MARCIA
MULLER
EDWIN OF THE IRON SHOES
THE FIRST SHARON MCCONE MYSTERY
To Fred Gilson and my family
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and no reference to any living person is intended.
First AUDIOGO EBOOK EDITION, April 2012
ISBN 978-1-60998-655-1
Copyright © 1977 by Marcia Muller. All Rights reserved.
Cover illustration by Casenbina
Cover design by Violet Kirk
Digital Editions (epub and mobi formats) produced by Booknook.biz
More of Marcia Muller’s SHARON MCCONE series are available as ebooks and audiobooks from AudioGO!
1 Edwin of the Iron Shoes
2 Ask the Cards a Question
3 The Cheshire Cat’s Eye
4 Games to Keep the Dark Away
5 Leave a Message for Willie
6 There’s Nothing to Be Afraid Of
7 Eye of the Storm
8 There’s Something in a Sunday
9 The Shape of Dread
10 Trophies and Dead Things
11 Where Echoes Live
12 Pennies on a Dead Woman’s Eyes
Plus two short story collections: McCone and Friends, and The McCone Files.
EDWIN OF THE IRON SHOES
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
1
I stood next to the car, waiting for the number ninety-three trolley to pass, its antennae zinging along the overhead cable. The lighted windows of the trolley were empty except for the driver and a lone passenger. It was two thirty in the morning.
When the street was clear, I crossed to where the flashing lights of the cop cars and the ambulance were reflected against the black, wet pavement. The situation must be pretty bad, all right.
I’d been jerked from my sleep about forty-five minutes earlier by the insistent ring of the telephone and my employer’s voice saying, “Sharon, get yourself up and meet me over at Salem Street, Joan Albritton’s shop.”
Hank Zahn, senior associate at All Souls Cooperative, the San Francisco legal services plan, knew better than to call his staff investigator in the middle of the night without a good reason. I pulled myself up on one elbow and said, “Don’t tell me someone’s set another fire over there?”
“Worse. A lot worse. This time it’s murder.”
“Give me half an hour to get there.” In the middle of saying it, I realized he’d hung up without telling me who had been killed.
Now, as I pushed my way through the crowd of onlookers, I spotted Hank in the doorway of Joan Albritton’s antique shop, talking with a big blond-haired man in a tan trench coat. Hank was almost as tall as the other man, but next to him he looked gawky, as if his long limbs were fastened together at the joints with paper clips. As usual, he had come out in the rain without a coat, and his corduroy jacket was dark with water stains. The dampness had made his light-brown hair curl even more tightly than normal.
When I approached, Hank held out an arm and drew me under the protection of the doorway. “This is Ms. McCone, Sharon McCone, my staff investigator,” he said to the big man. To me he added, “Lieutenant Gregory Marcus, Homicide.”
Marcus’s eyes flickered sharply over me from under bushy eyebrows several shades darker than his hair. “You’re the young woman who’s been investigating the arsons and vandalisms down here?” He made a gesture that took in the whole block.
I said I was.
Marcus hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching, and I braced myself for one of the variants of the usual remark, along the lines of “what’s-a-nice-girl-like-you-doing-mixed-up-with-an-ugly-business-like-this?”
But the lieutenant spared me that. Instead, his mouth turned down and he said, “We’ll want a statement from you, but tomorrow’ll be time enough. There’s nothing we can do now but let the lab boys finish and get the body out of here.”
He turned away abruptly and motioned to a uniformed officer.
I clutched Hank’s arm with cold fingers. “Who, Hank? You didn’t tell me who.”
“Joan Albritton.”
I could feel Hank’s expression of dismay mirrored on my own face. Joan Albritton, his client, was an energetic, cheerful little antique dealer who, at fifty-seven, had more vitality than most people half her age. Was? Had been.
“Oh, my God,” I said softly. “Who did it?”
“They don’t know. There aren’t any leads. They think she was stabbed with one of her own knives, from a case of valuable pieces next to the cash register.”
I began to shudder and barely managed to control it. When I could talk, I asked, “How’d you find out so fast?”
“Charlie Cornish called me.” Charlie was the owner of Junk Emporium, across the street. “We might as well go over to his place. He’s got some coffee on, and there’s nothing we can do here.”
I released his arm. “No, you go ahead. I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
They were bringing the body out now, and in our retreat from the doorway to the sidewalk, I lost Hank in the crowd. The rain had turned into a fine mist—typical San Francisco weather for February. I looked once at the covered form strapped to the stretcher, then looked away and as I did, I spotted Lt. Marcus.
I pushed through the bystanders toward him and caught his attention.
“Lieutenant Marcus, do you think I could take a look around the shop?”
He hesitated, regarding me. “Zahn’s investigator, huh?” Then he shrugged and ushered me through the doorway.
Three concrete steps led down into the shop, which was set a few feet below street level. I stumbled going down and felt Marcus’s hand at my elbow, steadying me. The front room, usually dim and cavernous, was illuminated by floodlights.
