Muller, Marcia - [McCone 03] Cheshire Cat's Eye, The_(v.1,shtml) (3 page)

I resisted the ring of the telephone, pulling over my head quilts that were twisted from a night of bad dreams involving paint-smeared corpses. The ringing went on. Finally I stuck out an arm, knocking something heavy off the nightstand, and grabbed the receiver.

"Huh?"

"Sharon?" It was Katy, daytime operator at my answering service. "I know you don't like to be bothered on Saturday mornings, but the guy said it was about a murder, and I thought…"

"Wait a minute." I struggled to a sitting position and looked to see what I had knocked on the floor. It was a book: Silberman's five-hundred-forty-page
Criminal Violence, Criminal Justice
. I'd been keeping my hand in my old field, sociology.

"Okay," I said into the receiver, "what's going on?"

"A David Wintringham is on the line. He needs to talk to you about a… no,
the
murder. Should I—?"

"I'll talk to him."

The voice that came on was nasal. "Ms. McCone?"

"Yes."

"You're the Ms. McCone who discovered Jake Kaufmann's body last night? The private detective?"

"Yes, I am. How did—?"

"Never mind. There isn't time. I'm the owner of the house where you found him, and I would like very much to talk with you."

"All right. Talk."

"In person, I mean. Could you come over here this morning?"

It was Saturday. I'd planned to clean the apartment. I'd planned to grocery shop. I'd much rather talk about Jake's murder, though. "I could manage that."

"Good. Before noon?"

"I'll do what I can. Where are you located?"

"At the Victorian block on Steiner Street. Go to the Italianate house at the opposite end from the… the death house and ask for me there. If I'm on a job site, they'll direct you."

"Go to the what?"

"Oh, of course, you can't be expected to know the styles. It's the house at the far end of the block, the only one that's been painted. We have our offices and residence there. I'll expect you."

"Right."

"And, Ms. McCone… thank you."

I replaced the receiver and momentarily contemplated the sunlight falling across the bed. It was still early. There was plenty of time before I had to get up. I lay back under the quilts and huddled there in a pensive mood, remembering the first time I'd met Jake Kaufmann.

I'd hunted him down at a job site in the Haight, perched high on a scaffold, surrounded by paints. When I shouted who I was, he shouted that he didn't have time to come down, but if I wanted I could come up. So up I went and sat, my legs dangling in the air while Jake painted. After five years with All Souls, I was used to interviewing our often-eccentric clients anywhere.

Of Eleanor van Dyne's suit, Jake could only say, "How can she do such a thing? Does the woman not know beauty? Does she not understand? Look at the cherub up there on that frieze." He pointed, his diminutive frame leaning back at such a sharp angle that I had to close my eyes. When I looked up, I saw the carving, a blissful smile on its face, wings spread.

"Do you know what I'm going to do with that?" Jake demanded. "The smile, such a smile should be highlighted in red. And the wings—a rainbow of wings. That cherub is a treasure, a gift from God—as well as the architect of this house, bless him—and I'm going to bring forth its glory."

As he spoke, I reflected that I could understand van Dyne's point. But to Jake, a riot of color was beauty. All the time he described his cherub, he gyrated on the balls of his feet, black eyes flashing in his tanned face. "A treasure, a gift, that's what it is. My color will pull it out of the grime and obscurity so everyone can enjoy it. Tell me, does that woman have no sense of what I'm doing?

Does she not feel?" He spread his arms, about to fly like the cherub above. "No," he said sadly, lowering them. "No, I fear not. That woman will never understand."

Jake had been a passionate craftsman. I would not meet many more like him. It angered me that someone had snuffed out his life, and I wanted that someone found.

To that end, I thought back to our conversation of late yesterday afternoon.

"I'm frightened," he had said. "Probably I shouldn't be, but at any rate, I need a witness."

"Frightened of what?" I asked.

"Something I've found out."

"And what do you want me to witness?"

There was a pause. "I don't want to talk about it over the phone. Suffice it to say that the person I'm meeting is unreliable… gets tanked up. Will you be there?"

"But, Jake, can't you tell me—"

"Please, Sharon." The strain was evident in his voice. "Just meet me."

And I'd said I would.

And now Jake was dead.

