Muller, Marcia, [McCone 01] Edwin of the Iron Shoes(v1, shtml) (26 page)

The front door shut, and footsteps crossed the shop directly to Edwin.

I slipped my hand into my bag and grasped my gun, as the footsteps came back and went into the workroom.

I took the gun out and crept forward on my hands and knees until I reached the wall and ran my left hand up to the light switch. As I stood up, I snapped it on.

In the dim light, Cara Ingalls crouched on the workroom floor, holding a torch on a stack of framed and unframed canvasses. She looked up in shock, her face taking on a cornered expression. She wore all black, even to a little hat that shaded her face, the perfect burglar's ensemble.

"You won't find the Bellini there, Cara." I held the gun on her. "Put the flashlight down and get up."

She remained on her knees, tightening her grip on the light until her knuckles went white.

"I don't know what you mean. I'm inspecting the property. I'm going to buy it, you know."

"The police have both panels of the altarpiece. They want the one you have, too."

"What altarpiece? I don't know what you're talking ibout." Her yellow eyes darted from side to side.

"The one you bought from van Osten and his Italian partner. Did you provide him contacts with other collectors? How much of a cut of the profits did you get?"

"You know so much, you tell me."

"Not as much as Ben Harmon got, I bet."

"Harmon!" She spat out the name. "What do you know about Harmon?"

"I know he was part of the smuggling operation. How did he catch on to it?"

"You know too goddamned much. The cheap bastard caught on because of Joan's ridiculous behavior with that mannequin, what's-his-name?"

"Edwin."

"Edwin." She snorted. "Joan had to use a melodramatic way of identifying the collectors when they came in for their paintings. Harmon saw Joan was hipped on Edwin but only at certain times."

"And each of those times, someone bought a painting on Edwin's wall."

Ingalls laughed bitterly. "Joan was a whimsical fool. Oliver felt it a small price to keep her happy, but he never should have permitted it. When Harmon got curious, he wormed the rest out of the old bitch."

"And then?"

"Then he went to Oliver and put the squeeze on him. He wanted a cut, plus to expand the business with Joan in a bigger shop."

"And while he was at it, he also wanted her land."

Ingalls nodded. "And now I suppose
you
want something. How much will
you
cost me?"

I shook my head. "Like I said, the police have all of the altarpiece except the shepherd panel you picked up here last fall. I want to know how the smuggling operation fell apart."

Her eyes glittered. "I can't tell you anything about that."

"Not about murdering Joan Albritton? And Oliver van Osten?"

Her face went pale; then her hand moved quickly and she hurled the flashlight at my head. As I ducked, Ingalls sprang at me, knocking me to the floor. My gun flew from my hand.

I pulled myself up against the wall, looking for the gun, but before I could find it, Ingalls was on me, a daggerlike knife in her hand. It was the one missing from the bone-handled set.

I froze with fear, my eyes on the sharp, double-edged blade as she brought it closer to my throat. I remembered the blood soaking into van Osten's pale-yellow carpet. Cara Ingalls knew how to use this knife very, very well.

"You want to know about Albritton and van Osten, do you?" Her eyes were inches from mine, and the knife tip touched the hollow of my throat.

I forced down terror, knowing it would incite her. The lack of control that I had sensed the day before showed in her eyes now. Keeping my voice as level as I could, I said, "You didn't really intend to kill Joan, did you?"

Cara Ingalls's breath touched my face in hot little gasps as her amber eyes searched mine. Then, surprisingly, she dropped back a couple of inches, not off her guard but no longer touching me. The pressure of the knife decreased.

"I didn't intend to kill anyone." she was trembling. "Van Osten had raised the price on the remainder of the altarpiece. He knew the shepherd panel was no use to me without the others."

"That wasn't fair. Why did he do it?" I was leaning against the wall, my left leg curled under me, but it hurt too much to give me leverage. Ingalls crouched in front of me, her knife a deterrent to any movement. I couldn't see my gun in the dim light.

"He knew I killed Albritton. He came in and found me with the body." Her husky voice became shrill. My question had struck at Ingalls's need for emotional attention, the same need she'd displayed the day before when she told me the story of her father canceling his life insurance. Probably, in her climb to the top, she'd taken no one as a confidante. As she had begun to break down under the pressure of murder and blackmail, I had appeared, a woman who, however, briefly, would listen to her.

I encouraged her need. "What happened with Albritton?"

