I is for Innocent (10 page)

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.

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.

“Just put those files on the floor,” she said.

“This is fine.” I was already tired of the game they played—her put-downs, his collusion, my
pro forma
reassurances. “Did you want to get your walk in? I didn't mean to hold you up.”

Her expression shifted. Being brittle herself, she was easily injured. “I can certainly do that if you think I'm in the way.”

“Now, now, now. You stay right where you are,” he said. “I'm sure she's here to talk to both of us.”

“I suppose we could have some sherry,” she said hesitantly.

He waved her into the chair. “I'll do that. You just have a seat.”

“Please don't go to any trouble. I have to be somewhere else shortly.” This was not entirely true, but I wasn't sure how much more I could endure. I took my notebook out of my handbag and leafed through the pages. “Let me ask a couple of questions and then I can get out of here. I don't want to take any more of your time than I have to.”

Peter sank into a chair. “Exactly what is it you're doing?”

Yolanda adjusted one of the rings she wore, making sure the square-cut diamond was properly centered on her finger. “You'll have to pardon Peter. I only explained it to him twice.”

“This is a follow-up to Morley Shine's investigation,” I said, ignoring her. “Frankly, we're hoping to strengthen
the plaintiff's case. Did you have contact with David or Isabelle on the day she died?”

He said, “I don't remember anything specific, but it seems unlikely.”

“Well, of course it's unlikely. You were in the hospital, don't you remember? Your heart attack was December fifteenth that year. You were at St. Terry's until January second. I was afraid to tell you about Isabelle because I didn't want you upset.”

His look was blank. “I suppose that's right. I'd forgotten that it all happened in that same period,” he said to her. And then to me, “They'd pulled out of the firm by then and set up offices of their own.”

“Taking any client they could,” she inserted with acid.

“Was there bad blood about that?”

She fiddled primly with her ring. “Not to hear him tell it, but of course there was.”

“Now, Yolanda, that's not true. I wished her all the best.”

“Peter hates to make a fuss. He won't confront anyone, least of all someone like her. After all he'd done.”

“As I understand it, Isabelle came up with the idea for tiny houses while she was working for you.”

“That's right.”

“What about . . . what's it called . . . proprietary rights? Wouldn't the idea actually belong to you?”

Peter started to answer, but Yolanda broke in. “Of course. He never even asked her to sign the form. The woman walked out with everything. He wouldn't even press the point, though I begged him to. In effect, Isabelle stole millions from him—literally millions. . . .”

I formed my next question with care. I could already tell Peter was much too circumspect to be of any use in my investigation. Yolanda, the spite queen, was going to serve me well if I could set her up right. “You must have been furious.”

“And why wouldn't I be? She was a self-indulgent, degenerate—” She bit off the sentence.

“Go on,” I said.

“Yolanda,” Peter said with a warning look.

She amended her stance. “I wouldn't want to speak ill.”

“It won't hurt her at this point. I understand she was excessive—”

“Excessive doesn't
begin
to cover it. She was downright dishonest!”

Peter leaned toward his wife. “I don't think we should present a totally biased view. You may not have been fond of her, but she
was
talented.”

“Yes, she was,” Yolanda said, coloring. “And I suppose—to be fair about it—her problems were not all her fault. Sometimes I almost felt sorry for her. She was neurotic and high-strung. The woman had everything but happiness. David latched onto her like a parasite and he sucked her dry.”

I waited for more, but she seemed to have run down. I looked at Peter. “Is that your analysis?”

“It's not my place to judge.”

“I'm not asking you to judge her. I'd like your point of view. It might help me understand the situation.”

He thought about that one briefly and apparently decided it made sense. “She was unfortunate. I don't know what else to say.”

“How long did she work for you?”

“A little over four years. An informal apprenticeship.”

“Simone told me she didn't actually have an architectural degree,” I said.

“That's correct. Isabelle had no formal design training. She had wonderful ideas. She bubbled over with enthusiasm. It was almost as if the same reservoir fed both her creativity and her destruction.”

