Muller, Marcia - [McCone 03] Cheshire Cat's Eye, The_(v.1,shtml) (15 page)

I sat on the window seat in Greg's little redwood house on Twin Peaks, looking out at the city. It was very late, and from this distance San Francisco looked softly beautiful. The high-flying mist obscured what I knew was down there: the fleabag hotels, the winos on doorsteps, the rotting slums, the ugly sleeping secrets in places both high and humble.

I remembered Eleanor van Dyne's words about the spring Richard Wintringham had died: "It was a lovely spring; we'd never seen better… The loveliness was such a contrast to what was happening there on Steiner Street. It made everything seem all the more terrible."

I shivered and raised my brandy glass, sipping deeply.

The postmidnight hours I had spent at the Hall of Justice, making my formal statement. One does not walk away from chasing a murder suspect over a cement wall to his death without first crawling through a maze of red tape, not even if the lieutenant on the case is a good friend. Greg had been matter of fact, throwing out none of his usual barbs, but still I'd had no easy time of it. His comments about me concealing evidence had been terse and stern. As I talked, I discovered I'd liked Paul Collins in spite of his murders. He was a gentle man, ill at ease with his nature, and ultimately the rough world had driven him too far. While knowing that did not excuse his crimes, it made them more understandable.

With that understanding came a cool, clear wave of sorrow that now washed over me again. I sipped brandy, stared at the city, and thought of David Wintringham.

When I'd emerged from Greg's office, I'd spotted David and Charmaine seated on a bench in the squad room. Wintringham leaned forward, his lanky arms dangling over his knees. Charmaine, still in the bloodstained jumpsuit, smoked and jiggled one crossed leg in a staccato rhythm. I went over to them.

"David," I said. "I'm sorry."

He looked up, his eyes dull as they had been after French's murder. "Don't be."

"But Paul…"

"No." He stood, taking both my hands in his. "I suspected Paul. Not consciously, but somewhere inside I've wondered ever since my father died. When Jake was killed, I verified Paul's alibi again, but I realized that both times he'd said he was in the house with me, and I'd merely seconded it, believing him. The first time, he claimed he'd been in the kitchen fixing tea. Even though we lived separately, we took our meals together, and he had brought me a cup that evening, although I wasn't really too clear on the time."

Wintringham paused. "Imagine, bringing a person a cup of tea after you've killed his father."

I shuddered. "What about the night Jake died? Where did he say he was?"

"Upstairs reading. I should have known. You can tell when there's another person in the house and when there's not. But I guess I didn't want to know." His hawk-like features twisted.

I held tight to his hands for a moment. "The Cheshire Cat's Eye," I finally said. "Was it badly damaged?"

"Not that much." Charmaine startled me by speaking. "I saw it when they brought it in here. It's fixable. Your raincoat is another story, however."

I remembered throwing it on the flames. "Doesn't matter."

Wintringham turned to Charmaine. "Do you think you could repair the lamp?"

"Sure." She stubbed out her cigarette and stood. "Send it around once the police release it." To me, she added, "They
will
give it back, won't they?"

"Eventually."

"Good." Wintringham dropped my hands and rubbed his together briskly. It was a gesture of getting on with his life. While it helped him now, I doubted he'd be able to return to normalcy so easily. About Charmaine I had no similar fears.

"You fix the lamp, Charmaine," Wintringham said. "Then I want Sharon to have it."

"But it's your family…" I began.

He shook his head. "It would be too painful for me to have it around. The Cheshire Cat should go to live at your house now."

Scarcely knowing what to say, I pictured the lamp as it had sat on my bureau: a gentle reminder of the old among the new. "Thank you, David." I turned toward the elevators, but someone touched my shoulder. I looked up at Greg.

"You all right?"

"Sure."

"Good." He placed a key in my hand and closed my fingers over it.

"What's that?"

"My house key. Why don't you go there and wait for me? Have a drink; you know where the liquor cabinet is."

"But I…"

"You don't want to be alone tonight."

