Muller, Marcia - [McCone 03] Cheshire Cat's Eye, The_(v.1,shtml) (9 page)

I idled at the curb in my MG. Its engine coughed, reminding me of its long-needed tune-up. Well, I'd take care of that later, after I'd unraveled the puzzle of the Cheshire Cat's Eye.

Traffic streamed past me. I was on Franklin Street, a one-way artery to the Golden Gate Bridge and Marin County. At least it would not be easy for Prince Albert to spot me among the other cars.

I tensed as I saw his wiry figure lope down the steps of the Haas-Lilienthal mansion and head toward his truck. As soon as I'd fled, I was sorry I hadn't had the nerve to stay and examine the other two cartons, but now I felt a flood of relief. Had I, Prince Albert would surely have discovered me.

The truck pulled out into a break in traffic. So did I.

The truck stayed in the left-hand lane. I kept two cars between us. Just when I had decided Prince Albert was headed for Lombard Street and perhaps the bridge, he veered to the curb. I screeched into a driveway up the block.

The truck's headlights illuminated a debris box, one of the open-topped truck trailers that were a familiar sight in front of buildings being renovated. In this case, the house was an ugly pink stucco-and-brick structure that needed all the help it could get. Prince Albert went to the back of the truck and removed one of the cardboard cartons.

Expecting him to go into the house, I peered through my side window, trying to get its number. Instead, he approached the dumpster. With a lob that would have done an NBA player credit, he heaved the carton in, then ran back to his truck and jumped into the driver's seat.

I backed out of the driveway, let a passing car slide between the truck and me, and continued the chase. Prince Albert's vehicle turned left and meandered into the depths of Pacific Heights. I realized he was looking for another debris box; possibly he felt the lamps might be traced if he disposed of them all together. He had picked a good area to do this: With the number of restorations and condominium conversions going on in this affluent neighborhood, the dumpster population was high.

Sure enough, Prince Albert found another box and repeated his maneuver. He then turned down a side street, drove a block, and, in front of a large apartment house, disposed of the last carton. I noted the location of each dumpster and continued following the truck.

Soon it became apparent that Prince Albert was headed home, his night's work done. To make sure, I followed him as far as where Natoma Street branched off Sixth, then turned back toward the last dumpster to collect my evidence. I left the MG idling and ran up to the debris box, peering on tiptoe over its side.

The carton was gone. I stared in amazement.

The city was divided between those who dumped into the debris boxes and those who scavenged from them. I had once seen a bicycle with only one wheel disappear within three minutes of being tossed in, but this was still fast work. Whoever had gotten here before me must have been delighted with his find. I ran back to the car and U-turned. The box in front of the ugly house on Franklin would be my next stop.

Again I left the car idling at the curb. As I passed the house, I glanced up. It was three stories, and its curving tower windows were dark. With a mental start, I realized it was a Queen Anne whose facade had been covered with stucco and bricks. Eleanor van Dyne would have died on the spot. I surveyed the house carefully. Not a light showed. Probably it was vacant for the restoration.

This dumpster was piled higher than the other one. Most of the debris was wood, plaster, and assorted junk, but I spotted Prince Albert's carton on top of the heap. Straining, I reached for it. My hands fell short by several feet.

I sighed and looked up and down the street. Thank God there were no pedestrians! People in cars wouldn't notice me climbing up on the dumpster or, if they did, wouldn't care. But a person on foot might wonder why a young woman in a tailored black pantsuit was scaling a heap of trash.

The sides of the box were indented in places, providing frequent, if slippery, toeholds. I pulled myself up and bent forward over the top, stretching my five-foot-six frame to its full extent. My fingers missed the box and encountered something slimy. I yanked my hands back and carefully hoisted myself closer. My nostrils flared at the unmistakable odor of rotting cabbage. Someone had tossed his garbage in here.

My nose still wrinkled, I pulled myself higher and once more reached for the carton. I grabbed its top and pulled. It resisted, and I teetered precariously. Oh, God, I thought, don't let me fall into that slime!

Regaining my balance, I pulled again, and the box moved toward me. I almost dropped it hauling it over the side, but soon it was safe on the ground beside me. I dragged it back, into the shelter of a brick archway that led to the alley at the sides of the ugly pink house, and shined my pencil flash on the contents. The rich colors of stained glass gleamed. It was one of the lamps, all right, but in the darkness I couldn't tell if it was electric or kerosene.

