“My boss was Joan Albritton’s attorney, and this inventory is within the scope of my duties.”
“I said, watch it. You have an unusual interest in this murder. If Zahn didn’t vouch for you, I’d say you were protecting someone.”
I stared at him. “Who do you have in mind?”
“This Cornish fellow, for one. I understand you’re pretty chummy with him, paid him a visit last night.”
His words brought me up short. After a few seconds, I asked, “Are you having me followed?”
“Of course not. But I have my sources.” He got up and stood across the counter from me, looking smug.
“I have a right to visit anyone I want to.” My voice shook with rage.
“Not if you’re obstructing a police investigation, you don’t.”
I stood, staring at him, unable to speak. Marcus’s glance moved from my face, down my body, to my hands. I looked down, too. My angry fingers had fashioned the hair ribbon I was clutching into a little noose.
Marcus’s eyes traveled slowly back to my face. “You aren’t too good at covering up your emotions, are you?” He paused, then leaned closer, his face set. “Now, I have something to tell you, Ms. McCone, and I want you to listen carefully. You have forty-eight hours, exactly, to finish this inventory and get out of the shop. By noon, day after tomorrow, you are to be gone.
“If I see or hear of you talking to anyone involved with the case, if you harass anyone, like the Hemphill people or Mrs. Ingalls, I’ll see that you never work again in any investigatory capacity. You will go back to guarding dresses in department stores, where, in my opinion, you belong!”
I took a step backwards, still speechless.
“In addition,” Marcus went on, “I’m putting a twenty-four-hour guard on this building, in case your so-called murderer returns. I don’t want it on my head if you get yourself stabbed to death while inventorying this trash.”
He had ridiculed my suggestion that the intruder and the killer were the same person, but he thought it important enough to put a man on the shop.
I looked at my watch and cleared my throat. “It’s one o’clock.”
“What?” Marcus was moving toward the door, but he turned to look at me.
“You said forty-eight hours. That’s one o’clock the day after tomorrow, not noon.”
Several emotions warred for possession of his face: anger, disgust, and a trace of admiration. Disgust won out.
“You won’t learn, will you?” He turned and stalked out.
“Nope,” I said to an empty shop, “I won’t learn.”
I had forty-eight hours. Marcus had overestimated by a generous margin the time the inventory would take. With hard work, I could wrap it up this afternoon. That left me with almost two days to find Joan’s killer.
And, I thought glumly, maybe end up back in Better Dresses.
12
Of course, I’d better not cross Greg Marcus’s path in the next forty-eight hours. It was a risk, but not a great one. I gathered the lieutenant planned to spend his time trying to pin the killing on Charlie Cornish. I would spend my time otherwise.
I wanted to wrap up the inventory in a hurry, so I went back to the workroom and rummaged around for the records of Joan’s purchases. In an old trunk, covered with labels from European hotels, I found a blue cloth binder with the words “Items Bought” scribbled across its cover. I took it to the front room and compared it to my lists.
By sunset I had assigned a value to almost every item in the shop, based on what Joan had originally paid. The exceptions were Edwin; Bruno; five paintings, including the Madonna on Edwin’s wall; and the wicked-looking bone-handled knives, the missing one of which was the murder weapon.
The ledger went back only five years, so I returned to the trunk to look for an older one. Under a jumble of office supplies, business cards, old income tax returns, and check stubs, I came across a second notebook that took the purchases back another seven years. On page three, a notation read: “1 stfd dg, prt of lot purch Cncrd Auct Hse fr Bigby—pd to Bigby $17.50.”
Decoding it, I decided Bruno must have been one of a group of items that Joan had bought out in Contra Costa County for Austin Bigby, the little red-headed dealer down the street. I smiled, imagining Bigby letting fly with his legendary temper and refusing to allow Bruno in his shop. Joan must have bought the monstrosity from him out of pity for it.
