Martinis and Mayhem (21 page)

“You can stay right here with me if you wish.”

“No. As we agreed, my presence might inhibit the young lady from being candid. She obviously has something very important on her mind, and it seems you are about to become the recipient of whatever that is. I’ll be over there.”

He started to walk away.

“George,” I said.

He stopped and turned. “Yes, Jessica?”

“Where were you last night?”

His smile was again expansive. “As my dear, departed father said, patience is truly a virtue. This afternoon.”

“I have to wait until this afternoon to find out what you did last night? To find out why you’re in such wonderful spirits this morning?”

“Exactly. I’ll be right over there in case you need me.” With that, he took purposeful strides in the direction of his secluded vantage point.

I sat at the table and sipped my cappuccino. George’s festive demeanor had kept my mind from dwelling upon the meeting I was about to have with Ellie Steffer. But now as I sat alone, I was bombarded with a series of thoughts and concerns.

What if, instead of Ellie, her mother, Joan, or godmother, Nancy Antonio, showed up? My one run-in with Ms. Antonio had been enough to last me a lifetime. It was possible that either woman might keep Ellie’s appointment for her. Nancy Antonio had been sitting right outside the school when Ellie left. Then again, she might not have known of my appearance. I decided to go on the assumption that she did know, and be on the lookout for her.

And what of Ellie’s mother? I’d yet to meet her. But maybe Ellie had told her that I’d been at her school for my mock press conference.

As these, and other thoughts came to me, I decided it was a fruitless exercise to worry about things that were not, at least as yet, reality. I would find out soon enough what the morning held for me.

Provided, of course, that Ellie or
someone
showed up. I was thinking of the possibility that no one would arrive at Ghirardelli Square when I looked across the plaza and saw Ellie standing at its perimeter. She surveyed the area, looking for me, I assumed. And then I saw Camille’s niece, Rhet, come to Ellie’s side. Interesting, I thought. I knew they were friends from their interplay at school. But why would Rhet accompany her to meet with me? That would mean, I surmised, that she knew what was going on.

I was tempted to stand and wave, but didn’t. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, or to the fact that we were meeting. I didn’t have to. Rhet spotted me, said something to Ellie, and the girls approached.

“Hello, Rhet,” I said. “Hello, Ellie.”

“Hi, Mrs. Fletcher,” Rhet said enthusiastically. Ellie averted my eyes, focusing her attention on some unseen point in the distance.

“Join me?” I asked. “I have coffee from that shop over there. Can I get you girls something?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Rhet said. She turned to Ellie, who had turned deadly serious. “Ellie, come on, this was your idea.”

I sat silently and waited for Ellie to make a decision whether to sit or to bolt. Eventually, she took a chair next to Rhet.

“Do they have lemonade?” Ellie asked, looking in the direction of the coffee shop.

“I would imagine,” I said. I pulled a five-dollar bill from my purse and placed it on the table. “My treat. But hurry back.”.

Instead of both girls leaving the table, it was Ellie who walked away carrying the money. When she was out of earshot, Rhet leaned closer and said, “She’s really scared to be talking to you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“Because—well, because if her mother or her godmother knew she was here, she’d be in big trouble. I mean b-i-g trouble.”

“And I certainly wouldn’t want to be the cause of that,” I said. “Rhet, did either Ellie’s mother, or Ms. Antonio, know that I made a presentation at your school?”

“Oh, boy, no. If they knew Ellie had come to school that day to hear you talk, they would have been furious.”

“What a difficult way for a young girl to live,” I said, shaking my head. “I feel sorry for her.”

“So do I. That’s why I came with her today.”

“You’re obviously a good friend.”

“I like Ellie. I wouldn’t say we’re real close, but I enjoy being with her. She’s very smart. I just wish she wasn’t so sad.”

“Having your father murdered must leave a terrible mark on you,” I said.

“Especially when the person who did it isn’t in jail, and the one who didn’t do it is—in jail, I mean.”

