Edwin of the Iron Shoes Page 10

  I closed my eyes against Cara Ingalls’s seething psyche. For some reason she was trying to transfer the weight of her emotions to me, a burden I in no way could handle right now.

  I said, “But we’re getting off the subject. There are a few more things I want to ask about your offer for the Salem Street property.”

  Ingalls looked down at her salad and began rooting through it with her fork, as if she might find something there amid the shrimps and bibb lettuce to soothe her unhealed wound. When she looked up, her eyes were calm again, with a shadow of tired defeat. “And they are?”

  “Did you meet with Joan Albritton again after that time you bought the painting from her?”

  Her eyes widened. “What painting?”

  “You came to her shop last October and bought an inexpensive painting. I thought you were checking her out.”

  “You thought?” She set her fork down carefully.

  “Yes. I was in the shop that day, talking to Joan.”

  “I see.” The yellow eyes moved rapidly, calculating. “No, I never did see her again. The money was well spent though, even if the picture did go in the garbage. I wanted to see who I was dealing with before I made an offer. I was able to go in quite a bit lower than I would have, had I not seen how … foolish and eccentric Joan Albritton was.”

  Any sympathy I’d felt for Cara Ingalls vanished with her careless assessment of the little antique dealer. In its place, suspicion rose: Why had Ingalls thought the climate was right for an offer? Her visit to the shop had been weeks before the notice condemning the buildings, when the Salem Street people had been militantly opposed to any real-estate deal.

  I asked a few additional questions, hoping to make Ingalls contradict herself, but she replied in technicalities. I gained some insight into the workings of her profession but very little information on the bidding for the Salem Street properties. Our lunches finished, I insisted on paying the tab and said good-bye to her on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

  It was a shame about Cara Ingalls, I thought, as I started down the sidewalk to the place I’d left my car. She was an intelligent, strong woman, and strikingly attractive, but in spite of that I couldn’t help pitying her. In her rush to make it, she had left a part of her humanity behind, and her desperate reaching out to me signaled that she felt its loss.

  Well, that was her problem. Right now mine seemed more pressing. It was time for my appointment with Paula at the de Young, and I had to go home to pick up the paintings I wanted to show her. I was hoping Frankie wouldn’t be waiting there for me.

  17

  When I asked for Paula Mercer, the man collecting admissions at the de Young gestured toward the center of the museum and didn’t charge me the seventy-five-cent fee. I walked across the pillared entry way to the big central area. Toward the end, I saw a huge tapestry hanging on cords from the high skylit ceiling.

  Paula suddenly appeared around the edge of the tapestry, waving at me, her mouth full of pins. She wore faded jeans and a green sweater, and had her dark hair hitched up in two horsetails on either side of her head.

  She spat the pins into her hand as I approached, her pretty round face breaking into a wide smile of greeting.

  “Sharon, I’ve absolutely got to get the backing on this thing before I can take any time off.” Paula was one of the people who set up the museum’s special exhibits.

  I looked up at the tapestry, which hung twelve feet or more in the air. Its top edge was clamped to a long pole by several of what looked like trouser hangers. “It’s awfully big. How do you manage?”

  “Not easily. Why don’t you wander around for a while? Then we can go get some tea.”

  “Fine. I haven’t been to a museum in years.”

  Paula stuck the pins back in her mouth and began climbing up a tall work platform behind the tapestry. I hoped she wouldn’t swallow any of them.

  I kept on toward the back of the museum. A tour was assembled there, and the paintings didn’t appeal to me, so I turned into the maze of little galleries to one side, stopping here and there when something caught my fancy. The rooms were chill and quiet, and the air conditioning hummed faintly. I relaxed, enjoying the silence.

  As I turned into one of the last galleries in that wing, I stopped abruptly on the threshold, surprised by a familiar figure seated on a bench in the center of the room. I started to back out the door when Greg Marcus looked up and saw me.

  There were weary lines on his face, and his shoulders slumped a little. Only a trace of sarcasm showed in the smile he gave me.

  “Now who’s following whom?”

