“How do you know, Ellie? This is the time to tell me. I’m working with a good friend from Scotland Yard. He doesn’t believe Kimberly killed your father, either. If you have any information, any specific knowledge that will help us, please tell me now. I don’t know how much longer I can stay in San Francisco and pursue this. I need help. I need your help.”
Ellie thought for a moment, then looked at Rhet, who nodded her head in encouragement. Ellie again fixed on me, drew a deep breath, and said, “The night my father died, I was awake upstairs in the house. I heard my dad’s car pull into the driveway. I looked out the window and saw the car go into the garage. I thought it was Kimberly driving because just before it went into the garage, I had a quick glimpse of the driver. She had short blond hair just like Kimberly. But then I went downstairs and didn’t see Kimberly there. All I saw were Nancy and my mother.”
“Did you think it was strange?” I asked.
“Sure I did. But when I started to ask questions, they yelled at me and told me to go back upstairs. I was really afraid of Nancy. I always have been. So I did what they told me, and fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up and went downstairs to look in the garage. The car was gone. I asked my mother about it. She told me I must have been dreaming. I know I wasn’t dreaming, Mrs. Fletcher. I saw the car arrive, and I saw Kimberly driving it. Or, at least I thought it was Kimberly.”
“But I take it you’re now convinced it wasn’t,” I said.
“That’s right. I think the woman driving the car that night was Nancy.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“Because just about that time, Nancy was being treated for cancer. She was getting chemotherapy, which made her lose her hair.”
I sat back and cocked my head. “She wore a wig during that period?”
“Yes. They got all the cancer, and her own hair eventually grew back. But when my father was killed, Nancy had a couple of blond wigs. Different styles.”
I thought of Norman Lana and the blond wig on the mannequin in his bedroom closet. I thought of the wig I’d purchased a few years ago in New York in order to elude the police until I had time to extricate myself from a case with which I’d inadvertently become involved.
Wigs everywhere.
Blond hair.
Someone with blond hair had murdered Mark Steffer.
Kimberly Steffer had blond hair.
Nancy Antonio had blond wigs of varying styles.
And Norman Lana would pass for a woman in his blond wig and the right clothes.
“What color hair does your mother have, Ellie?” I asked.
“Reddish.”
“Oh.”
“But she sometimes wears wigs. She has a bunch of them. Black. Real red. Blond.”
“Blond.”
She nodded. “Here,” she said, handing me a plastic supermarket bag.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“One of Nancy’s blond wigs.”
“Oh.”
“I thought you might want to see it.”
“I—yes, of course I’d like to see it. More lemonade?”
“No,” they said.
“Anything else?” I asked.
Ellie stood. “My birthday is day after tomorrow,” she announced.
“How nice,” I said.
“You know what present I want most, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“No.”
“Get Kimberly out of jail so she can come home. That’s all I want.”
The two girls started walking away.
“Ellie,” I said.
They stopped and turned.
“Come back.”
They stood over me at the table. I looked down at the wig in my hands, then up at Ellie, and smiled. “Could you get free to call me at the Westin St. Francis tonight, Ellie?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I don’t know if what I plan to do will pan out. But if it does, it might make your birthday wish a reality.”
Their widened eyes mirrored what they were thinking.
“Call me tonight.” I wrote down the hotel’s number. “By nine. Okay?”
“Okay,” Ellie said.
They walked away and disappeared from the square.
George rejoined me. The three street performers were now playing their act exclusively for us. We watched their creative storytelling for a few minutes until George dropped a dollar bill in the hat on the ground in front of them, and they moved on to another table.
“So, Jessica, what transpired?”
“Someone with blond hair killed Mark Steffer.”
He laughed. “We already know that.”
“No we don’t. We know it if Kimberly Steffer did it. But she didn’t do it.”
“And?”
“Someone who wanted very much to make it look as though she killed her husband did a good job of making him, or her, look like Kimberly. Good enough to convince a jury, at least.”
“Him, or her?”
“If you weren’t insistent upon playing cat and mouse with me about last night, you’d understand. Buy me another cappuccino and I’ll explain. But you go first. Where were you last night?”
Chapter Twenty
“You look surprised, Jess,” George said.
“I have to admit I am. Not that there’s any reason for you not to have dinner with Bobby McCormick. But he is, after all, the reporter who followed the Kimberly Steffer trial so closely. I would have thought—”
He raised his eyebrows into question marks, something I’m physically unable to do.
“I would have thought that you’d have told me of your plans to be with him.” Was I sounding irrational?
His only response was to nod, which said he was waiting to hear what else I had to say.
“George, please don’t misunderstand. I’m not implying that you have any obligation to keep me informed of your whereabouts. But it was Bobby McCormick you had dinner with. You know how interested I’d be in that. And, I must admit, I can’t help but wonder why I wasn’t invited.”
George sipped his cappuccino, and so did I. We’d decided to linger in Ghirardelli Square and had replenished our coffees.
“Well?” I said.
He smiled. “Jessica, I know exactly how you feel. And maybe I was insensitive to your needs in this regard. It is your case, this Kimberly Steffer matter.”
