Muller, Marcia - [McCone 03] Cheshire Cat's Eye, The_(v.1,shtml) (27 page)

When I arrived at Steiner Street, the red and blue lights of the patrol cars pulsed, bouncing off the high retaining wall and throwing the tangled vegetation into eerie relief against the facades of the Victorians. The excitement centered on the Stick-style house where I'd first met Wintringham and Charmaine on Saturday. Strange: I'd automatically assumed the big Queen Anne would again be the death house.

I glanced up the street and noted Greg's BMW, double-parked by a patrol car. His position in the department was that of administrator, working the day shift, pulling all the elements of investigations together, but it was not in his character to confine himself to a desk job. He personally visited as many of the crime scenes as possible, and was on call twenty-four hours a day.

A crowd of spectators, most of them black, milled about at the foot of the stairway in the wall. Wintringham was nowhere in sight. I pushed through the crowd toward the uniformed officer who guarded the steps. He wasn't likely to let me pass. I glanced around for a solution to the problem and spotted Inspector Gallagher.

Gallagher was an owlish young man whose frank admiration on the few occasions we'd run across each other had made my day. I waved to him, and he came over.

"Hi," I said. "Is the lieutenant inside?"

"Yeah. They're about to bring the body out. You on the case?"

"Yes. Could you take me up there? I need to talk to him."

"Sure." Gallagher slipped a hand under my elbow and led me past the uniformed man. Branches and blackberry vines brushed against me as we approached the house.

Inside, the scene was reminiscent of Friday night, the front parlor garishly illuminated by portable floodlights. The body, however, was covered and strapped to a stretcher, and white-coated ambulance attendants stood by, awaiting the go-ahead. I breathed more easily; dead bodies held no attraction for me.

Glancing around the room, I spotted Greg talking with one of his inspectors. His tall, confident presence, coupled with the memory of the last time I'd seen him, gave me a rush of pleasure. I sucked my breath in, reminding myself of where I was and why I was here.

Apparently
my
presence provoked no similar response in Greg. He saw me, and his dark eyebrows came together in a scowl. Turning abruptly from the inspector, he strode across the room and grabbed my arm.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he growled.

I tried to peel his fingers off my arm, but it didn't work. "I'm on the case."

"The hell you are! I can't stop you from snooping around for Wintringham, but I'll be damned if I'm admitting you to a crime scene. How'd you get in, anyway?"

I glanced at Gallagher. He looked confused and apprehensive. Not wanting to get him in trouble, I merely said, "Subterfuge."

"You've read too goddamned many of those detective novels." Greg looked at Gallagher too, but his expression, rather than one of anger, was of sympathy.

I wrenched free of Greg and surveyed the room. Charmaine's paint and wallpaper samples lay on the floor where she had left them on Saturday, but now they were splattered with blood and some other material—brain tissue?—that I wasn't sure I cared to identify. "The same MO, huh?" I said. "Did you find the weapon this time?"

Greg merely glared at me.

My eyes rested on the fireplace. The sheetrock had been pulled completely off, exposing its cracked tiles, dirty cement hearth, and a single pressed-glass bottle. I started, and took a step forward.

Greg didn't notice my surprise, but he did notice the motion. He clapped his hand firmly on my shoulder and spun me around.

"Thank you for coming," he said in a tone of exaggerated politeness. "Gallagher, will you please show Ms. McCone to her car? She needs to go home and get her beauty rest." He shoved me toward the inspector and turned on his heel.

"Sorry," I muttered to Gallagher.

He shrugged and led me outside. "I didn't realize he'd react like that."

"Neither did I. Live and learn." My feelings were hurt, but not very much. It had been worth the rebuff to see that bottle in the fireplace. I ran down the stairway in the retaining wall, leaving Gallagher to contemplate his boss's complexities.

I sped down the sidewalk to Wintringham's house. A police guard took my name in, then admitted me. I went into the parlor.