Truthfully, I didn't. "Okay. I'll see you there."

"I won't be long."

When the elevator doors closed, Greg was still standing there, looking concerned and a little tired.

Now I heard the garage door open and, moments later, Greg's footsteps on the stairs. He crossed the room and flopped into an armchair next to me, rubbing his hand across his eyes.

"Is it all wrapped up?" I asked.

"Reasonably." He reached for my brandy glass and sipped. "We found the broken replica of the Tiffany lamp at French's apartment, stuffed behind some towels in a linen closet. Al Prince identified it as the one Jake Kaufmann borrowed from him. And we found bloodstained clothing between the mattress and the box spring in Collins' room. I've no doubt the blood will match the types of the last two victims, and that the hammer he threw at you will test out to be the murder weapon."

"And that, plus my statement and Wintringham's admission of his suspicions, will close all three files."

"Yeah." Greg handed the brandy back to me. "You had a lot of that?" He gestured at the glass.

I had, but it had left me strangely clearheaded. "Yes and no."

He nodded.

After a few minutes of silence, he said, "You'll never learn."

"Learn what?"

"Not to go running off chasing killers and putting yourself in danger."

"I tried to reach you when I figured out who it was, but you weren't taking calls."

"You could have waited."

"It's not in my nature to wait."

"I guess not." He stood up. "It's late, papoose. Let's go to bed."

I looked at his outstretched hand. There was something… Oh, yes. "Are you sure the other cop would approve of that?" I asked acidly.

He stared. "Who?"

"Remember: Screwing a private eye is just like screwing another cop."

Greg began to laugh. "You are so goddamn literal minded! That, papoose, was a figure of speech. I've never so much as touched another cop in my life."

"Oh? Well, then, what's that extra pillow and all the feminine gear doing…?"

"I am delighted!"

"What?"

"I never thought you'd be jealous. This opens up whole new prospects—"

"I am not jealous!" I jumped up.

"Hush." He reached out an arm and pulled me close. "You're right; an explanation is in order. As you may recall, I've pursued you steadily these last months."

"Well, yes."

"And I didn't want to be caught unprepared."

"Boy Scout, huh?"

"So I went out, in anticipation of Saturday night, and bought a few necessities. If you'll look at the pillow, you'll find the 'under penalty of law' tag is still attached."

"Oh, for lord's sake."

"Of course, if you don't come to bed, you won't be able to verify that."

Blackmail. Subtle, but blackmail no less. I slipped my arm around Greg's waist as we started up the stairs.

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26

"Ever since she shattered the hard-boiled male P.I. barrier in 1977, when she introduced shamus Sharon McCone, Marcia Muller has gotten quietly, steadily better."

—
Newsweek

"A superb series."

—
Baltimore Sun

"These are the kind of books you don't ever want to end…This series is worth reading for its excitement and the kind of mystery plotting that sets readers to muttering, 'I should have caught that.'"

—United Press International

"Marcia Muller has been a pioneer in her treatment of women detectives in fiction. When she created the character of Sharon McCone she set the standard by which all newer entrants in the field were judged."

—
Sunday Times
(Trenton)

"For devotees of the hard-boiled school, McCone is the best of a recent spate of female detectives."

—
San Francisco Review of Books

"Long may Sharon McCone prowl San Francisco's foggy streets!"

—
Detroit News

"The founding mother of the contemporary female hard-boiled private eye."

—Sue Grafton

"Serious fans of female detective fiction should not pass up Marcia Muller… She lives up to her billing as 'the founding mother of the contemporary female hard-boiled private eye.'"
—Palm Beach Post

"Among the very best of the many heirs of the Raymond Chandler/Ross Macdonald tradition."

—
St. Petersburg Times

"A thoroughly reliable builder of puzzles and if you spot the killer… you're a sharper sleuth than I."

—
Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine

"[Sharon McCone is] the Alpha female of the pack of American PIs."

