by Sue Grafton
"Not the whole trial. You ever sit through a whole trial? It's boring, isn't it? I'se glad I never went to law school."
"I'll bet." I checked through my notes. "I've read the deposition Mr. Kingman took –"
"You single?"
"You asked me that before."
"I bet you are. You know how I know?" He tapped himself on the temple. "I'm psychic."
"Well, then, you can probably tell me what I'm going to ask you next."
He flushed happily. "Not really. I don't know you that well, but I'd like to."
"Maybe you'll be able to intuit the answers to some questions I have."
"I'll try. Absolutely. Go ahead. I'm all ears." He lowered his head and his expression became serious.
"Tell me again what he said to you once the acquittal came down."
"Said... let's see now. He goes, something like... 'Hey, dude. How you doin'? How about that? Now you see what a high-priced attorney buys?' And I'm like, 'Way to go, man. That's great. I never thought you done her.' He just got this big shi – pardon me – this big grin. He kind of leaned over close and said, 'Ha ha ha, I guess the joke's on them.'"
This seemed like an improbable conversation to me. I'd never met David Barney, but I couldn't believe he'd talk like that. I watched Curtis's face. "And from that, you concluded what?"
"I concluded he done her. You have a boyfriend?"
"He's a cop."
"Bullshiiiit. I don't believe you. What's his name?"
"Lieutenant Dolan."
"What's he do?"
"Homicide. STPD."
"Don't you never date anybody else?"
"He's too jealous for that. He'd rip your head right off your neck if he found out you were hustling me. Did you talk to David Barney any other time?"
"Besides jail and court? I don't think so. Just them two occasions."
"It seems odd that he'd say that."
"How come? Let's discuss that." He put his chin on his fist, ready to engage me in protracted discourse.
"The man hardly knows you, Curtis. Why would he confide something so significant? And right there in court...." I cupped a hand to my ear. "With the sound of the judge's gavel still ringing in the air."
Curtis frowned thoughtfully. "You'd have to ask him that, but if you're asking me, I'd say he knows I'm a jailbird. He might have felt more comfortable with me than all his high-tone friends. Anyhow, why not? Trial was over. What's anybody going to do? Even if they heard him there's no way they can touch him on account of double jeopardy."
"Where were you when this conversation was taking place?"
"Outside the door. It was Department Six. He come out and I clapped him on the shoulder, shook his hand –"
"What about reporters? Wasn't he being mobbed at that point?"
"Oh, God, yes. They was everyplace. Yelling his name, stickin' microphones in his face, asking how he felt."
I could feel the skepticism rise. "And in the middle of it he stopped and made that remark?"
"Well, yeah. He leaned over and spoke in my ear just like I said. You're a private detective? Is that really what you do?"
I shrugged to myself and began to print his account of events. "That's really what I do," I said.
"So like when I get out, if I have a problem, I can look you up in the phone book?"
I wasn't paying much attention to him since I was in the process of converting his version into a written statement. "I guess so." If you can read.
"How much do you charge for a service like that? What's that cost?"
"Depends on what you want."
"But about what?"
"Three hundred bucks an hour," I said, lying automatically. At fifty bucks an hour he might possibly afford me.
"Go onnn. I don't believe it."
"Plus expenses."
"Goddamn, I can't believe it. Are you shittin' me or what? Three hundred an hour. Every hour you work?"
"It's the truth."
"You sure make a lot of money. For a girl? Lord," he said. "How about if you lend me some? Fifty dollars, or a hundred. Just till I'm out and then I can pay you back."
"I don't think men should borrow money from women."
"Who else you gonna borrow from? I mean, I don't know dudes with dough. Unless they're drug kings, something like that. Santa Teresa, we don't even get the kings. We get more like the jacks." He snorted out a laugh. "You have a gun?"
"Sure I do," I said.
He rose halfway off his seat and peered down through the glass like I might have a six-shooter strapped to one hip. "Hey, come on. Let me see."
"I don't have it with me."