  There was no way to go but into the room. “It looks that way, doesn’t it? Actually, I’m here to see a friend on the staff, but she’s tied up right now. You come here often?” Remembering our last meeting, I felt uncomfortable, a feeling compounded by the surprise of running across the lieutenant in a museum, the last place I’d have expected to find him.

  “Occasionally.” Marcus patted the bench next to him and I sat, reluctantly. “This is as good a place to wait for your friend as any,” he said. “We’re in good company, you know. Those three portraits are Rembrandts.”

  I hesitated, not wanting to reveal my ignorance of art. It would only give him something else to needle me with. Also, I felt I was intruding on something private. I shifted uncomfortably on the bench, not wanting to be there, but not knowing how to get up and leave. Marcus turned to me with a slight smile.

  “You’re wondering why I’m not out solving that murder?”

  I shrugged. “You can’t work all the time.”

  “No, you can’t, but there are days when I think I should, and this is one of them. When things really start getting me down, I come over here.”

  I wondered what had happened in the last twenty-four hours to make him speak so openly to me. “Doing that,” I asked, “helps?”

  “Sure. Someone once taught me about the tranquilizing effect of sitting like this in a museum, holding still and really seeing the paintings. So I come here, and it works. And afterwards I can think more clearly.” He gave me a swift glance, trying to see if I understood.

  I wondered if the friend in question had been a woman. When he didn’t go on, I said, “Beats Valium.”

  He laughed, and we sat in silence for a minute or two. I wasn’t getting too much out of the Rembrandts, but I was really seeing the lieutenant for the first time. I was pleasantly surprised by Marcus’s sensitivity, and I wanted very much to believe him an honest cop, but Harmon’s mention of him still called up my distrust. I didn’t know how deep his relationship with the bail bondsman went.

  Cautiously I said, “I was talking with Ben Harmon, the bail bondsman, last night. He said you told him you were just humoring Hank Zahn and me by letting us in on the Albritton investigation.”

  “Harmon?” Marcus looked surprised. “He’s a rough character. How well do you know him?”

  “Not well.” I waited, hoping he would say something to lay my suspicions to rest.

  “Our friend Harmon seems to be popping up all over the place,” he commented.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember yesterday—I’m sure you do—when you got so angry because you thought I had had you followed?”

  I nodded.

  “I mentioned I had my sources. Well, in this case, the source was Harmon. I ran into him over at the Hall of Justice that morning, and he said he’d met you at Cornish’s. He tried to pump me about your involvement in the case. That was when I said I was humoring you. I didn’t know what his interest was, but I don’t trust the man.”

  “I see.” Marcus was either honest or an excellent liar. I decided to go with honesty. “Actually, it’s just as well I ran into you, because I have some developments to report.” I went on to tell him of the ransacked shop, Harmon’s offer for the Salem Street properties, his late-night visit to van Osten, and my frantic flight to Cliff House. He listened, a frown etching a deep line between his d
ark eyebrows.

  “This is all very interesting,” he said when I’d finished.

  I asked, “Are you going to demote me to Better Dresses?”

  “What? Oh, Jesus, forget that. I lose my temper quite often.”

  “Like me, huh?”

  He smiled ruefully. “You know, I called your boss to chew him out last night, and he gave me a real talking to. Then I tried to call you to make peace. That must have been when you were out getting mugged by this Frankie.”

  I remembered the messages he’d left with my answering service. “What did Hank say to you?”

  He shook his head. “Ask him about it, if you must know.”

  I definitely would. Marcus, with his initial hostility and abrupt switch to friendliness, had me puzzled.

  Thoughtfully he went on, “This van Osten-Harmon connection throws a new light on my original theory.”

  “You suspected Charlie Cornish, didn’t you?”

  “I still do.”

  So did I. Maybe not of the murder, but of something underhanded. “Why?”

  “Initially I had the feeling Cornish was hiding something, so I ran a check on him. You said he was a man without a past, but that’s not entirely true.”

  I felt the sinking sensation that precedes bad news. “What kind of a past does he have?”