My fault? Not really. But then again, I owed something to Jake, to find his killer, this killer who got "tanked up," who drank too much. Unfortunately, San Francisco was not a town known for sobriety. Still…

I threw off the quilts, started coffee, and hopped into the shower. The needle spray on my upturned face revived me and lifted my spirits. If I could drum up a job via my interview with David Wintringham, maybe I could finance my own search for Jake's killer—and what a chance that would be to show up Lieutenant Gregory Marcus.

I arrived at Steiner Street forty-five minutes later, dressed in jeans and a sweater, my hair blowing loose in the mild June breeze. The house Wintringham had directed me to was a yellow-and-blue structure with angled bay windows and a columned porch, very similar to the building that housed All Souls. I went up to the door and complied with the sign that ordered me to enter.

A stocky, pug-faced man wearing designer jeans and a green velvet jacket stood behind a desk in the hallway. He looked up, little eyes appraising me from head to toe, then wandering over my shoulder, as if he expected to see someone more interesting there.

"Yeah?" His tone was distant.

"Sharon McCone, to see Mr. Wintringham."

The man's face underwent a sudden transformation to a mocking grin. "Oh, yeah, the rent-a-cop. Wonder what half-assed idea he'll come up with next?"

It was not a greeting I had anticipated. "Don't know," I responded mildly. "Is he here?"

"He's on a job site, said for you to meet him there." He paused, fingering a heavy gold chain that hung against the expanse of chest exposed by his unbuttoned shut. "You think you can do it, McCone?"

"Do what?"

"Solve all of David's problems?"

"Does he have problems?"

"You ought to know. You found it."

"It?" I couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice.

"The mortal remains of Jake Kaufmann."

"Look, Mr…"

"French. Larry French. I'm Wintringham's business partner."

The name was vaguely familiar. "Look, Mr. French, I'd better discuss this with your partner. You say he's on a job site?"

"Yeah, two doors down at the little Stick-style place."

"Stick?"

"Yeah. It's a kind of Victorian architecture, but I guess
you
wouldn't know that."

I was getting tired of having people presume my ignorance, however vast. I shrugged off my irritation with French, though, and started for the door.

"Hey, McCone?"

I whirled on him. "Yes?"

"Sure you can find it?"

I didn't favor him with a reply as I went out. To reach the other house, I would either have to cut a path through the pyracantha and pine and blackberry vines that choked the front yards or descend to the street and climb back up again by that house's stairway. I chose the latter.

The "Stick-style" house was smaller and had more severe lines than the one I had just left. The facade had been covered with beige stucco, and there were boards missing on the front steps. From inside came angry voices. I climbed to the porch and listened.

"… a perfectly decent craftsman until you hired him and dragged him down to your level." The speaker was female, and shrill.

"I had nothing to do with the change in the direction of Jake's work. That happened long before I came on the scene." I recognized David Wintringham by his nasal tones.

"You may not have caused it, but you certainly encouraged it."

A second female voice murmured something.

"And don't you talk!" the first woman cried. "Look at you—the product of the finest design schools, producing three abominations so your sleazy boyfriend can make a fast buck. You should be ashamed, Charmaine! Completely and utterly ashamed!"

Charmaine, whoever she was, murmured again.

"Don't you speak to me like that, you cheap little slut! I know there's nothing you wouldn't stoop to for him! Better you stick to dabbling with your stained glass than this!"

The other woman began to cry.

"Leave her alone!" Wintringham's voice trembled with anger.

"You would defend her! You dragged her into this, just like you did poor Jake. David, they may speak badly of your father's work, but at least he was honest."

"Honest! You're a fine one to talk about my father's honesty."

"We won't go into that. But mark my words, David. The preservationist world isn't going to forget what you did to Jake Kaufmann. You encouraged him in his atrocities, exploited him, and now look what's happened. Frankly, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if you'd killed him!"

High-heeled shoes strode imperiously across the floor, and the door in front of me swung open. A tall woman with immaculately coiffed gray-blond hair confronted me: Eleanor van Dyne, in a fashionable linen suit, her fingers bedecked with rings. As on both of the occasions when I'd seen her two years before, I was struck by her legs, which were surprisingly good for a woman in her late fifties.

In spite of coming face-to-face with me, van Dyne's eyes were devoid of recognition. She sniffed angrily and swept down the steps, a hurricane of indignation. I watched her careen off in a white Mercedes.

From within the house came the sound of the other woman's crying and Wintringham's soothing remarks. I waited a minute and then knocked.

