Martinis and Mayhem (15 page)

“But after Mark’s death, I’ve thought a lot about Norman Lana. Not just fleeting thoughts. I’ve wondered if he, somehow, for some reason, might have been involved in the murder.”

“Time’s up, ma’am,” the prison guard said.

“Better go,” Kimberly said. “I don’t want to be in trouble. It’s hard enough here without angering them.”

“Of course,” I said. It was obvious that Kimberly had her eye set on an early release for good behavior. Better yet, for wrongful imprisonment, I thought as George and I left the visitation room.

I was pleased to see that the TV remote trucks were gone when we pulled up in front of the St. Francis. We entered the lobby and were heading for the elevators when Camille Inken’s voice stopped me.

“Camille. What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Checking up on my favorite author, that’s what. I heard the news.
Everyone
has heard the news. What a dreadful thing that happened to you, Jessica. Thank God you’re all right.”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine. Camille. This is Detective-Inspector George Sutherland. Scotland Yard in London. We’re friends.”

“A pleasure,” said Camille, shaking his hand.

“The pleasure is mine, Ms. Inken. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you from Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Happy to hear that,” Camille said.

“Who are those chaps over there?” George asked.

We looked in the direction he’d indicated, where several very large men in suits, and who had “body-guard” written all over them, roamed the lobby. Their coiled earplugs did nothing to dash my evaluation of them.

“Bodyguards to protect the prince of some country or other,” Camille said. “I asked the manager about them. I forget the prince’s name. His country, too, for that matter.”

“Where is the press?” I asked.

“Lucky you, Jess,” Camille said. “The prince is checking in this afternoon. One of the conditions for his stay here is that all press be barred from the hotel.”

“That’s good news,” said George. “But there aren’t any reporters lurking outside, either.”

Camille beamed. “I took care of that,” she said.

“How?” I asked.

“They think you’ve left town. I spread the word that you were flying back to Boston this morning. Unofficially, of course. By now, the airport should be overrun with them.”

“Bravo, Camille,” George said.

“But I don’t promise anything if we keep standing here in the lobby,” Camille said.

We went to my suite, fixed ourselves cold drinks, and sat in the living room.

“I spoke to Rhet, Jessica,” Camille said. “As you can imagine, she’s thrilled, absolutely thrilled that you’ve offered to speak. She’s in the throes of organizing the event. Is Friday okay with you? At ten? I need to phone her tonight to let her know.”

“Looks like I’ll still be in San Francisco,” I said. “Sure. Friday at ten sounds fine.”

“Perhaps you’d like to join us,” she said to George.

I explained why I’d be going to the high school.

“Delighted,” he said. “Provided I’m not required to do anything like making a speech.”

“That’s a promise,” Camille said.

“Would you excuse me for a few minutes?” George asked.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To send a fax to the office. I think I’d better inform them that my return will be delayed for an unspecified period of time.”

“Sure that’s all right?” I asked.

“No problem, Jessica. Be back in a jiffy.”

When he was gone, Camille raised her eyebrows, and made the circular okay sign with her thumb and index finger. “What a doll,” she said.

“George? A delightful man.”

“You—?”

“No. Just a friend. A very good friend.”

“Uh-huh. How about having him join us for dinner tonight?”

“I think he’s committed.”

“Too bad. I’d get a kick out of chaperoning you two.”

“We don’t need a chaperon.”

“Uh-huh.”

George returned and accepted our dinner invitation. He’d “cleared the decks” for the rest of his stay in San Francisco, including his dinner plans that evening.

“Great,” Camille said. “I’ve got to be running along. A million things to do before I pick you up for dinner. See you two at seven?”

“Well be waiting,” George said.

“Now, Jessica, if anyone disturbs you—any member of the press—refer the call or inquiry to me,” Camille said as she poised at the door. “I know most of them. Believe me, they’re a harmless bunch. See you tonight.”

“Lovely woman,” said George as he sat on the couch.

“And very efficient. Can I fix you a drink?”

