I is for Innocent (31 page)

“So if he got sick midday on Saturday, he could have conceivably eaten the stuff anywhere from early Saturday morning to some time on Friday.”

“Looks like it.”

“Where would somebody find the damn things? Do they grow in this area?”

“Book says eastern North America and Pacific Coast,
late summer and fall. It'd be late for that, but I suppose it's possible.
Verna
is said to be common in hardwood and coniferous forests. They can grow singly, or in clumps or rings. Says they're rare on the West Coast, but somebody might have brought 'em in from some other part of the country. Dried or frozen, something like that. Where'd you find the pastry, at his house?”

“In the wastebasket in his office out in Colgate. I saw the bakery box the first time I was there, but I didn't think anything about it until I went out again.”

“Any idea how he got it?”

“I didn't even think to ask. I just tucked it in the bag along with everything else. Actually, I was assuming he'd stopped at the bakery and picked it up himself. Betty, in the beauty shop, says he sneaked all kinds of food in. He'd been on a strict diet for a week, but she'd seen him with doughnuts and Chinese, all kinds of fast food, so the bakery box wasn't inconsistent. Maybe somebody brought it out to him and left it on his doorstep—”

Burt cut in. “I'll tell you something else. According to the data I'm looking at? There's a brief calm period sets in. Remember telling me he got to feeling better? With
Amanita
poisoning, it sometimes looks like the patient's condition is improving.”

“You're talking about Sunday morning,” I said.

“Right. The truth is, the damage would have been done by then. This toxin tears up your liver, dissolves blood corpuscles, causes hemorrhaging in the digestive tract. He was probably experiencing bloody stools and bloody vomitus, though from what you've said he never mentioned it. Either he didn't think anything about it or he didn't want to alarm
his wife. Actually, even if he'd gone into the emergency room, they couldn't have done anything to save him.”

“He must have felt like shit. Why didn't he try to get some help?” I asked.

“It's hard to know. Severity of symptoms probably depends on how much he ate. He might have tried some, decided it was spoiled or something, and tossed the rest in the trash. You ever watch Morley eat? He was quick. Man prided himself on how fast he could put food away.”

“Somebody knew him pretty well,” I said.

“Not necessarily. He made no secret about it. Same with his health. He was always talking about his heart problems and his weight.”

“What about the mushrooms? Can they be identified on sight?”

“Not unless you know what to look for. I'll read you what it says. ‘
A. verna
is pure white.
A. phalloides
is yellowish green to greenish. Spores in both are white and not attached to the stem.' Yada, yada, yada. Let's see. This particular type of mushroom starts out enclosed in what they call a universal veil that leaves a cup at the stem base. When you're picking mushrooms, you have to dig around some because it's sometimes hidden in the dirt. The illustration looks like a toadstool busting out of an egg. Says it's slimy, too. You want more?”

“I got the basics. If the killer had a batch of 'em growing in the yard, the rest would be gone by now anyway. What happens next?”

“I've sent the pastry up to Foster City, the Chemical Toxicology Institute, for analysis. Might be a while until we hear back from them, but I have a feeling they're going
to confirm our suspicion. I've put a call through to Homicide, but you might want to talk to Lieutenant Dolan yourself. Believe me, the hard work has just started. Tough thing about homicidal poisoning is proving
legally
that a crime was committed. You have to demonstrate that the death was caused by a poison that was administered with malicious and evil intent to the deceased by the accused. And that means ‘beyond a reasonable doubt.' How are you going to link the killer to the crime in this case? Somebody bakes a cake and drops the damn thing off. Morley gets to his office, ‘Oh, hey, is this for me?' Odds are nobody even saw where it came from, so what the whole thing's going to boil down to is all circumstantial. We don't even have a suspect.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

“Well, you have to start someplace. I'll give you a call as soon as we have more. In the meantime, I wouldn't eat anybody's home-baked goodies.”

“I'll try not to. And thanks, Burt.”

