Muller, Marcia - [McCone 03] Cheshire Cat's Eye, The_(v.1,shtml) (5 page)

The lot at Fort Mason was jammed, so I had to park a long way from Pier Three. I hurried toward the waterfront, skirting cream-colored buildings with red roofs. The wide mouth of the pier gaped open, and people drifted in and out.

I'd been here a few years ago for the Dickens Christmas Fair, a yearly crafts-and-entertainment extravaganza. Then, the pier had been transformed into a scene straight out of Merrie Olde England; today the setting was more utilitarian. Rather than being concealed by pine boughs and Christmas lights, the ceiling arched to a peak, beams and pipes exposed. Rather than artful imitations of London shops, the booths were functional plywood structures. I started down one side, examining the exhibits.

From the Foundation for San Francisco's Architectural Heritage, I picked up a newspaper on local preservation efforts. The California Historical Society provided me with literature on its activities. The Preservation Group's booth featured color blowups of buildings it had restored for commercial use. I nodded familiarly at the chandeliers and cornice mouldings of Victoriana.

Halfway down, I came upon a familiar face. Charmaine. The little Japanese woman had obviously worked hard on her display. Rich purple velvets were draped against flowered wallpapers. Blue ceramic tiles in a fleur-de-lis pattern gleamed against paint samples in contrasting tones. Porcelain knickknacks sat atop spindly-legged tables. The effect was striking.

Charmaine spotted me, and her face crinkled into a smile. "So you decided to come to the show! Was Victoriana able to help you with your lighting problem?"

I started, realizing I'd half-forgotten my tale about wanting to light my apartment. "Sort of. Actually they referred me to someone else, a Prince Albert."

"Ah, Al. That was good of them; he can use the business."

"Is he here today?"

"Yes." She pointed to the opposite side of the pier.

"Then I think I'll go talk to him."

"Good. Enjoy the show."

I continued my leisurely journey around the pier, stopping when I came to Wintringham and Associates' booth. Like the Preservation Group's, it featured literature and color photographs of various projects. A young man hurried forward. His face, under a thatch of sandy hair, was moonlike, his body layered in unshed baby fat. I recalled Johnny Hart's comment about "poor pudgy Paul." This must be Wintringham's lover.

"Hello, I'm Paul Collins," the young man said, confirming my suspicion. "Are you thinking of buying a Victorian?"

"I'm afraid my paycheck won't allow it. Is David around?"

"No, he's not. Can I help you?"

"I'm Sharon McCone, the investigator he hired to look into Jake Kaufmann's death."

"Oh." Collins paled and put a hand to his forehead. "Such an awful business. It has me absolutely rattled and… Jake dead in one of our houses. But what are you doing here? Surely you don't expect to find a murderer at a home show."

It was not as absurd as he made it sound. "Just getting to know the territory," I said with a conspiratorial wink.

Surprisingly, he returned it. "Well, if you need to see David, he'll be here in about an hour. Right now I'm the only one on the booth. Larry French was supposed to help, but he's off promoting something or other." Collins glanced around aggrievedly. "He's never where he should be and, really, this thing about Jake has me very upset."

I sensed a penchant for gossip here and encouraged it. "Did you know Jake well?"

"Pretty well, although not for very long. You see, he'd painted some of our previous restorations, and we'd just signed him to a contract to do the entire Steiner Street block. Before that he'd worked for David's father and done some spectacular houses on his own. We were really pleased to get him."

So, as I'd suspected, Jake had worked for Wintringham, Senior. "Who will paint the houses now?"

"Maybe Jake's assistants will carry on. It all depends on whether they can handle the conceptual work—the color design. And, of course, whether his widow will want to keep the business going."

"Did Jake plan to have a booth here today?"

"Oh, yes. It's right there at the end of the pier." Collins gestured vaguely. "His assistants are manning it. Jake would have wanted that."

"I'll take a look at it."

"Do that. I'll tell David you were by. And, if you see Larry, please tell him to get back here and help out."

I nodded and started off. Jake Kaufmann's booth was one of the more spectacular displays: a scaled-down replica of a Stick-style facade painted in Wedgewood blue, with accents of white and gold and deeper blues. Two men with longish hair were conversing with the spectators. I waited until the crowd drifted on, then went up and introduced myself.