I was so busy reaching for my find that I didn't take note of my surroundings. By the time I became aware of the footsteps behind me, a dark figure loomed up. It slammed me into the side of the archway. I cried out as my cheek scraped against the bricks, and a hand clamped over my mouth. An arm circled me, and my attacker began to drag me into the alley.

I tried to wrench free. I tried to get into one of the holds I'd learned in self-defense class. Nothing worked. He—was it a he?—dragged me farther.

I was dimly aware of a fire escape and trash chutes above. Broken glass crunched underfoot. We careened past a can under one of the chutes and slammed into a fence at the other side. It almost gave way under our combined weights. There we rested. My attacker's breath was harsh in my ear. He spoke.

"Now you listen, bitch." The words were thick with the accent of the black ghetto. "You gonna get out of the Western Addition, you hear? You gonna stay away from that Wintringham and forget about everything. Or else you gonna get blown away."

The words chilled me. I tried to calm myself. This was merely a threat. He did not intend to kill me now.

"You got it, bitch?" His lips were still close to my ear.

I tried to shake my head yes, but his hand clamped too tightly across my mouth.

"I said, you got it?"

I made a strangled sound.

Apparently he took it as an affirmative, because next I was careening farther back into the alley, stumbling to avoid a fall, pitching along at tremendous speed from his shove. I grabbed at the wall of the house, missed, and ended up in a heap on the cold pavement. My attacker's footsteps thundered down the passageway. Before I could pull myself up, he was gone.

I sank back onto the ground, breathing hard from both exertion and terror. A threat, I told myself, only a threat. You've had those before. And you're not hurt, not really.

A black man. Dettman? No, Dettman was paunchy and soft. This man had been lean and strong. Johnny Hart?

No, not tall enough. Who? A stranger. Someone Dettman or Hart had hired to do his dirty work.

And how had he found me, anyway? I'd been on a house tour, chased Prince Albert all over, and visited two dumpsters. I shivered, realizing he could have been following me the whole time, awaiting his chance.

A rustling sound down by the garbage cans brought me back to the present.

Oh, my God, rats! San Francisco had a rat problem. Its alleys were full of them.

I jumped to my feet and rushed toward the street.

When I reached the brick archway, I remembered the cardboard carton I'd rescued from the dumpster. Frantically I searched for it. All I found was my pencil flash. The carton had vanished along with my attacker.

I stood, rumpled and dumbfounded on the sidewalk. The threat I could understand; Hank had warned me to take Dettman and his playmates seriously. And, in spite of his helpfulness, I still had my doubts about Johnny Hart.

But this—why? What on earth could either of them want with the Cheshire Cat's Eye?

The rain had begun in the early morning hours, but it wasn't the only thing dampening my spirits. I sat cross-legged on my bed, warming my hands on a cup of coffee. The night before I had conquered my fears and searched the third dumpster for the remaining lamp. It, too, was gone. All I had to show for my efforts were bruises and a couple of painful scrapes from the struggle in the alley of the house on Franklin Street.

"What the hell did the Cheshire Cat look like anyway?" I muttered. It had been many years since I'd read
Alice in Wonderland
.

I went to the bookcase that covered one wall of my studio apartment and rummaged through the children's books. I'd saved them from my mother's most recent spring-cleaning fit, which had extended dangerously to the attic of the rambling old house in San Diego. Above the swish of her broom, I'd pleaded with her to save them for me.

No, they were cluttering up the attic and had to go.

Well, at least let the grandkids have them, then.

No way. They had plenty of their own books.

Well, what about my own kids? I might have kids someday.

At this point, my mother had directed a stern gaze at me that said she'd believe it the day I sprouted wings and flew. After all, I wasn't getting any younger, was I? No, if I wanted to save the books I could darn well lug them to San Francisco.

Ergo, children's books next to my old sociology texts.

I pulled out an illustrated copy of
Alice
and thumbed through it, pausing to smile over the picture of the hookah-smoking caterpillar. Toward the middle, I found Alice staring up at a grinning cat in a tree.

"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"

"That depends a good deal on where you want to go," said the Cat.

"I don't much care where—" said Alice.

"Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat.

"—so long as I get
somewhere
," Alice added as an explanation.

"Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough."

I sighed and shut the book. Life imitating art, perhaps? I was sure to get someplace myself, if I thought long enough. But wasn't there a shortcut? Didn't Charmaine work with stained glass?

