The Cheshire Cat's Eye

by Marcia Muller

  I went to the phone and dialed Wintringham’s residence. Paul Collins answered. David was on the job site. Could he help me instead?

  “Yes. Do you have Charmaine’s number?”

  There was a pause. “Are you making any headway with the murder investigation?”

  “Some.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Now, about Charmaine.”

  “She’s got a house on Buena Vista Heights. The number’s in the book, under ‘C.’. She’s listed like she lives – single-namedly.” Collins wished me luck and hung up.

  I drained my coffee cup and headed for the shower.

  Charmaine lived in a brown-shingled bungalow on the east side of Buena Vista Park, high above the Haight-Ashbury. I followed a brick path alongside the house, as the decorator had instructed me over the phone. Tall, spike-leaved palms dripped water as I made my way down the slippery slope toward the basement door.

  Today Charmaine was not her usual fashionable self. She wore faded jeans and a baggy sweater with a rip in one elbow, and the polish on her red talons was chipped. Even in her dishabille, however, she wore fresh makeup and a chic turban over her hair. She admitted me cheerfully and led the way past washtubs and storage bins to what she called her workroom. It contained two large tables made of sawhorses and plywood, and its walls were honeycombed with racks that held pieces of colored glass.

  “Have a seat.” She waved her hand at a stool next to one of the tables. “You caught me at a good time. This is real shit work, and I need company.” She picked up a stiff-bristled brush and began rubbing at the table. It was covered with what looked like dirty snow, beneath which I could make out a pattern of glass and metal.

  “What are you working on?”

  “A window.” She brushed some of the powder aside. “It’s for a lawyer’s office.”

  The window depicted the scales of justice in blues and golds and reds.

  “Nice,” I said. “My boss would go crazy over that.”

  “Send him around. This is almost done, and I could use another commission. But don’t tell him I can produce one fast; this took four years, working in my spare time.”

  “Four years!”

  “I make my living from decorating. It leaves very little time for hobbies. And I have other stained-glass projects, too.”

  I watched her hands as she brushed the powder. “What does that do?”

  “I just puttied around the lead strips. This stuff is called whiting; it picks up the oil in the putty and tones down the lead, making it look older.”

  “Is it hard work?”

  “Boring. And messy. If you weren’t here to talk to, I’d wear my surgical mask to keep from breathing the powder into my lungs.”

  “Listen, if it’s dangerous, go ahead.”

  “No, it’s not that bad. And I really don’t like to wear the mask.” She paused, looking at me. “On the phone you said you need information.”

  “Yes, about glass.”

  “You’ve come to the right place.”

  “Do you know anything about Tiffany lamps?”

  Charmaine’s brush slowed, then picked up its vigorous temp. “A fair amount. I’ve read a few books on the subject.”

  “As a layman, how would you go about telling a real Tiffany from a fake?”

  “Easy. I’d look for the signature at the base. Tiffany Studios always signed them.”

  Unfortunately I hadn’t seen any of the bases of Prince Albert’s lamps.

  “What about the glass? Could you tell from that?”

  “The quality of the glass would at least place it in time.”

  “How so?”

  She set down the brush and went to one of the wall racks. Pulling out a piece of red glass, she held it up to the light. “Look at this.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  She set it on the rack and reached into a higher one. “But now, look at this.”

  Again, it was red glass, but it shone as if with an inner light. I sucked in my breath. “Lovely.”

  Charmaine nodded. “The second is old – I got it from one of the houses David remodeled. The first is a contemporary American product. Glass is getting worse, more like plastic all the time.”

  “It must be, if even I can tell.” And indeed I could. The second sample seemed more like what I had seen last night in the beam of my pencil flash. Or was that merely wishful thinking?

  Charmaine replaced the glass and took up her brush again. “So why do you need to know about Tiffany? Is it part of the work you’re doing for David? What kind of work is it, by the way?”

  I was surprised he hadn’t told her. “I’m investigating Jake Kaufmann’s murder – and, as a result of that, David’s Father’s.”

  This time the brush stopped. “Why?”

  “They seem to be related. Listen, can I describe a lamp shade for you? Maybe you can tell me something about it.” A growing suspicion forced me on.

  Charmaine nodded, her eyes on the dirty snow.

  I told her about the Cheshire Cat’s Eye: the leaves, the teeth, the gleaming yellow-green stone.

  “Where did you see that?” she demanded.

  “I can’t say right now. Could it be a Tiffany?”

  She wet her lips. “Does this have something to do with Jake’s murder?”

