Free Martinis and Mayhem by Jessica Fletcher Page B

dew; a sudden snap of cool air after a period of hot and humid weather; a baby’s smile; a lick from a loving dog’s warm, wet tongue.
    The physical beauty of San Francisco. Excellent food. Bracing air. Friendly people. The anticipation of a week with Chief Inspector George Sutherland.
    At that moment, according to Maslow, my sanity was beyond debate.
     
    “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s seven o’clock, and sixty-one sunny degrees outside. Have a wonderful day.”
    “I certainly intend to,” I said to the recorded wake-up message.
    I’d decided to skip the gym that morning, and to ease into the day at a more leisurely pace. I’d done plenty of walking the night before. Besides, having decided to take a stroll across the Golden Gate Bridge would make up for any lost time on the exercise bike.
    It had never occurred to me to take such a walk. But Robert Frederickson had suggested it. And the cabdriver who’d driven me down the hairpin turns of Lombard Street last night had casually mentioned that crossing the Golden Gate on foot was one of his favorite things to do on a day off.
    And so I decided it offered a chance to do something different in a city rife with different things to do.
    I wanted an early start; new adventures are always more enjoyable, at least to this early riser, when experienced in cool, crisp morning air. The vision of the bridge showered in the early morning light was palpably pleasant.
    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. I knew that callers would be asked by a live operator whether they wished to leave a message with her, or to record it on my Voice Mail. Either way, I’d get it once I was out of the shower—provided the caller wanted me to receive a message. I thought as I dried off with one of the oversize, plush velvet towels how convenient it would be to have a waterproof telephone in the shower.
    I peeked into my bedroom and saw the flashing message light on that room’s phone. Wrapped in my towel, I punched in 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 the terry cloth robe bearing the St. Francis 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 round-trip 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