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

Sharon Mccone Mysteries By Marcia Muller

The Shape of Dread

There's Something in a Sunday

Eye of the Storm

There's Nothing to Be Afraid Of

Double (with Bill Pronzini)

Leave a Message for Willie

Games to Keep the Dark Away

Ask the Cards a Question

Edwin of the Iron Shoes

Trophies and Dead Things

Where Echos Live

Pennies on a Dead Woman's Eyes

MYSTERIOUS PRESS EDITION

Copyright © 1983 by Marcia Muller All rights reserved

The Mysterious Press name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books, Inc.

This Mysterious Press Edition is published by arrangement with the author.

Cover design by Rachel McClain Cover illustration by Phil Singer

Mysterious Press books are published by Warner Books, Inc.

Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY

Visit our Web site at
http://warnerbooks.com

A Time Warner Company

Printed in the United States of America

First Mysterious Press Printing: April, 1990

Reissued: August, 1995

The row of Victorian houses loomed dark in the early June fog. I put my hand on the cold iron railing and started up the stairway from the street. As I pushed through the overgrown front yard, blackberry vines reached out to tear at my clothing.

Strange, I thought, that there were no lights. The houses were under renovation, but surely Jake would have brought a flashlight to the one where he had asked me to meet him.

I went up the marble porch steps and felt for a doorbell. Nothing. Finally I got out my pencil flash and shone its beam around the leaded-glass doors. The bell hung on wires, broken. I started to knock, and the door swung inward.

I paused in the high-ceilinged vestibule. There was no sound. Maybe my friend had gotten tired of waiting; I was later than I'd said I would be. I decided to see if he'd left me a note.

I went through an arch and crossed the parlor toward the back of the house. Behind it was another room with an ornate fireplace, and beyond that another archway and blackness. I stepped through the archway and waited for my eyes to become accustomed to the dark. When they were, I inched toward a faintly outlined door at the rear. My foot hit something soft.

The back of my neck prickled. I turned on the flash again. It went out. I punched the faulty switch harder and shone the beam down, at the floor. At a man's prone body.

I recoiled, my heart pounding.

"Jake," I whispered. "Oh, no. Jake!"

Even at a glance, even in this light, I could tell my friend was dead. He lay on his side in what common sense told me must be blood. Only it didn't smell like blood.

My fingers clutched the flash. I stood for a moment, several moments. It seemed like hours. Finally I knelt and dipped my finger into the pool of liquid. It was thick and sticky. Paint. Bright-red house paint.

I straightened, wiping my finger on my jeans before I realized what I was doing.

"Oh, Jake," I said, louder. My words echoed in the cavernous room, and then the old house enveloped me in ponderous silence. From outside came the bellow of foghorns on San Francisco Bay.

I backed toward the wall, my eyes still on the body, and fumbled with a light switch. Nothing happened.

When I cast my flash at the high ceiling it illuminated an ornate plaster rosette, but no fixture. The big Victorian had obviously been stripped.

Still, I didn't need a second look to make sure who the paint-smeared victim was. Jake Kaufmann, the friend who had so urgently requested I meet him here—my flashlight showed enough of his tanned face and black hair to identify him. Any closer investigation I'd leave for the police.

I backtracked to the hallway, glad to escape the presence of the corpse. Why, I thought, would anyone want to kill a gentle man like Jake Kaufmann? And why had he insisted we meet in this deserted house?

Stepping onto the porch, I spotted a phone booth on the far corner below. I ran down the steps and through the maze of wild vegetation to the stairway that scaled the retaining wall between there and the street. By the time I reached the booth my heart was pounding again.

Reflexively I checked my watch. It was 9:00 P.M. I dialed the SFPD and asked for Greg Marcus, head of Homicide. The lieutenant was off duty. Did I want to leave a message? No, I'd call him at home. I fished in my bag for my address book and redialed. He answered on the first ring.

"Greg," I said, "it's Sharon McCone."

"Hey, how's my favorite private eye?"

"Not so good, Greg. I've found a friend of mine murdered."

There was a pause. "Aren't you a little corpse-happy lately?" He was referring to two murder cases that I'd recently been involved with in his jurisdiction.