I went to the phone and dialed Wintringham's residence. Paul Collins answered. David was on the job site. Could he help me instead?

"Yes. Do you have Charmaine's number?"

There was a pause. "Are you making any headway with the murder investigation?"

"Some."

"Well, that's good."

"Now, about Charmaine."

"She's got a house on Buena Vista Heights. The number's in the book, under 'C.' She's listed like she lives—single-namedly.'' Collins wished me luck and hung up.

I drained my coffee cup and headed for the shower.

Charmaine lived in a brown-shingled bungalow on the east side of Buena Vista Park, high above the Haight-Ashbury. I followed a brick path alongside the house, as the decorator had instructed me over the phone. Tall, spike-leaved palms dripped water as I made my way down the slippery slope toward the basement door.

Today Charmaine was not her usual fashionable self. She wore faded jeans and a baggy sweater with a rip in one elbow, and the polish on her red talons was chipped. Even in her dishabille, however, she wore fresh makeup and a chic turban over her hair. She admitted me cheerfully and led the way past washtubs and storage bins to what she called her workroom. It contained two large tables made of sawhorses and plywood, and its walls were honeycombed with racks that held pieces of colored glass.

"Have a seat." She waved her hand at a stool next to one of the tables. "You caught me at a good time. This is real shit work, and I need company." She picked up a stiff-bristled brush and began rubbing at the table. It was covered with what looked like dirty snow, beneath which I could make out a pattern of glass and metal.

"What are you working on?"

"A window." She brushed some of the powder aside. "It's for a lawyer's office."

The window depicted the scales of justice in blues and golds and reds.

"Nice," I said. "My boss would go crazy over that."

"Send him around. This is almost done, and I could use another commission. But don't tell him I can produce one fast; this took four years, working in my spare time."

"Four years!"

"I make my living from decorating. It leaves very little time for hobbies. And I have other stained-glass projects, too."

I watched her hands as she brushed the powder. "What does that do?"

"I just puttied around the lead strips. This stuff is called whiting; it picks up the oil in the putty and tones down the lead, makes it look older."

"Is it hard work?"

"Boring. And messy. If you weren't here to talk to, I'd wear my surgical mask to keep from breathing the powder into my lungs."

"Listen, if it's dangerous, go ahead."

"No, it's not that bad. And I really don't like to wear the mask." She paused, looking at me. "On the phone you said you need information."

"Yes, about glass."

"You've come to the right place. What?"

"Do you know anything about Tiffany lamps?"

Charmaine's brush slowed, then picked up its vigorous tempo. "A fair amount. I've read a few books on the subject."

"As a layman, how would you go about telling a real Tiffany from a fake?"

"Easy. I'd look for the signature on the base. Tiffany Studios always signed them."

Unfortunately I hadn't seen any of the bases of Prince Albert's lamps.

"What about the glass? Could you tell from that?"

"The quality of the glass would at least place it in time."

"How so?"

She set down the brush and went to one of the wall racks. Pulling out a piece of red glass, she held it up to the light. "Look at this."

"It's pretty."

She set it on the rack and reached into a higher one. "But now, look at this."

Again, it was red glass, but it shone as if with an inner light. I sucked in my breath. "Lovely."

Charmaine nodded. "The second is old—I got it from one of the houses David remodeled. The first is a contemporary American product. Glass is getting worse, more like plastic all the time."

"It must be, if even I can tell." And indeed I could. The second sample seemed more like what I had seen last night in the beam of my pencil flash. Or was that merely wishful thinking?

Charmaine replaced the glass and took up her brush again. "So why do you need to know about Tiffany? Is it part of the work you're doing for David? What kind of work is it, by the way?"

I was surprised he hadn't told her. "I'm investigating Jake Kaufmann's murder—and, as a result of that, David's father's."

This time the brush stopped. "Why?"

"They seem to be related. Listen, can I describe a lamp shade for you? Maybe you can tell me something about it." A growing suspicion forced me on.

Charmaine nodded, her eyes on the dirty snow.

I told her about the Cheshire Cat's Eye: the leaves, the teeth, the gleaming yellow-green stone.

"Where did you see that?" she demanded.

"I can't say right now. Could it be a Tiffany?"

She wet her lips. "Does this have something to do with Jake's murder?"

I ignored her question. "You've seen a lamp like that before, haven't you?"

