Martinis and Mayhem (20 page)

“But I couldn’t get Brett to see that. He was petrified at the thought of people knowing he was a gay man. He comes from a very religious family. Nice people. Well-meaning. I got to know his mother and father quite well when we would visit them in England. As far as Brett was concerned, acknowledging to them that he was gay would kill them. He was wrong, of course. People get upset when they hear that a son or daughter is not the person they thought, but most get over it, even end up embracing that same son or daughter. But Brett couldn’t deal with it.”

“Are you saying that he jumped because of the pain he suffered through grappling with whether to come out of the closet?”

“No. I guess I have to take a lot more blame than I’m comfortable with. The fact is, I threatened that morning to call his mother and father and tell them.”

“Why would you do that to someone you loved?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. The heat of an argument is as good a reason as any. I should have tried to dissuade Brett from taking that walk across the bridge. He was beside himself after I’d threatened to expose him to the world. He said he needed to walk, to clear his head. I went with him. When he started across, I had a moment when I questioned whether this was a wise thing for him to be doing. You know the reputation of the Golden Gate Bridge as a suicide site. But we just kept arguing and talking, and walking. When we got to the middle, he stopped and started to cry. I went to put my arms around him, but he slipped away and was gone.”

Which meant, of course, that Norman Lana was on the bridge when
I
was almost pushed to my death. Did I need to say that to him?

Evidently not, because the next thing he said was, “And I didn’t try to push you, Mrs. Fletcher. Sure, I was on the bridge. I understand your incident took place about the same time as when Brett jumped. I can’t change that. All I can do is ask that you believe me.”

I didn’t know whether I believed him or not, but debating the point wouldn’t shed any greater light at that moment. I said, “Thank you for being so open with me, Mr. Lana.”

“Please, call me Norman.”

“All right, Norman. You’ve been very forthcoming. You know how to reach me. I’ll be in San Francisco for a few more days if you think of anything else you’d like to unburden.”

“I appreciate that, Mrs. Fletcher. And please, talk to Kimberly. She’ll confirm what I’ve said.”

As I headed for the door, he said, “Would you like to see the rest of the apartment?”

I followed him through the archway to the bedroom, dominated by a king-size bed. The entire wall behind it formed a headboard of shelves filled with books and what I judged to be expensive small artifacts and pieces of sculpture. The walls were cream-colored; the floor was covered by thick burgundy carpeting. As in the living room, a great deal of art hung on the walls.

“It’s beautiful, Mr. Lana. Norman. You have a wonderful touch. Have you worked professionally as a decorator?”

“Just helping out friends now and then.”

I was about to leave when my eye went to an open closet door. Inside was a life-size mannequin dressed in a heavily sequined dressing gown. The face was that of a woman. A blond wig fell gracefully to the mannequin’s shoulders.

Lana noticed my interest in it. He said, laughing, “Just something from my previous life, Mrs. Fletcher. At Finocchio’s.” He quickly closed the closet door and led me back into the living room.

“Again, thank you for coming,” he said.

“I’m glad I did, Norman. Perhaps well have a chance to talk again.”

I was, at once, disappointed in receiving that message and filled with curiosity. What could have come up that demanded his immediate attention? Silly of me, to say nothing of unfair, to be so questioning of his activities. After all, we didn’t owe each other explanations of how we spent our time. Besides, I’d scooted off and hadn’t bothered to explain where I was going, or why.

Did the possibility cross my mind that there might be a woman in George’s life? Of course it did. It wasn’t a serious consideration, but I did wonder about it as I poured myself a mineral water from the suite’s bar, kicked off my shoes, and turned on the television. The newscast was dominated by the sort of news we’ve become accustomed to these days, and shouldn’t be—murder, rapes, politicians charged with fraud, natural disasters, man-made disasters, and other items of interest that cause us to shake our heads in disbelief and despair.

As I watched, I pondered what to do with the rest of my evening. It didn’t take long for the answer to be provided. I picked up the ringing telephone and heard a familiar voice from the past. “Jessica? This is Neil Schwartz.”