“Thank you, no. I’m sleepy enough as it is. Would you mind if I stretched out for a short nap in my new bedroom?”

“Of course not.”

“By the way, Jessica, the prince’s security entourage has been put on full alert. Seems he received a death threat.”

“Oh?”

“Somewhat unsettling isn’t it, staying in the same hotel in which someone has received a death threat?”

“Even more unsettling is to be staying in a hotel in which
two
people have received them. Especially when you’re one of them.”

“Yes. Shouldn’t have brought it up. Wake me in an hour?”

“Count on it,” I said.

It had started to pour in San Francisco as George and I came down to the lobby to wait for Camille. We stood at a front window and looked out over the glistening street. People scrambled for cover beneath umbrellas, or newspapers held over their heads.

“There she is, George.”

We ran through the rain to a silver-gray Lincoln Continental that pulled up to the curb. Camille opened the rear door and waved us in. She looked ready for a splashy evening on the town. Her makeup was perfect, her hair swept up into a chiffon, and she was draped in an elegant black silk cape.

We tumbled into the car, our coats dripping water onto the red leather seats.

“Sorry I didn’t get out to help you,” the driver said over his shoulder.

“I would have questioned your sanity if you had,” I replied.

He laughed. “Where to, Ms. Inken?”

“Coit Tower, please.” To us: “I thought you might like to share one of my favorite sights.”

“Hardly a night for sight-seeing,” George said.

“Perfect
night for seeing
this
sight,” said Camille. “It’s spectacular in the sun, but even more breathtaking in the rain.”

“Sounds like what a Scotsman might say,” I said, squeezing George’s arm.

“Ay. I’ve been
droukit
more than once back home.”

“Droukit?” Camille and I said in unison.

“Soaking wet. We do get a wee bit of rain now and then where I come from.”

“Where is your home?” Camille asked.

“A place in Scotland you’ve probably never heard of,” George replied. “A small town far north called Wick.”

“Near John o’ Groat’s,” Camille said.

“Right you are, Ms. Inken.”

“I’ve been there. One of the most beautiful natural sights I’ve ever seen was in Wick, Scotland. Right on the coast. I’ll never forget it. Or the horizontal rain.”

George laughed. “It does tend to come at you in a funny way when the wind is blowing hard.”

“Sounds intriguing,” I said.

“But not enough for me to entice you to visit me there, Jessica,” George said.

“Oh, you must go, Jess,” Camille said.

“I’d love to but—”

“Work on her this evening, Ms. Inken. My family home in Wick sits on a bluff overlooking the very sights you mention. Big house. Fourteen rooms, and all empty most of the year, ’cept for a caretaker and his wife. I rent it out to tourists now and then, but make sure it’s empty when I visit.”

Camille looked at me and raised her eyebrows into question marks. Her smile was knowing, almost wicked.

“One of these days,” I said.

“That’s progress,” said George.

We parked near the famed Coit Tower, on top of Telegraph Hill, the first West Coast telegraph station that transmitted messages notifying the arrival of ships from the Pacific. The rain had let up sufficiently for us to get out of the limo, but the wind had picked up, not quite enough to create the “horizontal rain” of northern Scotland, but enough to whip the drizzle and fog into grotesque, eerie swirls of light and dark.

“Spectacular,” I said, looking through the mist out over the bay and the city.

“Like Wick?” Camille asked George.

“Not quite, but close enough.”

The heavens opened again, and we sought the warm, dry refuge of the limo. “Where to now?” I asked Camille.

“To eat.”

As we headed back toward center city, Camille told me that her niece’s assignment had changed at the last minute. “Her teacher felt it would be more fitting for a class in public relations to stage a mock press conference for you, Jess, instead of simply having you speak.”

“Sounds like an interesting idea,” I said.

“Rhet will schedule and handle a press conference at which you’ll announce a motion picture deal for one of your books. A fake movie deal, of course.”

“A shame it has to be fake,” I said. “I could use a movie deal. It’s been awhile.”