She shuddered. "I came here to the shop on Monday night to persuade her to sell the remaining Bellinis and the land directly to me. Van Osten, acting for Harmon, had threatened to hold out on the last two panels unless I withdrew my bid for the land. Also, the smuggling operation was falling apart. Our Italian contact was having trouble getting the stolen paintings into the factory shipments. There was a four-month delay between the first and second panels for my altarpiece, for instance. I knew it was time to act. But then that stupid bitch told me she was pulling out of the scheme and didn't owe me a thing. We argued, and she said a terrible thing to me. I saw the knives in the open cabinet and…"

Her voice faltered, and she almost lowered the knife. I began to straighten, and the blade came back up.

Quickly I asked, "What was it she said?"

A spasm, more violent than before, shook her. "She called me a vulture. She said I spent my life feasting off the remains of people I'd destroyed. She said I wasn't human, that I was a sick, disgusting thing to her."

I shivered, remembering Joan's last words to Charlie Cornish: "You're nothing to me now." Her revulsion at Ingalls was probably an extension of her own self-hatred because of her cruelty to Charlie.

Watching me so closely, Ingalls softened. "Isn't that the most awful thing to say to a person?"

I nodded. It was awful, but not bad enough to kill her. In vain, I looked around for my gun. "And then van Osten walked in?"

"Yes. He'd come to collect the Madonna so I wouldn't be able to get my hands on it until he'd forced me to withdraw my bid. He told me to get out of here and let him take care of things. It wasn't until I got to my car that I realized I still had the knife in my hand. It was all covered with blood and sticky." She made a disgusted face.

How unpleasant for you, I thought. Aloud I asked, "When did you hear from van Osten again?"

"The next day. He called me and raised the price of the Madonna."

"And you went to his apartment last night to pay him?" My left leg didn't hurt so much now, and I started to brace it against the wall. Ingalls was talking swiftly, uncontrollably. If I knew where my gun was, I could take her off guard.

"But he didn't have the painting. He told me to forget it, said he'd even resorted to Ben Harmon's arson tactics to get hold of it, but it was no use. Instead, he had this plan that we should ditch Harmon, that I should buy the land after all, and go in with him on a really big smuggling operation. With my contacts with collectors, he said we'd have it made. I knew what that meant; I'd be under his thumb for the rest of my life. I had to protect myself. I had to cover up…"

"So you used a knife."

Her pupils were dilated, her eyes straining. "I didn't mean to kill him!" She blinked hard for an instant.

But I had seen van Osten lying on the blood-soaked yellow carpet. And right now I also saw my gun, lying near the baseboard to the left. I braced my heel against the wall. Reflexively, Ingalls brought the knife up again.

"No way, Cara," I said, cruelly. "No way."

She looked shocked at my withdrawal of sympathy. "What do you mean, 'no way'?"

"People who don't plan to kill don't take knives to their business meetings, especially knives they've killed with before." As I said it, I pushed into her, knocking her backwards and grabbing at the knife. It sliced across the palm of my hand and blood spurted. Crying in pain, I fell on top of her and smashed the knife from her grip. It clattered to the floor.

I forced her down and reached toward my gun. I couldn't get to it and keep her down at the same time. She began to fight back and struggle for the knife. As we fought, the front door of the shop opened.

Greg Marcus's voice called, "Sharon? Cara? Where are you?"

Ingalls threw me off and bolted toward the front room. I jumped up and went after her, screaming, "Stop her! She's the murderer!"

As I chased Ingalls through the room I saw Greg by the door, his gun drawn. Why in hell didn't he shoot?

I hurled myself at Ingalls, pulled her down, pinned her arm behind her back. She gave a cry that ended in a grunt and lay still. From the limpness of her body, I knew the fall had stunned her.

Panting, I looked up at Greg, who stood frozen.

"Do something, damn it!" I cried. "She killed both of them over the Bellini! She was part of the whole scheme!"

He gestured to a uniformed man who had come in behind him, then lowered his gun and stepped forward, reaching out a hand to help me up. He looked deeply shocked. "Are you all right?"

I looked down at our clasped hands. They were smeared with blood. I pulled mine away and brushed my hair back. More blood came off on my face.

Greg snatched my hand from my hair and spread my fingers, palm up. He said in relief, "It's only a small cut. It's deep, but you'll live. Otherwise, are you okay?"

Anger rose up, replacing my fear. "Yes, I'll live, no thanks to you! Why didn't you stop her?"

He shook his head and pulled me against him. After a few seconds he said, "Jesus, I'm sorry, Sharon! When I got the message you left with your answering service, I decided to put a man back on the shop. We hadn't been able to pick up Frankie, and I didn't want you here alone. Cara's company car was outside. I thought it had something to do with the sale of the property…"

He broke off, and we hung on to one another for a minute. Then he released me, looking down at the prone figure of Cara Ingalls. She hadn't moved. He said, "Get up, Cara."

