I Is for Innocent

by Sue Grafton

  “Me neither,” I replied.

  It was 2:34 when I left Simone and returned to my car. A heavy marine layer had begun to settle in, obscuring the view. The afternoon light already had the gray feel of twilight and the air was chilly. There was something distinctly unpleasant about having to pass the main house. I glanced quickly at the windows that looked out over the courtyard. There were lights burning in the living room, though the rooms upstairs were dark. No one seemed to be aware of my passing. The BMW was still parked where it had been when I arrived. The Lincoln was gone. I unlocked my car and slid under the steering wheel. I tucked the key in the ignition and paused to scan the house again.

  On this side, a loggia ran along the second story, the red tile roof supported by a series of white columns. A vine had grown up the pillars and trailed now along the overhang, lacy green with a white blossom, probably fragrant if you got close enough. The front door was bisected by a shadow from the balcony overhead, the view further eclipsed by the branches of the live oaks that crowded the walled garden. Because the driveway was long and curved up at such an angle, the house wasn’t visible from the road below. A passerby might have caught sight of someone, approaching or departing, but at 1:30 in the morning, who’d be up and about? Teenagers, perhaps, getting home from a date. I wondered if there’d been a concert or a play that night, some charitable event that might have kept the area residents out after midnight. I’d have to check back through the papers and find out what was going on, if anything. Isabelle had been killed in the early morning hours on the day after Christmas, which didn’t sound promising. The fact that no one had ever stepped forward with information made the possibility of a witness seem even more remote.

  I started the car and shifted into reverse, backing around to my left so I could head down the driveway. David Barney had claimed he was out for a night jog when Isabelle was shot. Night jogging, right, in a neighborhood dark as pitch. Much of Horton Ravine had a rural feel to it—wooded stretches without streetlights and no sidewalks at all. While no one could corroborate his story, there was no one to contradict it either. It didn’t help matters that the cops had never come up with a single piece of evidence tying Barney to the scene. No witnesses, no weapon, no fingerprints. How was Lonnie going to nail the sucker if he had no ammunition?

  I eased the VW down the driveway and hung a left at the bottom. I kept one eye on the odometer and the other on the road, cruising past several houses until I spotted the one that I was looking for—the place David Barney leased when he left Isabelle’s. The house in question was the architectural equivalent of a circus tent: white poured concrete, with a roof line broken into wedges that fanned out from a center pole. Each triangular section was supported by three gaily painted metal pipes. Most of the windows were irregularly shaped, angled to catch some aspect of the ocean view. My guess was that inside the floors would be aggregate concrete, with the plumbing and furnace ducts plainly visible and raw. Add some corrugated plastic panels and an atrium done up in wall-to-wall Astroturf and you’d have the kind of house Metropolitan Home might refer to as “assured,” “unsparing,” or “brilliantly iconoclastic.” “Unremittingly tacky” would also cover it. Pay enough for anything and it passes for taste.

  I parked my car on the berm and hiked back along the road. I reached Isabelle’s driveway in exactly seven minutes. Walking up the drive might take another five at best. If you made the trip at night and didn’t want to be seen, you’d have to step off into the bushes if a car went past. At that hour, you weren’t likely to find anyone else out on foot. Returning to my car, I timed myself again. Eight minutes this round, but I wasn’t really pushing it. I made a note of the numbers on the mailboxes by the road. The neighbors might know something that would be of help. I’d have to do a door-to-door canvass to satisfy myself on that point.

  I’d scheduled my appointment with the Weidmanns for 3:30, which gave me twenty minutes to spare. In most investigations I’m hired for, the object of the exercise is to flush out culprits: burglars, deadbeats, embezzlers, con artists, perpetrators of insurance fraud. Occasionally, I take on a missing-persons search, but the process is much the same—like picking at a piece of knitting until you find a loose thread. Pull at the right point and the whole garment comes unraveled. This one was different. Here, the quarry was known. The question wasn’t who, but how to bring him down. Morley Shine had already done a thorough (though poorly organized) investigation and he’d come up with zilch. Now it was my turn, but what was left? I made some doodles on the page, hoping something would occur to me. Most of my doodles looked like great big goose eggs.