  “Twenty-four years ago, in his hometown of Ashland, Oregon, Charlie was indicted for arson and murder. The indictment was quashed due to lack of evidence. Right after that, Charlie left town, presumably to come here.”

  As suspicious of Charlie as I was, I nonetheless came to his defense. “So, on the basis of a dropped charge, you’re ready to convict him of the Salem Street arsons and Joan Albritton’s murder?”

  Marcus held up one hand. “Slow down. I don’t want you getting mad at me again. What I’m saying is that the knowledge of his past throws light on certain aspects of Charlie’s character, that’s all.”

  “Such as his tendency to set buildings on fire?”

  Marcus rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “What am I going to do with her?” he asked in a hopeless tone, addressing one of the Rembrandts.

  I laughed out loud. He reminded me of Joan Albritton, talking to Edwin.

  Marcus looked at me with relief. “Well, at least you’ve got your sense of humor back. For a while, I didn’t know if you had one or not. Seriously, Sharon, the charge was arson and murder. Charlie’s wife and only child died in that fire.”

  I caught my breath sharply. “No wonder he’s buried his past.”

  “Exactly. And it may have bearing on the present case or it may not. But it does tell you a good deal about why Charlie is the way he is.”

  I thought of Charlie’s little room behind the shop, filled with loneliness and, maybe, an old guilt. I wondered if he had told Joan his secret. With a flash of pity for the big junkman, I understood and excused his deception about the Merchants’ Association meeting.

  “Anyway,” Marcus said briskly, “I’m due at a meeting in half an hour. Since you’ve taken it this far, what do you plan to do next?”

  I was officially back on the case. “Get the truth out of Charlie. You’re right about his hiding something, but I don’t think he killed Joan. Knowing what you just told me, I think I can force him to talk.”

  “Good. Let me know.”

  “I also want to go through Joan’s shop again. I finished the inventory before the second break-in, so I may be able to figure out what’s missing,” I continued. “That could tell us a lot.”

  He nodded. “Okay, but please be careful. If you like, I’ll pick up this Frankie …”

  “Not yet,” I interrupted. “It will tip off Harmon.”

  “You’re probably right.” He stood up. “Call me any time, either at the Department or at home. And stay away from Harmon. You know how rough he plays.”

  I shivered, remembering Frankie’s iron grip. “Don’t worry!”

  We went back through the galleries to the front vestibule, arriving just as Paula emerged from a door marked PRIVATE. I watched Marcus’s eyes appraise her and felt a tiny, unreasonable stab of jealousy. He looked at Paula as a woman, a way he’d never looked at me.

  Marcus kept on, through the front door, raising a hand in farewell. I watched him run down the steps, his blond hair glinting in the afternoon sun. I had no business getting interested in the man, I told myself sternly.

  “Who was that?” Paula’s eyes were wide. “You certainly do manage to cram the most into your busy schedule!”

  “He’s a cop,” I said, unwilling to admit what was on my mind, “and up until this afternoon I despised him. I’m sure he’ll do something to make me despise him again before the day’s over. Now let’s go look at those paintings.”

  18

  Paula suggested we have tea, but I said I didn’t have time. As we passed the Japanese Tea Garden, I looked in longingly. Fuchsia and lighter-pink flowers bloomed among the carefully sculpted trees and stone lanterns, and gold and white carp swam in the pool. I wished I could take a few minutes to sit in the tea house, drinking from a white porcelain cup.

  “You really must be on a case, since you’re consorting with cops,” Paula said. Paula didn’t believe in cops in general and didn’t know any in the particular.

  “I wasn’t exactly consorting. He was there in the museum, and I had to be polite.”

  “A cultured cop! What next?”

  To get the conversation off Marcus, I said, “I’ve run across stranger things than that in the last few days.” I went on to tell her about Joan Albritton’s murder and my investigation to date. She listened, occasionally making wry comments, as we walked to where I’d left my car.