"Oh, hey, I remember when you did that investigation for Jake," one of the assistants, with a Fu-Manchu moustache, said. "I'm Bob, and this is Ron." He pointed to his clean-shaven companion.

"What'll happen to the business now?" I asked.

Bob shrugged. "We'll keep it going. Both of us picked up a lot of know-how from Jake, and we want to make a go of it. Mrs. Kaufmann's already said she wants that too. She's one hell of a tough lady, got a lot of guts."

"Good for her. Listen: Did either of you notice anything strange about Jake's behavior yesterday?"

They exchanged troubled glances. Bob, who seemed to be the spokesman, asked, "Like what do you mean?"

"Did he seem worried? Upset? Afraid of something?"

Bob wet his lips. "Upset, maybe. He came out to a job we were on in the Haight, but he didn't check as thoroughly as he usually did, and he was pretty short with both of us."

"What time was this?"

"Maybe around three."

"That's a funny thing in itself." Ron spoke for the first time. "Jake usually came by in the morning, never later than one in the afternoon. I remember I wondered where he was."

"What about the day before?" I asked. "You notice anything strange then?"

Again they exchanged glances. Ron shook his head.

"Everything was like usual," Bob said.

So whatever had frightened Jake was a recent development. I told the painters I'd be in touch and continued on toward Prince Albert's booth. Before I reached it, however, the name SALVATION INCORPORATED stopped me. Eleanor van Dyne sat at a card table passing out literature. The rings on her fingers flashed as she spoke animatedly with the takers. I went up and waited my turn.

"Mrs. van Dyne?"

"Yes?" She looked up, patting her gray-blond coif.

"I doubt you remember me. My name is Sharon McCone. I investigated your charges against Jake Kaufmann."

"Of course I remember you." Her eyes narrowed, creating a network of fine wrinkles. "You're the young woman who went about annoying my neighbors when Jake committed that atrocity upon a perfectly decent Queen Anne row house across the street."

"I was only doing my job."

"Of course you were. You'd have been a fool to do otherwise. Actually, the stuffed shirts in my neighborhood were excited by a visit from a private detective, and a female one at that. It did them worlds of good, I daresay. I suppose you've heard about Jake?"

"As a matter of fact, I found his body."

"Good gracious!" she put a bejeweled hand to her throat. "What a grisly business! Why would a young woman of your looks and apparent intelligence want to involve herself in such sordid goings-on?"

"It beats sitting behind a desk shuffling paper." She studied me for a moment. "Yes, I expect it does." I doubted that Eleanor van Dyne had ever faced the choice I'd made between the humdrum jobs available to a sociology major and an occupation that, while low-paying, long-houred, and sometimes dangerous, fulfilled an inner craving for excitement. Avoiding her inquiring eyes, I looked down at the literature on the table. A colorful sheet advertised a house tour, co-sponsored by Salvation Incorporated and Heritage. It would culminate in a wine-and-cheese tasting at the Haas-Lilienthal house, headquarters of the latter.

"Are you interested in Victorians?" van Dyne asked, following my gaze.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I am." I took a breath and plunged into a bald-faced lie. "You see, I plan to buy and restore one I've found in the Western Addition."

"And I suppose you'll insist on one of those abominable psychedelic paint jobs?"

"Oh, no." I shook my head solemnly. "I liked Jake Kaufmann, you understand, but I didn't like what he was doing. I hold a much more traditional view of restoration."

As I'd hoped, van Dyne's eyes glittered at such a find. "Then perhaps you would enjoy this tour tomorrow. The houses included are classic examples of Victorians, and I plan to lead it myself. It will be at two in the afternoon, and I would be delighted to have you as my personal guest."

I smiled. "Why, thank you so much! I'll be there."

Van Dyne turned to the person beside me, and, pocketing the information sheet on the tour, I crossed to Prince Albert's booth.