  6

  It’s been my observation that the rich like to subdivide into the haves and the have-mores. What’s the point in achieving status if you can’t still be compared favorably with someone else in your peer group? Just because the wealthy band together doesn’t mean they’ve relinquished their desire to be judged superior. The circle is simply more select and the criteria more exotic. The assessment of personal real estate is a case in point. Mansions, while easily distinguished from middle-income tract houses, can be further classified according to a few easily remembered yardsticks. The size and location of the property should be given first consideration. Additionally, the longer the driveway, the more points will be accorded. The presence of a private security guard or a pack of attack-trained dogs would naturally be counted more discerning than mere electronic equipment, unless of an extremely sophisticated sort. Beyond that, one must factor in such matters as guesthouses, spiked gates, reflecting pools, topiary, and excessive outdoor lighting. Obviously the fine points will vary from community to community, but none of these categories should be overlooked in assessing individual worth.

  The Weidmanns lived on Lower Road, one of Horton Ravine’s less prestigious addresses. Despite the pricey tone of the neighborhood, half the homes were nondescript. Theirs was unremarkable, a one-story pale green stucco, adorned with wrought-iron porch supports and topped with a flat rock-composite roof. The lot was large and nicely landscaped, but the house was too close to the road to count for much. Given the fact that Peter Weidmann was an architect, I’d expected a lavish layout, an entertainment pavilion or an indoor pool, embellishments that would reflect the full range of his design talents. Or maybe this one did that.

  I parked on a concrete apron to one side of the house. Once on the porch, I rang the bell, and waited. I half expected a maid, but Mrs. Weidmann came to the front door herself. She must have been in her seventies, smartly turned out in a two-piece black velour sweatsuit and a pair of Rockport walking shoes.

  “Mrs. Weidmann? I’m Kinsey Millhone,” I said, holding out my hand politely.

  She seemed disconcerted by the move and there was one of those embarrassing delays until we actually shook hands. There was something in the hesitation—distaste or prudery—that caused me to bristle inwardly. Her hair was a stiff cap of platinum blond, parted down the middle, the strands separating into two tense curls, like rams’ horns in the center. She had bags under her eyes and her upper lids had begun to droop, reducing the visible portion of her irises to mere hints of blue. Her skin was a peachy color, her cheeks tinted a hot pink. She looked like she’d just flunked a stress test, but a closer examination showed she was simply wearing foundation and blusher in a shade far too vivid for her coloring.

  She stared at me, as if waiting for a little door-to-door salesmanship. “What was this regarding? I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind.”

  “I work for Lonnie Kingman, Kenneth Voigt’s attorney in his suit against David Barney—”

  “Oh! Yes, yes, yes. Of course. You wanted to speak to Peter about the murder. Terrible. I believe you said the other fellow died. What was his name, that investigator. . . .” She tapped her fingers on her forehead as if to stimulate thought.

  “Morley Shine,” I said.

  “That’s the one.” She lowered her voice. “I thought he was dreadful. I didn’t like him.”

>   “Really,” I said, feeling instantly defensive. I’d always thought Morley was a good investigator and a nice man besides.

  She wrinkled her nose and the corners of her mouth turned up. “He smelled so peculiar. I’m sure the man drank.” Her expression was one of perpetual pained smiles superimposed on profound disapproval. Age plays cruel tricks on the human face; all our repressed feelings become visible on the surface, where they harden like a mask. “He was here several times, asking all these silly questions. I hope you don’t intend to do that.”

  “I will have to ask some, but I hope not to be a bother. May I come in?”

  “Of course. Please excuse my bad manners. Peter’s in the garden. We can chat out there. I was going out for my walk when you knocked, but I can do that in a bit. Do you exercise?”

  “I jog.”

