The Cheshire Cat's Eye

by Marcia Muller

  “It’s really very simple: I wasn’t on the case last night. I couldn’t represent myself as investigating, it was without a client.”

  “So instead of this investigating, you snooped.”

  “I’m nosy, I guess.”

  He set the food in front of me. Ravenous, I dug in.

  “So what do you want today?” Hart demanded. “You didn’t come here to apologize for jiving me.”

  “Well, in a way,” I said around a mouthful of fries. “I’m on the case now, and I need an ally in the community.”

  “On the case, huh? Who hired you?”

  “David Wintringham.”

  “That fairy!”

  “He’s not so bad.”

  Sullenly, Hart shrugged.

  “Well, he’s not. Did you know his father?”

  “There you go, pumping me again.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “And you think I should help you with that job.”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  I sipped my Coke. “A good feeling deep down in your soul.”

  This time Hart grinned broadly. “You are the damndest. What do you want to know?”

  “Richard Wintringham – what was he like?”

  “Crazy old man.” He stirred the big pot of barbecue sauce. “Living up there in that big house all by himself. Strange man, but folks around here respected him. He gave the kids odd jobs, paid them good. Always sent a big load of food to the community center at Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was his neighborhood, and maybe he got off on being Massa on the hill.”

  “What about David Wintringham?”

  “Checking up on your boss, huh?”

  “You bet.”

  Hart considered. “Now that’s another kettle of fish entirely. Like I said, he’s a fairy, and the old man didn’t like that none.”

  “Did he try to do anything about it?”

  “Can’t change a tiger’s stripes. Oh, they fought some, I guess, but then the old man got killed, and David got it all. Right after, he moved to the house at the end of the block with his so-called friend, poor pudgy Paul.” Hart smiled at his own alliteration.

  “The police thought Richard Wintringham was killed by a burglar.”

  Hart’s eyes became veiled. “So I heard.”

  I finished my ribs and scrubbed at my hands with a paper napkin. “But you didn’t believe it. And you don’t now.”

  “What, you think you’re a mind reader or something?”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  He sighed. “Maybe, maybe not. Folks around here knew Wintringham had a lot of valuable stuff in that house. But like I said, they respected him in a funny way. I think if it was a burglar that killed him, it wasn’t anybody from the neighborhood. I would guess it was somebody from the outside.”

  I couldn’t quite credit that; junkies and rip-off artists had few loyalties. “Okay, Mr. Hart,” I said, standing, “that’s about all I need to know today. I take it I can come back if I have more questions?”

  He shrugged.

  “What do I owe you for lunch?”

  “Forget it. It’s on the house.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. I kind of like talking to you; keeps me on my toes. Only one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Next time you come, would you mind using the back door? Don’t want to upset my clientele any more than I already have.”

  “I get it,” I said and obliged by leaving that way. From the alley behind the building, I made a beeline for the phone booth that I’d called Greg and Hank from the night before. This time the lieutenant was in his office. He answered, sounding rushed.

  “I wondered if you had the results of the postmortem on Jake Kauffman,” I said.

  “Not yet, but we should by late afternoon. There’ve been two other murders, and we’ve got bodies stacked up in there like firewood, so they’ll get it out fast.”

  No wonder he sounded harried. I chanced another request. “Greg, three years ago next month, another man was murdered in that house.”

  “Richard Wintringham. Right.”

  “Have you reviewed the file yet?”

  There was a pause. “Who are you working for?”

  “David Wintringham, the son.”

  “Jesus Christ, you can’t keep out of it, can you?”

  “No.”

  Another pause. I could picture him, drumming his fingers on the desk. “So now you want me to review the file on the Wintringham killing and pass along the details to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Christ, papoose…All right. I have to look it over anyway. Only let me tell you this: You and I are going to have a long, serious talk over dinner tonight.”

  “Greg, I may be sort of late for dinner.” I had a few things I wanted to do first.

  “How late?”

  “Well…”

  “Never mind. Why don’t you meet me at my place whenever you can? That will give me the opportunity to entice you into my bed.”

  “All right.”

  “I don’t believe it. You agreed.”

  “To the first, not the second.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Maybe we would. It was a tempting prospect that had dangled between us for weeks. I said I’d see him later and hung up.

  Outside the phone booth, I was startled by the specter of Johnny Hart, still in his stained chef’s apron. He was out of breath.

  “Got a message,” he announced. “Nick Dettman wants to see you.”

  “Who’s Nick Dettman?”

  Hart looked outraged. “Who’s Nick Dettman! Former city supervisor, big deal in this district and you…”

  “Now I remember him.”

  “Well, he wants to talk.”

  “When and where?”

  “Tonight. He’ll meet you at his law office on Haight Street at seven.” He gave me the address. “You know where that is? Storefront with an orange door?”

  I copied it down. “I’ll find it.”

  “Good. I’ll tell him you’ll be there.” Hart turned and loped off.

  I watched him. Although I liked Johnny Hart, there was still – and probably always would be – a wary racial tension between us. Could I trust him? I didn’t know.

  Well, it looked like it would be an interesting evening on all fronts.

  7.

  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-forg
otten 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 façade 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 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 a 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 the Salvation Incorporated and Architectural 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 supposed 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 gloves, other 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 stoo
l, 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.