I Is for Innocent

by Sue Grafton

  “Didn’t it seem odd to see someone out jogging at one-thirty in the morning?”

  “Not a bit. I’d seen him jog along the same path the night before. Emergency work you see all kinds of things.”

  “You testified at the murder trial, didn’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about this round? Will you testify again?”

  “Absolutely. Glad to do it. The poor guy needs a break.” I thought back through Barney’s story, trying to remember what he’d told me. “What about the cops? Did the police ever interview you?”

  “Some homicide detective called and I told him everything I knew. He thanked me and that’s the last I ever heard from him. I tell you one thing—they didn’t like him. They had him tried and convicted before they even got him into court.”

  “Well, thanks. I appreciate this. You’ve given me a lot of information. I may get back in touch if I have any other questions.” I gave him my card in case he thought of anything else. I crossed back to the car and sat there, making notes while his comments were still fresh.

  I thought about Tippy, searching my memory. Rhe had told me those were Tippy’s teen alcoholic years. If I remembered right, Rhe had sent her off to live with her father because she and Tippy had had a falling-out. So how would Rhe know if she was in that night or not? Maybe I should just ask Tippy and be done with it. “Do the obvious” had always been a working motto of mine.

  I glanced at my watch. It was 5:35. Santa Teresa Shellfish was out on the wharf—maybe two blocks from my apartment, which was not that far away. I headed for home, across the backside of Capillo Hill. If Tippy was out that night, I couldn’t see why she wouldn’t own up to it six years later. Maybe nobody’d ever asked her. What a happy thought.

  12

  I parked the car in front of my place, dropped off the briefcase, plucked my windbreaker off the back of the door, and walked the two blocks to the wharf. The sun wasn’t quite down yet, but the light was gray. The days were marked by this protracted twilight, darker shadows gathering among the trees while the sky remained the color of polished aluminum. When the sun finally set, the clouds would turn purple and blue and the last rays of sun would pierce the gloom with shafts of red. Winter nights in California were usually in the fifties. Summer nights were often in the fifties, too, which offered the possibility of sleeping year-round beneath a quilt.

  To my right, a quarter mile away, the long slender arm of the breakwater curved around the marina, cradling sailboats in its embrace. The ocean pounded on the seawall, the force of the waves creating a plume of spray that marched from right to left. Beneath my feet, the pier seemed to shift as if nudged by the waves. The smell of creosote rose like a vapor from heavy timbers saturated to a dark gloss. The tide was high, the water looking like dark blue ink, silver pilings stained with the damp. Cars rolled down the pier, the rumble of loose boards creating a continuous tremor along the length. The fog was rolling in, bringing with it the damp cloudy smell of seaweed. Darkened boats were moored just offshore in the poor man’s marina.

  On the wharf itself the lights were bright and cold against the deep shadows of the ocean. The Marina Restaurant was ablaze, the air around it scented with the savory aroma of char-grilled fish and steaks. One of the parking valets jogged toward the end of the small lot to retrieve a vehicle. Gulls rested on the peaked roof of the bait-and-tackle shop, the shingled slopes banked with snowy white where the bird droppings had collected. The fishermen were packing up, tackle boxes clattering, while a pelican waddled about beady-eyed, still hoping for a handout.

  Looking back toward the town, I could see the dark hills carpeted in pinlights. The 101 was laid out parallel to the beach, the California coastline running an unexpected east to west in this stretch. Across the four lanes of the freeway, the one- and two- story buildings in the business district marched away up State Street, diminishing in size like a drawing lesson in perspective. The palm trees were a dark contrast to the artificial light that was just beginning to bathe the downtown with its pale yellow glow.

  The sun had now dropped from sight but the sky wasn’t completely dark, more the ashen charcoal gray of a cold hearth. I reached the brown-painted board-and-batten building that housed the Santa Teresa Shellfish Company. Eight wooden picnic tables and benches were secured to the pier out in front. The three employees inside were young, late teens—in Tippy’s case, early twenties—wearing blue jeans and dark blue Santa Teresa Shellfish T-shirts, each emblazoned with a crab. Along the front of the booth, seawater tanks were filled with live crabs and lobsters, stacked on one another like sullen marine spiders. A glass-fronted display case was lined with crushed ice, fish steaks and fillets arranged in columns of gray and pink and white. A counter ran along the back. Beyond it, through a doorway, I could see an enormous fish being gutted.