“Was she a manic-depressive?”

“She seemed to live with very high levels of anxiety, which is why she drank,” he said.

“She drank because she was an alcoholic,” Yolanda put in.

“We don't know that,” he said.

She had to laugh at that, patting herself on the chest to curb her merriment. “You'll never get a man to admit a beautiful woman is flawed.”

I could feel the tension collecting again at the back of my neck. “What sort of man is David Barney? I gather he's an architect. Is he talented?”

Yolanda said, “He's a carpenter with pretensions.”

Peter brushed her response aside. “He's a very good technician,” Peter said.

“Technician?”

“That's not meant as criticism.”

“He's the defendant. You can criticize all you like.”

“I'm reluctant to do that. After all, we're in the same profession even though I'm retired. It's a small town. I don't feel it's my place to comment on his qualifications.”

“What about the man himself?”

“I never cared for him personally.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Peter. Why don't you tell her the truth? You can't stand the man. Nobody can abide him. He's sly and dishonest. He manipulates left and right—”

“Yolanda—”

“Don't you ‘Yolanda' me! She's asked for an opinion and I'm giving her mine. You're so busy being nice you forget how to tell the truth. David Barney is a spider. Peter thought we should all socialize, and we did, over my protest. I felt it was going too far. When the two of them were in Peter's firm, I tried to be pleasant. I didn't care for David, but I did what was expected. Isabelle had brought in a great deal of business and we were appreciative of that. Once she got involved with David . . . he was not a good influence.”

I refocused my attention. She'd be great on the witness stand if she could keep from losing it. “How'd she manage to bring in so much business?”

“She had a lot of money and she traveled in the right circles. People looked up to her because it was clear she had exquisite taste. She was very stylish. Whatever she took up, everyone else followed suit.”

“When she and David left, they took a lot of clients with them?”

“That's not unusual,” Peter said hastily. “It's unfortunate, of course, but it happens in every business.”

“It was a disaster,” Yolanda said. “Peter retired shortly afterwards. The last time we saw them was the dinner party they gave Labor Day weekend.”

“When the gun disappeared?”

The two exchanged a look. Peter cleared his throat again. “We heard about that later.”

“We heard about it at the time. There was a frightful quarrel upstairs in the master bedroom. Of course, we didn't know the subject, but that's certainly what it was.”

“What's your theory about who might have taken it?”

“Well,
he
did, of course,” Yolanda said without the slightest hesitation.

 

 

 

 

I
stopped by the office briefly and typed up my notes. The light on my answering machine was blinking merrily. I punched the Replay button and listened to the message. It was Isabelle's friend Rhe Parsons, sounding harried and dutiful, the kind of person who returns a phone call just to get it over with. I tried her number, letting the phone ring while I leafed through one of the files sitting on my desk. Where was I going to find a witness who could put David Barney at the murder scene? Lonnie's suggestion was facetious, but what a coup that would be. Four rings . . . five. I was just about to hang up when someone answered abruptly on the other end. “Yes?”

“Oh, hi. This is Kinsey Millhone. May I speak to Rhe Parsons?”

“You're doing it. Who's this?”

“Kinsey Millhone. I left a message—”

“Oh, right, right,” she cut in. “About Isabelle. I don't understand what you want.”

“Look, I know you talked to Morley Shine a couple of months ago.”

“Who?”

“The investigator who was handling this. Unfortunately, he had a heart at—”

“I never talked to anyone about Isabelle.”

“You didn't talk to Morley? He was working for an attorney in the lawsuit filed by Kenneth Voigt.”

“I don't know about any of this stuff.”

“Sorry. Maybe I was misinformed. Why don't I tell you what's going on,” I said. I went through a brief explanation of the lawsuit and the job I'd been hired to do. “I promise I won't take any more of your time than I have to, but I would like to have a quick chat.”

“I'm swamped. You couldn't have called at a worse time,” she said. “I'm a sculptor with a show coming up in two days. Every minute I've got is devoted to that.”