"Where's it at?"
"My office. I keep it down there in case somebody should refuse to pay a bill. Could you read this and see if it accurately reflects your recollection of your conversation with Mr. Barney?" I passed it under the glass partition, along with a pen.
He barely glanced at it. "Close enough. Hey, you print pretty good."
"I was a whiz in grade school," I said. "Could I ask you to sign it?"
"How come?"
"So we'll have a record of your testimony. That way if you forget, we can refresh your memory in court."
He scribbled a signature and passed the statement back. "Ask me something else," he said. "I'll tell you anything."
"This is fine. Thanks a lot. If I have any other questions, I'll be in touch."
After I left Curtis, I sat out in the parking lot watching cop cars come and go. This was too good to be true. Here's Curtis McIntyre driving nails into David Barney's coffin and it just didn't sound right. David Barney refused to talk now, nearly five years after the fact, two years since his acquittal. From what Lonnie'd said, extracting the most benign information from the man had been like pulling teeth. Why would he blab a makeshift confession to a dimwit like Curtis? Oh, well. It's hard to reconcile the inconsistencies in human nature. I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.
According to the files, Isabelle Barney's sister, Simone Orr, was still living on the Barney property in Horton Ravine, one of two exclusive neighborhoods favored by the Santa Teresa well-to-do. Promotional materials from the Chamber of Commerce refer to Horton Ravine as a 'sparkling jewel in a park-like setting,' which should give you some idea how puffed up these pamphlets can get. To the north, the Santa Ynez Mountains dominate the sky. To the south lies the Pacific Ocean. The views are always described as 'breathtaking,' 'stunning,' or 'spectacular.'
In the real estate ads describing the area words like serenity and tranquillity abound. Every noun has an adjective attached to give it the proper tone and substance. The 'lush, well-manicured' lots are large, maybe five acres on average, and zoned for horses. The 'elegant, spacious' homes are set well away from the roads, which wind through hills "dotted" with bay, sycamore, live oak, and cypress. Lots of dotteds and amids.
I found myself rhapsodizing in salespeak as I drove up the long, circular drive to the stately, secluded entrance to this classic Mediterranean home with its sweeping, panoramic views of serene mountains and sparkling ocean. I drove into the splendid flagstone courtyard and parked my used VW amid a Lincoln and a Beamer. I got out and entered a walled garden, passing along the handsome paved gallery. The entire four-acre parcel was dotted with seasonal perennials, lush ferns, and imported palms. Also, two gardeners trailing four hundred yards of hose between them.
I'd put a call through to Simone in advance of my arrival and she'd instructed me carefully how to reach her little cottage, which was situated on the lower terrace amid lush lawns and assorted outbuildings, like the poolhouse and the toolshed. I rounded the eastern wing of the house, which I'd been told was designed by a well-known Santa Teresa architect whose name I'd never heard. I crossed the Spanish tiled entertainment terrace, complete with custom-built, black-bottom swimming pool, lava rock waterfall, spa, wading pool, and koi pond surrounded by short, perfectly trimmed hedges of lantana and yew. I descended a flight of stairs and followed a fla
gstone path to a wooden bungalow tucked up against the hillside.
The house was tiny, built of board and batten, with a steeply pitched shingle roof and wooden decking on three sides. The exterior was Shaker blue, the trim painted white. Wood frame windows formed the upper portion of the walls on all sides. The top half of the Dutch door stood open. December in Santa Teresa can be like spring in other parts of the country – gray days, a bit of rain, but with a lot of blue sky shining through.
