Brandy and Bullets (27 page)

I turned on a small television set in the bathroom, adjusted the water in the shower, got in, shampooed with a lovely almond shampoo provided by the hotel, and was in the act of vigorously washing my hair when I heard the phone ring. Although there was a phone in the bathroom, it was on the opposite wall. I hate decisions like that. Do I step out of the shower and drip water all over the floor? Try to towel off in time to catch who was calling? Ignore it, and let voice mail take a message?

I opted for the latter course of action. It rang seven times. Usually, voice mail picked up in four rings. Maybe it wasn’t working, in which case I wouldn’t have a message. How frustrating. A waterproof telephone in the shower would have been a welcome amenity.

I dried off with one of the oversized, plush velvet towels that I’d wished weren’t bad form to pack in my suitcase, peeked into my bedroom and saw the flashing message light on that room’s phone. Wrapped in my luxurious towel, I punched in the numbers to activate voice mail.

“Good morning to you, lovely lady. George here. You’ve evidently gotten off to an early running start to the day, one of many admirable traits I’ve observed in you. Unless, of course, you’re still sleeping, in which case I take back my compliment and will ring off in order not to disturb your much-needed slumber.” He paused to see whether I’d pick up. When I didn‘t, he continued, “Jessica, the reason I’m calling is to give you the name of the gentleman I’d mentioned last night over drinks. You know, the illustrator for Kimberly Steffer’s books. His name is Brett Pearl.” He spelled it for me. “I looked the chap up in the phone book and he’s listed as living in Sausalito, with an office in downtown San Francisco. Evidently doing quite well, wouldn’t you say? Have a good day, as you Americans are fond of saying, and be in touch. ’Bye for now.”

I slipped into a terrycloth robe bearing the St. Francis’s insignia, went to the desk in the living room and found the white pages. I looked under Pearl.
Pearl, Brett, 508 Birch, Saus.

Was it fate? I planned to cross the bridge from San Francisco to the Sausalito side. I wasn’t sure whether I’d do a roundtrip walk, or take the ferry back to the city. A few hours in the quaint village of Sausalito would give me time to recover and to make that decision. And, of course, to drop in unannounced on Mr. Brett Pearl: “Hi, I was in the neighborhood and thought ...”

But by the time I was dressed and ready to venture out, I thought better of that plan. Walk across the bridge, Jess, but don’t walk into trouble. What was that Scottish expression George Sutherland was fond of using?
“Better make your feet your friends.”
Translation: “Run for your life.”

 

 

The taxi drove away, leaving me standing in awe at the San Francisco side of the almost two-mile-long, breathtaking orange suspension bridge known worldwide as the Golden Gate. If it hadn’t been modem, it would certainly qualify as the eighth wonder of the world. It was created by a gentleman named Joseph Strauss, who oversaw the four-and-one-half-year construction project that culminated in 1937 with the punch of a telegraph key 3000 miles away in Washington, D.C. by President Roosevelt. That resulted in horns and whistles, and the biggest peacetime concentration of naval war vessels in history.

I’d read that the bridge was 260 feet high at midpoint in order to allow the Navy’s largest battleships to pass beneath it. I’d also read in my handy guidebook that on opening day, and before vehicles were allowed on it, more than 200,000 pedestrians had swamped the bridge, their weight causing the center to drop as much as ten feet. Not to worry; it was designed to survive winds in excess of one hundred miles an hour, and to sway as much as twenty-seven feet at its center.

It wasn’t perfect bridge-walking weather. What had started as a sunny, calm day had quickly deteriorated into an overcast, windy one, at least where I stood. I’d dressed for it. You learn to anticipate weather turns in Maine. I wore an ivory cableknit sweater, sweatpants, sneakers, and my red, white, and blue windbreaker.

But I wasn’t the only person to be undaunted by the wind and gray skies. Dozens of men, women, and children were on the bridge—some just completing their journeys, others starting out in the direction of Sausalito. I silently hoped they were all there to
walk
the bridge, and not to jump. In some quarters, the Golden Gate Bridge is as famous for those who don’t make the return trip, as it is for its beauty.