"Enter!" Wintringham growled.

They were in the parlor, in front of a ceramic-tiled fireplace that appeared to have been walled up and partially uncovered. Charmaine, a tiny Japanese woman, was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She wore a pale suede jumpsuit and, when she turned to look at me, her hair swung out in a soft bell. David Wintringham, a gaunt, hawk-nosed man, presented a marked contrast to Charmaine's chic in his paint-stained work clothes. His dark hair was unruly, and he pushed it back from his forehead in an impatient gesture. They both looked as if I'd caught them with their hands in the cookie jar.

I introduced myself, and Wintringham came forward. Charmaine flung her tissue toward the fireplace and, kneeling, began to fiddle with some wallpaper and fabric samples that were spread on the floor. She quickly gave it up as a useless effort and rocked back on her heels, regarding Wintringham and me. Her hands, which had red talon-like nails, clenched and unclenched spasmodically.

"I'm sorry I couldn't meet you at the office," Wintringham said smoothly. "A construction zone isn't the most desirable place to talk, but Charmaine and I had to go over the decoration scheme she plans for the house."

I glanced around dubiously. The sheetrock, where it had been ripped off the fireplace, was jagged, and the tape between the other sections was clearly visible. The floor was covered with worn gold carpeting. I had the sense of a construction project halted midway and briefly wondered if Wintringham's restoration were in financial trouble.

Wintringham caught my expression. "Yes, this house has been butchered. In the fifties it was made over into modern apartments: They walled up all the fireplaces, removed most of the original fixtures, threw up cheap paneling, carpeted over the hardwood."

"Why would someone want to do that?"

"Modern apartments were in big demand back then. It's hard to imagine, but my friend Paul lived here for a while, and the place looked like something out of
Architectural Digest
, all bright colors and Danish furniture."

I myself preferred modern things, but it still seemed senseless to ruin a classic old house that way. "It looks like you have a lot of work cut out for you before it will be restored to the original state. Isn't it premature to think about decor?"

"Not really. We settle on that at the very start of the work. That way, if structural changes are required, like adding pillars or reconstructing a fireplace, we can plan for them. By the way, this is my interior designer, Charmaine."

The tiny woman smiled. "Just Charmaine."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's the only name I go by."

"Oh. Well, it's a pretty name. Why spoil it?"

She bowed her head, bell-like hair swinging gracefully.

I turned to Wintringham. "Was that Eleanor van Dyne I saw leaving?"

He stiffened, but recovered quickly. "Yes. Do you know her?"

"Not well. I met her twice, back when she was suing Jake Kaufmann for putting too much color in her life."

Wintringham didn't see any humor in the remark. His face darkened, and a muscle twitched in his cheek. "That woman is such a bitch! She's always got to poke her nose in where it doesn't belong. If I can't find a way to stop her, she'll wreck this entire project."

"How?"

"Legal blocks. If there's such a thing as a legal groupie, that's what Eleanor is. Loves spending time in court."

"What sort of actions does she take?"

"Hauls you up before City Planning. Pulls out obscure ordinances to delay you. Tries to get injunctions and restraining orders. She's got this attorney—a litigious son-of-a-bitch. It's the perfect example of a crazy person finding a crazy lawyer, and whammo!" Wintringham slammed his fist into his palm.

"David, David," Charmaine interjected, "be calm."

"How can I be calm? Between that woman and Jake's murder and the vandals and the junkies scaring off prospective buyers, we're likely to go bust."

As I'd suspected, the project was in trouble.

"Mrs. van Dyne means well." Charmaine stood, dusting off her pale jumpsuit, even though she hadn't touched the floor. "She really is dedicated to preserving the Victorians. Without her, hundreds would have been razed. She just looks at it differently than you."

"I'll say she does! To Eleanor, anyone who makes a profit off them is a villain. Of course, she can afford to have that attitude, what with her financier husband and her mansion in Pacific Heights, and—"

Charmaine held up a red-taloned hand. "Enough. You didn't ask Miss McCone here to listen to a diatribe against Eleanor."

Wintringham's eyes swung to me, warily. "Charmaine's right, of course. Forgive me; the woman makes me so furious. Did you, by any chance, hear what she was saying to us?"

The question was casual, but calculated. I paused, recalling van Dyne's words:
Frankly, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if you'd killed him
.

"No," I said. "No. I was just coming up the stairs when she stormed out of here."