My attention went immediately to the chalk outline on the floor near the ancient cash register. It was not a very big outline: Joan Albritton had been a tiny woman. She had fallen on her side, one arm askew. I tried to ignore the dark stains on the faded Oriental carpet.
Automatically I glanced at the little barred windows, which in daytime admitted feeble rays of light to the shop.
“No, it wasn’t a break-in,” Marcus said impatiently. “There’s no sign of forced entry, either here or in the workroom behind. Whoever it was, she let him in.”
His hand still rested on my elbow. I moved away from him.
“The knife was from this case?” I indicated a small glass cabinet where Joan Albritton had kept her most valuable small items: jewelry, silverware, old coins.
He nodded. “Presumably. You’ll notice a set of bone-handled knives—they’re more like daggers, actually. One is missing. The medical examiner says Albritton’s wounds could have been caused by it.”
I examined the case, not touching it even though the powder dustings told me the fingerprint man had finished. Four double-edged knives with roughly cut bone handles nestled in a velvet-lined case. A space for a fifth knife was empty. The blades were long and wicked-looking. I swallowed hard.
I said, “She always kept this locked, with the key on a little chain around her neck.”
“Not tonight. The key’s in the lock.” Marcus pointed at the slender gold chain hanging from it. The chain w
as intact.
“Then she must have opened it herself. Who found her?”
“Fellow across the street. A man named Cornish. He says he knew she was here late taking inventory—end of February, you know—and thought she might need a cup of coffee. The door was open, and he found her.” Marcus gestured at the chalk marks.
I sighed and turned around, taking in the rest of the shop, unfamiliar in the glare of light. The big room was packed wall to wall with furniture: sofas, tables, bureaus, chairs. Little aisles large enough for only one person meandered haphazardly throughout. On tabletops and chair seats stood the smaller wares: vases, pictures, lamps, old books.
I moved down the aisles, feeling Marcus’s eyes on me as I mechanically touched some of Joan’s beloved objects: Clothilde, a French dressmaker’s dummy; Bruno, the stuffed German shepherd; Edwin of the Iron Shoes. These were special, not for sale, inanimate friends to whom Joan Albritton had talked as she went about her busy days at the shop.
I stopped in front of Edwin, the little boy mannequin whose feet had been fitted with an ornate pair of iron shoes. Edwin, Joan had told me, was an art lover. He stood, staring at an oil painting of a Madonna and child on the wall beside him.
I turned and saw Marcus. He was looking at me with a frown. In my business, I often annoyed people, but I couldn’t think of anything I’d done that might have provoked the lieutenant.
I ignored his look and said, “Thanks for letting me see the shop.”
He nodded. “I want you to come down first thing tomorrow morning and give us the background on this street. Arson cases, weren’t they?”
“Arson, and other types of vandalism: brick throwing, littering, smoke bombs. There were several bad fires, which is why the two buildings on either side of this are empty. I was asked to come in because the merchants thought someone wanted to buy the land as a parcel and was trying to force them out. And that is precisely what happened: the city condemned all the buildings in this and the next block less than two weeks after I came on the case.”
“Why you?”
“Why was I the one to investigate? Hank Zahn is—was—Joan Albritton’s attorney. When the merchants didn’t get much help from the police, she called Hank for advice, and he sent me out to talk to her. I often do jobs like that for All Souls’ clients.”
When I’d said that about help from the police, Marcus’s lips had tightened, but he only said, “Interesting. Don’t forget about that statement, will you?”
I said I wouldn’t and preceded him out of the shop. The ambulance had pulled away and the crowd was dispersing. Across the street, a light burned in the front windows of Junk Emporium. Hank was probably waiting for me, drinking coffee with Charlie Cornish, so I started over. I wanted to talk to Charlie, hoping that despite his grief, he might remember something useful to add to my statement for the police.
2
I tapped on the door of Junk Emporium. A moment later a tall, gray-haired man of about fifty-five, clad in old army fatigues, opened it. Charlie Cornish’s tiny eyes were rimmed with red, and his long mane was tangled, as if he’d been clawing at it with his fingers.
“I’m sorry, Charlie. She meant a lot to you.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Come on in. There’s coffee on the hot plate. I was going to ask Joanie if she wanted to come over for some when …” His voice grated harshly and broke.
I stepped into the shop. A dim bulb in a green glass shade lit the corner Charlie used as an office. A two-burner hot plate stood on the scarred oak desk, and Hank sat on a straight chair beside it. When he saw me, he got up and filled a cracked china cup with coffee. He handed it to me, then glanced anxiously at Charlie, who had slumped down into his old swivel chair.
The thing I liked most about Hank, a good friend as well as employer, was his concern for other people. One of its offshoots was All Souls, a cooperative he and three other attorneys had founded to provide quality legal service at reasonable prices to its member clients. Hank was thirty-five and had practiced family law for nine years, but he’d never gotten cynical nor lost his empathy for his fellow humans. Now he shifted his troubled eyes from Charlie to me and back again.