The tableau there warred with the prim loveliness of the room: Paul Collins in bathrobe and slippers, looking pasty and sick; Wintringham in workshirt and ripped jeans, his paint-splattered boots propped on the fragile coffee table; Charmaine, her suede jumpsuit smeared with blood, her eyes puffy, hair tangled.

She looked up and made a sound that was close to a whimper.

Paul's lips trembled, but he said nothing.

Wintringham glanced at me indifferently. His eyes had the glaze that comes from shock. "Oh, there you are," he said flatly. "It took you long enough."

I sat on the couch. "What happened?"

"That should be obvious. Someone murdered Larry."

"Who found him?"

Charmaine cleared her throat and ran her hands over her bloodstained thighs.

"Charmaine did," Wintringham said. "She came over tonight to pick up her samples. He was…"

"He was lying there. The blood. All around him. On my samples." Her words were sing-song and shrill. "I tried to wake him. I held his head. His ugly head." She buried her face in her hands.

Surprisingly, Collins was the one who moved. He knelt beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders. "Don't think about it now. You'll feel better if you don't think."

Charmaine sobbed.

Wintringham stood and motioned me into the hall.

"When did she find him?" I asked in a low voice.

"About two hours ago. She came running in here, screaming. I went down there. It was like she said. Larry was lying there, with blood all over the place. His head was caved in."

"And you called the police?"

"Yes. And tried to call you." The words were accusing. Wintringham leaned against the newel post, his arms folded across his bony chest. "Sharon, I'm afraid for Charmaine."

"You ought to get a doctor over here. A sedative would help."

"That's not it." He shook his head. "I'm afraid the police think she killed Larry."

"What?"

"One of the inspectors questioned us. He acted like he didn't believe Charmaine's story. And then Paul inadvertently let it slip that she and Larry had quarreled on Saturday."

"Oh, terrific!"

"He didn't mean to incriminate her. And, besides, they would have found out anyway; there was quite a blowup when he took off from the trade show with that blonde. Everyone there heard it."

"Tell me, David," I said, "do
you
believe her?"

He hesitated. "I don't know. She came in here with blood all over her. And there was no reason she had to pick up those samples tonight. And they did quarrel. Charmaine has a bad temper…" His voice trailed off dispiritedly.

I considered the little decorator. How far would French have had to push her before that temper snapped? But, if my gut-level feeling was correct, this murder and Jake Kaufmann's
and
Richard Wintringham's had all been committed by the same person. Wintringham's death, for whatever reason, had been the start of it all, and the Cheshire Cat's Eye was the key. That, and the pressed-glass bottle in the fireplace.

"How well did Charmaine know your father?" I asked.

Wintringham's dull eyes flickered. "Quite well. She was one of his proteges."

"How so?"

"My father, in spite of his limitations as an architect, admired excellence. Charmaine was the daughter of one of his draftsmen, and she'd shown a talent for design. My father sent her to school and then got her a job with a good firm here. When I went into business, she quit and came to work for me."

"How would you describe her relations with your father? Were they affectionate? Cordial? Or…?"

He drew himself up. "What are you trying… Come on, Sharon!"

"It's better we talk about it now, before the police start asking."

Wintringham glanced at his watch. "We don't have much time, either. That inspector said his lieutenant would be here as soon as they finish at the crime scene."

His lieutenant. Greg was taking a very personal interest in this case. Judging from his earlier reception of me, I'd better not be here when he arrived. "Okay. What kind of terms was Charmaine on with your father?''

"As good as could be expected."

"Which means what?"

"My father was a very domineering man. If he paid for a person's education, he expected to have a hand in guiding her career."

"He tried to tell Charmaine what to do?"

"He told her where to work. She hated the firm, but she worked there. He told her where to live, and she obeyed him. He even told her who to see socially. When I came back from New York, he tried to match us up. I'm afraid I was quite a disappointment to him." He smiled wryly.

"So he really attempted to control her entire life."

"And he succeeded."

"To some extent."

Wintringham shifted uneasily against the newel post. "Totally."

"No." I shook my head. "Not totally. His death set her free."