  When I finished, Paula said, “You do get around. Junk dealers, bail bondsmen, Cara Ingalls. You know, Mrs. Ingalls is on our board—the museum’s, I mean. I’d never have the nerve to just approach her like you did. Of course, people who know as much about art as she does always intimidate me.”

  Paula paused, looking thoughtful. “I could really do some amazing exhibits with some of the stuff from that shop. Can’t you see one with a headless dummy walking a stuffed dog? You know, Sharon, this Edwin fellow could be quite valuable. Some of those old department store fittings command high prices. You say he’s made of wood?”

  “Wooden head, cloth body, and iron shoes.”

  “I wonder why the shoes? Or, for that matter, why anyone would stuff the family dog. People really do strange things, when you think about it.”

  “I’d rather not. Think about it, that is.” We had gotten to the car, and I unlocked the trunk. “Anyway, here are the paintings.” I took them out and propped them on the hood.

  Paula bent over, examining them quickly. “Oh, this is Richard’s work. Richard Solsby. I’d recognize it anywhere.” She looked at me, a wicked little grin on her face. “Richard and I had a thing going back about a year ago, but it wasn’t meant to last. There’s something curiously limited about a person who can paint only three subjects.”

  “What do you mean, only three subjects?”

  Paula leaned against the car and ticked them off on her fingers. “Still life with flowers and fruit, seascape, street scene. You’ve got a nice little selection of Richard’s work here. We could probably put a show together.”

  “What about the religious stuff?”

  “Religious? Oh, you mean the Madonna and child.” She glanced back at the small painting. “That’s not Richard’s. I got so carried away at seeing his stuff that I overlooked it. You see, I still have an interest in Richard: he owes me fifty dollars, and I’m hoping his work will start to sell.”

  Paula reached for the Madonna and studied it, her face more serious. “No, this definitely isn’t Richard’s. It’s good, almost too good.”

  “Too good?”

  “Yes, much too good.” A note of excitement came into her voice. “Sharon, take a look at it. This gold leaf—that’s a very old technique, as is painting on wood like this rather t
han on canvas.”

  She looked up, then closed her eyes tightly. “Damn it! What am I thinking of?”

  “Well, if you don’t know …”

  “No. Hush.” She held up a hand for quiet, her face intense. “I could swear it’s a Bellini. I could swear it! Do you realize you may have been running around with more than a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of painting in the trunk of your car?”

  “You’re kidding!” My knees went weak.

  “No, I’m not. Oh, damn! I wish I had my clipping file here with me.” Paula looked genuinely distressed.

  “Will you please explain from the beginning? What’s a Bellini?”

  “Bellini,” she said, spelling it out, “was a fifteenth-century Italian painter. He did a lot of small altarpieces for wealthy churches. I think this may be part of one.”

  “Part?”

  “Yes. Bellini did his paintings on what is known as a ‘triptych’—a three-paneled altarpiece. The sides would depict saints or whatever, with a Madonna and child or a crucifixion at center.”

  I sighed. “Then I suppose we should get it appraised. It’ll really increase the value of Albritton’s estate.”

  “You don’t understand,” Paula said. “This painting has no business being in this country, much less in a cheap antique shop on Salem Street.”

  “Why? Joan had some valuable things. They weren’t all fakes.”

  Paula was trembling with excitement. “Sharon, like I said, the Bellini altarpieces were the property of the wealthy Italian churches. Lately, many of their artworks have been ripped off.”

  “Then this is a stolen painting?”

  She nodded. “I read an article on Italian art thefts a while back. It stuck in my mind, especially the part about the missing Bellini triptych. I cut out the article, and I think I still have it in my file at home.”

  “My God,” I said. “This is a masterpiece?”

  “Right. It’s also been smuggled into this country. The article said Italian Customs isn’t able to stop the paintings from crossing borders and ending up in the hands of private collectors. Some collectors get their kicks from stolen art, even if they have to gloat all alone over what they buy. It’s a sickness, like a proverbial miser and his gold. Anyway, this painting somehow has traveled from Italy to Salem Street, and not too long ago. The theft was only last summer.”