Excerpt of Chocolate Quake by Nancy Fairbanks

San Francisco Shock

. . .it had been a lovely evening, after which I dropped into a comfy chair in our hotel room and did my wifely duty. I called my mother-in-law to say we were in town. This is what I heard on her answering machine: "You have reached the number of Professor Vera Blue. I am not at home because I have been arrested for first-degree murder and am presently housed in San Francisco Jail # 2 at the Hall of Justice, seventh floor, 850 Bryant Street. Visiting hours are 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. on Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays. I am told that a prospective visitor should take the elevator to the sixth floor by 7:30 a.m. and line up for one of the twenty-minute appointments, which fill up rapidly. To avoid this inconvenience, you might prefer to call my lawyer, Margaret Hanrahan, at the Union Street Women’s Center, or leave a message after the beep, which I can retrieve and try to return. We are allowed to call out. We are not allowed to receive calls. You may send a letter, but no doubt the San Francisco Police will have realized their error before any exchange of mail can occur."

"Jason!" No answer, but I could hear the shower running in the bathroom. I hung up and rushed to inform my husband that his mother was in jail. If it were some feminist protest she’d been involved in, I wouldn't have been so shocked. Not that a woman her age seemed a good candidate for participation in a protest involving police presence and arrests. Mother Blue, as I humorously call her, but not to her face, must be near seventy, when women should be protecting their bones as well as their convictions.

That thought caused me great uneasiness. What if floor number seven was a prison hospital? "Jason!" I knocked sharply on the glass shower door. Murder? There had to be a mistake. Aging, if sharp-tongued, professors of women’s studies at prestigious universities do not murder people. They just hack their opponents down to size with the daunting power of pen and tongue. Goodness knows, she’s done it to me often enough.

For years her disdain was predicated on the fact that I stayed home raising children and giving gourmet dinners for peripatetic scientists instead of contributing my talents to assure the place of women in the power structure. Not that my mother-in-law ever admitted that I have any talents. Lately, with the children off at college and me pursuing a career as a food columnist, she has turned her attention to my size. Just because I’m five-six doesn’t make me a giant. Jason’s taller than I am—by an inch--and my mother-in-law is simply short. Furthermore, I am not fat. I’ve taken off the weight I acquired eating at wonderful restaurants in New Orleans, New York, and France. But she sent me a size sixteen dress for my birthday. I wear a ten, and I did not appreciate the gift. "Jason Blue, have you lost your hearing? You’re probably letting the shower run into your ears," I shouted.

Jason opened the door an inch and replied, "I don’t want to hear about the dangers of wet ears. You nagged Chris and me about wash cloths and wet ears all the way through Northern France." He grinned at me through the opening. "Has it occurred to you, love, that you’re becoming obsessive about a number of things now that you’re in your middle years?"

I ignored the reference to middle age and said, "Your mother’s in jail."

"Right." Jason laughed and started to shut the shower door.

"No, really. She’s charged with murder."

"Terrific. Then we won’t have to take her out to dinner. Who did she kill?"

"Jason, I’m not joking. She’s in San Francisco Jail #2, seventh floor."

Jason did some noisy splashing, turned off the water, and reappeared wrapped in a towel. "And I suppose she told you this?"

"It was on her answering machine."

"Then you got the wrong number."

"The message began, ‘You have reached the apartment of Professor Vera Blue’."

"Someone’s playing a joke on you." Towel-wrapped, my husband inspected his beard in the mirror. "Do I need a trim?"

"If you don’t believe me, I’ll dial the number, and you can listen to the message."

A puzzled frown creased his forehead, and, dripping, he padded bare-footed into the lush bedroom we’d been assigned at the Stanford Court, where a meeting about environmental chemistry and toxicology was being held. Jason called the number of his mother’s San Francisco sublet. She was spending the summer as a consultant to some much-touted, multi-purpose, multi-ethnic, cutting-edge women’s center.

As he listened to the answering machine message, his face expressed absolute astonishment. When it finished, he said, "Mother, it’s Jason." He gave her the number of the hotel and our room but explained that he’d be in committee meetings and other first-day activities of the conference until evening the next day, Sunday. "Carolyn will come down to the jail to see you and find out what happened. If you get this message tonight call or leave us a message." Then he paused. "Murder? You’re kidding, right? Well, get in touch, or we will."

"I’m going to visit her in jail?" I exclaimed. "She doesn’t even like me. She sent me a size sixteen dress for my birthday! "

"I know, sweetheart," said my husband soothingly, "and I did mention it to her. I hope you sent it back."

"I certainly did, and I have yet to receive a size ten in that frumpy number or some equally unwelcome replacement gift."

Jason sighed. . . "I did tell you that this would be a very busy meeting for me," he added defensively. . .

"I remember your attempt to dissuade me from coming to San Francisco with you. What you didn’t tell me is that I’d have to visit your mother in jail."

"Caro, that’s hardly something I could have foreseen, and we can’t very well ignore her. I’m sure it’s some ridiculous mistake. Maybe you could visit her lawyer." Then a bolt of inspiration had struck him. "You could take the lawyer out for lunch after you see Mother at the jail, talk about the case and eat something wonderful that you can review."

"I can see the column now," I replied. "While investigating a charge of murder against my mother-in-law, famous feminist Gwenivere Blue, I enjoyed a truly excellent example of San Francisco’s famous seafood."

"I don’t see that you need to mention my mother," Jason interrupted. . .

I had insisted on accompanying Jason to San Francisco. . . because I had thought: San Francisco, new restaurants to explore, cool days, light breezes off the bay, fog drifting along the hills, delightful Victorian row houses painted in soft colors with intricate gingerbread wood carving and charming bay windows. . .such were my expectations for San Francisco.

I did not think: Jail #2, my mother-in-law in a particularly foul mood, talking to policemen and lawyers and opinionated women at the center, women who won’t like me unless I volunteer for radical social projects.

I sighed and looked up the telephone number of jail #2 to be sure that Gwenivere Blue was really there and that I could visit her tomorrow if I arrived early enough to join other relatives of alleged criminals in the competition for visitation appointments. She was; I could; and murder one was the charge. Good grief. . .

When I glanced at the bed, my husband, far from lying awake worrying about his mother, was asleep. No doubt dreaming of toxic molecules and committee squabbles over the refereeing of scholarly papers. Climbing into bed beside him, I thought, At least our hotel does have a famous restaurant, which might provide me with solace tomorrow after chatting with my jailed mother-in-law. . . Look on the bright side, Carolyn, I told myself and fell asleep.