Eleanor van Dyne's house sat deep in Pacific Heights, on the edge of the Presidio. Surprisingly, it was not a Victorian, but a two-story ell-shaped block that must have been daringly modern thirty years ago. I stood on the sidewalk, unable to reconcile it with its owner's zeal for the city's dowager ladies, as I'd come to think of the Victorians. Behind it, a fine mist blew in from the Golden Gate, curling through the eucalyptus and Monterey pine of the army base. It was the kind of mist that would burn off quickly with the June morning, leaving the city clean and shining. Nevertheless, I shivered as I walked toward the lights of van Dyne's house.

A maid in a black uniform and white apron answered my ring and informed me that the van Dynes were giving a dinner party. Her expression indicated I would not be welcome in that company.

"I think she'll see me." I fished out one of my cards and wrote Richard Wintringham's name on it. A ghost from the past seemed an unsuitable way to gain entry to such a house, but I was certain it would work. In minutes, footsteps sounded on the slate floor of the foyer, and van Dyne appeared, attired in a simple black cocktail dress and pearls, looking surprisingly like the maid, minus the apron. Her face was a smooth mask, but the hand in which she held my card trembled.

"What do you mean, coming here at this hour?" she demanded. "Don't you know to make an appointment?"

I knew all about appointments and avoided them whenever possible. If you called ahead, it gave people a chance to think up a story.

"Larry French was murdered in the stuccoed-over Stick in the Steiner Street block tonight."

Van Dyne caught her lower lip between her teeth.

"I thought you should know."

"Which house, did you say?"

"The beige stucco Stick. The one where you talked with David and Charmaine on Saturday morning."

She nodded.

"The police will probably arrest Charmaine for it."

"Charmaine?" She frowned. "Did she kill him?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm here; you can help me."

"You want me to implicate Charmaine?"

"I want you to help me uncover the truth."

She laughed harshly. "Is that all you're interested in, the truth?"

"At the moment, yes."

"And why do you think I can help?"

"Prince Albert came to you about the Cheshire Cat's Eye. He said you, of all people, could identify it. He also said you had your reasons for staying out of the investigation of Richard Wintringham's death."

Van Dyne glanced down at the card in her hand, then over her shoulder, toward the sound of convivial voices. "I see. All right, come with me."

She led me to a deeply carpeted stairway and up, to a wide hall. The walls were decorated with modern paintings, and occasional sidetables held pieces of sculpture that looked like originals. Again, I wondered about van Dyne and this house. Had the financier husband chosen and decorated it?

The question was answered in the affirmative by the sitting room to which she took me. Its soft light came from wall sconces that once might have been fitted for gas. Its furniture was ornate, its wallpaper embossed in rich red. In a corner, on a table, stood a Victorian dollhouse.

I moved closer to it. The tower and gables were strikingly familiar. "It's—"

"Yes, it's a replica of Richard's house." She stood looking at it, her hands calmly folded in front of her. Upon entering this room, which obviously was her private domain, her agitation had vanished. "He had it made for me, long ago."

"Then you were…"

"We were lovers, for over twenty years. Please, sit down."

I took a chair from which I could see both her and the dollhouse. "Is this common knowledge?"

She smiled gently. In the soft light of the sconces, she seemed young and serene. "In preservationist circles, yes. You can't be together that long without the fact becoming known."

"But what about…?" I gestured downward at the first floor.

"Well, yes." She sighed. "Some of my husband's and my friends know. As I said, it's difficult to keep a secret for twenty years. But William? No. He is well protected by a tacit conspiracy of silence.
Most
people honor that." Her mouth twitched at the stressed word.

"Is that why you dropped your lawsuit against Jake Kaufmann? Because he blackmailed you by threatening to tell your husband?"

Van Dyne looked genuinely shocked. She patted her gray-blond coif. "Oh, no, dear. I wouldn't call it blackmail. Jake and I merely talked over the unfairness of my suit, and the unfairness to William, should he find out about my liaison."

