Read Online Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) by Julie Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Smith
Tags: Women Sleuths, Mystery, comic mystery, cozy, romantic suspense, funny, Edgar winner, Rebecca Schwartz series, comic thriller, serial killer, legal thriller, courtroom thriller, San Francisco, female sleuth, lawyer sleuth, amateur detective
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guess what? The studio’s already sitting on a proposal for
Catcher in the Rye
. Somebody else got the idea five years ago, only they never made the movie for certain reasons that I’ll reveal in a minute. By now this baby mogul’s completely turned around—convinced the five-year-old idea is the way to go. Here’s what it is: an animated version in which all the characters are dogs.”
Bob said: “Give me a break!”
Jeff held up a hand. “This is the verbatim truth. I am not making up one word.”
“I suppose,” said Chris, “they’re going to call it
Fido
.”
“
Dufus
. Can you guess what the hang-up is?”
“The S.P.C.A.,” said Bob.
“The J. D. Salinger Anti-Defamation League,” said Chris.
I said, “Salinger.”
“Almost right. No one in the entire studio, located in fabulous Hollywood, the chutzpah capital of the world, has been able to work up the nerve to approach him.”
He had me pretty well charmed. I could easily have listened all night, but eventually he started, as politeness demanded, to draw me out. I talked about what was on my mind—the Trapper’s note.
It couldn’t yet be published, but there was nothing wrong with four pals chewing it over along with the thresher shark. Jeff thought it was hokum—the work of an attention-seeking nut. He also thought the wine a little fruity, the fish a trifle overdone. On the last two points, he was right, perhaps—and yet both were delicious. If it had been left to me, I simply would have enjoyed my dinner rather than dwelt on it. He was a man with a very analytical mind.
“But something did happen at Pier 39,” I insisted. “How do you explain that?”
“Simple. This Zimbardo character read about your Sanchez—the man on the cross—and cashed in on it.”
“But why? What did he have to gain by writing the note: He had everything to lose, it seems to me—he put the cops on guard; they might have stopped him.”
“I expect he just wanted a little attention. I can identify with that—can’t you?” He looked straight at me with those light brown eyes, and I won’t pretend I was entirely unmoved. I think perhaps I blushed, because suddenly he got very flustered, tripping all over himself with excuse me’s and I-didn’t-mean-it-that-ways. Which naturally caused both Chris and Bob practically to roll on the floor. Unnerved as much by their merriment as by Jeff’s blatant flirting, I stayed a polite fifteen minutes after the coffee arrived, and beat a cowardly retreat. I wasn’t used to being out on my own; it felt so good it made me nervous.
But if I thought I was getting away that easily, I was quite mistaken—Jeff insisted on walking me to my car, keeping up a running commentary on what a pleasure it was to meet another lawyer, and how very difficult it was to meet Jewish girls (why, I couldn’t imagine—I could have introduced him to fifteen or twenty), and how very nice it would be to see me again. I stuck my hand out when we got to the Volvo, just in case; obediently he took it, kissing me gently even as he shook it, leaving me thinking Rob wasn’t the only shrimp in the bay. And hating myself for thinking it. But dammit, Rob
had
deserted me.
The deserter phoned the next morning, about the time I’d finished reading my Sunday Exonicle (combined
Examiner
and
Chronicle
), learning that it was now official: The police were seeking kitchen worker Lou Zimbardo in connection with the Pier 39 poisonings. Rob’s voice was the croak of a beaten man, but I managed to control my sympathy for a moment or two: “Oh, Rob, how are you? Did you have a nice time alone?”
“Not too good, to tell you the truth. Things didn’t work out quite like I hoped.”
“Oh?”
“I got mugged.”
End of control: “Mugged! Are you hurt? Is anything broken? Oh, pussycat! Please say you’re okay!”
“I’m okay.” But he sounded so pathetic I had to fight back tears.
“You sound awful.”
“My jaw’s swollen. They hit me a
Catcher in the Rye
. Somebody else got the idea five years ago, only they never made the movie for certain reasons that I’ll reveal in a minute. By now this baby mogul’s completely turned around—convinced the five-year-old idea is the way to go. Here’s what it is: an animated version in which all the characters are dogs.”
Bob said: “Give me a break!”
Jeff held up a hand. “This is the verbatim truth. I am not making up one word.”
“I suppose,” said Chris, “they’re going to call it
Fido
.”
“
Dufus
. Can you guess what the hang-up is?”
“The S.P.C.A.,” said Bob.
“The J. D. Salinger Anti-Defamation League,” said Chris.
I said, “Salinger.”
“Almost right. No one in the entire studio, located in fabulous Hollywood, the chutzpah capital of the world, has been able to work up the nerve to approach him.”
He had me pretty well charmed. I could easily have listened all night, but eventually he started, as politeness demanded, to draw me out. I talked about what was on my mind—the Trapper’s note.
It couldn’t yet be published, but there was nothing wrong with four pals chewing it over along with the thresher shark. Jeff thought it was hokum—the work of an attention-seeking nut. He also thought the wine a little fruity, the fish a trifle overdone. On the last two points, he was right, perhaps—and yet both were delicious. If it had been left to me, I simply would have enjoyed my dinner rather than dwelt on it. He was a man with a very analytical mind.
“But something did happen at Pier 39,” I insisted. “How do you explain that?”
“Simple. This Zimbardo character read about your Sanchez—the man on the cross—and cashed in on it.”
“But why? What did he have to gain by writing the note: He had everything to lose, it seems to me—he put the cops on guard; they might have stopped him.”
“I expect he just wanted a little attention. I can identify with that—can’t you?” He looked straight at me with those light brown eyes, and I won’t pretend I was entirely unmoved. I think perhaps I blushed, because suddenly he got very flustered, tripping all over himself with excuse me’s and I-didn’t-mean-it-that-ways. Which naturally caused both Chris and Bob practically to roll on the floor. Unnerved as much by their merriment as by Jeff’s blatant flirting, I stayed a polite fifteen minutes after the coffee arrived, and beat a cowardly retreat. I wasn’t used to being out on my own; it felt so good it made me nervous.
But if I thought I was getting away that easily, I was quite mistaken—Jeff insisted on walking me to my car, keeping up a running commentary on what a pleasure it was to meet another lawyer, and how very difficult it was to meet Jewish girls (why, I couldn’t imagine—I could have introduced him to fifteen or twenty), and how very nice it would be to see me again. I stuck my hand out when we got to the Volvo, just in case; obediently he took it, kissing me gently even as he shook it, leaving me thinking Rob wasn’t the only shrimp in the bay. And hating myself for thinking it. But dammit, Rob
had
deserted me.
The deserter phoned the next morning, about the time I’d finished reading my Sunday Exonicle (combined
Examiner
and
Chronicle
), learning that it was now official: The police were seeking kitchen worker Lou Zimbardo in connection with the Pier 39 poisonings. Rob’s voice was the croak of a beaten man, but I managed to control my sympathy for a moment or two: “Oh, Rob, how are you? Did you have a nice time alone?”
“Not too good, to tell you the truth. Things didn’t work out quite like I hoped.”
“Oh?”
“I got mugged.”
End of control: “Mugged! Are you hurt? Is anything broken? Oh, pussycat! Please say you’re okay!”
“I’m okay.” But he sounded so pathetic I had to fight back tears.
“You sound awful.”
“My jaw’s swollen. They hit me a
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