“Neil! How wonderful to hear your voice. Where are you calling from? Wisconsin?”

“This cheapskate calling long-distance?” His laugh was guttural and pleasantly recognizable. “I’m calling from right here in San Francisco. Want me to sing a chorus or two?” He began crooning the words to “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” He was so off-key it caused me to giggle.

“Enough,” I said. “It’s a good thing you decided to make your living as a writer. I’m afraid a career on the stage is not in your future.”

“You know how to hurt a man, Jess. No, I’m right here in the same city you are. Took a little tracking down, but perseverance prevailed. Any chance of us grabbing dinner tonight?”

“A very good chance. I happen to be free.”

“Wonderful. There will be three of us.”

“Oh? Who’s the third person?”

“My wife.”

“Neil, that’s splendid news. When did you get married?”

“Last week. Back home in Madison.”

“I thought you were living in Milwaukee.”

“I was, but then I got lucky, to say nothing of legitimate, and took an adjunct professor position at the University of Wisconsin. Teaching budding poets why they should consider another career. Jill and I are here on our honeymoon. Met her at the university. She teaches theater.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” I said.

“An hour?”

“Perfect.”

“Someone recommended a terrific sushi place to me here in San Francisco. Restaurant Isuzu.”

I didn’t hesitate. “Neil, you know I’m generally a very easy person when it comes to picking restaurants. I like just about everything. But since being in San Francisco, I’ve satisfied my urge for sushi for the next couple of years. Something else? Meat and potatoes?”

“Hold on a second, Jess. Let me consult my list of recommendations. Okay. How about chicken or fish cooked over a wood fire? And mashed potatoes.”

“Sounds great,” I said.

He said we were going to a “hip” new place called LuLu, on Folsom Street, and that he and his bride would pick me up at the hotel in an hour.

Neil’s call, and our dinner date, lifted my spirits. I showered, dressed in the most elegant evening attire I’d brought with me—certainly at least elegant for this non-fashion plate, whose taste runs more to sweatsuits and cardigan sweaters—and was waiting downstairs when they arrived.

 

Although Neil Schwartz had thickened in the midsection, and had lost some hair, his simpatico personality hadn’t changed. Jill was a shade taller than Neil. Her hair was the color of strawberries, and hundreds of freckles on her broad face created a map of sorts.

We all got along famously, lingering into the night at the cavernous restaurant whose food lived up to Neil’s advance billing.

Over snifters of cognac, I said, “There is a certain irony in us getting together here in San Francisco.”

He knew what I was getting at because he said, “The Kimberly Steffer case.”

“Exactly. I suppose you’ve learned something of my involvement with it.”

“Can’t miss it if you read the papers, and watch television. What was this business of you almost being pushed off the Golden Gate Bridge?”

I sighed. “A frightening experience, although it could have been worse had my attacker been successful. I tend to forget about it until someone brings it up.”

“Maybe Neil shouldn’t have,” said Jill.

“No, no, I didn’t mean that. I read the chapter in your book, Neil, about Kimberly Steffer. As I recall, you didn’t take any sides concerning her guilt or innocence.”

“That’s right. A lot of people didn’t think she did it. But I went with the trial, and the guilty verdict that came out of it. Have you joined the Kimberly Steffer Believer’s Club?”

I nodded. “I’ve spoken with her a few times in prison. I do not believe she murdered her husband.” I held up my hands against the next obvious question. “I don’t have anything to base that on, Neil. No hard facts. But when you’ve spent your professional life dealing with murder—most of it fictitious, I acknowledge, but too often real—you develop a sense. By the way, a friend of mine, George Sutherland, is in San Francisco. He’s with Scotland Yard in London.”

“You mentioned him to me in a letter awhile back.”

“I suppose I did. A dear, dear man. I’ve managed to drag him into the Kimberly Steffer mess, and he seems to share my belief that she’s innocent. You wrote about her illustrator, Brett Pearl, in your book.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know he fell to his death from the Golden Gate at about the same time someone tried to push me over?”