“I’m not claiming proprietary interest, George.”
“I know you’re not. The truth is, I needed to learn some things to help you, to help us, with this case. I thought Mr. McCormick would open up more to me—than to you.”
“Guy talk?” I asked.
George laughed.
I couldn’t help but join in. “Okay,” I said. “I’m not nearly as upset as I probably appeared. Let’s just forget it.” Which I hoped he wouldn’t do.
“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Jessica.”
“Why?” I asked, pleased.
“I’m happy to tell you why. After a couple of glasses of Glenlivet—by God, that stuff is good; if it weren’t such a bloody fortune back home—I convinced Mr. McCormick to run another story about Kimberly. Sort of a follow-up.”
“A follow-up? Based upon what? Reporters usually don’t resurrect an old story unless there’s a new angle.”
“Ah, but there is.”
“Me?” I asked. “Because I’m involved?”
“No, dear lady. Me.”
“You? What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that he is going to write that I, a high-ranking Scotland Yard inspector, have decided that Miss Kimberly Steffer has been wrongly
accused of the murder of her husband. Not only that, the article will point out that I am in San Francisco to prove her innocence to the world.”
“You are?”
“I am as far as the readers of Mr. McCormick’s newspaper are concerned. And, hopefully, find the real murderer.”
“I—”
“Most important, Jessica, it will take the focus off
you. I’ve been worried about what happened to you on the bridge that morning. I don’t think it was coincidental. But McCormick’s story might make whoever is after you realize they’re after the wrong man—the wrong woman. I’m the one they should have tried to push off the Golden Gate Bridge. I want to expedite things. I feel we’re close, yet so far from getting to the truth. I can taste it. Hopefully, someone—the someone responsible for Mark Steffer’s death—will take the bait and try to get rid of this snoopy Scotsman. If it works—bingo! That is the correct American expression, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Now, if I’d told you about my plan before meeting with Mr. McCormick, you’d surely have tried to talk me out of it. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“No. You’re right. I’ll even admit that I like your scheme. I see why you’re held in such high regard. A veritable Sherlock Holmes.”
“And you, Jessica? My Dr. Watson?”
“Pleased to be.”
He lifted his almost empty, foam-rimmed, oversize cappuccino mug to mine. “To the new firm of Sutherland and Fletcher. Or Fletcher and Sutherland. Whichever you prefer. Cheers.”
“Cheers. Now what, Mr. Holmes?”
“Let’s see. I presume Mr. Bobby McCormick has already filed his story, hopefully in time for today’s late edition. I suggest we sit tight, just as we are. Enjoy the sunshine and this pretty city. I have a few hours of work to log, and a series of faxes to get off to Scotland Yard before the day escapes me. Your plans?”
“I was going to the San Francisco Zen Center. I understand they have a fabulous restaurant there. Greens, it’s called. The views across the bay to the Golden Gate are breathtaking, according to Camille. Not up your alley, though, George. Strictly vegetarian.”
“Then, I won’t feel deprived not accompanying you. My only concern is having you out of my sight. Why not invite Camille to join you?”
“Don’t be silly, George. Not much can happen in broad daylight.”
“As I recall, your incident on the bridge didn’t happen at midnight.”
“Beside the point. I’m looking forward to lunching by myself today.”
“Then, take this.” He handed me a beeper.
“Beep me at some point just to check in,” he said. “If it goes off, you’ll know I’m beeping you, since I’m the only one who knows your number. Go immediately to a phone and call the number that you read on the beeper. That’s where I can be reached. Your beeper number, by the way, is three-three-four. My number is five-seven-eight. Beep me if you need help, or just want to talk.”
“I’ll feel like a doctor. Or a drug dealer.”
“A thin line between them at times. Let’s meet back at the hotel for afternoon tea at four.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
George eyed the bag containing the wig Ellie had given me. “What do you make of that?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“Want me to take it back with me to the hotel?”
I was about to say yes but changed my mind. “No, that’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just put it in here.” I shoved the plastic supermarket bag into my dependable fake Chanel bag that I’d been lugging around San Francisco since arriving. Inside was also Kimberly’s diary; I wanted to read portions of it again over lunch in the hope of something jumping out at me from the page. Some overlooked clue, some sudden insight that would help put the pieces of the puzzle together.
We shared a cab; first stop, the Zen Center at Fort Mason, originally a depot for war supplies to the Pacific during World War II. The monstrous, three-story, yellow-stucco building housed several small museums, as well as the restaurant, Greens. I watched as the cab pulled away to take him back to the hotel.
The Zen Center was a bit too esoteric for me. I quickly walked through two of the four museums, stopping to admire little. Fortunately, it was already lunchtime. The contemporary artwork gracing the walls of Greens was far more pleasing to my eye than what I’d seen in the museums. So was the splendid view from my waterside table. I ordered a mineral water and lentil salad, took out Kimberly’s diary, and read the page to which I happened to open first.