I sat down beside him on another straight chair and shivered. Around us the junk—old stoves, mattresses, crude wooden furniture—hulked in the darkness.
I asked Charlie as gently as I could, “What time did you find her?”
“About one thirty.” Charlie rubbed his red eyes. “I was worried about her, working so late all alone over there. I knew she hadn’t had supper, and I thought a break would do her good. The door was open when I got there, and Joanie …” His voice trailed off, and he rested his head in his hands.
I looked at Hank, then took a big sip of coffee.
“You’re going to find out who did it.” Charlie’s words were a flat statement.
“I think that’s a job for the police,” I said. “They’re certainly more capable than I am.”
“The police!” Charlie spat it out. “What did they do for us last fall, when we were getting our windows smashed and our buildings torched off? Bunch of crummy buildings, small-time shopkeepers: the cops couldn’t be bothered. The hell with the police!”
“But, Charlie, a murder …” I’d been involved in murder investigations before, but generally my work was more routine. All Souls’ clients were a nonviolent bunch: solid citizens, often minority group members, with lower to middle incomes. A typical client entertained liberal sentiments, toyed with the idea for an “alternative” lifestyle, and would never get busted for anything more serious than growing marijuana plants on the fire escape.
“Look, Sharon,” Charlie insisted, “the merchants here need somebody who’s going to think of their interests, Joanie’s interests. The cops don’t give a damn about us!”
I looked at Hank again. “It depends on what Hank says, Charlie. I’m the only investigator at All Souls. The other attorneys there need me to collect evidence for suits, interview witnesses …. I can’t drop everything.”
Charlie turned to Hank. “Well, are you going to let her work on Joanie’s murder or aren’t you?”
Hank shrugged and scratched at his curly head, his typical gesture of agitation. “Joan Albritton was a client, same as any other member of the cooperative. I guess you could say our obligation extends beyond her death.” He hesitated a moment, and then a mischievous gleam came into his eyes. “Why not? Go ahead and investigate. Before you joined our staff, we were used to doing our own research. This may be just what my lazy colleagues need to get them in shape again.”
I felt a stirring of excitement. Murder cases didn’t come along every day, and I did feel a personal commitment to this one. Even though I hadn’t known Joan Albritton very long, she was the sort of person who quickly made her way into your affections and brightened your world with her mere presence. Her death hurt me, much more than I was willing to show in front of Charlie. His own grief was burden enough without me adding mine to it.
“Okay,” I said, “if you want me to, I’ll see what I can find out.”
“You didn’t find out who was doing all that before.”
The suddenness of Charlie’s change of attitude surprised me, but his accusation didn’t sting. It was a fact. I hadn’t found out anything of value. “That’s right. But the disturbances stopped, didn’t they?”
“Until this.”
I nodded. That, too, I could not deny.
Hank cleared his throat. “You have to be fair, Charlie. Sharon had it narrowed down, but she couldn’t get the proof. Without proof …”
“The hell with your proof! What good is your proof doing Joanie tonight?” Charlie ran his fingers through his tangled gray hair. “I go over there, the door’s partway open, and she’s lying there, so still. I call her, feel for her pulse. Nothing. Blood on the carpet. On Joanie’s Oriental carpet! And you talk about proof!”
I asked, “The glass case was open?”
“Yes. It had been open since … since
she started taking the inventory, I guess. She would have to inventory each piece of jewelry and the other little stuff, wouldn’t she?”
“I guess so. Did you notice one of the knives was missing then?”
“That’s right. They’re awful knives, so sharp….” His voice faltered and stopped.
“Did you see anything else unusual? Anything else that was out of place or missing?”
“Unusual?” His grief exploded in my face. “With Joanie lying there dead? Wasn’t that unusual enough? If you’d stopped the vandals when things first started getting out of hand, she’d be alive right now!”
I realized how stupid my question must have sounded to him and immediately wished I’d been more tactful.
“Charlie,” Hank said gently, “you know it isn’t Sharon’s fault.”
“No, Hank, no. He’s probably right.” I steered the conversation back onto the track. “But we can waste all the time we want in recriminations, and it won’t get us any closer to the killer. Do you want me to find him or don’t you, Charlie?”
The hard words calmed him. “I guess, as president of the Merchants’ Association, I’m empowered to hire you. We’ll have to have a formal vote on it, of course, but the others’ll go along with whatever I say.” With a wry grin he added, “It’s a tradition of the Association to go along with the president. Otherwise, the members might have to do some work.”
It struck me then, as it always did when I spent time with Charlie, that he didn’t talk like a junk dealer. I wondered about him: his background, his education, where he’d come from. But I wasn’t going to get any answers, not from Charlie Cornish; he liked to perpetuate the myth that he had sprung full-blown from the pavement of Salem Street twenty years before. Maybe Joan Albritton, his closest friend and sometime lover, had known, but his secret was now lost with her.
To Hank I said, “What about this Lieutenant … Marcus, is it?”
“What about him?”
“If he’s in charge of the case, how’s he going to feel about a private operator snooping around his territory?”
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