I is for Innocent (30 page)

“What'd she say?”

“Just about what you'd expect.”

“Don't worry, okay? I know she was really mad, but she'll get over it. She's been under a lot of pressure lately, but she'll come around.”

“Let's hope so for your sake,” I said. “Listen, Tip, I'm really sorry this had to happen. I feel like a dog, but I didn't see a way around it.”

“It's not your fault. I'm the one who fucked up. I'm the one who should feel bad about it, not you.”

“How are you doing?”

“Pretty good,” she said. “I talked to one of my AA counselors last night and she was really great. As soon as we finish here I'll go talk to her, and then later this afternoon I'll talk to the police.”

“Your mother's right. It's probably a good idea to see an attorney before you do. You need some advice about presenting your side of it.”

“I don't care about that. I just want to get it over with.”

“It still might be smart. They'll want your attorney there anyway before you make a statement. You want me to go with you?”

She shook her head. “I can handle it, but thanks.”

“Good luck.”

“You, too.” She glanced back toward the gallery reluctantly. “I better split. I don't guess we'll see you at the opening tonight.”

“Probably not, but I do like her work,” I said. “Call if you need me.”

She smiled and waved, walking backward, then turned and went back to the gallery.

I got in my car and sat there for a minute, feeling heavy-hearted. Tippy was a good person. I wished there were some way to spare her what she would have to go through. She'd be okay in the end, I was confident of that, but I didn't relish having been the impetus for her pain. I could argue she'd actually brought it on herself, but the truth was, she'd found a way to live with the situation for six years now. I had to guess she'd experienced remorse and regret in privacy. Maybe there simply wasn't any way to avoid public penance. In the meantime, I was left with feelings of my own. I really couldn't deal with any more angry people. I'd had it with accusations, threats, and bullying. My job was to figure out what was going on and I intended to do that.

I reached for the ignition key and fired up the VW, then did an illegal U-turn. There was a drugstore a block up and I pulled into the tiny lot, ducking in just long enough to buy three packages of three-by-five index cards—one white, one green, and one a pale orange. After that, I went home. I still had a batch of files from Morley's Colgate office in my car. I found a parking spot across the street from the apartment. I unloaded the backseat and proceeded through the gate, weighted down like a pack mule. I eased around to the backyard and fumbled with my keys.

In the glass-enclosed breezeway that links Henry's place with mine, I caught sight of the luncheon in progress. The December sun was weak, but with so many windows the
space functioned like a greenhouse. William and Rosie had their heads bent together in earnest conversation. The subject was probably pericarditis, colitis, or the perils of lactose intolerance. Henry's face was dark and I could have sworn he was sulking, a behavior utterly unlike the Henry I knew. I anchored the stack of files against the doorframe with my hip while I unlocked my apartment and let myself in. I dumped everything on the counter. I turned around to find Henry coming in behind me with a plate piled with food—lemon chicken, ratatouille, green salad, and homemade rolls.

“Hi, how are you? Is that for me? It looks great. How's it going?” I asked.

He put the plate down on the counter. “You won't believe it,” he said.

“What's the matter? Hasn't Rosie found a way to whip William into shape?”

Henry squinted his eyes and tapped his temple with his index finger. “It's funny you should mention that. The penny finally dropped. Do you know what she's doing? She's flirting with him!”

“Rosie always flirts.”

“But William's flirting back.” He opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a knife and fork, which he handed me with a paper napkin.

“Well, there's no harm in that,” I said, and then saw his look. “Is there?”

“You eat while I talk. Suppose the two of them get serious? What do you think's going to happen?”

“Oh, come on. They've known each other one day.” I tried a bite of roll first, tender and buttery.

“He's going to be here two weeks. I hate to think what the next thirteen days are going to bring at this rate,” he said.

“You're jealous.”