  They were in the process of closing up, cleaning off the counters. I watched Tippy for almost a minute before she spotted me. Her motions were brisk, her manner efficient as she waited to take an order from a fellow standing at the display case. “Last order of the day. We gotta close in five minutes.”

  “Oh, right. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late.” He scooted down toward the tank, pointing to the hapless object of his appetite. She tucked her order pad in her pocket and plunged her arm into the murky water. Deftly, she seized the lobster across its back and held it up for his approval. She plunked it on the counter, grabbed up a butcher knife, and inserted the tip just under the shell where the tail connected to the spiny body. I glanced away at that moment, but I could hear the thump as she pounded the knife and neatly severed the creature’s spine. What a way to earn a living. All that death for minimum wage. She popped it in the steamer, slammed the door shut, and set the timer. She turned to me without really registering my identity.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Hi, Tippy. Kinsey Millhone. How are you?”

  I saw belated recognition flash in her eyes. “Oh, hi. My mom just called and said you’d be stopping by.” She turned her head. “Corey? Can I go now? I’ll close out the register tomorrow if you can do it today.”

  “No problem.”

  She turned to the fellow waiting for his lobster dinner. “You want something to drink?”

  “You have iced tea in a can?”

  She took the can out of the cooler, put ice in a paper cup, and extracted a small container of coleslaw from the back of the display case. She scribbled the total across the bottom of the ticket and tore it off with a flourish. He gave her a ten and she made change with the same efficiency. The timer on the steamer began to peep. She reached in with a hot mitt and flopped the steaming lobster on the paper plate. The guy had barely picked up his order when she untied her apron and let herself out the Dutch door to one side.

  “We can sit out at one of the tables unless you’d rather go somewhere else. My car’s parked over there. You want to talk in the car?”

  “We can head in that direction. I really just have a couple of quick questions.”

  “You want to know what I was doing the night Aunt Isabelle was killed, right?”

  “That’s right.” I was sorry Rhe’d had time to call her, but what could I do? Even if I’d come straight over, Rhe would have had time to telephone. Now Tippy’d had sufficient warning to cook up a good cover story . . . if she needed one.

  “God, I’ve been trying to think. I was at my dad’s, I guess.”

  I stared at her briefly. “You don’t remember anything in particular about that night?”

  “Not really. I was still in high school back then so I probably had a lot of homework or something.”

  “Weren’t you out of school? That would have been the day after Christmas. Most kids have the week off between Christmas and New Year’s.”

  She frowned slightly. “I must have been, if you say so. I really don’t remember.”

  “You have any idea what time your mother called to tell you about Isabelle?”

&n
bsp; “Uh, I think about an hour later. Like an hour after it happened. I know she called from Aunt Isabelle’s, but I think she’d been there awhile with Simone.”

  “Is there any chance you might have been out around one or one-thirty?”

  “One-thirty in the morning? You mean, like doing something?”

  “Yes, a date, or maybe just bopping around with your buddies.”

  “Nunh-unh. My dad didn’t like me to be out late.”

  “He was home that night?”

  “Sure. Probably,” she said. “Do you remember what your mom said when she called?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “I don’t think so. I mean, I remember she woke me up and she was crying and all.”

  “Does your dad have a truck?”

  “Just for work,” she said. “He’s a painting contractor and he carries his equipment in the pickup.”

  “He had the same truck back then?”

  “He’s had the same truck ever since I can remember. He needs a new one actually.”

  “The one he has is white?”

  That one slowed her down some. A trick question perhaps? “Yeah,” she said reluctantly. “Why?”

  “Here’s the deal,” I said. “I talked to a guy who says he saw you out that night, driving a white pickup.”

