The Cheshire Cat's Eye

by Marcia Muller

  “He’s married now, isn’t he?”

  I nodded. “Six months ago, to a divorcee named Judy Riggs. She had two kids. Jake always liked kids. They made a nice family. I wonder who gets to tell her.”

  “You’re not close to his wife?”

  “I hardly know her. I haven’t seen Jake himself since they married.”

  “You say Greg is meeting us here?”

  “Right.”

  “Then it’ll probably be me. He’ll come in and say, ‘Listen, Hank, since Jake was an All Souls client, would you mind…’”

  I smiled faintly. Hank did a credible imitation of the lieutenant. When I looked at him, though, there was real pain in his eyes. My boss genuinely cared for all his clients, and too often made their troubles his. Breaking the news to Jake’s family would be no small ordeal, but Hank would prefer to suffer it than to have them told impersonally by a cop.

  “You know what bothers me?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “The crime is so meaningless. Who would want to kill Jake?”

  “Maybe he was killed by a burglar.”

  “What’s there to steal?”

  “True. A vandal, then. There’s a lot of vandalism in this neighborhood.”

  “A vandal wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of faking an accident.”

  “An accident?”

  Briefly I explained about the paint and the ladder at the scene. “So you see,” I finished, “someone killed him deliberately and then tried to cover up. That’s borne out by the fact he said he was frightened when he called me.”

  The proprietor stuck his grizzled head out of the kitchen, and Hank signaled for another round. We watched him pour the drinks with a practiced flourish. Setting them down, he said, “You folks ain’t been in before.”

  “First time,” I replied.

  “Thought so. I got a good memory for faces. ‘Course I don’t get too many white faces here.”

  I looked at him to see if it might be a warning, but his dusky features were bland. He leaned against the back bar, arms folded across his aproned chest.

  “You the owner?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Johnny Hart’s the name.”

  “I’m Sharon McCone, and this is Hank Zahn. Have you been in this location a long time?”

  “Ten years this coming October.”

  “Get mostly local customers?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Tell me something: that block of empty Victorians on the hill above Steiner Street, are they being restored?”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Who owns the big house on the corner? The one with the tower.”

  “Same people as own all the others. Wintringham and Associates, they’re called.”

  “What do they do, buy up old wrecks and restore them?”

  “Yeah. They’ll spiff them up and make a killing selling them to middle-class whites.” He grinned mockingly.

  “How is it they managed to get hold of an entire block?”

  “Wintringham – David, his first name is – inherited it. His father was an architect who made a pile building houses after the Second World War. Stucco houses out in the Avenues. Modern, for then. But he always lived right here, in that big one on the corner, and he kept buying up and down the street. When he died, the son got it all.”

  “Was the big house what you’d call the family mansion?”

  “Guess so. Why else would he have stayed? He could have lived anyplace.”

  I sipped my drink. “Can they get much for the houses, even fixed up, in this neighborhood?”

  “Sure can. You should see what’s buying in here: fairies like Wintringham, young families, rich white lawyers.” Hart’s voice dripped scorn.

  Beside me, Hank stiffened.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Johnny Hart demanded.

  “He’s a white lawyer, but not rich.”

  “Too bad for him. Hey, man, it’s nothing personal. That’s just what’s moving in. I don’t care who buys those places, as long as my business picks up.”

  “But some people care,” I said.

  “Sure, folks that’ve been here all their lives, living cheap in rundown buildings. The places sell, they’re kicked out, can’t find anything they can afford. All of a sudden they’re on the outs in the neighborhood where they came up. You can see how they feel.” He smiled wickedly, leaning across the bar and showing yellowed teeth. “Or maybe you can’t. Maybe, to you, they’re just niggers.”

  I blinked. After a pause, Hank cleared his throat.

  Johnny Hart laughed. “Hey, don’t look that way! It’s just a word; can’t hurt no one. And you,” he added to me, “ought to know that. From that thick black hair and those high cheekbones, I’d say you got a touch of Indian blood.”

  “Shoshone,” I said.

  “And it’s probably caused you some grief in your time. So don’t go getting that uptight liberal look. That’s for him to do.” He pointed to Hank, who gulped his drink and began to cough.

