I is for Innocent (21 page)

“You and Kenneth connected up once she got involved with David Barney?”

“That's right. We met at a fund-raiser at the Canyon Country Club. I was there with a friend and someone introduced us. Isabelle had just left him and he was like a whipped puppy dog. You know how it is. There's nothing quite as irresistible as a man in need of help. I was smitten. I pursued him. I thought I'd die if I couldn't have him. I must have looked like a fool. People tried to warn me, but I wouldn't listen. The entire six months his divorce was in process, I nurtured and patted and petted and cooed.”

“It worked, didn't it?”

“Oh, I got what I wanted for all the good it did me. We were married the minute he was free, but his heart wasn't in it. He was hung up on her, which kept me hooked for a long time. I knew he didn't love me so how could I resist the man? I had to fawn and grovel. I had to please him at any cost. Nothing worked, of course. I mean, basically he prefers women as rejecting of him as he is of me. Isn't that pathetic? He'll probably fall head over heels in love with me the day I serve him with papers.”

“What changed your attitude, the cancer?”

“That was part of it. The lawsuit has had an effect on top of that. I realized, at a certain point, it was just his way of staying connected to Isabelle. He can be embroiled. He can suffer on her behalf. If he can't have her, at least he can have the money. That's what matters now.”

“What about their daughter, Shelby? How does she fit into this?”

“She's a nice enough kid. He hardly sees her. She's hardly ever home. Once in a while—like, every two or three months—he goes to visit at school and takes her out for the day. They go to dinner and a movie and that's the extent of it.”

“I thought the legal wrangle was for her, to make sure she's provided for.”

“That's what he says, but it's ridiculous. He's heavily insured. If anything happened to him, Shelby'd get a million dollars. How much more does she need? He refuses to let go. That's all the lawsuit's about. God, do I sound like a bitch?”

“Not at all. I appreciate your candor. Frankly, I didn't think you'd tell me much.”

“I'll tell you anything you want to know. I don't care about these people. I used to feel protective. There was a time I never would have said a word. I'd have felt guilty and disloyal. Now, it doesn't seem to matter much. I've begun to see them with great clarity. It's like being nearsighted and suddenly getting prescription lenses. It's all so much clearer it's astonishing.”

“Such as what?”

“Just what I've been talking about . . . Kenneth and his obsession. The hard part for him was once Isabelle left him, he had to face the fact she was a flaming narcissist. With her dead, he can go back to believing she was perfect.”

“She and David met at work, isn't that how it went? Peter Weidmann's firm?”

“That's right. It was ‘love at first sight,' ” she said, making quote marks with her fingers.

“You think he killed her?”

“David? I'm not sure how to answer that. During the trial I sure thought so, but now it doesn't make much sense to me. I mean, look at the situation. Hasn't it ever struck you how ‘feminine' the murder was? It's always amazed me that no one's mentioned this before. I don't mean to sound sexist, but there's something almost ‘sanitary' about shooting through a peephole. Maybe it's my prejudice, but I tend to think when men kill it's more forceful and direct. They strangle or bludgeon or stab. It's real straight-ahead stuff. Even when they shoot, there's nothing devious or sneaky. It's like boom! They blow your head off. They don't tiptoe around.”

“In other words, men tend to kill face-to-face.”

“Exactly. Shooting through a peephole, you wouldn't
have to take responsibility. You wouldn't even have to
look
at the blood, let alone risk getting spattered. David may have harassed her, but he was so visible about it. Right out there in front of God and everyone. Restraining orders, cops, the two of them screaming at each other on the phone. If he really killed her, he must have known he'd be the first person they'd suspect. And that business about his jogging? What a stupid idea. Believe me, the man is smart. If he were guilty, then surely he could have come up with a better alibi than that.”

“But what are you suggesting? You must have some kind of theory or you wouldn't be saying this.”

“Simone's a possibility.”

“Isabelle's twin
sister?”

“Don't you know the story?”

“I guess not,” I said, “but I'm sure you'll fill me in.”