She raised her head, her face dull with shock. "Don't, Greg."

I glanced from one to the other in confusion. "You know her?"

Greg nodded, his lips twisting. "This is the woman friend I told you about. The one who opened my eyes to the world of art."

I caught my breath sharply and looked at him, not speaking. It explained a great many things.

Greg looked back at Ingalls, who was up on one elbow now. "I said get up, Cara."

Cara Ingalls brought herself to a sitting position, but then her strength seemed to fail her. Her hair had fallen over one eye, and she had lost her little black hat. She pushed the hair back, then fixed her eyes on Marcus.

"Don't, Greg." She stretched out a hand to him.

Greg left her on the floor. In an empty, impersonal voice he began, "You have the right to remain silent. You have the right…"

Cara Ingalls's face contorted as if she might suddenly begin screaming, and if she did, her screams would never stop.

Hank Zahn, Charlie Cornish, and I sat around the table by the big kitchen window at All Souls.

Below us, the city slept, a few pre-dawn lights winking. It was five in the morning, and we'd consumed most of a gallon of cheap California mountain red.

I'd seen a doctor about my hand, made my official statement, and gone directly to the law cooperative to report to Hank. There, I remembered my promise to Charlie and called the big junkman to tell him I'd found Joan's killer. He insisted on coming to All Souls to hear my story in person.

Now Charlie said, "If I'd known that bitch murdered Joanie when she came to get the key tonight, I'd have killed her with my bare hands."

Hank and I nodded in drunken agreement.

"Jesus, she comes to me, demanding that key like she already owned the place. Big realtor car outside. Says she wants to inspect the property. Acted like I was dirt. Looked around my shop like germs might come out of the corners and bite her ass. I wish I'd killed her!"

"I'm just as glad you didn't," Hank said, "because I'd be down at the city jail defending you rather than here at home drinking wine. Besides, then the whole story never would have come out."

Charlie grunted. "Don't count on that. By now the bitch has some hotshot lawyer there, making sure she doesn't say anything."

I shook my head. "Ingalls waived her right to counsel and made a full confession to Greg Marcus, her great lover. I'm surprised he would let her confess: he was blind to her from the start. Even when he saw me chasing her around the shop, he just stood there—" My voice broke. I felt Greg had let me down, first at the shop and next by turning coldly professional on me at police headquarters. I had needed support, injured and shocked as I was, but he had offered none.

Hank glanced at me anxiously. "Don't be too hard on him, Sharon. It's not every day he has to arrest his former mistress for murder. And you have to think of how he feels now—pretty much like an asshole after standing by and watching you do his work for him."

I looked down at my bandaged hand. The doctor had said,there would be a scar—a souvenir I really didn't want. "He probably hates me, too, for, opening the whole thing up. I think he suspected Cara's involvement from the beginning but pushed it to the back of his mind."

"That would be natural," Hank said, "even for a cop as good as Greg. You remember I said Greg had been the cause of a society divorce? It was Cara and Douglas Ingalls who split up."

I felt a flash of jealousy at Hank's words, then a flash of annoyance at my jealousy. "So why didn't he marry her and keep her out of trouble?"

Hank smiled. "She was willing, but Greg found he couldn't handle the idea of a wife who made more money than he did. It was hard for him to accept that Cara didn't need him in any of the traditional ways women need men.

"Besides," he added, "her plans for Greg were kind of bizarre, if you know Greg like I do."

"What plans?" I heard the open hostility in my voice.

Hank must have heard it, too, because he chuckled. "Mrs. Ingalls couldn't be married to a cop—it would never do in her social circle. Greg was to quit the force and devote himself to the finer things in life, like servicing Cara and broadening his interest in the arts when she was busy elsewhere. She even offered to pay for painting lessons."

I smiled, reluctantly. Hank's words conjured up a picture of Greg in a smock, seated at an easel, palette in hand, looking faintly ridiculous. "So he turned her down?"

Hank nodded. "Greg's a cop through and through. It hurt that she professed to love him yet hadn't grasped the single most important fact of his existence. He turned her down, and she threatened suicide. Since he'd seen through her by then, he told her he wasn't worried, she was too self-centered to do anything foolish. Cara threw a lamp, two vases, and an ashtray at him, left, and carried on her life in style."

I asked, "So it's been over for a long time?"

"For more than three years. I think the first time Greg saw her since they finished must have been when you flattened her on the floor of the shop." Hank paused, sipping thoughtfully at his wine.