  I ignored her question. “You’ve seen a lamp like that before, haven’t you?”

  She bent her head. The brush forced the dirty snow into intricate patterns. “It could be a Tiffany. The motif of autumn leaves was common with Tiffany Studios’ products. Lamps with tree trunks for bases and leaves for shades were typical. You say this shade had an irregularly shaped upper and lower border?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “It’s one of the more complex designs.” She kept her head bent over the table.

  “What about the eye?”

  As if she felt it stare at her, she looked up. “What about it?”

  “Is that typical of Tiffany?”

  Pausing, she considered. “He did a lot with peacocks’ eyes. Yes, I guess it could be said to be typical.”

  I pressed on. “What about the teeth?”

  “Well, Tiffany perfected iridescent glass. But, no, I never saw one of his trees with teeth sticking out.” She tried to smile, but it came off false. “If the lamp is a Tiffany, it would have to have been specially commissioned.”

  I could bet she knew by whom. “The eye – what would it be?”

  “Glass, made to resemble a jewel.” She answered too fast.

  “Did Tiffany ever use real jewels, semiprecious stones, perhaps?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “But could he have?”

  With an agitated motion, Charmaine dropped the brush and began to pace, her arms folded across her breasts. “He could have. They would fit in, just like the glass jewels did. But I don’t understand, Sharon.”

  “Neither do I.”

  She stopped, a foot away from me. “What?”

  “There’s something I don’t understand, too. Why does the lamp I just described have you so frightened?”

  She took a step backward.

  “What is it with this lamp, Charmaine?”

  She folded her arms tighter.

  “Are you afraid because you copied the shade for Prince Albert?”

  She was silent.

  “Were the shades the other stained-glass projects that slowed your progress on this window?”

  Strength seemed to leave her, and she sagged against the table. “You knew that all along, didn’t you?”

  I hadn’t, but … “Did Prince Albert commission them?”

  She bit her lip. “Yes,” she finally said, “three of them. He had the original for me to work from. He claimed he’d gotten it in a junk shop.”

  Reacting to the stressed word, I said, “But you didn’t believe him.”

  “No one would sell a real Tiffany to a junk shop. And no junk dealer would let it go for wha
t Al could afford.”

  I’d had some experience with junk shops, however. It was possible for real treasure to go unnoticed among the trash. Or maybe Prince Albert had thought it worth more than what Charmaine assumed he could afford. I regarded her thoughtfully.

  “Anyway,” she added, “I found out later that Larry…”

  “What about Larry?”

  She snatched off her stylish turban and shook out her bell-like hair. “Forget it.”

  “Charmaine, you brought it up.”

  “No, forget it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Oh, God.” She wiped her brow with the turban. “This does have to do with Jake’s murder, and Larry will get in trouble.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “If I tell you, he’ll kill me.” She paused, startled at the implication of what she’d just said.

  “What about Larry, Charmaine?”

  She took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. When I started working on the shades for Al, I showed the lamp to Larry. I couldn’t believe it – that Al had found a real Tiffany in a junk shop.”

  “What was Larry’s reaction?”

  “At first he was cool. He asked what it was worth. But then when I told him, he got furious. He said if he’d known that, he never would have let it out of his hands.”

  I felt a flash of excitement. “When did he have it?”

  She shook her head, hair swinging. “He wouldn’t say. He told me to forget he’d mentioned it. I shouldn’t have told you.”

  I couldn’t respond to her woebegone expression, so great was my excitement. So Larry French had once possessed the Cheshire Cat’s Eye. That could make him a murderer – or someone who knew who the murderer was. “Charmaine, what’s the story with you and Larry?”

  “Story?”

  “He doesn’t treat you very well. Why do you put up with him?”

  Her gaze slipped away from mine. “Larry’s all right. He puts on a tough front for other people but, really, he’s quite decent. And he has contacts. He’s promised me some very lucrative design work for important people in Hollywood. If I can break in there I’d have it made. And I will. I’ve got what it takes.” It sounded like a lesson she’d learned by rote and now repeated with declining conviction.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Larry used to be in show business.”

  Charmaine nodded. “He put on all the big concerts. He knew all the stars. All I need is to decorate one big star’s house and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Why’s Larry no longer in show business?”

  “You don’t know?” Charmaine’s wide eyes swung to mine.

  “No.”

  “God, I thought everyone did. At one of the concerts he put on – his last – there was a disturbance. Nothing like what happened at Altamont, but people started slugging it out. Larry got into the fray and, well…”

  “And what?”