I stopped in my tracks, completely smitten with the sight. I have a special weakness for small, enclosed spaces, a barely disguised longing to return to the womb. After the death of my parents, when I first went to live with my maiden aunt, I established a separate residence in an oversize cardboard box. I had just turned five and I can still remember the absolute absorption with which I furnished this small corrugated refuge. The floor was covered with bed pillows. I had a blanket and a lamp with a fat blue ceramic base and a sixty-watt bulb that heated the interior to a tropical pitch. I would lie on my back, reading endless picture books. My favorite was about a girl who discovered a tiny elf named Twig who lived in an overturned tomato-juice can. Fantasies within fantasies. I don't remember crying. For four months, I hummed and I read my library books, a little closed-circuit system designed to deal with grief. I ate cheese-and-pickle sandwiches like the ones my mother made. I fixed them myself because they had to be just right. Some days I substituted peanut butter for the cheese and that was good. My aunt went about her business, leaving me to work through my feelings without intrusion. My parents died Memorial Day. That fall, I started school....
"Are you Kinsey?"
I turned to look at the woman as if waking from a sleep. "That's right. And you're Simone?"
"Yes. Nice to meet you." She carried a pair of gardening scissors and a shallow wicker basket piled with cut flowers, which she set down. Her smile was brief as she held out her hand for me to shake. I judged her to be in her late thirties or very early forties. She was slightly shorter than I with wide shoulders and a stocky build, which she managed to minimize by the clothes she wore. Her hair was a reddish-blond, a fine flyaway shade much darker at the roots, cut shoulder length and crinkled from a perm. Her face was square, her mouth wide. Her eyes were an unremarkable shade of blue with mascara-darkened lashes and fine reddish brows. The outfit she wore was a black-and-white geometric print, a washable silk jacket over a long black tunic top, her long loose skirt brushing the tops of black suede boots. Her fingers were blunt and there was clear polish on her nails. She wore no jewelry and very little makeup. Belatedly, I noticed that she used a cane. I watched while she transferred it from her left hand to her right. She adjusted her stance and shifted some of her weight to the cane as she leaned down and picked up the basket at her feet.
"I have to get these in water. Come on in." She opened the bottom portion of the Dutch door and I followed her in.
I said, "Sorry to have to trouble you again on this. I know you talked to Morley Shine several months ago, I suppose you heard about his death."
"I spotted his obituary in this morning's paper. I called Lonnie's office first thing and he said you'd be in touch." She moved over to the small tiled kitchen peninsula that served as both a work surface and a breakfast bar, with two wooden stools tucked under it. She hooked the cane over the edge of the counter and took out a clear glass pitcher, which she filled with tap water. She bunched the flowers nicely and stuck them in the makeshift vase, then set the arrangement on the windowsill and dried her hands on a towel.
"Have a seat," she said. She pulled out one stool and perched on it while I took the other.
"I'll try not to take too much of your time," I said.
"Listen, if it helps convict the shitheel, you can take all the time you want."
"Isn't it a bit awkward, your living on the property just a hundred yards away from him?"
"I hope so," she said. The depth of bitterness in her voice seemed to affect its very pitch. She looked up in the direction of the big house. "If it's awkward for me, think how it must feel to him. I know it galls him that I refuse to be driven off. He'd love nothing better than to force me out."
"Can he do that?"
"Not as long as I have anything to say about it. Izzy left me the cottage. It was part of her will. She and Kenneth bought the property many years ago. They paid a small fortune for it. When that marriage folded, she got it as part of the financial settlement. She had it listed as her sole and separate property when she and David got married. She also made him sign prenups."
"Sounds very businesslike. Did she do that with the others?"
"She didn't have to. The first two had money. Kenneth was number two. With David, it was different. Everybody told her he was after her money. I guess she thought the prenups would prove he wasn't. What a joke."
"So he'll never get title to this place?"
Simone shook her head. "She rewrote her will, leaving him a life interest. When he dies – which I hope is real soon, I might add – -it goes to her daughter, Shelby. The little house is mine – as long as I'm alive, of course. When I die, it reverts."
"And you're not afraid?"
"Of David? Absolutely not. He got away with murder once, but the man's not a fool. All he has to do is sit tight. If he wins this civil suit, it's all his, isn't it?"
"It looks like it."
"He could come out of the whole deal smelling like a rose. So why in the world would he jeopardize that? Something happened to me, he's the first place they'd look."
"What if he loses?"