She bent her head. The brush forced the dirty snow into intricate patterns. "It could be a Tiffany. The motif of autumn leaves was common with Tiffany Studios' products. Lamps with tree trunks for bases and leaves for shades were typical. You say this shade had an irregularly shaped upper and lower border?"

I nodded. "That's right."

"It's one of the more complex designs." She kept her head bent over the table.

"What about the eye?"

As if she felt it stare at her, she looked up. "What about it?"

"Is that typical of Tiffany?"

Pausing, she considered. "He did a lot with peacocks' eyes. Yes, I guess it could be said to be typical."

I pressed on. "What about the teeth?"

"Well, Tiffany perfected iridescent glass. But, no, I never saw one of his trees with teeth sticking out." She tried to smile, but it came off false. "If the lamp is a Tiffany, it would have to have been specially commissioned."

I could bet she knew by whom. "The eye—what would it be?"

"Glass, made to resemble a jewel." She answered too fast.

"Did Tiffany ever use real jewels, semiprecious stones, perhaps?"

"Not that I know of."

"But could he have?"

With an agitated motion, Charmaine dropped the brush and began to pace, her arms folded across her breasts. "He could have. They would fit in, just like the glass jewels did. But I don't understand, Sharon."

"Neither do I."

She stopped, a foot away from me. "What?"

"There's something I don't understand, too. Why does the lamp I just described have you so frightened?''

She took a step backward.

"What is it with this lamp, Charmaine?"

She folded her arms tighter

"Are you afraid because you copied the shade for Prince Albert?"

She was silent.

"Were the shades the other stained-glass projects that slowed your progress on this window?"

Strength seemed to leave her, and she sagged against the table. "You knew that all along, didn't you?"

I hadn't, but… "Did Prince Albert commission them?"

She bit her lip. "Yes," she finally said, "three of them. He had the original for me to work from. He
claimed
he'd gotten it in a junk shop."

Reacting to the stressed word, I said, "But you didn't believe him."

"No one would sell a real Tiffany to a junk shop. And no junk dealer would let it go for what Al could afford."

I'd had some experience with junk shops, however. It was possible for real treasure to go unnoticed among the trash. Or maybe Prince Albert had thought it worth more than what Charmaine assumed he could afford. I regarded her thoughtfully.

"Anyway," she added, "I found out later that Larry…"

"What about Larry?"

She snatched off her stylish turban and shook out her bell-like hair. "Forget it."

"Charmaine, you brought it up."

"No, forget it."

"I can't."

"Oh, God." She wiped her brow with the turban. "This
does
have to do with Jake's murder, and Larry will get in trouble."

I didn't answer.

"If I tell you, he'll kill me." She paused, startled at the implication of what she'd just said.

"What about Larry, Charmaine?"

She took a deep breath. "Okay. Okay. When I started working on the shades for Al, I showed the lamp to Larry. I couldn't believe it—that Al had found a real Tiffany in a junk shop."

"What was Larry's reaction?"

"At first he was cool. He asked what it was worth. But then when I told him, he got furious. He said if he'd known that, he never would have let it out of his hands."

I felt a flash of excitement. "When did he have it?"

She shook her head, hair swinging. "He wouldn't say. He told me to forget he'd mentioned it. I shouldn't have told you."

I couldn't respond to her woebegone expression, so great was my excitement. So Larry French had once possessed the Cheshire Cat's Eye. That could make him a murderer—or someone who knew who the murderer was. "Charmaine, what's the story with you and Larry?"

"Story?"

"He doesn't treat you very well. Why do you put up with him?"

Her gaze slipped away from mine. "Larry's all right. He puts on a tough front for other people but, really, he's quite decent. And he has contacts. He's promised me some very lucrative design work for important people in Hollywood. If I can break in there I'd have it made. And I will. I've got what it takes." It sounded like a lesson she'd learned by rote and now repeated with declining conviction.

"That's right," I said. "Larry used to be in show business."

Charmaine nodded. "He put on all the big concerts. He knew all the stars. All I need is to decorate one big star's house and I'll be on my way."

"Why's Larry no longer in show business?"

"You don't know?" Charmaine's wide eyes swung to mine.

"No."

"God. I thought everyone did. At one of the concerts he put on—his last—there was a disturbance. Nothing like what happened at Altamont, but people started slugging it out. Larry got into the fray and, well…"

"And what?"

"Well, he killed a man. It was ruled self-defense, but he
did
kill him, and after that no one would touch a Larry French production with a ten-foot pole."