"Greg, I'm not kidding."

"I didn't think you were." His tone became crisp. "Where are you?"

I gave him the address of the Victorian on Steiner Street.

"Stay put. A squad car will be along, and I'll get there as soon as I can."

I hung up and stared at the phone for a moment before I got out another dime. Even when you're dating the head of Homicide, I told myself, it's wise to have your attorney there when you've found a body. And since my lawyer was also my boss at All Souls Legal Cooperative, I knew he'd want to be present. I dialed and asked Hank Zahn to come at once.

Outside the booth, I looked up at the house, whose turret and gables were shrouded in the fog. Its neighbors on the hill were similarly dark. The street was deserted, save for a lone black man who gave me a hostile glance as he passed. Pulling my jacket closer, I started toward the row of Victorians as a siren began to wail. The man quickly stepped into the shadows.

Two uniformed men sprang from the squad car when it pulled up. "You the one reported the body?"

"Yes."

"Where is it?"

"Inside, third room from the front." I gestured up at the house.

One of the men climbed the stairway in the retaining wall. The other remained, his eyes on me. "Your identification, please."

I produced my California private investigator's license.

The officer's eyebrows raised as he examined it. "Private op, huh?"

I didn't answer.

"How'd you happen to be here?"

I sat down on the cold cement steps. "I'll talk to Lieutenant Marcus when he gets here."

"You'd better talk now."

I shook my head and leaned back, my elbows on the step behind me. Apparently the cop thought better of pressuring me, because he withdrew to the squad car.

I tried to focus on my observations and movements since I'd first arrived at the house, but the picture of Jake lying paint-smeared and dead kept flashing before me as the lab crew and inspectors arrived. I was unsuccessfully fighting off the image when a blue BMW pulled up and Greg Marcus hurried up the sidewalk.

He was a big blond-haired man wearing Levi's and a suede jacket. His bushy eyebrows, several shades darker than his hair, were drawn together in a frown. I stood, and he reached out a hand to steady me.

"You all right?"

"Of course I'm all right!" His concern served to sharpen my professional rivalry, already finely honed by our past encounters.

"Well, that's good," he snapped back. "I wouldn't want to see you with your composure rattled. What have you got on your face?"

"My face?"

"Yeah." He traced a line on my forehead with his thumb. "It's red."

"Oh." I felt the sticky encrustation. "It's probably paint. I must have rubbed it there without noticing. The body's in a pool of house paint."

"And you managed to get into it, too. Where is it?"

The uniformed officer came down the stairway. "Dining room, Lieutenant. Back of the first floor. The electricity's off, but the lab boys are setting up some lights."

Greg nodded and turned to me. "Stay here."

"Yes,
sir
."

"That's the spirit." He grinned and disappeared up the stairs.

I turned to see a taxi pull up to the curb. A lanky figure emerged. Hank Zahn, my boss. He paid the driver and came toward me, tugging at his trenchcoat, which enveloped his body like a scarecrow's clothes.

"What happened?" Hank's eyes, behind his thick horn-rimmed glasses, were anxious.

"Like I said on the phone, I found someone dead."

"Who?"

Before I could answer, Greg returned, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Okay, the lab boys have rigged up some portable lights in there. You come up with me, and we'll go over what happened." He added, to Hank, "What are you doing here?" He and Hank were old friends.

Hank scratched furiously at his Brillo pad of light-brown hair and glanced at me.

"I asked him to come," I said.

"Why? You didn't kill the victim, did you?"

"Of course not! But he is—was—one of our clients."

Hank's eyes widened behind his thick glasses. "Who?"

"Do you remember Jake Kaufmann?"

"Of course. The guy who paints the Victorians. He's been a client for years."

"Right. He called me earlier—"

"Wait a minute," Greg interrupted. "Start from the beginning. The victim's name is Kaufmann?"