“You’re talking about Kimberly Steffer.”

“Yes. Kimberly Steffer was not—”

Rhet stopped speaking as Ellie returned to the table carrying two plastic cups of lemonade. She resumed her chair and took a cigarette from the pocket of her black leather jacket. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Of course not. We’re outdoors.” I was tempted to lecture her on the dangers of cigarette smoking, but decided it wasn’t my place. Nor was it the time.

Ellie inhaled deeply, and twirled the used match between her thumb and index finger.

“Ellie, I don’t want to pressure you. But you did ask that we meet this morning. Both you girls are cutting school today?”

“Yes,” Rhet said. She looked at Ellie. “She’s my bad influence.” She laughed lightly to let her friend know she wasn’t being serious.

“Well, I hate to be an accomplice to this crime,” I said, “but here I am. What’s on your mind, Ellie? You left a note in my friend’s raincoat at school. I took it seriously when you said you’d be here this morning because, like it or not, I have become involved with you and others in your family. Why don’t you tell me what brings us here today. Believe me, I will do nothing to cause you trouble, or to hurt you. My goal is to get to the bottom of your father’s murder. You can trust me. You can speak freely with me.”

It looked as though she was about to open up. But three young people dressed in garish clothing—was it Halloween?—appeared and began to perform for those of us in the plaza that sunny morning. One played the guitar; the other two combined dance and mime to tell a story of sorts. I might have enjoyed watching their performance had I not felt annoyance at their intrusion. The girls watched the troupe with interest; I wondered whether that was the end of any serious conversation. It was Rhet who directed everyone’s attention back to the table. She said to her friend, “Go on, Ellie. Get it off your chest. You can trust Mrs. Fletcher. Tell her everything.”

The words came from Ellie’s mouth as though a tape recorder was playing them back. “She didn’t do it. My mother and godmother hate you. They’d kill me if they knew I was here this morning. My mother went down to Los Angeles. Nancy had a business meeting in Oakland.”

I glanced to where George had taken up his position behind the greenery. I could barely see him, but knowing he was there was comforting. I turned my attention to Ellie. “When you say she didn’t do it, you mean your stepmother, Kimberly.”

“I never called Kimberly my stepmother. I always called her mom.”

“Tell me how you know she didn’t kill your father, Ellie. This might be painful for you to speak about, but—”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” the young girl said. Her face was now set in determination, as though she had summoned up every ounce of steel in her body to get through what she was about to say. “Kimberly is in prison, and she shouldn’t be.”

“I agree with you,” I said.

“You’ve been visiting Kimberly in prison, haven’t you?”

“Yes. How did
you
know that?”

“I heard my mother and Nancy talking about it. Nancy said she told you off the other day at your hotel.”

I smiled. “I suppose ‘telling me off’ pretty much sums it up. May I ask you a question, Ellie?”

“Sure.” She sipped her lemonade.

“Why do you live with Nancy and not with your mother?”

“Because my mother doesn’t want me.” She said it so flatly, so matter-of-factly that my heart hurt for her.

“How is Kimberly, Mrs. Fletcher?” Ellie asked. She started to cry, silent tears running down her full cheeks. Rhet put her arm around her.

“Kimberly is doing as well as can be expected, I suppose. Prison is a terrible place to be. But she seems determined to make the best of it, and to leave it as soon as possible. I’m dedicated to helping her do that.” I paused and scrutinized Ellie’s face. “You love Kimberly, don’t you?”

The tears continued. “I love her very much. I wish she had been my mother.”

“Do you think your love for her is clouding your judgment about her guilt?” I asked.

As she wiped her tears with the back of her hands, a defiant expression crossed her face again. She sat up straight, looked me in the eye, and said, “No, Mrs. Fletcher. It isn’t that I don’t think she killed my father, I
know
she didn’t.”

“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?”

“You look surprised, Jess,” George said.