I looked across the length of the span. Silly, I thought, to feel so much trepidation. Hundreds of people did it everyday. I’m not exactly fond of heights, but I don’t have any special aversion to them.

I started out, and soon decided that the biggest threat to my safety were the automobiles whizzing by. The pedestrian walkway wasn’t very wide and the cars seemed to be too close for comfort.

I continued. The farther I went, the more spectacular the view became. Although it remained misty on the bridge, shafts of sun seemed to explode from the gray clouds above, spotlighting the city’s white and pastel buildings and newer curtainwall skyscrapers. Another shaft played on the millions of ripples in San Francisco Bay. It was spectacular; my gasp was involuntary.

I forged ahead, the wind stinging my face, the slight sway of the bridge beneath my feet actually pleasant, like being on a mighty ocean liner. The bay was dotted with sailboats and a few brave windsurfers, who appeared to be getting knocked about pretty good.

Others on the bridge were in a good mood. Almost everyone smiled as they passed and said something in greeting, which I returned. I felt marvelous. My blood raced as I picked up my pace. How far had I come? I’d estimated it would take about an hour to complete the journey to Vista Point on the Marin County side. I’d been walking for a half hour. That should put me at mid-span. Judging from the cluster of people there, that was exactly the point I’d reached. Dozens of cameras were pointed in every direction.

Despite the number of fellow tourists, I felt pleasantly alone. I could feel my heart beating in my chest, and I wiped at tears caused by the wind. As I drew deep breaths, I felt giddy. Did I look foolish? Childish? No matter. Times in our lives when we get to feel like children again are too precious to let pass.

I slowly turned to take in the panorama of my surroundings. To my left were the hills of Sausalito and Marin County. With my back to the bridge railing, I could see over the traffic the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Another ninety-degree turn and I looked back to the direction from which I’d come. And then I returned to my original position, peering out over San Francisco Bay and across to Berkeley. It was like an Impressionist painting. Pissarro? Monet? Degas? Perhaps Renoir.

What happened next was hardly impressionistic. It was more out of the school of brutal realism.

It started when an especially strong gust of wind caused me to throw back my head and to laugh. I closed my eyes for a second. And then I felt the strength of a hand, connected to a strong arm, grasp the back of my neck and shove me forward. Simultaneously, another hand—presumably belonging to the same person—grabbed the bottom of my windbreaker and attempted to pick me up and push me over the railing.

I fought to maintain a hold. I shouted, but my voice was carried away by the wind, inaudible to even me. I tried to twist in order to see who was trying to push me to my death, but failed.

And then, as suddenly and unexpectedly as this unknown person had come up behind me, he, or she, was gone. I was draped over the railing when the pressure ceased, gasping for breath, shaking uncontrollably. Finally—it seemed minutes, although it was only seconds—J stood and turned, my knees trembling to the extent I wasn’t certain they would support me. It had happened so fast that no one, it seemed, had seen the attack. They were too busy marveling at the views, and taking pictures of them.

Except for a young girl, perhaps ten, who said, “Are you okay, lady?”

“Yes. No. I mean—” I looked past her in search of the person who’d tried to kill me. Whoever it was had disappeared into the crowds walking the bridge that morning.

“Did you see who tried to push me over?” I asked her.

“Push you? No, ma’am. You look like you’re sick, that’s all.”

“Sick? No. I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

I knew that if I didn’t start walking again, the sudden nausea I was experiencing would worsen. I ruled out continuing to the Sausalito side of the bridge. I wanted to be back in San Francisco, in my suite, safe and secure. I also wanted to report the incident to the police.

Oddly, even though I was in a hurry, I started off walking slower than before in what might have appeared to be slow-motion determination, a drunk making sure each step connected with the ground.

But my need to get off the bridge took over, and I actually began to jog. Me, who has never jogged in her life. And finally, I broke out into a run, as if my life depended on it—which I was fairly certain it did.

I reached the other side in what might have been the fastest mile ever recorded by a female mystery writer from Maine, who was on the wrong side of fifty.