“I'm not jealous. I'm terrified. He was fine this morning. Obsessed with his bowels. He took his blood pressure twice. He had several mysterious symptoms that occupied him for an hour. Then we went off to the funeral and he still seemed okay. We get home and he had to go and rest for a while. Same old William. No sweat, I can handle it. I put lunch together and then Rosie shows up wearing rouge on her cheeks. Next thing I know, the two of them are in there with their heads together, laughing and nudging like a couple of kids!”

“I think it's sweet. I like Rosie.” I had moved on to the chicken, tucking into lunch in earnest. I hadn't realized I was hungry until I started chowing down.

“I like her, too. Rosie's fine. She's great. But as a
sister-in-law
?”

“It won't come to that.”

“Oh, it won't? You ought to go in and listen to 'em talk. It would make your stomach turn.”

“Come on, Henry. You're overreacting. William's eighty-five years old. She's probably sixty-five, if she'd ever admit to it.”

“My point exactly. She's too young for him.”

I started laughing. “I can't believe you're serious.”

“I can't believe you're not! What if they get ‘involved' in some flaming affair? Can you imagine the two of them in my back bedroom?”

“Is that your objection, that William might have a sex life? Henry, you astonish me. That's not like you.”

“I think it's tacky behavior,” he said.

“He hasn't done anything yet! Besides, I thought you wanted him to quit harping on his health. What better way? Now he can harp on something else.”

Henry stared at me, his expression suddenly tinged with uncertainty. “You don't think it's vulgar? Romance at his age?”

“I think it's great. You had a romance of your own not that long ago.”

“And look how that turned out.”

“You survived it.”

“But will he? I keep picturing Rosie flying back to Michigan for Christmas. I hate to sound snobbish, but the woman has no class. She picks her teeth with a bobby pin!”

“Oh, quit worrying.”

His mouth formed a grudging line as he reconsidered his position. “I don't suppose it would do any good to protest. They'd just act as if they didn't know what I was talking about.”

I kept my mouth shut, concentrating on the food instead. “This is great,” I said.

“There's some for later if you want it,” he remarked. He pointed to the cards. “You have work to do?”

I nodded. “As soon as I finish this.”

He blew out a breath. “Well, enough of this nonsense. I better let you get to it.”

“Keep me posted on developments.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

We made the usual departing mouth noises and then he disappeared. I closed the door behind him and made a
beeline for the loft, where I kicked off my flats and peeled out of the all-purpose dress and panty hose. I pulled on my jeans, turtleneck, socks, and Nikes. Heaven.

I went downstairs, popped open a Diet Pepsi, and got down to business. I spread all the material on the counter: Morley's files, his calendar, his appointment book, and his rough-draft reports. I made a list of all the people he'd talked to, the dates, and the details of what was said, according to his notes. I opened the first pack of index cards and started making notes of my own, laying out the story as I understood it. I used to use this technique for every case I worked, pinning the cards on my bulletin board so I could see how the story looked. I learned the practice from Ben Byrd, who'd taught me the business when I was first starting out. Now that I thought about it, Ben had probably learned the method from Morley, who'd been in partnership with him until their falling-out. I smiled to myself. They'd called the agency Byrd-Shine; two old-fashioned gumshoes with whiskey bottles in their desk drawers and endless hands of gin rummy. Their specialty had been “matrimonial inquiries,” i.e., extramarital sex. In those days, adultery was considered a shocking breach of morality, good breeding, common decency, and taste. Now you couldn't qualify for a talk show appearance on grounds that tame.

The index cards permitted a variety of approaches: timetables, relationships, the known and the unknown, motives and speculations. Sometimes I shuffled the pack and laid the cards out like solitaire. For some reason, I hadn't employed the routine of late. It felt good to get back to it. It was restful, reassuring, a welcomed time-out in which to get the facts down.