She laughed at my tone. “Well, look at the story. They never really got along. Isabelle did as she pleased and poor Simone was left holding the bag half the time. Isabelle had everything—ostensibly, at any rate—looks, talent, a darling child. Ah, and that was the sticking point. Simone wanted to have a baby more than anything. Her biological clock had jumped to daylight saving time. I take it you've met her?”

“I talked to her yesterday.”

“And you noticed the limp?”

“Sure, but she didn't mention it and I didn't ask.”

“It was a terrible accident. Isabelle's fault, I'm afraid. This was maybe seven years ago, about a year before Iz died. Iz was drunk and brought the car home and left it in the driveway without pulling the emergency brake. The
car started to roll down that horrendous hill, smashing through the underbrush, picking up momentum. Simone was down at the mailbox and it crashed right into her. Crushed her pelvis, crushed her femur. They said she'd never walk again, but she defied 'em on that. You probably saw for yourself. She's really doing very well.”

“But no kids.”

“That's right. And what made things worse, she was engaged at the time and her fiancé broke it off. He wanted a family. End of story. For Simone, it really was the final straw.”

I watched her face, trying to compute the impact of the information. “It's worth some thought,” I said.

 

 

 

 

I
stopped off at Rosie's on the way back to my place. I don't usually hang out in bars, but I was restless and I didn't feel like being alone just then. At Rosie's, I can sit in a back booth and ponder life's circumstances without being stared at, picked up, hit on, or hassled. After the wine at Francesca's, I thought a cup of coffee might be in order. It wasn't really a question of sobering up. The wine at Francesca's was as delicate as violets. The white wine at Rosie's comes in big half-gallon screw-top jugs you can use later to store gasoline and other flammable liquids.

Business was lively. A group of bowlers had come in, a noisy bunch of women who were celebrating their winning of some league tournament. They were parading around the room with a trophy the size of
Winged Victory
, all noise and whistles and cheers and stomping. Ordinarily Rosie doesn't tolerate rowdies, but their spirits were contagious and she didn't object.

I got myself a mug and filled it from the coffeepot
Rosie keeps behind the bar. As I slid into my favorite booth, I spotted Henry coming in. I waved and he took a detour and headed in my direction. One of the bowlers was feeding coins into the jukebox. Music began to thunder through the bar along with cigarette smoke, whoops, and raucous laughter.

Henry slid in across from me and put his head down on his arm. “This is great. Noise, whiskey, smoke, life! I'm so sick of being with that hypochondriac of a brother. He's driving me nuts. I swear to God. His health regimen occupied our entire day. Every hour on the hour, he takes a pill or drinks a glass of water . . . flushing his system out. He does yoga to relax. He does calisthenics to wake up. He takes his blood pressure twice a day. He uses little strip tests to check his urine for glucose and protein. He keeps up a running account of all his body functions. Every minor itch and pain. If his stomach gurgles, it's a symptom. If he breaks wind, he issues a bulletin. Like I didn't notice already. The man is the most self-obsessed, tedious, totally boring human being I've ever met and he's only been here one day. I can't believe it. My own brother.”

“You want a drink?”

“I don't dare. I couldn't stop. They'd have to check me into detox.”

“Has he always been like that?”

Henry nodded bleakly. “I never really saw it till now. Or maybe in his dotage he's become decidedly worse. I remember, as a kid, he had all these accidents. He tumbled out of trees and fell off swings. He broke his arm once. He broke a wrist. He stuck a pencil in his eye and nearly blinded himself. And the cuts. Oh my God, you couldn't
let him near a knife. He had all kinds of allergies and weird things going wrong with him. He had a spastic salivary gland . . . he really did. Later, he went through a ten-year period when he had all his internal organs taken out. Tonsils and adenoids, appendix, his gallbaldder, one kidney, two and a half feet from his upper intestine. The man even managed to rupture his spleen. Out it came. We could have constructed an entire human being out of the parts he gave up.”

I glanced up to find Rosie standing at my shoulder, taking in Henry's outburst with a placid expression. “He's having a breakdown?”

“His brother's visiting from Michigan.”

“He don' like the guy?”

“The man is driving him nuts. He's a hypochondriac.”

She turned to Henry with interest. “What's the matter with him? Is he sick?”