This ledger would probably solve my few remaining problems—a good thing because I was anxious to get out of the shop and on with my murder case. Besides, I was hungry; the chocolate bar had been a long time ago. I decided to take both ledgers and the unidentified paintings with me to compare at home. Edwin and the knives I didn’t need; I’d never forget what either looked like. I filled a cardboard carton and loaded it into my car, then went to lock up.
When I came back from checking the rear door, Charlie was standing by the cash register, a bag from a fast-food restaurant in his hand.
“I wanted to apologize,” he said, extending it to me. He looked pale and tired but otherwise visibly none the worse from last night’s spree. I burrowed into the bag and pulled out a cheeseburger and Coke. “There’s nothing to apologize for. How do you feel?”
“Shitty. Are you done here?”
“Almost.” The burger was delicious in my present starved state. “There are a few things I can’t place a value on yet. Do you know how much Edwin is worth?”
Charlie shook his head. “Edwin? Quite a lot to Joanie. As for anybody else, I don’t know.” He turned and wandered down the aisle toward the mannequin. I followed, carrying my Coke.
“Where did she get him, do you know?”
Charlie shrugged. “He probably came out of some department store that went out of business. Edwin’s been here as long as I can remember, ever since I first knew Joanie.”
So the ledgers I had in the car wouldn’t tell me anything about him. I said, “Van Osten came by this morning. He thinks Edwin was a grandson substitute for Joan. Claims the bit about giving Edwin a picture to look at started about the time the kid died.”
Charlie snorted. “That’s amateur psychology for you. Joanie was always fond of Edwin, talking to him and the like. The thing about him being an art lover was just a sales gimmick. I remember when Joanie thought of it—it was in the fall, almost a whole year before Chris—that was her grandson—died.”
“How do you remember so well?”
His eyes far away, Charlie reached out to straighten the tie of Edwin’s sailor suit. “Joanie was always coming to me with outrageous ideas. Some people said she wasn’t too much in touch with reality, you know, but she really used her fantasies to her own profit. I mean, she was a successful businesswoman; she owned three quarters of this block.” He gestured around us.
“Anyway,” he went on, “that fall she came to me all amused about this plan for Edwin’s art gallery. We had a good chuckle over it, and then I came over here and helped her pry him up from the floor and move him so he faced the wall, where she was going to hang the pictures.”
“Pry him up?”
“Oh, yeah. His shoes were nailed down because he’d fallen over a couple of times, and his face had gotten chipped.” He indicated some irregularities on Edwin’s nose and left ear. “So I got my hammer and nailed him down again, like he is now.”
I sighed. “God, she had an imagination, didn’t she?”
“She did, and it was catching, you know. She liked to laugh, and I liked to laugh with her. But then Chris died, and Ben Harmon came along. He changed things, kind of ….” Charlie’s voice drifted off.
“Ben Harmon. The man I met last night.” I wanted to leave the way open for Charlie to say more about the bail bondsman.
“Yeah, the bastard. I sent Joanie to him when Chris got busted, and he just started hanging around all the time. He’s got a wife and five kids out in the Sunset District, but that didn’t stop him. I didn’t like him spending time with Joanie. In fact, there’re
a lot of things I don’t like about him, especially the fact he’ll profit from the sale of this property.”
“How so?”
“That’s what he came to tell me last night. Seems Joanie made a verbal agreement to sell out to him. The deal was, Harmon would put up some condominiums with a shopping plaza, and because she swung the sale his way, he’d give Joanie space for her new shop at a reduced rent. Harmon wants us to honor the agreement.” Charlie stuck out his lower lip. “I hate to see that son-of-a-bitch get the land, especially with the Ingalls syndicate offering so much more; but if that’s what Joanie wanted, that’s the way it’ll have to be.”
“That’s too bad, since you could get more money from Ingalls.”
Charlie shrugged. “Joanie must have had her reasons.” Then he added, “By the way, there’s a cop watching the shop.”
I went to the window and looked through the deepening dusk at the uniformed officer in the blue-and-white cruiser at the opposite curb. The murderer would never return with that sitting there.