  “Jogging’s very bad. All that pounding is much too hard on the knees,” she said. “Walking’s the thing. My doctor is Julian Clifford . . . do you know him?”

  I shook my head.

  “He’s a top orthopedic surgeon. He’s also a neighbor and a very dear friend. I can’t tell you how often he’s warned me about the harm people do in their determination to jog. It’s absurd.”

  “Really,” I said faintly.

  She went on in this vein, her tone argumentative though I offered no resistance. I had no intention of altering my regimen for a woman who thought Morley smelled bad. Her shoes made no sound as we crossed the marble-tiled foyer and moved down a hallway to the rear of the house. While the exterior was strictly fifties ranch style, the interior was furnished in an Oriental motif: Persian carpets, matching silk-paneled screens, ornate mirrors, a black lacquer chest inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She had two matching cloisonné vases the size of umbrella stands. Many items seemed to come in pairs, one placed on either side of something grotesque.

  I followed her through the kitchen and out the back door, where a concrete patio ran across the rear of the house. Four low steps led down to a brick walk that extended into a small formal garden. Toward the rear of the property, I could see a woody area peppered with toadstools, some growing singly, some in fairy rings. The air smelled damply of dead leaves and mosses. A few forlorn birds were still perched in the treetops, their singing disconsolate as winter crept closer.

  The patio furniture was wrought iron and canvas, the seat cushions fading from exposure to the weather. Peter Weidmann was napping, a thick hardback book lying open in his lap. I’d glanced at a copy in a bookstore recently: Part One of some celebrity’s boring autobiography “as told to” some writer who’d been hired to render it intelligent. It looked as if he’d read all the way to page five. A sprinkling of cigarette butts surrounded his chair. He was probably not allowed to smoke in the house.

  He looked like a man who’d lived all his life in a business suit. Now retired, he wore dark, stiff jeans and a new plaid flannel shirt, packing creases still showing, two buttons open to expose a portion of his white undershirt. Why does a man like that look so vulnerable in leisure clothes? He was narrow through the face, with black unruly eyebrows and short-cropped white hair. He and Yolanda had reached that stage in their fifty-year marriage where she looked more like his mother than his wife.

  “This is called active retirement,” she said with a laugh. “I wish I could retire, but of course, I never had a job.” Her tone of voice was jocular, though her comment was bitter. The pretended humor barely served to mask the bite underneath. She nudged his shoulder, relishing the excuse to disturb his peace and quiet. “Someone to see you, Peter.”

  “I can come back a little later. There’s no need to wake him.”

  “He won’t mind a bit. It’s not as if he’s done any hard work today.” She leaned close and said, “Peter.”

  He roused himself with a start, disoriented by the depths of his sleep and the sudden voice in his ear.

  “We have company. It’s about Isabelle and David. This young woman is Mr. Kingman’s secretary.” She turned to me with a sudden worry. “I hope that’s right. You’re not an attorney yourself, are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “I didn’t think you looked like an attorney. Your name again is what—?”

  Mr. Weidmann set his book aside and rose to his feet. He extended his hand. “Peter Weidmann.”

  We shook hands. “I’m Kinsey Millhone. Sorry to disturb you.”

  “That’s quite all right. Would you like some coffee or a cup of tea?”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  Yolanda said to him, “Well, it’s much too chilly to be out on the porch.” And then to me, “He’s had the flu twice this winter and I’m not about to go through that again. I was exhausted from all the fetching and carrying. Men are such babies when it comes to being sick.” The complaint was accompanied by a wink to me. She’d claim she was teasing if Peter took offense.

  “I’m afraid I don’t make a very good patient,” he said.

  “It’s not something you’d want to be good at,” I replied.

  He made a gesture toward the house. “We can talk in the den.”

  We formed a little three-person procession into the house, which seemed nearly stuffy after the damp air outside. The den was small and the furniture had the same shabby feel as the porch chairs. I suspected the house was divided into “his” and “hers.” “Her” portion was well appointed—expensive, overdecorated, filled with objects probably collected from various trips to foreign ports. She’d co-opted the living room, the formal dining room, the kitchen, the breakfast room, and most probably all the bathrooms, the guest bedroom, and the master suite. He’d been accorded the back porch and the den, where he’d carefully hoarded all the household items she was threatening to throw out.

