Muller, Marcia - [McCone 03] Cheshire Cat's Eye, The_(v.1,shtml) Read Free Book Online Page A

That will give me the opportunity to entice you into my bed."
    "All right."
    "I don't believe it. You agreed."
    "To the first, not the second."
    "We'll see."
    Maybe we would. It was a tempting prospect that had dangled between us for weeks. I said I'd see him later and hung up.
    Outside the phone booth, I was startled by the specter of Johnny Hart, still in his stained chefs apron. He was out of breath.
    "Got a message," he announced. "Nick Dettman wants to see you."
    "Who's Nick Dettman?"
    Hart looked outraged. "Who's Nick Dettman! Former city supervisor, big deal in this district, and you…"
    "Now I remember him."
    "Well, he wants to talk."
    "When and where?"
    "Tonight. He'll meet you at his law office on Haight Street at seven." He gave me the address. "You know where that is? Storefront with an orange door?"
    I copied it down. "I'll find it."
    "Good. I'll tell him you'll be there." Hart turned and loped off.
    I watched him. Although I liked Johnny Hart, there was still—and probably always would be—a wary racial tension between us. Could I trust him? I didn't know.
    Well, it looked like it would be an interesting evening on all fronts.

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CHAPTER 7
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    The lot at Fort Mason was jammed, so I had to park a long way from Pier Three. I hurried toward the waterfront, skirting cream-colored buildings with red roofs. The wide mouth of the pier gaped open, and people drifted in and out.
    I'd been here a few years ago for the Dickens Christmas Fair, a yearly crafts-and-entertainment extravaganza. Then, the pier had been transformed into a scene straight out of Merrie Olde England; today the setting was more utilitarian. Rather than being concealed by pine boughs and Christmas lights, the ceiling arched to a peak, beams and pipes exposed. Rather than artful imitations of London shops, the booths were functional plywood structures. I started down one side, examining the exhibits.
    From the Foundation for San Francisco's Architectural Heritage, I picked up a newspaper on local preservation efforts. The California Historical Society provided me with literature on its activities. The Preservation Group's booth featured color blowups of buildings it had restored for commercial use. I nodded familiarly at the chandeliers and cornice mouldings of Victoriana.
    Halfway down, I came upon a familiar face. Charmaine. The little Japanese woman had obviously worked hard on her display. Rich purple velvets were draped against flowered wallpapers. Blue ceramic tiles in a fleur-de-lis pattern gleamed against paint samples in contrasting tones. Porcelain knickknacks sat atop spindly-legged tables. The effect was striking.
    Charmaine spotted me, and her face crinkled into a smile. "So you decided to come to the show! Was Victoriana able to help you with your lighting problem?"
    I started, realizing I'd half-forgotten my tale about wanting to light my apartment. "Sort of. Actually they referred me to someone else, a Prince Albert."
    "Ah, Al. That was good of them; he can use the business."
    "Is he here today?"
    "Yes." She pointed to the opposite side of the pier.
    "Then I think I'll go talk to him."
    "Good. Enjoy the show."
    I continued my leisurely journey around the pier, stopping when I came to Wintringham and Associates' booth. Like the Preservation Group's, it featured literature and color photographs of various projects. A young man hurried forward. His face, under a thatch of sandy hair, was moonlike, his body layered in unshed baby fat. I recalled Johnny Hart's comment about "poor pudgy Paul." This must be Wintringham's lover.
    "Hello, I'm Paul Collins," the young man said, confirming my suspicion. "Are you thinking of buying a Victorian?"
    "I'm afraid my paycheck won't allow it. Is David around?"
    "No, he's not. Can I help you?"
    "I'm Sharon McCone, the investigator he hired to look into Jake Kaufmann's death."
    "Oh." Collins paled and put a hand to his forehead. "Such an awful business. It has me absolutely