I turned, about to say something to Charlie, but before I could get the words out, an explosion rocked the street. It was a ferocious bang that rattled the windows of the shop. Charlie and I stared at each other in horror, then rushed for the door.
13
Charlie and I ran out on the sidewalk. In the next block, flames shot straight up from one of the dilapidated buildings.
“My God!” Charlie shouted. “It’s Austin’s shop! Come on! He might be in there!” He started running down the street.
The cop at the opposite curb was already on his radio, and seconds later he squealed off toward the fire. I ran back to lock Joan’s shop, then remembered I had to lock my car which had her ledgers in it. By the time I got to Austin’s, two fire trucks had arrived, and the police were forcing people back, out of danger. Near the front, against the barricade, I saw Charlie and Austin Bigby. So Austin hadn’t been inside.
Charlie had his arm around Austin in a protective way. The little red-headed man stood, his long arms hanging down at his sides in a posture of shock. I moved toward them.
As I came up, the two men turned to look at me, Charlie tightening his hold on Austin, as if I might snatch him away. Tears coursed down Austin’s wrinkled face.
“How did it start?” I shouted at Charlie over the roar of water and the crackle of flames.
“Austin says it was like a bomb went off,” he yelled back. “He was coming from having a couple of beers, and he saw it. There was that big bang we heard, and then the flames.”
The fire raged fiercely, but so far it seemed contained. Austin turned to me, putting a hand on my shoulder. He was so tiny and slumped with despair that he had to reach up.
“Everything’s going,” he sobbed. “Miss McCone, everything I have, all my stock, it’s burning up!”
I hurt for the little shopkeeper, and I took his hand, not knowing what to say.
“Why are these terrible things happening to us?” he wailed. It was as if my touch had opened the floodgates. “What do they want from us anyway? Who are they?”
Saying nothing, I squeezed his hand harder. I couldn’t take my eyes off the rampaging flames. It was one of the things I feared most: fire out of control.
“Who are They indeed?” I murmured to myself.
There was a hollow roar, then a crash, and sparks flew wildly. I recoiled, stumbling backwards. Charlie let go of Austin, and I grabbed him up, as if he were a child who might be swept away by the crowd. The roof had caved in. I clung to Austin, breathing hard as I watched the firemen ply their hoses in a desperate attempt to prevent the fire’s spread.
“I could have been in there!” Austin screamed hysterically, clutching at me. “I could have burned up in there with all my stuff! They were trying to kill me!”
I ignored his cries and tugged at him, pulling him out of the street onto the sidewalk. Charlie followed, looking helpless. When he didn’t reclaim Austin, I tucked the little shopkeeper’s arm through mine, trying to calm myself as well. The sidewalks were wet, and I could feel water seeping into my shoes.
“Next time someone will be killed!” Austin wept violently.
I didn’t know how to comfort him. I thought of saying that his insurance would cover the loss, but I didn’t know if he even had insurance, and it wasn’t much of a consolation anyway.
“What do they want?” he demanded through his sobs. “Will you tell me what these people want of us?”
“I don’t know, Austin. I just don’t know.” The flames seemed to die down a little, and my breathing felt more normal. “It doesn’t make sense to me either.”
Austin leaned on me, snuffling. “You were supposed to make some sense of it! We hired you to do that. Joan’s dead, and now look what’s happened!”
He went off into another fit of sobs. I looked at Charlie, and he spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
“Why couldn’t you do anything about it?” Austin demanded, shaking me.
The flames slowly began to subside. “Austin,” I said, “you voted against hiring me.”
“We voted for you,” he protested. “We even paid you. I was treasurer of the Merchants’ Association last fall, and I remember writing out the check.”
“No, I don’t mean then; I mean last night, when you decided not to hire me to investigate Joan’s murder.” I looked around for Charlie and saw him edge away.
“Last night we did what?” Austin rummaged in his hip pocket and produced a dirty handkerchief. He began to scrub his face and blow his nose. With the flames’ subsiding, his hysteria had subsided, too.