By the time I hung up the telephone, my hands were cold. In the past several months, Morley had talked to a number of people associated with the murder of Isabelle Barney. What had he discovered that precipitated his death, too? It must have been significant. A poisoner is considered one of the smartest and most devious of murderers, largely because poison, as a method, requires knowledge, skill, premeditation, and cunning. One doesn't poison in the heat of passion. Poisoning is not an impulsive, spur-of-the-moment crime. The covertness and deliberation suggest the kind of cruelty that makes a charge of first-degree murder nearly automatic in such cases.
Morley Shine had died of an internal violence that probably left no outward mark, yet his death had been as agonizing as a stabbing or gunshot wound. I had a sudden flash of the killer with a supply of deadly mushrooms, leafing through a cookbook for a little appetizer Morley might enjoy. I pictured pastry dough being rolled out, the filling gently sautéed with butter, the strudel lovingly assembled, packed in a bakery box, and delivered to Morley's doorstep. The killer might have sat and chatted with him while he ate the lethal savory. Even if it had tasted strange, Morley might not have complained. Too hungry from his diet. Too polite to protest. And then the hours that had passed while he became aware that he wasn't feeling well. He probably didn't even associate the nausea and the stomach pain with the pastry he'd consumed so many hours before. . . .

I'd seen toadstools somewhere. The image flickered in my memory . . . a wooded area . . . toadstools growing in a circle . . .

There weren't that many places it could have been. Simone's . . . the house where David Barney had lived at the time of Isabelle's death, though I didn't remember anything about the landscaping there. The house had overlooked the ocean—few trees in the vicinity. The Weidmanns'. I'd accompanied Yolanda to the patio where Peter Weidmann was napping—a formal garden with the lawn stretching off toward the trees.

Methodically, I removed the index cards from my bulletin board and put them up again. What had Morley seen that I wasn't seeing? I pulled out his Month at a Glance
from one of the stacks of files sitting on my counter. I started with the month of October, trying to get a feel for what he'd been doing the last two months. Most squares were empty. November was similarly blank except for a couple of notations: two doctor's appointments, a haircut one Wednesday afternoon. This month, December, had been slightly busier and it looked like he'd actually conducted a couple of interviews. Lonnie would be thrilled to hear he'd done
some
thing for his pay. Yolanda and Peter Weidmann's names appeared twice. The first appointment must have been canceled because he had a line drawn through the time and a big penciled arrow extended from that date to the same day and time a week later. I remembered Yolanda complaining about what a pest he'd made of himself, so he must have been there more than once.

On December 1, a week ago Thursday, he'd penciled in the initials F.V. at 1:15. Voigt? Had he talked to Francesca? She'd told me she'd never met the man. I'd come across a folder made up with her name on the tab, but the file had been empty. Of course, the F.V. could have been a witness on another case, but it didn't seem likely. The Voigts' home phone number was noted at the top of the page. Had she lied about seeing him? There was also the notation on Saturday morning of the appointment with Laura Barney. She'd told me about the appointment herself, claiming Morley never showed. But Dorothy said he'd gone out to the office to pick up his mail. If my theory was right, the fatal pastry could have been delivered as early as Friday afternoon, probably no later than Saturday morning, since he became ill shortly after lunch. Might bear checking out.
Working in a medical clinic, Laura Barney would certainly have access to information about poisons. Maybe I'd start with her and work my way back through the list.

I locked up the apartment and went out to the car. I fired up the engine and headed toward the freeway overpass. I cut under the 101 on Castle, turning right on Granita and then left on Bay. It was just past 5:00 when I reached Santa Teresa Medical Clinic, which was in a pleasant treelined neighborhood of medical buildings and single-family dwellings. I was hoping I hadn't missed Laura. The clinic probably closed at 5:00, which meant I was going to arrive to find the door locked and the personnel gone for the weekend. I didn't have her home address, and though I could probably find it, I was impatient at the delay. To my astonishment, I spotted her, head bent, a light coat over her uniform, white crepe-soled shoes moving rapidly as she crossed the street in front of me. I tooted my horn. She shot me a look of annoyance, apparently assuming that I was chiding her for jaywalking.