“No, he's not sick. He's neurotic as hell.”

“Bring him in. I fix. Nothing to it.”

“I don't think you quite understand the magnitude of the problem,” I said.

“Is no problem. I can handle it. What's the fellow's name, this brother?”

“His name is William.”

Rosie said “William” as she wrote it in her little notebook. “Is done. I fix. Not to worry.”

She moved away from the table, her muumuu billowing out around her like a witch's cape.

“Is it my imagination or has her English gotten worse lately?” I asked.

Henry looked up at me with a wan smile.

I gave his hand a maternal pat. “Cheer up. Is done. Not to worry. She'll fix.”

I was home by 10:00, but I didn't feel like continuing my cleaning campaign. I took my shoes off and used my dirty socks to do a halfhearted dusting of the spiral staircase as I went up to bed. Works for me, I thought.

 

I
was awakened in the wee hours with a telegram from my subconscious. “Pickup,” the message read. Pickup what? My eyes came open and I stared at the skylight above my bed. The loft was very dark. The stars were blocked out by clouds, but the glass dome seemed to glow with light pollution from town. The message had to be related to Tippy's presence at the intersection. I'd been brooding about the subject since David Barney first brought it up. If he was inventing, why attach her name to the story? She might have had a ready explanation for where she was that night. If he was lying about the incident, why take the chance? The repair crew had seen her, too . . . well, not really her, but the pickup. Where else had I come across mention of a pickup truck?

I sat up in bed, pushed the covers back, and flipped on the light, wincing at the sudden glare. In lieu of a bathrobe, I pulled on my sweats. Barefoot, I padded down my spiral staircase, turned on the table lamp, and hunted up my briefcase, sorting through the stack of folders I'd brought home from the office. I found the file I was looking for and carried it over to the sofa, where I sat, feet tucked up under me, leafing through old photocopies of the
Santa Teresa Dispatch
. For the third time in two days, I scanned column
after column of smudgy print. Nothing for the twenty-fifth. Ah. On the front page of the local news for December 26 was the little article I'd seen about the hit-and-run fatality of an elderly man, who'd wandered away from a convalescent hospital in the neighborhood. He'd been struck by a pickup truck on upper State Street and had died at the scene. The name of the victim was being withheld, pending notification of his next of kin. Unfortunately, I hadn't made copies of the newspapers for the week after that so I couldn't read the follow-up.

I pulled out the telephone book and checked the yellow pages under Convalescent Homes & Hospitals. The sublistings were Homes, Hospitals, Nursing Homes, Rest Homes, and Sanitariums, most of which simply cross-referenced each other. Finally, under Nursing Homes, I found a comprehensive list. There was only one such facility in the vicinity of the accident. I made a note of the address and then turned the lights out and went back up to bed. If I could link that pickup to the one Tippy's father owned, it might go a long way toward explaining why she was reluctant to admit she was out. It would also verify every word David Barney'd said.

In the morning, after my usual three-mile run, a shower, breakfast, and a quick call to the office, I drove out to the South Rockingham neighborhood where the old man had been killed. At the turn of the century, South Rockingham was all ranchland, flat fields planted to beans and walnuts, harvested by itinerant crews who traveled with steam engines, cookhouses, and bedroll wagons. An early photograph shows some thirty hands lined up in front of their cumbersome, clanking machinery. Most of the men are
mustachioed and glum, wearing bandannas, long-sleeved shirts, overalls, and felt hats. Staunchly they lean on their pitchforks while a dusty noon sun beats down. The land in such pictures always looks pitiless and flat. There are few trees and the grass, if it grows at all, seems patchy and sparse. Later aerial photos show the streets radiating from a round hub of land, like the spokes of a wagon wheel. Beyond the outermost rim, the squares of young citrus groves are pieced together like a quilt. Now South Rockingham is a middle-class neighborhood of modest custom-built homes, half of which went up before 1940. The balance were constructed during a miniboom in the ten years between 1955 and 1965. Every parcel is dense with vegetation, houses crowded onto every available lot. Still, the area is considered desirable because it's quiet, self-contained, attractive, and well kept.