Free Martinis and Mayhem by Jessica Fletcher Page A

be the first person to kill someone close to a hated rival. I asked whether you’d run across him because after staying in London for a short time—he’s British—he returned to The States to live. Out here on the West Coast.”
    He looked at his watch. “Good heavens, Jessica, I’m afraid I must run out on you. Tonight is the opening dinner. I still haven’t unpacked, and have business to tend to before the ‘festivities’ begin.”
    “I understand, George.”
    “Tell you what,” he said, “this series of seminars will keep me busy for the next couple of days. But I’ve made a hard-boiled decision as we’ve been talking.”
    “Oh?”
    “I’ve decided that I deserve a holiday, too. I intend to call my travel agent the moment I get to my room and book a later flight. A week later.”
    My pleasure was obviously written all over my face.
    “I’d like nothing more than to spend a week in this splendid city with an equally splendid woman named Jessica Fletcher.”
    “Sure you can?” I asked.
    “A chief inspector can do anything, Jessica.”
    I smiled. “Run along,” I said. “I don’t feel nearly as deprived losing you tonight, knowing I’ll have an entire week in your company.”
    “Care to attend some of the seminars?” he asked. “Might be instructive.”
    “Thanks for the offer, George, but I think not. I don’t want to develop a reputation for hanging around with the wrong crowd.”
    “A wise decision.”
    “Know what I think I might do tomorrow?”
    “No, what?” He looked for our waitress and reached for his wallet.
    “My treat, George.”
    “So you’ve become a woman of the ’nineties, Jessica.”
    “If buying you a drink labels me that, feel free to pay.”
    “Remember, ‘Fair maidens wear nae purses’ ”
    “Another Scottish expression?”
    “Yes. We Scots may have a reputation for being tight with money, but we balk at having women pay when in mixed company.”
    We both laughed.
    “Tomorrow,” he said. “You were about to tell me what you might do.”
    “Oh. Right. Have you ever walked across the Golden Gate Bridge?”
    “No.”
    “Want to? If you do, I’ll postpone it until you’re free.”
    “Better do it while the urge is strong, Jessica. That’s what you have on tap tomorrow?”
    “Weather permitting.”
    “Well, whatever you do, do it carefully. Wear heavy shoes.”
    “Why?”
    “To give you ballast in a strong wind.”
    We both stood. He kissed me on the cheek. Our eyes lingered on each other as we promised to keep in close touch at our respective hotels. And he was gone, swallowed by the large crowd waiting at the captain’s desk for tables to open up.

Chapter Seven
    Once George disappeared through the crowd, and buoyed by the thought of having him around for a whole week, I left the Top of the Mark to head out for some evening sight-seeing.
    Fisherman’s Wharf: I snacked on a crab cocktail from a sidewalk vendor, purchased a lovely tooled leather address book from a local artisan, and enjoyed a cup of Irish coffee at a communal table in the Buena Vista Café, where that scrumptious concoction was first introduced to this country by famed San Francisco columnist Stan Delaplane. From there, I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me down Lombard Street, “the world’s crookedest street,” which he did, and which I found to be fun even though I’d done it numerous times before.
    My internal dinner bell went off, and I headed for Chinatown, the Chinatown, for an appetizer of minced squab wrapped in lettuce leaves, and lobster broiled in ginger sauce, at Celadon.
    I arrived back at the Westin St. Francis at eleven feeling wonderful. I thought of Abraham Maslow, the pioneering psychologist, who identified one of the signs of sanity as having the ability to recognize and enjoy “peak experiences”—those moments, large or small, when you are at one with the world, and when your senses explode in celebration. A lovely climbing rosebush wet with