Martinis and Mayhem by Jessica Fletcher Page B

I’ll be there as soon as I’ve discharged my obligations.”
    Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been delighted to be given a table with an unobstructed view of the Golden Gate. But after what had happened to me that morning, I found the sight of it off-putting. No, eerie was more apt.
    Again, my timing was good and bad. I arrived at the Top of the Mark at the optimum time for witnessing the arrival of the city’s fabled fog, that long-running theatrical event that is as much a tourist attraction in San Francisco as the cable cars and Alcatraz. By the time I was seated, the fog had obscured half the bridge, and was heading in my direction, swallowing buildings as it relentlessly made its predictable path across the city. As symbolic as it was of my horrifying experience on the bridge that morning, it was also mesmerizing. I stared at it until it had gulped the Top of the Mark, and me. And then, just as the fog had rolled in, so did George. He made his way quickly to my table, apologized for being late, and took the second chair. I had a half-finished perfect Manhattan in front of me. “Wonderful to see you, George,” I said. “Let’s find the waitress.”
    “Not for me,” he said. “I’ve had enough to drink at the party. Hungry?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then, let’s get ourselves some dinner, someplace quiet where you can tell me what’s upset you today.”
     
    Once a year—never more than that—I have a craving for sushi. I’d only had it twice before. The first time was in Tokyo, the second in New York. It will never rank on my list of favorite foods. But, as I say, I have this annual craving. And this was the night. Maybe stress and fear release some chemical in our bodies that activates a special taste gland. Maybe not. All I know is that George, dear man that he is, agreed to indulge my special need that evening, and took me to what is considered one of San Francisco’s finest sushi restaurants, Restaurant Isuzu, in Japantown.
    “You’re a real friend, and a trooper, to come here, George,” I said as we were seated in a pretty small room at the rear of the restaurant.
    “For you, Jessica, I will do anything. Even sushi. I rather like the place. Charming. Besides, it will broaden my horizons, but not my waistline. When you think about it, you don’t see many fat Japanese men or women.”
    “Sumo wrestlers?” I offered.
    “There’s an exception to everything.”
    “Thanks for stealing time for me, George. I know you’re terribly busy and—”
    He held up his hand. “Enough of that,” he said. “Now, tell me what has upset you this fine day.”
    “Someone tried to kill me this morning.”
    “I would say that warrants a bit of upset. Where did this happen?”
    “On the Golden Gate Bridge. I took that walk on the bridge I told you I was considering. Lovely morning. Lots of people doing the same thing. I stopped at mid-span to take in the views, and—well, someone tried to push me over the edge.”
    “What a horrible experience. You obviously managed to fight off the bleck.”
    “The what?”
    “The bleck. The scoundrel. Go on. Who was it?”
    “I don’t know. I never saw him. Or her. When I fought back, the person backed off and disappeared into the crowd. I suppose if I’d turned around immediately I might have seen—the bleck —but I was too shaken.”
    A petite, pretty Japanese girl handed us warm towels to cleanse our hands, placed menus in front of us, and asked for our drink order. “Nothing for me, thank you,” I said. “Just some club soda.” George ordered a Japanese beer.
    “What did you do after it happened?” he asked.
    “I came back into town and went to the police. A Detective Josephs interviewed me. He says he knows you.”
    “Josephs? Yes, I vaguely recall someone with that name. Was he helpful?”
    “Yes. And no. He’s writing a novel and gave it to me to read.”
    “How inappropriate.”
    “Not really. We struck a deal. I read his novel in exchange