  I was starting to like our host. “Somehow, I’ve never felt much like an Indian,” I said. “I’m only an eighth, and no one else in my family resembles one in the slightest.”

  “What’s the other seven-eighths?”

  “Scotch-Irish.”

  “Huh. So what brings you to these parts tonight?”

  Before I could answer, the door opened and a young black man in a leather coat and cowboy hat came in. “Hey, Johnny,” he said.

  “How’s it going, Ray?”

  The young man glanced suspiciously at Hank and me. “Some to-do around the corner. Dude got himself killed in one of these empty houses.”

  Hart’s eyes flicked to me and then back to the newcomer. “Anybody we know?”

  “Nah, just some white dude who paints houses for Wintringham.”

  “Which house was he in?”

  “Big one with the tower, on the corner.”

  “You don’t say.” Hart turned to me, his face stony. “Seems like you’ve been playing a little game, lady,” he said softly.

  “I…”

  “What’s it to you, who owns those places? And why all the questions?” He leaned across the bar, eyes narrowed.

  I bit my lip and shifted uncomfortably on the barstool.

  “Well?” Hart prompted.

  Just then the door opened again, and Greg strode in. “There you are,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  I jumped to my feet and grabbed my bag. Johnny Hart glared menacingly. I looked away from him.

  To Hank, Greg said, “By the way, Hank, since you were the victim’s attorney, could you...?”

  Hank held up a hand. “I’m way ahead of you.”

  3.

  “You certainly killed two birds with one stone,” I said to Greg as we entered the Homicide squad room.

  He turned innocent blue eyes to me. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You got rid of an unpleasant task and you got rid of my attorney.”

  “You don’t need an attorney if you have nothing to hide.”

  “Yeah.” I assumed a tough-guy voice. “That’s what they all say right before they throw you in the slammer.”

  He opened the door to his cubicle and glared down at me as I ducked under his outstretched arm. “What is it with you private detectives? You all sound like you’ve read too many paperback detective novels.”

  “Well, of course.”

  With an interested glance, Greg waved me toward a chair. “Really? You read stuff like that?”

  “When I was at Berkeley, I worked nights as a security guard to make my tuition. When you sit hour after hour ??, watching over an empty building that no one in his right mind would want to break into, you’ll read anything.”

  He shook his head in disbelief and punched the intercom to summon a steno, then leaned back in his chair, hands clasped at the nape of his neck. His gave was steady and neutral. I returned it.

  “You do turn up in the right places at t
he right times,” Greg finally said.

  “Or the wrong places, depending on how you look at it.”

  He nodded. “We still on for dinner tomorrow?”

  “If I’m not in jail.”

  “You won’t be. You’re too smart not to cooperate.” Abruptly he swiveled to look out the window, which faced a blank wall. I wondered what he saw there, or what he avoided seeing over here.

  In my short acquaintance with Greg Marcus, I gradually had been forced to abandon my initial stereotype of him as the hard-bitten homicide cop. True, he had a toughness that expressed itself in disciplined movements and deliberate speech. But he was also a gentle man, who loved art and classical music and puttering in his Twin Peaks garden. He had a capacity for fury that matched my own, but he was saved from it by a heightened sense of the absurd. I had begun to like the lieutenant, like him a lot. And not the least of my liking stemmed from the fact that, at forty-one, he had a lean body, a smile that crinkled the lines around his eyes, and thick blond hair I had had occasion to run my hands through.

  But he still managed to piss me off on the average of once a week.

  The steno entered, and Greg swiveled around, lit a cigarette, and began a formal interview that covered roughly the same ground as we had at the crime scene. “Now,” he finally said, “we’ll go into the background. You say you’d previously done some investigation for the deceased.”

  “Yes. It would have been…” I paused. “A year ago last July.”

  “Describe it, please.”

  “As I mentioned before,” I began, “Jake was a color consultant. But before that, he was an ordinary house-painter. He contracted out to big developments, like the tracts that were built in the Avenues in the fifties and in Daly City in the sixties.” I stopped. Was it possible Jake had worked for David Wintringham’s father? Did that, in some dim way, explain why he had met his death in the Wintringham’s old house?