One of my favorite songs has always been one sung by the blues singer, Dinah Washington. It’s called “What a Difference A Day Makes.” I’m living proof of that. Just the night before my arrest for Mark’s murder, life was so simple. I remember sitting at the salon getting my hair cut and thinking about how wonderful my life was. Yes, Mark and I had our problems. But at that stage of our marriage, I was in denial. I wanted to believe that everything was perfect between us, that his coming home late, or never at all, was innocent. That he really was playing poker with his buddies, or hanging around the restaurant for a nightcap after closing up. My instincts told me otherwise, but I had to have faith.
I didn’t want to change my life. I could barely muster up the courage to cut my hair, let alone instigate a divorce. I remember being totally shocked while looking in the mirror at the salon, my flowing blond hair on the floor at my feet. The cut made me look wiser, more sophisticated, like someone to be reckoned with, respected. After the initial shock, I liked the look. But I feared Mark’s reaction. I stopped the car several times before driving home to make sure it looked okay, to comb it one more time, to spray a few strands into place.
Of course, Mark wasn’t home. Ironically, he never did see my haircut, see the “new me.” In fact, not many people did except in the newspapers. One was allegedly the cabdriver, who testified he’d picked me up at the mall and delivered me to the health club. I was at the club that evening, and the manager on duty affirmed that I’d been there that night. But I hadn’t taken a cab there. Yes, I had been at the mall that day. Yes, the American Express receipts showed I’d bought a lipstick and two eye shadows from the Clinique counter. Yes, it was my handwriting.
But I’d driven from the mall to the health club. I did not leave Mark’s car at the mall with his body stuffed in the trunk. I was framed. I was set up.
What a difference a day made.
I stuffed the diary into the bag, took out the blond wig, and looked it over until finding a label. Written on it were a series of numbers, and HOUSE OF WIGS: SAUSALITO.
Bingo!
I thought of George and smiled. Should I beep him to let him know of my whereabouts? Instead, I paid the check, and bounced down the stairs to the street where I found a cab idling.
“You wouldn’t know where the House of Wigs is would you?” I asked enthusiastically as I opened the door to the cab.
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver sang. “The Sausalito Mall. Been driving these streets twenty-four years.” I immediately liked him, not to mention the fact that something told me I was about to hit gold.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Wonderful World of Wigs was a more elegant shop than its overblown name suggested. It sat along with a hundred other shops and stores, some small, some large, in the Sausalito Mall, which looked like any other mall except that it was in California. Everything looks different in California.
I looked in the window at the display of wigs on white plastic heads, the heads looking like hard-boiled eggs. There was no one else in the shop, so I went in: “No, thank you,” I said in response to an offer of help from a middle-aged woman with a Dolly Parton blond hairdo that I assumed was a wig, not because it looked like one but because she worked in a wig store. That sort of reasoning would never hold up in court.
“Just browsing,” I said pleasantly, perusing the dozens of wigs on display. Mirrors. everywhere flashed my image back at me from myriad angles.
After a few minutes, the clerk—was she the owner? I wondered—said, “Sure I can’t be of help?”
“Well, maybe you can,” I said. “But I’m not in the market for a wig. I’m interested in this one.” I opened my bag, pulled out the wig Ellie Steffer had given me that morning, and handed it to her.
“What about it?” she asked.
“I suppose the first question I have is whether
this particular wig was purchased at this store.”
“Oh, yes. It has our label sewn into it. See?” She pointed to it.
“Of course,” I said. “Silly of me not to have noticed.”
“Is there something wrong with it?” she asked.
I was tempted to comment that it might have been worn by a murderer. Instead, I replied, “Not at all. It’s a lovely blond wig. You wouldn‘t—I suppose you wouldn’t—”
“Your face is familiar.”
“Oh?”
She snapped her fingers a few times, and screwed up her face. “Jessica Fletcher. The mystery writer.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What a pleasure.” She extended her hand.
“Thank you,” I said, taking it.
“What did you want? You said I probably wouldn’t have something.” Before I could respond, she added, “Anything you want, Mrs. Fletcher. Just name it. I’ve read some of your books. They’re wonderful. You’re wonderful.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“I read about what happened to you on the bridge. Terrible. So many sickos running around these days. Business is down here because women are afraid to go to malls. Not that we have many problems at this one. It’s very well run. But still—”
“You wouldn’t by chance have a record of when this wig was purchased?” I asked. “And by whom?”
“I think I can get that information for you. We’re a service-oriented store. It’s the only way to stay in business. Give service. We keep careful records on all our customers. It’s all in our computer. Don’t know what we’d do without the computer. We used to keep records by hand until we—”
“I’d really appreciate it,” I said. “I don’t have much time.”
“Just give me a minute, and I’ll look it up for you.”
I followed her to the rear of the store where the computer sat on a small neat desk. She keyed in some entries, and a series of sales records filled the screen. “See?” she said. “Each wig we sell is identified by a serial number we assign.” She leaned close and peered at the screen, one finger on a key that caused the records to flow vertically. “Let me see that again.”
Martinis and Mayhem Page 17