“Charlie suggested the Association hire me to look after their interests in the murder investigation. You turned it down.” An awful suspicion dawned on me. I started to edge after Charlie.
Austin’s swollen face was puzzled. “He never … I mean, all we did last night was take a collection for the wreath for Joan’s memorial service.”
“He didn’t say anything about me?”
Austin shook his head.
I whirled to look for Charlie and saw him melt into the crowd.
“Damn you, Charlie Cornish,” I muttered. Last night he had played games with me, and now he had left me here with little Austin Bigby on my hands. I looked about for someone, anyone, I knew.
My eyes lighted on Dan Efron, the lanky, dark-haired comedian of Salem Street whom everyone called Dandy. I signaled to him, and he came over, seeming for once unlikely to clown around.
“Dan, Austin’s awfully upset. Look after him, will you?” I thrust his fellow shopkeeper into his arms before he could protest, then pushed through the crowd in the direction Charlie had gone. The fire had about run its course.
Junk Emporium was locked and, to all appearances, deserted. I went up and pounded on the big front door, knowing I would get no answer if Charlie was hiding inside. After a few minutes, I gave up, kicking the door to emphasize my fury.
My mind staggered under the news of Charlie’s deception. What was he hiding? Had he, after all, killed Joan?
I crossed the street to the antique shop. The police guard was nowhere in sight; I supposed he was still at the fire. To make sure the shop was secure, I got out my keys and unlocked the door, flicking the lights on as I stepped in.
The shop looked as if something had exploded there, too. Furniture was tipped at odd angles. Vases lay in jagged shards on the floor. I stared into a smashed mirror and saw a hundred fragments of my own reflection. Even the old pickle crock, van Osten’s “distinguished aging receptacle,” had tumbled from its shelf, cracking on top of the lid of a child’s school desk below.
Only an earthquake or a pair of human hands could have wreaked this havoc. And we hadn’t had an earthquake.
I could feel a cool breeze from the workroom. Cautiously I entered it. The flimsy rear door stood partway open, the lock dangling from the splintered frame. So, while everyone, including the police guard, was at the fire, a visitor had come and gone.
I leaned wearily against the workbench, frustration and depression rising simultaneously. The murderer had probably gotten what he wanted this time; the shop had been too thoroughly ransacked for him to have departed empty-handed. I wondered if he had set the fire to cause a distraction. It seemed extreme, but the murder had been extreme, too. Something very important must be at stake.
“What?” I muttered. “What the hell did he get?”
I rummaged through a drawer under the workbench where I’d seen a padlock earlier that day and secured the back door with it. Then I quickly checked through the ravaged shop to see if I could tell what was missing. None of the objects that I remembered inventorying were gone, although many had been totally destroyed. I stopped in front of Edwin, who stood unharmed in his iron shoes.
“You’re lucky, buddy,” I told him. “At least your feet are nailed to the floor.” I had developed a strange kinship with the cherubic little mannequin. Perhaps he reminded me of my brothers at their first communion.
I knew I should call the police and report the break-in, but that would involve a lot of time and tiresome questions. Besides, the police guard would return and discover it soon enough. I could go through my inventory sheets now and maybe figure out what was missing, but that could last all night, and the object itself might not necessarily help me identify the killer.
There must be a shortcut to that information, I told myself, and I might stumble on it if I followed the course I’d been planning before the fire. Ben Harmon’s name had been cropping up over and over, and I was very anxious to talk with the bail bondsman.
14
BEN HARMON, BAIL BONDS—
READY TO SERVE YOU TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY
The sign was on Bryant Street, in the seedy district near the Hall of Justice. Harmon’s storefront was well lit tonight, a neon oasis in the darkness around Seventh Street. I parked directly in front, unwilling to travel those unfriendly sidewalks any further than necessary.
The reception room was tiny and crammed with battered plastic furniture. A slender, dark-haired young man stood beside the desk. He wore a black suit with a slick sheen to its fabric and smoked a small, thin cigar. He looked at me, curling his lip.
Edwin of the Iron Shoes Page 7