  Greg’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.” Greg had accused me before of relying too much on coincidence – or “woman’s intuition” as he tauntingly called it. “I’m having difficulty remembering dates,” I hedged. “Have you heard of something called the Colorist Movement?”

  “No.”

  “It started in the sixties, slowly at first, then picked up speed in the days of the so-called flower children. Essentially, what happened was that people started sprucing up Victorians that had been neglected. Only they didn’t paint them in neutrals, or even in one color. There’s a place on Steiner Street, not far from the crime scene, that pretty well explains what the movement is about. They call it the ‘psychedelic house,’ and, believe me, it is. They painted on as many colors as they could, using tiny artists’ brushes and – ”

  “I know the one you mean, but what’s that got to do with Kaufmann’s murder? Most of the Victorians that have been rehabilitated have multicolored paint jobs.”

  “Yes, but they didn’t back then. And neighbors were outraged by the explosions of color. They associated it with hippies, drugs. Finally, the new style gained acceptance, but only over strong opposition.”

  “And Jake Kaufmann?” Greg insisted.

  “He was one of the first to experiment with color, on his own house, and then on others. His method was to consult with the owners and draw up a detailed scheme for each individual house. Soon his services were in such demand that he had a two-year waiting list.”

  “And now where do you fit in?”

  I knew Greg was irritated with my rambling account, so I tried to pare it down. “There’s this woman, Eleanor van Dyne. She’s one of those matron-crusader types, heads an organization called Salvation Incorporated. It’s dedicated to preserving historical buildings.”

  “Like the Foundation for San Francisco’s Architectural Heritage?”

  “Yes, and the Preservation Group, and the Victorian Alliance.”

  “Jesus, and the Committee to Save the Fake Rocks. Can you believe that one?” Greg was referring to a cliff on the Great Highway that was constructed entirely of wire and stucco. San Franciscans would try to save anything.

  “Go on,” Greg said, glancing at the steno and appearing embarrassed at his unprofessional digression. It would not do for my statement to sound like a casual conversation.

  “This van Dyne person is very traditional. She believes buildings should be restored to their exact original state. And bright color was something the Victorians didn’t go in for; most of their houses were pretty dour. Needless to say, Eleanor van Dyne took off after Jake. When he painted a house on her street in Pacific Heights three shades of purple with pink and gold trim, she filed suit against him for creating an eyesore.”

  “I guess! And you gathered evidence for his defense?”

  “Yes. I interviewed the neighbors about how they felt, talked to the owners of the house, researched the Colorist Movement.”

  “What was the outcome?”

  “Van Dyne dropped the suit. She really didn’t have much of a case but, more than that, I think she was influenced by her personal feelings for Jake. In spite of their differing philosophies, she was fond of him. She considered him a real craftsman who had gone astray, and she hoped she could bring him around to her way of thinking.”

  “Did she?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Did you have any further contact with the deceased between the time the suit was dropped and when he called you today?”

  I hesitated. “We dated a few times, close to a year ago.”

  “Oh?” There was an interested note in his voice.

  Inwardly I smiled. “Yes. It was no great romance. He got married soon after that.”

  “I see.” Greg nodded, his face a blank. “And this phone call – he didn’t identify who he was meeting?”

  “No.” There was something, but…. Tired, I pressed my fingertips to my temples.

  Greg was silent for a moment, then dismissed the steno. He sat slumped in his chair, regarding me thoughtfully. “I want to ask one more question, strictly between you and me.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you holding anything back?”

  I widened my eyes. “Why would I?”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “I’ve given you as complete a statement as I can at this time.”

  He continued to stare at me. “A simple yes or no never suffices for you, does it?”

  “Guess not.”

  Abruptly he stood. “Okay, that’s it. I’ll have one of my men drive you back to your car.”

  I got up and started for the door.

  “Oh, papoose,” he added, using his private nickname for me, which I loathed.

  “Yes, sir?” I replied acidly.

  “Don’t forget about dinner tomorrow.”

  4.

  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.”