.”

  “I know,” I said. “I bumped into Camille Inken this morning. She’s the publicity gal who handled my San Francisco tour. I’m having dinner with her tonight. I’ll call her now. She should know how to put this to rest. To give me—us some rest. If she thinks it’s necessary, we can hold a press conference. Whatever it takes. Just as long as it results in peace and quiet.”

  “Any idea how this got out?” asked George.

  “No.”

  “Perhaps it was this Camille person.”

  “Camille? No. She wouldn’t do such a thing to me.�
��

  Josephs guffawed from where he continued to sit in front of the TV. “Don’t be so sure, Mrs. Fletcher. Those publicity types will do anything to get a name in the paper.” He jumped up and added, “Hey, this is great for your book. Should sell out all over town. All over the country if the news is on the networks.”

  I ignored him, and the temptation to call him Rapaces. I said to George, “It couldn’t be Camille. I never even told her about any of this. I was planning on doing that tonight. Of course, she knows now, thanks to our reporter friends.”

  “I told Mrs. Fletcher I’d like to provide security for her while she’s in San Fran,” said Detective Josephs. “With all this media attention, it makes even more sense. You agree, George?”

  “Frankly,” replied George, speaking to me, “I think you should put yourself on the first available plane and go home. Get away from here.”

  My reaction was anger, and I knew my expression mirrored it. It wasn’t George’s suggestion that caused it. It was the scenario that had caused him to offer it.

  “I’m not leaving,” I said flatly. “The news just broke. Things will quiet down by tomorrow. They’ll move on to bigger and better stories.”

  “Don’t count on it, Jess,” George said. He turned to Josephs, who’d sat in the chair again and was intently watching a sports report. “Detective Josephs, I wonder if you’d be good enough to leave Mrs. Fletcher and me alone.”

  Josephs stood. “Kickin’ me out, huh? It’s okay. I still say you should have round-the-clock protection, Mrs. Fletcher. But that’s your call. I suppose you don’t need it with Scotland Yard on the case.”

  “Your offer is very kind, Detective,” I said, “but not necessary. I’ll call the moment I’ve had a chance to read your manuscript again. Maybe we can get together then, and I can spend a few hours with your computer.”

  “Why don’t you drop that, Mrs. Fletcher. Forget Kimberly Steffer. Go off to the wine country and hide out. Drink wine. Remember to bring cheese and bread.”

  “Cheese and bread?” George said.

  “I’ll explain,” I said. “Again, thank you, Detective. We’ll be in touch.”

  Josephs gave me one of his annoying smirks, and winked at George. “Have fun, folks.” He left.