  “Well, that’s screwed. I wasn’t out,” she said with just a touch of indignation.

  “What about your father? Maybe he was using the truck.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What’s his name? I can check it out with him. He might remember something.”

  “Go ahead. I don’t care. It’s Chris White. He lives on West Glen, down around the bend from my mom.”

  “Thanks. This has been real helpful.”

  That seemed to worry her. “It has?”

  I shrugged and said, “Well, sure. If your father can verify the fact that you were home, then this other business is probably just a case of mistaken identity.” I allowed just the tiniest note of misgiving to sound in my voice, a little bird of doubt singing in a distant part of the forest. The effect wasn’t lost.

  “Who was it said they saw me?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.” I looked at my watch. “I better let you go.”

  “You want a ride or something? It’s no trouble.” Little Miss Helpful.

  “I walked over from my place, but thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Night,” she said. Her parting smile seemed manufactured, one of those expressions clouded with conflicting emotions. If she didn’t watch it, those little frown marks were going to require cosmetic surgery by the time she was thirty. I glanced back and she gave me a halfhearted wave, which I returned in kind. I headed back down the pier, thinking “Liar, liar, pants on fire” for reasons I couldn’t name.

  I dined that night on Cheerios and skim milk. I ate, bowl in hand, standing at the kitchen sink, while I stared out the window. I made my mind a blank, erasing the day’s events in a cloud of chalk dust. I was still troubled about Tippy, but there was no point in trying to force the issue. I turned the whole business over to my subconscious for review. Whatever was bugging me would surface in time.

  At 6:40, I left for my appointment with Francesca Voigt. Like most of the principal players in this drama, she and Kenneth Voigt lived in Horton Ravine. I drove west on Cabana and up the long, winding hill past Harley’s Beach, entering the Ravine through the back gate. The entire Horton property was originally two ranches of more than three thousand acres each, combined and purchased in the mid-1800s by a sea captain named Robertson, who, in turn, sold the land to a sheep rancher named Tobias Horton. The land has since been subdivided into some 670 wooded parcels, ranging from one-and-a-half-acre to fifty-acre estates, laced with thirty miles of bridal paths. An aerial view might show that two houses, seemingly miles apart, were really only two lots away from each other, separated more by winding roads than by any actual geographical distance. In truth, David Barney wasn’t the only one whose property was in range of Isabelle’s.

  The Voigts lived on what must have been six or eight acres, if one could judge property lines by the course of the fifteen-foot hedges that snaked along the road and cut down along the hillside. The shrubs and flower beds were all carefully tended, towering eucalyptus grouped together at the fringes. The driveway was a half circle with a bed of thickly planted pansies massed together in its center, a blend of deep reds and purples, petals vibrant in the glow of the landscape lighting. Off to the right, I could see horse stalls, a tack room, and an empty corral. The air smelled faintly musty, a blend of straw, dampness, and the various by-products of horse butts.

  The house was built low to the ground, white frame and white painted brick, with long brick terraces across the front, dark green plantation shutters flanking the wide mullioned windows. I left my car out in the drive, rang the bell, and waited. A stolid white maid in a black uniform opened the door. She was probably in her fifties and looked foreign for some reason—facial structure, body type . . . I wasn’t really sure what it was. She didn’t quite make eye contact. Her gaze came to rest right about at my clavicle and remained there as I indicated who I was and told her that I was expected. She made no reply, but she conveyed with body language that she comprehended my utterings.

  I followed her across the polished white marble foyer and then trudged with her across white carpeting as thick and pristine as a heavy layer of snow. We passed through the living room—glass and chrome, not a knickknack or a book in sight. The room had been designed for a race of visiting giants. All the furniture was upholstered in white and oversize: big plump sofas, massive armchairs, the glass coffee table as large as a double-bed mattress. On a ponderous credenza, there was a bowl filled with wooden apples as big as softballs. The effect was strange, re-creating the same feelings I had when I was five. Perhaps, unbeknownst to myself, I’d begun to shrink.