"My guess is he'd head straight for Switzerland. He's probably salting away money in a secret bank account. He's too clever to kill again. What would be the point?"
"But why did Isabelle set it up like that? Why tempt the Fates? As I understand it, between the prenuptial agreement and the terms of the will, she might as well have gone ahead and stuck her head in the noose."
"She was in love with the guy. She wanted to do right by him. She was also a realist. He was husband number three and she didn't want to get ripped off. Look at it from her perspective. You marry some guy; you don't think he's going to kill you. If you really thought that, you wouldn't marry him in the first place." Her eyes strayed to her watch. "Jesus, it's nearly one. I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Have you had lunch?"
"You go ahead," I said. "I shouldn't be too much longer. I'll grab a bite on the way back to the office."
"It's no problem. Please join me. I'm just making sandwiches. I'd like the company."
The invitation seemed genuine and I smiled in response. "All right. That'd be nice."
Chapter 5
* * *
She moved into the tiny kitchen area and began to take items from the tiny fridge.
"Can I do anything to help?"
"No, thanks. There isn't really room enough for two of us to work. Guys love it, unless it turns out they have a passion for cooking. Then they take over here and I sit out there where you are."
I half turned on the stool, checking out the room behind me. "Great house," I remarked.
She flushed with pleasure. "You like it? Isabelle designed it... the start of her career."
"She was an architect? I didn't know that."
"Well, she wasn't really, but she passed for one in some respects. Look around if you like. It's only three hundred square feet."
"Is that all? It seems bigger." I stepped out onto the front porch, curious to see how the general layout related to the interior. Since the windows were cranked open, I could talk to her easily as I rounded the structure. The cottage felt as if it had been miniaturized, scaled down from human-size dimensions to a little playhouse for grown-ups. Every comfort seemed attended to, without flourish or wasted space. There was even a small chimney. I stuck my head in the window so I could peer at the compact fireplace. Many interior surfaces, including the hearth, sills, and countertops, were covered with hand-painted blue-and-white tiles in a flower motif. "
This is wonderful."
Simone flashed me a smile.
I withdrew from the window and circled the perimeter. Herbs had been planted in every sunny spot. I could smell rosemary and thyme when the breeze whiffled through. The house was situated on an apron of grass that spread out in a half-moon. Below, the hillside fell away steeply into a tangle of live oak and chaparral. The view was to the mountains across the town of Santa Teresa. I reentered the only door, which opened into the kitchen. "You'll have to see my place sometime. It has a similar feel to it. A perfect little hideaway."
I continued my survey while she cut several slices from a loaf of wheat bread. The place was so small I could tour without moving far. The furnishings were antique: a crude pine table, two cane-bottom chairs, a corner cabinet with wavy, blue-tinted glass panes, a brass bed with a patchwork quilt, white on white. The bathroom was small, the only portion of the house that was fully enclosed. The rest was essentially one large room, with areas defined according to function. Everything was open, airy, tidy, full of light. Every detail was perfect, like a series of illustrations for a glossy household magazine. There were views from the front and side windows, but none from the back, where the slope rose again sharply to the main house above.
I pulled a stool up to the counter and watched her make sandwiches. She'd assembled plates, cutlery, and blue-and-white cloth napkins, which she passed to me. I set two places at the table. "If she wasn't an architect, how'd she do this?"
"She was like an unpaid apprentice to a local architect. Don't ask me how she managed it or why he agreed. She sort of went in when it suited her and did what she pleased."
"Not a bad deal," I said.
"That's where she met David. He came to work for the same firm. Her boss's name was Peter Weidmann. Have you talked to him yet?"
"No, but I intend to, as soon as I leave here."
"Oh, good. He and Yolanda live close by. About a mile from here. He's a nice man, retired now. He really taught Isabelle a lot. She was an artist by nature, but she didn't have the discipline. She could do anything she wanted, but she was always such a dilettante – full of great ideas, but lousy at development. She lost interest in most things – until she started doing this."
