Julia was whistling. She was happy,
she realized, actually happy, for the first time in what seemed like forever.
The cops had finally given up, the media had gone on to new, more titillating
stories to keep their ratings up. And the soulless paparazzi who lurked behind
bushes, cars, and trees, one of them even crouched down behind a garbage can,
trying to catch her—what?—meeting a lover so they could make a buck selling a
photo to the National Enquirer? Or maybe writing a murder confession on
a tree trunk? They’d moved on after six endless months, focusing their stalking
cameras back on movie stars and entertainers who were a lot more interesting
than she was. Fact was, it was her husband, Dr. August Ransom, who’d been the
magnet for the media, not she. She’d been only a temporary diversion, just the
black widow who’d probably gotten away with murdering a very famous man and
medium, a man who spoke to dead people. Free, at last I’m free.
She didn’t know how far she’d
walked from her home in Pacific Heights, but now she found herself strolling
down Pier 39 on the bay, that purest of tourist attractions, with its shops and
clever white-faced mimes and resident seals, all just spitting distance from
Fisherman’s Wharf. She’d stopped at the to-die-for fudge store, and now stood
by the railing at the western side of Pier 39, chewing slowly on her precious
piece of walnut fudge, watching the dozens of obese seals stretched out on flat
wooden barges beside the pier. She heard the sounds of people talking around
her, laughing, joking around, arguing, parents threatening or bribing their
kids, all of it sounding so normal—it felt wonderful. In April, in San
Francisco, it wasn’t the April showers that brought the May flowers, it was the
lovely webby fog that rolled through the Golden Gate Bridge. The amazing thing
was the air even had a special April fog smell—fresh and new and tangy, a bit
damp, with a bit of a bite.