I waved and leaned over to roll down my car window on the passenger side. “Can I talk to you?”

“I just got off work,” she said.

“It won't take long.”

“Can't it wait? I'm exhausted. I was looking forward to a big glass of wine and a hot bath. Come back in an hour.”

“I have to be someplace else.”

She broke off eye contact. I could see her debate, not really wanting to give in. She made a slight face, staring at the sidewalk with annoyance.

“It'll take five minutes if that,” I said.

“Oh, hell. All right,” she said. She cocked her head at the house behind her, a Victorian structure that had apparently
been converted into apartments. “This is where I live. Why don't you go find a place to park and come on up. That'll give me time to get out of this uniform and take my shoes off. It's apartment six, down the hall at the back.”

“I'll be right there.”

She turned and walked quickly up the porch steps, disappearing through the front door. I found a parking spot six doors down, on the far side of the street. In a little flicker of paranoia, I wondered if she really lived somewhere else. I pictured her entering the building, then leaving by a back exit before I could catch up with her. I went up the wooden porch steps and opened a glass-paneled door into a shadowy hallway. The place was quiet. To the left, there was a hall table with a lamp that hadn't been turned on yet. Mail was piled up, along with several copies of the day's paper. Doors along the corridor had been closed off. What had once been the front parlor and the dining room probably now formed one unit, with a second at the back, with maybe a studio at the rear. I was guessing three apartments down, another three above. A set of stairs angled up on the right.

I went upstairs as instructed. This was not the cheeriest place I'd ever been, I thought, but it was clean enough. The wallpaper looked new, chosen for its Victorian flavor, which is to say saccharine. Nosegays and trailing ribbons led the eye on a merry chase. The effect was depressing despite all the pink and green and mauve activity.

I knocked at the door marked with an oversize brass
6
. Laura appeared a moment later, tying a cotton kimono at the waist. I could see her white nursy shoes on the floor near an upholstered chair where she'd tossed her white
uniform. I could hear bathwater running, which seemed pointed enough. The apartment consisted of two very large rooms with a cramped bathroom, probably converted from a linen closet. I could see the space heater from the front door and the rim of an ancient tub. The ceilings were high and there was lots of woodwork of the sort that somehow smells of shellac even if it hasn't been touched by a brush for years. The place was sparsely furnished, but what she had was good. She watched me survey the living room/bedroom combination with a trace of amusement. “Does it suit you?”

“I'm always curious to see how other single people live.”

“How do you live?”

“About like this. I try to keep it simple,” I said. “I don't like working just to pay a bunch of bills every month.”

“I hate being single. Have a seat if you like.”

“You do?”

“Of course, don't you? It's lonely. And who wants to live like this?” She made a gesture that embraced more than the physical surroundings. She moved into the bathroom and turned off the water. Belatedly, I picked up the damp herbal scent of Vitabath.

“Looks great to me. Besides, nobody's going to take care of you,” I said.

She returned to the room. “Well, I hope that's not true. I'm not resigned, I must say.”

“Togetherness is an illusion. We're all on our own.”

“Oh, spare me. I hate talk like that,” she said. “You want to tell me what you came for?”

“Sure. It's about Morley Shine. You had an appointment last Saturday.”

“That's right, but he never showed.”

“His wife says he went to his office that day.”

“I was there at nine. I waited half an hour and then I left,” she said.

“Where'd you wait? Were you actually in his office?”

“I was out in the drive. Why? What difference does it make?”

“None, I suppose. I was curious about a delivery,” I said.

“That box from the bakery.”

“You were there when that arrived?”

“Sure, I was out in my car. The bakery truck pulled up beside me. Some guy got out with this white bakery box. As he passed me he asked if I was Marla Shine. I told him the name was Morley and the guy was late arriving. The sucker tried to give
me
the box, but I'd waited long enough and I was out of there. I hate being stood up. I got better things to do.”