Light fixtures similar to those at Victoriana hung from its latticed ceiling, and table lamps stood on makeshift shelves. Some had etched-glass globes, others little fluted shades, and still others were of colored glass in the Tiffany tradition. While they were obviously of modern manufacture, they had a strong aura of authenticity. In the center of the display, perched on a high stool, sat a wiry young man in a gray velvet frock coat and matching top hat with curling red plumes. A shock of ginger-colored hair stuck out from under the hat. This had to be Prince Albert.

"What can I do for you, milady?" he called out.

"I have a question. Victoriana said you might provide the answer."

"I have many answers. Come in, and take a seat on my throne." He got up and, bowing, doffed his top hat toward the stool. His flowery speech and mannerisms completed his princely act, which was a little too cute for my taste.

"Don't mind if I do." I climbed up there and fished in my bag for the metal fragment. "I need to locate the manufacturer of this." I handed it to him.

His face underwent a transformation, wide mouth pulling down and eyes clouding. "Where did you find it?"

"In an empty house." I waved my hand vaguely.

"An empty house."

"Yes."

He stood close to me, tossing the metal piece from hand to hand. "I didn't introduce myself. I'm Al Prince, known in the trade as Prince Albert. Who're you?"

It wouldn't do any good to conceal my identity. He could ask any one of a number of people here, and chances were he'd seen my name in the newspaper this morning. I admitted who I was and my connection with the Kaufmann killing.

"So you must have found this in the empty house with Jake's body." Prince Albert stared at the fragment in his open palm, as if he could read the past from it. Then he shook his head. "Doesn't look familiar."

"Oh." I held out my hand.

He gave the fitting to me. Then abruptly he spun around. "Let's go outside. I can leave the booth for a while." He led me through one of the big side doors to the boardwalk next to the building. In the distance was the Golden Gate Bridge and the sailboats that dotted the Bay.

Prince Albert turned right, toward Alcatraz. We walked along slowly. The sunlight felt warm on my shoulders, and smells of creosote and seawater rose to my nostrils. Prince Albert didn't speak until we'd rounded the end of the pier, where fishermen were casting their lines. They leaned on the rail, their jackets hung over the stanchions, timeless figures far removed from the organized chaos inside the building. When we turned down the shady side where the wind whipped cruelly, Prince Albert finally said, "What makes you think that fitting is from a light fixture?"

"It had a broken bulb screwed into it, which I removed for safety's sake."

He nodded. "It's probably cast off an older fixture—from its shape I'd place it at late nineteenth century."

"But it's relatively modern?"

"Yes." He leaned his elbows on the railing, staring down into the green water. I did the same. Off to the left, a harbor cruise loaded with bundled-up tourists churned back to port.

"That piece isn't from one of your fixtures, then?" I persisted.

"I told you, no."

"And you have no idea whose it might be?"

"It's fairly typical. It could be anyone's."

We were silent for a moment, the wavelets lapping below.

"What does this fitting have to do with Jake's murder?" Prince Albert asked suddenly.

"I don't know. I hoped you could tell me."

He jerked around to face me. His eyes were hazel, flecked with yellow. "Why me?"

"You know your light fixtures, I'm told."

"Oh." He looked away.

"Did you know Jake?" I asked.

"We were friends."

"Good friends?"

"Good enough. He was like an older brother, gave me pointers on running my business."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

He was silent.

"When?" I insisted.

"Yesterday around noon, he was in my workshop."

"Why?"

"Just to talk."

"About what?"

"Inflation. The high price of liquor. What the hell
do
friends talk about?"

"How did he seem?"

"Seem?"

"What kind of mood was he in?"

"His usual."

"And that was…"

Prince Albert sighed explosively. "He was the same as he always was. He was like Jake, that's all." He paused, then added, "Let me see that fitting again, will you?"

I passed it to him. He took it, fumbled, and said, "Oops!" He straightened. The metal piece had flipped from his hand and dropped into the green water below.

He turned to me, mock dismay twisting his wide mouth. "How clumsy of me!"

Fury rose, but I controlled it. I didn't want him to think his artifice a triumph. "Very clumsy, for a man who does intricate work with his hands."

"I hope I haven't hindered your investigation."

"Not at all," I replied smoothly. "I took pictures of the piece last night," I hadn't, but I was sure I could sketch it from memory.

Chagrin flickered across his face, but he smiled. "Well, that's a relief. I must make it up to you, though."