Cove.
Discussing my incident on the bridge with Detective Josephs that morning hadn’t done much to satisfy my need to share it with others. I glanced over at a table on which I’d put his manuscript. I’d promised to read it that night, which I would do, of course. But he wouldn’t get any substantive response to it from me until he’d lived up to his part of the bargain. I needed more time with his computer files on the Mark Steffer murder case. You give a little, you get a little. You give a lot, you get a lot. That would be my operative ground rule from now on when dealing with the detective.
As I closed my door behind me, I heard the faint ringing of the phone inside the suite. Go back and answer? By the time I dug out my magnetic card, aka key, from my purse, it would probably be too late. Whoever was calling could leave a message. If it was George, I’d see him soon enough.
As I rode down in the elevator, I changed my mind about surprising George at the Mark Hopkins. Simply showing up would place an unfair pressure on him in the event he’d made other plans for the evening, personal or professional.
The lobby of the St. Francis was bustling that late afternoon. Well-dressed businesspeople mingled with less well-dressed tourists, many of whom had made the hotel’s famous lobby part of their sight-seeing itinerary. The St. Francis is considered by travel writers to be the grand belle of San Francisco hotels, with its stately marble columns, breathtaking oversize flower arrangements, and rococo gold balconies.
There was a pay phone on a wall next to a house phone that sat on a marble shelf. A woman was on the house phone. As I approached, she slammed down the receiver and spun around. The anger on her face mirrored what she’d done to the phone.
I stopped to wait for her to walk away. But she didn’t. She remained there, mumbling to herself, her face twisted in rage, her hand still gripping the receiver.
I decided to avoid her and to look for another pay phone. As I headed for a long, sweeping hallway off the lobby, a loud female voice from behind stopped me in my tracks. “Mrs. Fletcher!”
I turned to see the same woman who’d vented her anger on the telephone walking toward me. Her eyes were open wide, her lips squeezed tightly together. Every vein in her neck had swelled. She was a big woman with a big bosom, and with a mop of brown, frizzy hair topping off her frame. Everything about her was large, including her vocal cords.
She growled my name again, punctuating it this time with a question mark. She stopped a few feet away, shifted her weight to one leg, and crossed her arms over her chest. We held our standoff until she again said my name. This time it was punctuated with a strong exclamation point.
She seemed to be summoning me to come to her, a school principal beckoning a naughty student. I spun around with the intention of getting away from her. She was either a crazed fan, or a woman who should have stopped using drugs years ago. Either way, the morning’s bizarre attempt on my life had sharpened my instincts, to say nothing of my sense of self-preservation. I headed for the front desk.
“Mrs. Fletcher!”
I faced her again. She’d come up directly behind me; she was within strangling distance, and breathing hard, eyes screaming. Then, she said in a much lower voice that trembled, “I am Nancy Antonio. Ellie’s godmother.”
“Oh.”
I looked around. A clerk at the desk had come to where I stood. “Can I help you, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.
“No. I—Look, Ms. Antonio, I want you to know that I am truly sorry for making that phone call.”
“As well you should be.” She spoke slowly, deliberately, every word enunciated.
She uncrossed her arms. “Is there something you want to say to me, Mrs. Fletcher, now that we’re face-to-face?” She was calm now. Maybe she had mercury for blood.
“No,” I said. “I should not have tried to call your goddaughter. It’s just
Discussing my incident on the bridge with Detective Josephs that morning hadn’t done much to satisfy my need to share it with others. I glanced over at a table on which I’d put his manuscript. I’d promised to read it that night, which I would do, of course. But he wouldn’t get any substantive response to it from me until he’d lived up to his part of the bargain. I needed more time with his computer files on the Mark Steffer murder case. You give a little, you get a little. You give a lot, you get a lot. That would be my operative ground rule from now on when dealing with the detective.
As I closed my door behind me, I heard the faint ringing of the phone inside the suite. Go back and answer? By the time I dug out my magnetic card, aka key, from my purse, it would probably be too late. Whoever was calling could leave a message. If it was George, I’d see him soon enough.
As I rode down in the elevator, I changed my mind about surprising George at the Mark Hopkins. Simply showing up would place an unfair pressure on him in the event he’d made other plans for the evening, personal or professional.
The lobby of the St. Francis was bustling that late afternoon. Well-dressed businesspeople mingled with less well-dressed tourists, many of whom had made the hotel’s famous lobby part of their sight-seeing itinerary. The St. Francis is considered by travel writers to be the grand belle of San Francisco hotels, with its stately marble columns, breathtaking oversize flower arrangements, and rococo gold balconies.
There was a pay phone on a wall next to a house phone that sat on a marble shelf. A woman was on the house phone. As I approached, she slammed down the receiver and spun around. The anger on her face mirrored what she’d done to the phone.
I stopped to wait for her to walk away. But she didn’t. She remained there, mumbling to herself, her face twisted in rage, her hand still gripping the receiver.
I decided to avoid her and to look for another pay phone. As I headed for a long, sweeping hallway off the lobby, a loud female voice from behind stopped me in my tracks. “Mrs. Fletcher!”
I turned to see the same woman who’d vented her anger on the telephone walking toward me. Her eyes were open wide, her lips squeezed tightly together. Every vein in her neck had swelled. She was a big woman with a big bosom, and with a mop of brown, frizzy hair topping off her frame. Everything about her was large, including her vocal cords.
She growled my name again, punctuating it this time with a question mark. She stopped a few feet away, shifted her weight to one leg, and crossed her arms over her chest. We held our standoff until she again said my name. This time it was punctuated with a strong exclamation point.
She seemed to be summoning me to come to her, a school principal beckoning a naughty student. I spun around with the intention of getting away from her. She was either a crazed fan, or a woman who should have stopped using drugs years ago. Either way, the morning’s bizarre attempt on my life had sharpened my instincts, to say nothing of my sense of self-preservation. I headed for the front desk.
“Mrs. Fletcher!”
I faced her again. She’d come up directly behind me; she was within strangling distance, and breathing hard, eyes screaming. Then, she said in a much lower voice that trembled, “I am Nancy Antonio. Ellie’s godmother.”
“Oh.”
I looked around. A clerk at the desk had come to where I stood. “Can I help you, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.
“No. I—Look, Ms. Antonio, I want you to know that I am truly sorry for making that phone call.”
“As well you should be.” She spoke slowly, deliberately, every word enunciated.
She uncrossed her arms. “Is there something you want to say to me, Mrs. Fletcher, now that we’re face-to-face?” She was calm now. Maybe she had mercury for blood.
“No,” I said. “I should not have tried to call your goddaughter. It’s just
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