Both Neil and Jill sat up straighter.

“My God,” said Jill. “Did the same person who tried to kill you push
him
over?”

“I would say that’s a reasonable assumption,” I responded. “The question is, who is that person?”

The subject changed to something more pleasant. As we chatted enthusiastically, I glanced at my watch. Almost eleven. “Would you excuse me while I make a phone call?” I said.

I dialed the Westin St. Francis from a pay phone and asked for George Sutherland’s room. I reached his voice mail. “George, this is Jessica. I’m at a delightful dinner with old friends. Well, at least one of them is an old friend, Neil Schwartz. He’s here on his honeymoon. He, his wife and I have been celebrating a bit. I hope you’re all right. If I get back to the hotel by midnight, I’ll give you a call. If not, well do as you suggested and meet up in the morning. Sleep tight. And don’t worry about me. I’m in good company.”

As it turned out, Neil and Jill dropped me at the hotel a few minutes past midnight. I checked my voice mail the moment I got to my suite. The message from George said: “
I checked for messages a bit ago, Jessica, and received yours. Glad you’re having a splendid evening with friends. My evening has developed into a rather interesting one, the details of which I will relay to you when we gather forces in the morning. Breakfast at seven? Don’t forget you are to meet the young Ms. Steffer at nine. Sleep tight yourself
.”

I must admit I was worried about George, but I was also fatigued. After a few minutes of television, I climbed happily into bed and was asleep, it seemed, the moment my head touched my pillow.

Scotland Yard Inspector George Sutherland is what you might call an even-tempered human being. Few highs, and even fewer lows in mood and behavior. Calm and rational, levelheaded, and very much in control of his emotions.

Which is why I was somewhat taken aback when I met him the following morning in the lobby of our hotel. There was a distinct bounce to his step. His greeting of me was unusually expansive. “Ah, good morning my dear lady,” he said beaming. “Have you looked outside? What a magnificent fat day.”

“Yes. It looks like we’re in for a spell of nice weather. Are we having breakfast here in the hotel?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, his tone still a few levels above what it generally is. “I always like to sample the best a city has to offer. I thought breakfast at the Buena Vista was very much in order this morning. I understand its breakfast offerings are unparalleled. Besides, it is close to Ghirardelli Square, where you are to meet with the mysterious Ms. Steffer.”

I couldn’t help but smile at his ebullient mood. He’d obviously had an enjoyable evening, and had slept soundly after it. “All right,” I said. “Breakfast at the Buena Vista it is.”

We exited our taxi and stepped into the famous saloon, where Irish coffee had been introduced to America. The place was jammed even at that early hour. The large, round tables were communal; we waited until two chairs opened up at one, joining six other diners. We placed our breakfast orders—pancakes, two eggs over-easy, and bacon for George; scrambled eggs, dry, and toast for me.

The food was delicious. So was the conversation with our tablemates, two of whom were British on a stopover in San Francisco en route to Hong Kong.

I tried to get George on the subject of the previous evening, but was unsuccessful. He simply continued the conversation with others at the table. Finally, when I asked him again, he said, “In all due course, Jessica. That was a delicious breakfast. I think we’d better head for your nine o’clock appointment.” .

We walked the short distance from the Buena Vista to Ghirardelli Square and found the Mermaid Fountain in the central plaza. We were a half hour early for my rendezvous with Ellie Steffer. We bought two cappuccinos to go from a nearby coffee shop—there seemed to be coffee shops everywhere—and took them to an empty wrought-iron table in the central plaza. “This is as good a place as any for me to wait for her, I suppose,” I said.

“Yes,” George agreed. “Quite centrally located, with a view of the entire area. I suppose I should make myself scarce.” He looked across the plaza to another group of tables partially obscured from our view. He laughed. “I feel very much like a house detective in a seedy hotel, hiding behind a potted palm in search of unsavory goings-on.”