“Speaking of press conferences, Jess, how did your sheriff friend back in Maine make out? Did he hold one like I suggested?”

I shook my head. “I called him right after you made that suggestion, but he decided issuing a written statement would suffice.”

“What was he going to write?” asked George.

“Camille had a good suggestion, George. Tell them the truth, except the part about my still being in San Francisco. Tell them it was a frightful experience, that I took a vacation someplace else to recover, and that I wanted privacy.”

“I like the last part best,” George said. “I just wish the first part was true, that we’d—that you’d gone someplace else to get over it.”

Our driver came to a stop, jumped out of the car, and came around to the back door carrying a large green-and-white golf umbrella. It was raining hard again as we got out and tried to huddle beneath the umbrella. It wasn’t until we were standing directly in front of the restaurant that I realized where we were. The building’s facade was elegant black marble. The door was bright gold. Of course. We were having dinner at Restaurant Isuzu, where George and I had dined the previous night. I looked back at George, who was too busy opening the door for us to notice where he was. We stepped inside and were being helped out of our raincoats when he laughed and said, “Well, what do you know.”

Camille didn’t hear him because she’d sought out the maître d’ to inquire about our reservation. I whispered to George, “Let’s not say anything.”

He grinned and agreed.

The maître d’ approached and said, “Mrs. Fletcher. What a pleasant surprise. So good to see you again so soon.”

“You’ve been here before?” Camille asked.

“Yes,” I answered sheepishly. “Last night. George and I had dinner.”

“I’m sorry,” Camille said. “If I’d known, I would have—”

“Not another word,” I said. “George and I are very fond of sushi. Aren’t we, George?”

“What? Oh, yes, indeed. Can’t seem to get enough of it.”

The host said, “I was disappointed last night, Mrs. Fletcher, that I failed to ask you if you would be so kind to pose for a picture that we could hang on the wall.” He pointed behind us. “We think of it as our celebrity wall. Your photo would be a special treasure.”

“After dinner,” Camille snapped.

I didn’t know whether she was annoyed at the photo request, or that we’d been at Restaurant Isuzu before. All I knew was that I was a lot more willing to honor this photo request than I’d been with Robert Frederickson at What’s To Eat?.

As the maître d’ took my arm, Camille said, “I’m really sorry to be bringing you back here.”

“But I’m so glad we’re back,” I said. “The food is heavenly, and so is the service. We had a memorable meal.” I didn’t add that the previous night’s dinner had sated my yearning for sushi for six months. Maybe a second helping so soon would result in a cumulative effect, lasting a year.

Camille and I ordered saki. George stayed with the same Japanese beer as the previous night. He lifted his glass to us and said, “To the joys of sushi, the staff of every Scotsman’s life.” We laughed and clinked rims. He turned to me. “Enjoy your silki, Jessica.”

“Good morning, Jessica.”

“Good morning, George.”

“Wake you?”

“I was half awake. Now I’m all the way there.”

“Lovely evening.”

“Yes, it was. I hope two consecutive nights in a sushi restaurant won’t permanently upset your digestive tract.”.

“Not at all. The tempura was as good second time around as it was first. Ready for our stroll?”

“What stroll?”

“Across the bridge. Splendid day for it.”

“Across the bridge? The Golden Gate?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were joking when you suggested it last night.”

“Hardly. I’ve never done it. You have. And I would welcome your expertise, as well as your companionship.”

“George, I don’t think I can—”

“You know, Jessica, when you fall off a bicycle, it’s best to get right back on.”

I laughed. “I’m well aware of that sage advice, George. But falling off a bike, and falling off the Golden Gate Bridge, are two very different things. A scraped knee from one. A watery death from the other.”

“I promise that the worst thing will happen to you is a scraped knee. Well?”

“Get the bikes ready.”

We met downstairs for a breakfast of sourdough croissants and tea, hailed a cab, and were soon standing at the San Francisco end of the soaring, majestic, rust-colored bridge. The weather was perfect. There was considerably less wind than the day of my first venture across the span.