Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

room.’
”
    “Mussels! They’re quarantined!”
    “Right. The cops were being cagey about the poison to see if the Trapper would ’fess up. They got the hospital and the victims’ families to keep quiet, too. So now there’s absolutely no doubt.”
    “The cops found good mussels in the men’s room?”
    “Uh-huh. When the local mussels are quarantined, all the restaurants use Eastern ones. All the Trapper had to do was substitute a plastic bag of local ones for a bag of the Eastern ones—which he put in the men’s room. That’s why all the poisonings came at once. The restaurant opened the new bag and everyone who ate the first batch out of it got sick.”
    “My God!”
    “Feel a cold wind blowing down your neck, babe? That’s the start of a climate of fear. Listen, I’ve got to cancel lunch. Martinez and Curry are coming and someone from the mayor’s office. We’ve got to hash things out.”
    “What things?”
    “The cops don’t want us to run the note. They’re afraid it’ll cause a panic.”
    “It will. I’m panicked and I’m not even a tourist.”
    “True; it will. But wouldn’t you prefer to know there’s a homicidal maniac on the loose so you could stay off the streets if you felt like it?”
    “I think I would. I wish we could have warned people away from Pier 39.”
    “That’s the way I feel. As it happened, though, he timed it so we couldn’t. He substituted the mussels the same day we got the letter, so at least no one got hurt because we made the wrong decision.”
    My stomach contracted into a hard little knot. “I keep thinking about the poor old man who died. And his family. Rob, please don’t…”
    I stopped myself in midsentence.
    “Don’t what?”
    “Nothing. Don’t be a stranger. I’m sorry you can’t make lunch. I’ll miss you.”
    I hung up, thanking my stars I’d caught myself. I’d been about to tell Rob, don’t get involved, don’t expose yourself, stay out of this horrible thing; exactly—precisely—the way my mother had spoken to me on more than one occasion. Was it just habit—the habit of hearing it over and over—that made me want to say that? Fear was my mother’s M.O.—was I catching it? I hoped not. I hoped this was an exception to the way I looked at life and not the start of a fear habit of my own, because I hated the way it felt. I was frightened for Rob and frightened for myself and frightened for all the poor souls from Cincinnati who wanted a look at the Golden Gate Bridge in spring, and frightened for anyone who might be mistaken for a tourist or who might be near a tourist attraction next time the Trapper struck. After all, plenty of our landmarks were part of our everyday life.
    No doubt I could have worked myself up to a terrifying neurotic frenzy, but a distraction presented itself. Jeff Simon phoned and asked me to dinner. Of course I declined, but it did no good.
    “Look, I just enjoy your company. That’s all. I know you’re seeing someone—I even know his name and what he does, since you talked endlessly about him last night.”
    “I don’t think I—”
    “But I’m up here for a week on business. Taking a deposition—you’re one of the few women I know who even understand the word—and I’m lonely, all right? I want to be with somebody intelligent and have a nice dinner. That’s absolutely all, I promise.”
    “Rob might—” Rob might call. But then he might not. I had a right to do what I wanted with my evenings, without feeling I had to wait by the phone like some Valley Girl with styling mousse for brains. Things with Rob were definitely shaky; and I liked Jeff Simon. Maybe I owed it to myself to get to know him. “Okay,” I said. “Eight o’clock.”
    “I’ll pick you up at your place.”
    I looked at my watch. I had a deposition of my own to take in half an hour.

8
     
    I didn’t get home till seven, but that was still plenty of time to feed the fish, shower, and change clothes. With a little time left over to talk on the phone if anyone happened to call. But Rob didn’t.
    Very well then. I applied some unaccustomed violet eye shadow. But to what end I didn’t know—in the hope, I guess, of getting a little male admiration from whatever quarter I could.
    My attire for the evening was nouveau court jester—black pants that fit like tights, topped with a giant silver-gray sweater. In my case, the sweater had to be Godzilla-sized to cover telltale top-of-thigh bulge. In truth, being five