I nodded. "Jake Kaufmann." Around us, the scene had exploded into a whirl of people and activity. A crowd had materialized, drawn by the lights and sirens. "Jake's what they call a color consultant. He specializes in painting Victorians that have been restored. He uses bright colors and intricate patterns. They're flamboyant. A lot of people detest them. Not, I don't think, enough to drown him in a pool of his own paint, if that's what happened." I realized I was rambling and reined myself in. "Anyway, he called me this afternoon and asked that I meet him here."

"Why?" Greg asked.

"I'm not sure. All he said was that he had found out something that frightened him and wanted me as a witness."

"Why you?"

"We were friends. I'd done some investigation for him before. A strange business that was, too."

Hank nodded emphatically.

"Anyway," I went on, "he thought he could trust me."

"And?"

"And I told him I had an evening conference at All Souls, so I couldn't make it at seven-thirty, when he asked. I said I'd be here as soon as I could. Only…" I paused, sick. My lateness might have precipitated Jake's murder.

"Okay," Greg said, glancing at a patrolman who was coming down the stairs in the retaining wall, "they're set up in there, so let's go over exactly what happened when you arrived. You," he added to Hank, "can wait here."

Relief showed plainly on Hank's face

Greg steered me up the stairway. "Sure you'll be okay, hotshot?" His mouth quirked up sardonically, but his eyes were kind.

I squeezed his arm. "I'll be fine."

"Good." He nodded approvingly.

We continued up the walk to the columned entry, brushing aside runaway vegetation that reached out to touch us. From inside came a murmur of voices.

Greg said, "You came in here, through the front door?"

"Yes." I ignored my apprehension about seeing Jake's body again and concentrated on relating the facts. We crossed the hallway to the arch and entered the parlor. In the light that now streamed from the rear of the house, I saw another tiled fireplace with a high mantel. "I went through here, to the back parlor, and then to the dining room." Greg followed me. Our footsteps clattered on the bare floors.

At the archway to the dining room, I stopped, sucking in my breath. The harsh glare of the portable floodlights made the red paint a thousand times more garish, Jake's pallor even more ghastly. A ladder, which the beam of my flashlight hadn't picked up earlier, stood near the body, and an overturned paint can and brush lay on the floor.

"Maybe it was an accident," I said in a small voice.

"No way." Greg stepped around me. "I'll show you."

Reluctantly, I followed him. Jake lay with one arm outstretched, the other crumpled under him. His khaki work clothes were splattered with red.

"See this?" Greg indicated a discolored indentation behind Jake's left ear. "There's no possibility that could have been caused by a fall from a ladder, given the way he's lying. I guess it was made with the proverbial blunt instrument. And, if you look around, you'll see other things that are inconsistent with an accident theory."

I looked. "Such as the fact that he would have been painting in the dark."

"Right."

"And that he would have been painting a wall that was unprepared." I indicated several deep cracks in the plaster. "And," I added, "that he was using exterior paint on an interior wall."

"You've got it."

"Good Lord." I stared down at the dead man. "Then somebody tried to fake an accident."

"Somebody who doesn't know much about the painting trade."

"But why?"

Greg shrugged and went to talk with one of the lab technicians.

I continued to stare down. The floor was littered with chunks of plaster, strips of wallpaper, and sawdust. The wainscoting and leaded-glass cabinets had been prepared for refinishing. In the rubble at my feet were bits of multicolored glass and an ornate tubular metal fitting, the socket of a broken light bulb protruding from it. Troubled, I glanced up at the rosette on the ceiling. There was no evidence of a light fixture having hung there.

Greg returned to me. "Show me where you touched the paint."

I pointed to a spot where the surface was disturbed.

"Touch anything else?"

"The wall, and the light switch."

He nodded briskly. "That's all I need from you now, but I want a statement tonight. There's a place around the corner called Johnny's Kansas City Barbecue that's reasonably clean and safe, for this neighborhood. Wait for me there, and I'll drive you to the Hall."

"Okay. Hank will keep me company."

Greg turned back to the technicians, kicking aside the small metal fitting on the floor as he did so. Obviously it wasn't a clue—to him. I reached down and pocketed it.