  “Well, he killed a man. It was ruled self-defense, but he did kill him, and after that no one would touch a Larry French production with a ten-foot pole.”

  16.

  The Cheshire Cat’s Eye: Larry French had once possessed it; with Charmaine’s help, Prince Albert had copied it; and, last night, my unknown assailant had seized it. Were these people linked together only by their interest in a Tiffany lamp? Or was there a stronger connection? Determining that would involve a risk, given the warning I’d received, but it was one I’d have to take.

  The weather served to minimize my danger. I took a floppy-brimmed rainhat from the back of the MG and pinned my hair high on my head before I stuffed the hat over it. If my attacker was on the lookout for a woman with long black hair, he wouldn’t see her.

  I parked on Steiner Street, across from Wintringham’s houses, and hesitated, contemplating the locked glove compartment. Finally I took out the .38 Chief’s Special that rested there, loaded it, and slipped it into the outer compartment of my shoulder bag. I approached Johnny Hart’s Kansas City Barbecue from the rear.

  The proprietor was in the kitchen, lighting the gas fires under the big vats of sauce. He frowned, not recognizing me when I came in. I took off the hat and shook out my hair.

  “Oh, it’s you.” He turned back to his sauce pots. “That a disguise or something?”

  “Yep, it’s all part of being a private eye.” I studied the set of his shoulders, the steadiness of his hands.

  “Huh.” Hart flicked a drop of water into the deep-fat fryer. It popped and cracked. He didn’t look or sound like a man who had been surprised by someone whom he’d hired a thug to rough up.

  I sat down at the chopping block, feeling suddenly queasy from tension and the smell of stale grease.

  Hart glanced at me. “You all right?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Can I get you something to speed up this fineness?” His words were mocking, but he flashed a yellow-toothed smile.

  “Do you have any milk?”

  “One milk coming up.” He turned to the stainless-steel refrigerator. “Big, tough private eyes always drink milk?”

  “Only when they can’t get Kool-aid.”

  Hart set a glass in front of me, and I drank half of it quickly. My queasiness subsided, and I sipped the rest.

  “Now,” Hart said in a low voice, drawing up a chair, “let’s cut the smart talk and get down to business. Why’re you here?”

  The wary current of racial distrust stirred once more. I sensed Hart didn’t want to like me because I was white and excused it by reminding himself of my Indian ancestry. Unfortunately, I was too middle class for the excuse to have much validity.

  “I’m here because I need more information.”

  “I gave you enough of that on Saturday.”

  “It was enough then, not now.”

  “Girl, I ain’t got no more to give you.”

  “Not even about who you hired to rough me up?”

  Hart’s face was impassive, but he leaned back in his chair and regarded me silently for a minute. “You dreaming, girl.”

  “Am I? Let me tell you about my adventure last night.” I recounted my struggle in the alley.

  When I had finished, Hart stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So because this person was black, you think I was behind it.”

  “You. Or Dettman.”

  Hart looked genuinely offended. “I don’t beat up on women or tell anybody else to do it for me.”

  “Then that leaves Nick.”

  Hart sighed, staring off beyond me. “All right, but don’t you ever let on that I was the one told you. There’s a dude in the neighborhood name of Raymond, only everybody calls him Raymond-the-Hit-Man.”

  “Hit man!” My voice rose.

  “Hush.” Hart held up a cautioning hand. “Raymond don’t hit much; when he tries he usually misses. But he does fix things. You know, you want a debt collected, call Raymond. You want to even a score, Raymond’s your man.”

  “I get it. So, if Dettman wanted to get me, Raymond’s the one he would have used.”

  “Yeah.” Hart looked uncomfortable. “Saturday, when Dettman had me deliver that message to you, he was in here looking for Raymond. Raymond, he’s hard to find, don’t have no regular address, so when you want him, you pass the word around.”

  “What does this Raymond look like?”

  “He’s… well, hell, you’ve seen him.”

  “When?”

  “The night you and your white lawyer friend were here. He’s the dude in the leather coat who came in and told me about the murder.”

  I recalled him, both from then and also from outside Nick Dettman’s storefront the next night. “When did Raymond get Dettman’s message/”

  “I delivered it late Saturday afternoon when he came in for a couple of beers.”

  So our paths had crossed immediately before Dettman had put out his contract – or whatever you might call it – on me. Dettman had tried to warn me off peaceably, but he already had Raymond lined up as backup. Or had he had more than one job f
or the “hit man”?

  “Is Raymond likely to come after me again?” I asked Hart.

  He shrugged. “Depends on how bad Dettman wants to get rid of you.”