Jake stoop to blackmail? At first it shocked me. But then, if I considered how much he prized his work, maybe it was more believable. After all, van Dyne's suit had threatened his professional reputation, his livelihood. And in her genteel world, one wouldn't call what Jake had threatened blackmail. Clever of him to realize that. "I guess it would have hurt your husband very much had he found out."

Again, she looked surprised. "Hurt? I doubt it. He would have been humiliated, though. William is a man of taste, as you can tell from this house. He would be horrified to know that his wife had carried on an affair with the Wintringham row houses."

"Good lord." I had a great deal to learn about the upper levels of society.

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind. What kind of a man was Richard Wintringham?"

Her face softened. "A good man. Like William, a man of taste, in spite of the row houses. He built them for the present, but he lived in a more gracious past."

"I've heard that he could be ruthless and domineering."

"That too." Apparently she saw no dichotomy there.

"Did you know David well?"

"Not really. David's mother died when the boy was ten. His father didn't know what to do with him, so he sent him East to prep school and then college. We were very discreet when he was home on vacations; it wouldn't have done for a young boy to know about us."

"But he must have realized later."

"Yes, but it was after the fact. Richard and I were seeing less of one another. He was growing old, and our relationship became platonic. After college, David remained in the East, in New York, for a number of years. By the time he returned here to live, we'd broken…" She stopped, listening to her words.

"You'd broken off? Quarreled?"

She picked at an imaginary piece of lint on her black dress. "Not a quarrel. We had differences."

"About?"

"When a man grows old, often he becomes foolish."

"And how did Richard Wintringham express this foolishness?"

She looked solemnly at me for a long moment. "Charmaine."

"Was he in love with her?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say love." She gestured helplessly. "It was more of an infatuation. He knew he couldn't have her, so instead he tried to run her life. He made the poor girl miserable. He got her a job at the firm he deemed suitable and was always calling her employer to check on her progress. He insisted she take the apartment he found for her. He tried to rule her romantic life. It was a great price to pay for an education."

"And you fought with him over it?"

"Not fought. I advised. He listened and did what he wanted anyway." Van Dyne's eyes were far away, on the model of Richard Wintringham's mansion. "He was a fool, and a hard man to get along with. But he was also a good man. He'd merely come to live more and more in the past, when men could rule all they touched."

"So you broke with him over Charmaine?"

"I saw less of him, for a while. But then he had a heart attack and needed someone to look after him. I was in and out of there that whole spring, supervising his servants, seeing that he had the little things he needed."

"Which spring was that?"

Van Dyne directed her oddly innocent eyes at me. "Why, the spring he died. It was a lovely spring; we'd never seen better. The days were warm and clear; the whole city was sunshine and pastels. The lilacs bloomed in Richard's yard; their smell was everywhere. The loveliness was such a contrast to what was happening there on Steiner Street. It made everything seem all the more terrible."

"What things?"

"Richard was ill, of course. He looked gray and weak. I knew he hadn't much more time left. And David had returned from New York with Paul Collins and stashed him in that little Stick where Larry French was killed tonight. Richard was desperately trying to match Charmaine up with David—I guess he had decided if he couldn't have her, his son should."

"Didn't he realize David was gay?"

"Not immediately. When he did, he was livid. I was afraid he would have another heart attack. Poor Richard." She shook her head. "Nothing was going his way. There he was, trying to arrange a marriage for his son, and all the time David was in love with another man and Charmaine was in love with Prince Albert."

"Prince Albert? There's nothing between them now, is there?"

"Oh, no, dear. That was over long ago. For their romance to have withstood the dominance of Richard Wintringham it would have taken more devotion than either of them felt."

I stared at van Dyne, then turned my gaze to the dollhouse. It seemed peopled with miniature figures: the old man in his tower study, trying to rule lives; van Dyne running in and out with little gifts for the invalid; David and Charmaine, meeting in the parlor and then going off, he to his lover down the street, and she to Prince Albert's Lighthouse.

The figures breathed, moved, and spoke within the confines of the dollhouse. And then they vanished one by one as the pieces of my case fell together.