I is for Innocent (20 page)

“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 question, 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.

Guda appeared with a bottle of chardonnay nestled in a cooler, two long-stemmed wineglasses, and a tray of assorted canapés. I put my feet up on a wicker ottoman and fed myself little treats. Guda served up water crackers as crisp and flavorless as slate, mounded with soft herb cheese infused with garlic. On the plate with the crackers, she'd arranged tuna-filled cherry tomatoes and flaky homemade cheese sticks. After a sumptuous supper of cold cereal, I had to restrain an urge to snatch at the food like a snarling mongrel. I tried a sip of the wine, a silky blend of apple and oak. Kick-ass private eyes hardly ever live like this. We're the Gallo aficionados of the jug-wine set. “Count your blessings,” I said.

Francesca surveyed her surroundings as if seeing all of it through my eyes. “Odd that you should say that. I've been thinking of leaving Kenneth. I'll wait till the trial is over, but after that I can't think what would keep me.”

I was surprised at the admission. “Really?”

“Yes, really. It's a matter of priorities. Winning his love used to seem so important. Now I realize my happiness has nothing to do with him. He did hang in there with me through the surgery and the chemo and I'm grateful for that. I've heard a lot of horror stories about spouses who can't handle the prolonged stresses of a battle with cancer. I'm the one who's undergone a shift. Gratitude doesn't make a marriage. I woke up one morning and realized I was out of control.”

“What triggered the realization?”

“Nothing in particular. It's like being in a dark room with the lights suddenly flipped on.”

“What will you do if you leave?”

“I'm not sure, but something simple. I probably feel the same sense of amazement at this place that you do. I wasn't born with money. My father was a grade-school custodian and my mother worked in a pharmacy, stocking shelves with dental floss and Preparation H.”

I laughed at the image. “Well, you look like you belong here.”

“I'm not sure that's a compliment. I'm a quick study. When Kenneth and I first started dating, I watched everybody in his crowd. I figured out who was really classy and did whatever they did, with embellishments of my own, of course, just to make it look original. It's just a series of tricks. I could teach you in an afternoon. It's mildly entertaining, but none of it really matters much.”

“Don't you enjoy having all these things?”

“I suppose so. I mean, sure, it's nice, but I spend most days in the sewing room. I could do that anywhere.”

“I can't believe you're saying this. I heard you were nuts about Kenneth.”

“I thought so myself and I was, I suppose. I was totally infatuated with him in the early days of our relationship. It was like a form of craziness. I thought he was powerful and strong, knowledgeable, in charge. Very manly,” she said in a deep voice. “He fit my image of what a man should be, but you know what? He turns out to be rather shallow, which is not to say I'm so profound myself. I woke up one day and thought, What am I doing? Really, it's a struggle to be around him. He doesn't read. He doesn't think about things.
He has opinions, but no ideas. And most of his opinions he picks up from
Time
magazine. He's so shut down emotionally, I feel as if I'm living in a desert.”

“That sounds like half the people I know,” I said.

“Maybe so. It might just be me, but he's changed a lot in the last few years. He's so brooding and dark. You've met him, haven't you? What's your reaction?”

I shrugged noncommittally. “He seems okay,” I said. I'd only met the man once, and though I didn't find him attractive, I'm wary about bad-mouthing one spouse to another. For all I knew, they'd reconcile later in the evening and all my remarks would be reported verbatim. I shifted the subject. “Speaking of reactions, what was yours to Isabelle? I take it that's part of what your testimony will be about.”

Francesca made a face, stalling her response until she'd topped off our wineglasses. “That and the infamous gun disappearance. All of us were there. As for Isabelle, she was a bit like Kenneth in some ways—charismatic on the surface, but under that, nothing. She did have talent, but as a person she was hardly warm or caring.”