"You know," he went on, "Greg's initial reaction to you was colored by his experience with Cara. He sensed the same strength and independence in you, so he set out to put you in your place. Fortunately, you wouldn't stay put."

I grimaced. "He tried damned hard though."

Hank laughed. "You don't know how frustrated it made him! By Wednesday night, he'd recognized the futility of his efforts and called me, babbling with hostility and demanding I order you back to All Souls, where you belonged. I pointed out what an ass he was making of himself and how it linked to his bad time with Cara. I also advised him that strength in a woman didn't necessarily indicate ruthlessness or indifference to others. When we got done yelling at each other, he seemed much calmer."

Wednesday night. So that was the "talking to" Greg had mentioned to me at the museum, the one he'd told me to ask Hank about.

"Well, I thank you." I raised my glass to Hank. "Your lecture turned him into quite a likable human being. It's too bad he's not going to want to see me again after that scene in the antique shop."

Hank raised an eyebrow. "Were you planning to see him again?"

"Oh, sure. He was going to teach me all about Cézanne."

Hank frowned. "I thought you couldn't stand him. Greg, I mean, not Cézanne." The words were teasing.

With dignity I said, "We're all entitled to change our minds."

Hank looked across the table at Charlie. "I'll never understand women."

"Huh?" Charlie jerked up. He'd been dozing over his wine.

"Women. I don't understand them."

"Yeah? Well, don't look at me," Charlie said. "I've never understood 'em either. Joanie used to tell me I was an old fool where she was concerned, and I guess she was right. But, damn it, I
liked
being a fool for her."

Hank's eyes sobered. "She was one hell of a fine woman. We'll all miss her."

"God, yes. Every day I wake up, expecting to see her; then I realize there's something wrong, and it all comes back to me." He drew at his wine, looking melancholy. "Somehow, now that they've got her killer, I feel a little more at peace. And making a clean breast of what happened between her and me that night, that helps some, too. I think soon I can get on to remembering the good times."

Hank and I nodded. Hank looked drunkenly solemn, and I was sure my expression matched his.

"You think Sharon should see the lieutenant again, Charlie?" Hank had a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

Charlie looked at me speculatively. "Sure. He's a good-looking man, and she's wasting her better years hanging around with guys like you and me."

Quietly I said, "You forget that in all likelihood the lieutenant does not want to see me."

"Nonsense," Hank said. "He wants to see you."

I caught my breath. "How do you know?"

Hank grinned broadly. "He called me while you were on the phone with Charlie before. Said I should use my judgment, but if you weren't too bitter against him, would I ask you to call him. He'll be in his office around eight."

"Hank Zahn, why didn't you tell me before?"

"I repeat, he said to use my judgment. And you sounded bitter as hell when you first told me what had happened."

"Oh." I looked down into the depths of my wine glass. "Oh, no, I'm not bitter." I realized that Greg had hidden in his professional disguise at police headquarters out of embarrassment at my part in Cara's arrest. Quickly I changed the subject. "So what happens now, Charlie? Who will you sell the property to?"

He grinned. "Seeing as our two highest bidders are in jail, I guess I'll have to throw it open to new offers. I'm not worried; there'll be plenty."

"You still moving to Valencia Street?" Hank asked. "Or won't you take the place now that Bigby's lost all his stock in the fire?"

"No reason not to," Charlie said. "Austin doesn't have much stuff, but he's got a lot of expertise to bring to the new shop. Besides, I've got more merchandise and capital than I need for myself, what with Joanie leaving me everything."

I didn't say it, but I thought of where a lot of that capital had come from.

"Aw, Sharon, I know what you're thinking," Charlie said. "Ill-gotten gains. Well, forget it. What Joanie did was illegal, but she did it for the kid, not herself. Everything Joanie ever did was for other people, not herself."

"I'll forget it." I was relieved that Charlie wasn't going to let anything tarnish his feelings for Joan.

"The stock from Joanie's shop will replace what Austin lost," Charlie went on, "but that brings up this problem I've got."

Hank and I looked at him questioningly.

"Edwin and Clothilde I'm happy to move to the new shop," he said. "I could never give either of them up. But the hell of it is, I feel honor-bound to move that goddamn stuffed dog, too!"

I smiled, and Hank got up to pour more wine from the big jug. We sat drinking in companionable silence, watching the morning sun light up the glass towers of downtown San Francisco.

After a while, I glanced at my watch. It was six o'clock. In two hours I'd call Greg at his office to suggest we get together and talk things over.