Edwin of the Iron Shoes
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When an elderly antiques dealer is murdered, Muller's popular P.I. Sharon McCone follows a killer's trail to a museum where San Francisco's most elegant socialites gather. "Muller and McCone are still the class of the field".--San Diego Union-Tibune.
looked as if something had exploded there, too. Furniture was tipped at odd angles. Vases lay in jagged shards on the floor. I stared into a smashed mirror and saw a hundred fragments of my own reflection. Even the old pickle crock, van Osten’s “distinguished aging receptacle,” had tumbled from its shelf, cracking on top of the lid of a child’s school desk below. Only an earthquake or a pair of human hands could have wreaked this havoc. And we hadn’t had an earthquake. I could feel a cool
and maybe figure out what was missing, but that could last all night, and the object itself might not necessarily help me identify the killer. There must be a shortcut to that information, I told myself, and I might stumble on it if I followed the course I’d been planning before the fire. Ben Harmon’s name had been cropping up over and over, and I was very anxious to talk with the bail bondsman. 14 BEN HARMON, BAIL BONDS— READY TO SERVE YOU TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY The sign was on Bryant
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
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
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