The Cheshire Cat's Eye

by Marcia Muller

  Van Dyne’s voice had become shrill. To calm her, I said, “I agree with you about the color.”

  “So you mentioned.” She modulated her tone. “Gray was the preferred exterior color in San Francisco’s Victorian era, and the restorations should reflect that. Sometimes white was used. The trim was glossy black. Vestibules were painted to simulate mahogany.”

  “A lot of things in the Victorian homes seem to have been imitations,” I commented, recalling fake balconies, simulated leather wallpapers, and painted-on wood grain from the tour.

  “Yes, the Victorians prized the art of imitation, in spite of the real materials being available, often at far less cost. Victorians loved nothing more than for things to seem exactly the opposite of what they were.”

  “It sounds hypocritical.”

  “Admittedly it was a hypocritical age. But that was the way it was, and the restorations should adhere to the tradition. These multicolored abominations only came into vogue in the nineteen sixties.”

  “By abominations, you include what Jake Kaufmann created?”

  “Please do not dignify his work with the word ‘created’!” Van Dyne spoke through her teeth.

  “You disliked Jake?”

  “Personally, no. In fact, I rather liked him.”

  “Is that why you dropped your suit?”

  She patted her gray-blond coif, eyes evasive. “That, and other factors.”

  “Such as?”

  She glanced around as if she were afraid someone might overhear us. “Expense, of course. It would, of course, have gone to the state supreme court. They all do. Merely to have the briefs printed costs a small fortune. And, of course, I liked Jake enough not to want to ruin him financially…” She stopped, a clock that had run down.

  Of course. I looked sharply at van Dyne, and she turned to the sideboard for another glass of wine, even though the one she held was half full. There had to be some other reason for dropping the suit, one she didn’t want to talk about. Expense, to van Dyne and her financier husband, would have meant very little once her fury was aroused, and I sensed her capacity for fury was extensive. What, I wondered, could this fashionable crusader have to hide?

  She turned back to me, her confusion banished.

  I asked, “Who do you think killed Jake?”

  The question didn’t startle her. Probably there had been plenty of speculation in preservationist circles. “I don’t know. Certainly none of us would kill a person for using the wrong combination of paints.”

  I hadn’t implied it was one of them, but that must have been on all their minds. “Most likely it wasn’t anyone who was intimate with the process of restoration,” I said.

  “Oh? Why?”

  I described the conditions in which I had found the body. “Whoever tried to fake that accident did a poor job,” I concluded. “A person who knew about painting and plastering would not have made those mistakes.”

  Van Dyne nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I see. That lets out quite a few people.”

  “It certainly lets out David Wintringham. And Charmaine.”

  “It lets out anyone who had been around those houses enough to pay attention to how the work is done. The Italianate where David and his friend live was fully restored over two years ago. Any of them would have had ample opportunity to observe.”

  She was right; it eliminated French and Paul Collins, too. Prince Albert? How much would a fixture manufacturer know about painting? Dettman or Hart or angry blacks from the ghetto streets? Their ignorance was even more likely.

  Van Dyne looked toward the dining room door. I followed her gaze. There, by the red-marble fireplace in the second parlor, stood Prince Albert. He was beckoning to van Dyne, but when he saw me he whirled toward the hall.

  “Excuse me,” van Dyne said, “someone I must speak with.” She hurried through the crowd after him.

  Thoughtfully, I sipped my wine. What was Prince Albert doing here? Why wasn’t he at the home show? And what was his connection with van Dyne? Naturally all of the preservationists would know one another, but those two seemed a strange pair. I threaded my way through the second parlor and looked into the hall. Van Dyne and Prince Albert were nowhere in sight. Probably she’d taken him into some area of the house off limits to outsiders.

  Well, I couldn’t follow them there, but I could locate Prince Albert’s panel truck and see where he would go next. I set my wineglass on a passing tray and left.

  The truck was parked only two blocks away. If I hurried, I could fetch my car and idle up the street until my quarry returned. But then again… I slipped behind the truck and tested the rear doors.

  Yes, Prince Albert hadn’t locked them. In fact, the lock was broken. I glanced over my shoulder. Although dusk had fallen, this was a well-traveled street and buildings on it had many windows. Suppose someone had seen Prince Albert park the truck and now saw a strange woman climb in? Would he call the police or simply mind his own business, as so many did in this age of noninvolvement? I’d have to take the chance.

  I climbed into the back of the truck, conscious of headlights from passing cars. Three cardboard cartons rested there, including the one I thought I’d seen Prince Albert load earlier. Had he really gone to the trade show to replace his broken fixtures? Or had he merely made up that story to avoid talking to me?

  I crawled forward, wishing it were not necessary to keep my back to the doors. As I reached for the first box, my ears strained for an approaching footfall. I grasped the lid and lifted it. Stared down inside. My lips parted at what I saw.

  A shade. Tiffany, it must be. Leaves, tiny pieces of glass in red, gold and brown. A broad grin of teeth. And the eye, greenish yellow. The Cheshire Cat’s Eye.

  Voices sounded on the sidewalk, and I began to tremble, all senses alert for danger. The voices passed. Controlling myself, I crept forward and opened the other two boxes. More leaves. Two more grins. Two more eyes.

  Replicas, naturally. Prince Albert must have cast these off the original. Gingerly, I lifted the lamp. Yes, the tubular piece of metal I had found at the murder scene was a delicate bronze tree limb that held a bulb. But where had the broken lamp gone? It wasn’t the original; it was electric. So was this one. Was the original in one of the other boxes?

  Footsteps on the sidewalk made me almost drop the lamp. I replaced it in the carton and flattened against the wall of the truck. I held my breath, torn between hiding and taking flight.

  The footsteps, like the voices before, passed. I scrambled toward the rear doors, slamming them shut behind me as I jumped from the truck.

  14.

  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 windows, 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 façade 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 is 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 the 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 buy 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?

  15.

  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 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?