  As soon as we entered the paneled den, she began to wave her hands in the air, making a face about the smell of cigarette smoke. “For heaven’s sake, Peter, this is dreadful. I don’t see how you can stand it.” She moved over and cranked a window open, fanning the air with a magazine she’d picked up.

  I’m not all that fond of cigarette smoke myself, but with her making such a scene, I found myself coming to his defense. “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t bother me,” I said.

  She picked up a filled ashtray and made a face. “Well, it might not bother you, but it’s disgusting,” she said. “Just let me fetch the Airwick.” She moved out of the room taking the offending ashtray with her. The tension level dropped a notch. I turned my attention to the wall above the fireplace, which was hung with framed “celebrity” photographs. I moved closer to have a look. “These are you?”

  “In the main,” he said.

  There were pictures of Peter Weidmann with the mayor at a groundbreaking ceremony, Isabelle Barney in the background; Peter at a banquet receiving some kind of placard; Peter at a construction site, posed with the contractor. The latter photo had apparently been run in the local newspaper because someone had clipped it, framed it, and hung it beside the original. The caption identified the occasion as the dedication of a new recreational facility. From the various cars visible in the background, I judged the majority of the pictures had been taken in the early seventies. Along with the commercial projects, there were photographs of residential sites. Two photographs featured minor-level “movie stars” whose homes he’d apparently designed and built. I took a moment to view the whole gallery, as interested in seeing Isabelle as I was in seeing him. I like to watch people at work. Our occupations bring out aspects of our personalities no one would ever dream of if they met us in “civilian” settings.

  In his hard hat and coveralls, Peter looked young, very sure of himself. It wasn’t simply that the pictures had been taken years ago when he was, in fact, younger. This must have been the apex of his career, with everything going right. He had had big projects in the works. He must have had recognition, influence, money, friends. He looked happy. I glanced over at the man beside me, so lusterless by comparison.

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nbsp; I caught him watching my reaction. “This is great,” I said.

  He smiled. “I’ve been very fortunate.” He pointed to one of the photos. “Sam Eaton, the state senator,” he said. “I did a house for him and his wife, Mary Lee. This is Harris Angel, the Hollywood film producer. You’ve probably heard of him.”

  I said, “The name sounds familiar,” though it didn’t at all.

  Yolanda returned with the Airwick. “Maria put this in the refrigerator of all places,” she said. She set the bottle on the table and exposed the wick. The scent that wafted out, a cross between Raid and shoe polish, made me long for the smell of cigarette smoke instead.

  I took in the rest of the room at a glance. There was a stack of newspapers on the floor beside Peter’s leather wing chair, a smaller pile of papers on the ottoman, magazines on the end table, and evidence of lunch dishes. There was a library table arranged under the windows that overlooked the backyard. On it was an old portable typewriter, a stack of books, and a second ashtray filled with cigarette butts. An old dining-room chair was pulled up to the table, with a second chair nearby piled high with paperbacks. The wastebasket was full.

  She caught my eye. “He’s working on a history of Santa Teresa architecture.” I realized in a flash that in spite of her hostility, she was also proud of him.

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “It’s just something I’m fooling around with,” he put in.

  She had to laugh again. “I’ve got plenty for him to do if he gets tired of that. Have a seat if you can find a place. I hope you can stand the mess. I won’t even let the cleaning woman in here. It’s too far gone. She can do the whole house in the time it takes her to get this one room straightened up.”

  He smiled uncomfortably. “Now, Yolanda. Be fair. I clean the place myself . . . sometimes as often as twice a year.”

  “But not this year,” she said, topping him.

  He let the subject matter drop. He cleared his leather wing chair for her and pulled over a dining-room chair for me. I pushed some files aside, making room to sit.