I left my perch and went over to the storage closet, where I hauled out my bulletin board and propped it up on the counter. At this stage, I make no attempt to organize the cards. I censor nothing. There's no game plan. I simply try to record all the information, writing down everything I can think of in the moment. All the cards for Isabelle's murder were green. Tippy's accident was on the orange cards, the players on the white. I found the box of push-pins and began to tack the cards up on the board. By the time I finished the process, it was 4:45. I sat on a kitchen stool, elbows propped on the counter, my chin in my hands. I studied the effect, which really didn't look like much . . . a jumble of colors, forming no particular pattern.

What was I looking for? The link. The contradiction. Anything out of place. The known seen in a new light, the unknown rising to the surface. At intervals, I took all the cards down and put them up again, ordered or random, arranging them according to various schemes. I thought idly about Isabelle's murder, letting my mind wander. How delicious it must have been for the killer to watch this whole drama unfold. It was even possible that David Barney's harassment had suggested the possibility. Shoot Isabelle and who's the first person they'd suspect? The killer had to be someone who knew David Barney's habits, someone close enough to the scene to keep watch. Of course, half of the people who knew Isabelle were in that position, I thought. The Weidmanns lived within a mile of the house, as did her sister, Simone, whose cottage was on the property. Laura Barney was an interesting possibility. She certainly knew David's penchant for late-night runs. On the
face of it she had little or nothing to gain. I'd tended to assume that the motive was money, but among the killing set there were probably many other satisfactions besides greed to be derived from homicide. What could be more perfect than killing the woman who'd wrecked her marriage and having the blame for it fall on her ex-husband?

There was something here. I was almost sure of it. Maybe it was the angle of approach, some elusive piece of information, some new interpretation of the facts as I knew them.

When the telephone rang, I jumped, my heart banging abruptly into cardiac arrest range.

It was Ida Ruth. “Kinsey. I hope I'm not interrupting anything, but you just got a call from the coroner's office, a Mr. Walker. I guess he left a message on your office machine and then tried this one. He wants you to call him as soon as you can.”

I tucked the phone against my shoulder while I picked up a pen and reached for a scratch pad. “What's Burt's number, did he give it to you?”

She gave me the number. As soon as she hung up, I dialed his office.

 

 

 

 

“C
oroner's office. Detective Walker.”

“Hello, Burt. This is Kinsey. Ida Ruth said you wanted me to get in touch.”

“Oh, good. Glad she found you. Hang on a second, let me grab my notes.” In the background, I heard paper rustling. He put a palm across the receiver, engaging in a brief muffled conversation before he came back. “Sorry. We just finished the post on Morely. Turned out he died of acute renal failure, with evidence of liver damage, cardiovascular damage with circulatory collapse, tubular necrosis—”

“Caused by what?”

“I'm getting to that. I called Wynington-Blake after we talked yesterday? I had a chat with the funeral director. I wanted to tell him what was going on and I was curious if he'd picked up on anything. He says when Morley was brought in, he was ‘markedly jaundiced.' ”

“From the drinking?”

“That was my first thought, but then I did a little research. I got to picking through that bunch of household and garden items you dropped off. The pastry specimen bothered me because it was vegetable material. Most of that other stuff I couldn't see how anybody could ingest without being aware of it. I checked some reference books here and I'll tell you what popped up. The autopsy confirms this. Did you ever hear about
Amanita phalloides
?”

“Sounds like a sex act. What the hell is it?”

“The death cap mushroom.
Amanita verna
is another possibility. That's another species from the same family, also known as the fool's mushroom. Both are deadly. Judging from this pastry—whatever you want to call it—it looks like somebody baked him an
Amanita
strudel.”

“Sounds grim.”

“Oh, it is. Listen to this. One fifty-millionth of a gram of phalloidine injected into a mouse is fatal in one to two days. Takes less than two ounces to kill a human being.”

“Jesus.”

“And either type would do just about what you describe of Morley's symptoms. Interestingly enough, ingestion can be followed by what they call a latent period of six to twenty hours. Then what you'd see is nausea, abdominal pain, vomiting and diarrhea, and cardiovascular collapse.”