  We walked down a hallway wide enough for a snowplow. The maid paused at a door, knocked once, and opened it for me, staring politely at my sternum as I passed in front of her. Francesca was seated at a sewing machine in a room proportioned for humans, painted buttery yellow. One entire wall was covered by a beautifully organized custom-built cabinet that opened to reveal cubbyholes for patterns, bolts of fabric, trim, and sewing supplies. The room was airy, the interior light excellent, the pale hardwood floors sanded and varnished.

  Francesca was tall, very slender, with short-cropped brown hair and a chiseled face. She had high cheekbones, a strong jawline, a long straight nose, and a pouting mouth with a pronounced upper lip. She wore loose white pants of some beautifully draped material, with a long peach tunic top that she had belted in heavy leather. Her hands were slender, her fingers long, her nails tapered and polished. She wore a series of heavy silver bracelets that clanked together on her wrist like chains, confirming my suspicion that glamour is a burden only beautiful women are strong enough to bear. She looked like she would smell of lilacs or newly peeled oranges.

  Francesca smiled as she held her hand out and we introduced ourselves. “Have a seat. I’m nearly finished. Shall I have Guda bring us some wine?”

  “That would be nice.”

  I glanced back in time to see Guda’s gaze drop to Francesca’s belt buckle. I took this to mean she had heard and would obey. She nodded and moved out of the room on crepe-soled shoes. “Does she speak English?” I asked once the door was shut.

  “Not fluently, but well enough. She’s Swedish. She’s only been with us a month. The poor dear. I know she’s homesick, but I can’t get her to say much about it.” She sat back down at her machine, taking up a length of gauzy blue fabric that she had gathered across one end. “I hope this doesn’t seem rude, but I don’t like leaving work undone.”

  Expertly she turned the piece, adjusted a knob, and zigzagged a row of stitches across the other end. The sewing machine made a soothing, low-pitched hum. I watched her, feeling mute. I didn’t know enough about sewing to form a qu
estion, but she seemed to sense my curiosity. She looked up with a smile. “This is a turban, in case you’re wondering. I design headware for cancer patients.”

  “How did you get into that?”

  She added a small square of Velcro and stitched around the edges, her knee pressing the lever that activated the machine. “I was having chemotherapy for breast cancer two years ago. One morning in the shower, all my hair fell out in clumps. I had a lunch date in an hour and there I was, bald as an egg. I improvised one of these from a scarf I had on hand, but it was not a great success. Synthetics don’t adhere well to skulls as smooth as glass. The idea for the business got me through the rest of the chemo and out the other side. Funny how that works. Tragedy can turn your life around if you’re open to it.” She sent a look in my direction. “Have you ever been seriously ill?”

  “I’ve been beaten up. Does that count?”

  She didn’t respond with the usual exclamations of surprise or distaste. Given what she’d been through, merely being punched out must have been an easy fix. “Call me if it ever happens to you again. I have cosmetics designed to cover any kind of bruise you might have. Actually, I have a whole line of products for the ravages of fate. The company’s called Head-for-Cover. I’m the sole proprietress.”

  “How’s your health at this point?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking. These days, so many of us make it. It’s not like the past when any cancer diagnosis meant death.” She added the other small square of Velcro, flipped the foot up, removed the garment, and clipped the threads. Deftly, she adjusted the turban around her head. “What do you think?”

  “Very exotic,” I said. “Of course, you could wrap your head in toilet paper and you’d look okay.”

  She laughed. “I like that. Disposable head wraps.” She made a note to herself and then set the turban aside, shaking her hair loose. “Done. Let’s go out on the terrace. We can use the heaters if it seems chilly.”

  The wide stone terrace at the rear of the house looked out over Santa Teresa with a view toward the mountains. In the town below, lights had come on, delineating the layout of city blocks in a grid of streets and intersections. We settled into wicker chairs padded with plump cushions in floral chintz. The pool was lighted, a glowing blue-green rectangle with a spa at one end. Wisps of steam drifted off the surface, creating a mild breeze scented with chlorine. The surrounding grass looked lush and dark, the house behind us a blaze of yellow.