I is for Innocent (32 page)

“What'd the guy do with it?”

“The box? I don't know. He probably took it in the front. Maybe he left it on the porch.”

“What bakery?”

“I didn't see. The truck was red. Might have been a messenger service, come to think of it. Why the quiz?”

“Morley was murdered.”

She said, “Really.” And her surprise seemed genuine.

“It was probably the strudel in the box you saw. I just talked to the guy in the coroner's office.”

“He was poisoned?”

“Looks like it.”

“Where does that leave you?”

“I don't know yet. Morley knew something. I'm not sure what it was, but I think I'm close.”

“Too bad he didn't leave you the answer.”

“In a way, he did. I know how his mind worked. He and the fellow who taught me the business were in partnership for years.”

“What else do you need from me?”

“Nothing, at this point. I'll let you get to your bath.”

 

I
headed over to the freeway, driving north on 101 until I reached the Cutter Road off-ramp. I turned left, driving into Horton Ravine through the front gateposts. I felt as if I'd spent the whole week trekking back and forth between Colgate, downtown Santa Teresa, and the Ravine itself. The afternoon was turning gray, typical December with the temperature dipping close to fifty, the kind of cold snap only Californians could complain about. I parked in the circular drive and rang the bell. Francesca came to the door herself. She wore a wool shirtwaist dress in a chocolate brown, black tights, and boots, with a black crewneck sweater across her shoulders like a shawl.

She said, “Well, Kinsey. You're the last person in the world I expected to see.” She hesitated, focusing fully on my face. “Is something wrong? You don't look right. Have you had bad news?”

“Actually, I have, but I don't want to go into it. Do you have a minute to spare? I want to talk to you about something.”

“Sure. Come on in. Guda's gone off to the market to pick up a few items. I was just having coffee by the fire in
the den. Let me grab a mug and you can join me. It seems nasty out.”

It's nasty everywhere, I thought. I followed her to the kitchen, which was done in black and white, with oversize windows on three sides. The appliance fronts were black, as well as the cabinet facings, which were a gleaming lacquer. The counters were Corian, snow white and seamless. Racks and accessories were polished aluminum. The only touches of color were bright red dish towels and bright red oven mitts. She took a mug from the cupboard and indicated we could reach the den through the dining room. “You take cream and sugar? I've got both on the tray. There's skim milk if you prefer.”

“Cream is fine,” I said. I didn't want to tell her about Morley just yet. She was looking back at me with curiosity, clearly troubled by my manner. Bad news is a burden that only sharing seems to lift.

The den was paneled in birch, the furniture upholstered in saddle-colored leather. She resettled herself on the leather sofa where she'd been. She was in the process of reading a hardback, a Fay Weldon novel she'd nearly finished judging by the bookmarker. It had been ages since I was able to take a day off and shut myself in under a quilt with a good book. There was a plump pot of coffee on the brass table to one side. She poured coffee into the mug and passed it over to me. I took it with a murmured “Thank you,” which she acknowledged with a wary smile. She pulled a pillow into her lap, holding on to it like a teddy bear.

I noticed she didn't press to find out why I'd stopped by. Finally I said, “I checked Morley's appointment book.
According to his notes, you talked to him last week. You should have told me when I asked.”

“Oh.” She had the good grace to flush and I could see her debate about how to respond. She must have decided the lie wasn't worth telling twice. “I guess I was hoping you wouldn't have to know.”

“You want to fill me in?”

“I'm embarrassed about it really, but I called first thing Thursday morning and set it up myself.”

There was silence. I said, “And?”

She lifted one shoulder uncomfortably. “I was angry with Kenneth. I'd come across some information . . . something I'd been unaware of. . . .”

“Which was what?”

“I'll get to that in a minute. You have to understand the context. . . .”

I couldn't wait to hear this. “Context” is what you mention when you're rationalizing bad behavior. You don't need to talk about “context” when you've done something good. “I'm listening.”

“I finally realized just how sick I was of Isabelle's murder. I'm sick of the whole subject and all the drama attached. It's been six years and that's all Kenneth talks about. Her murder, her money, her talent. How beautiful she was. The tragedy of her death. He's obsessed with the woman. He's more in love with her dead than he was when she was alive.”

“Not necessarily. . . .”

She went on as if I hadn't spoken. “I told Morley I hated Iz, that I was thrilled to pieces when she died. I was just, you know, spewing out all this emotional . . . garbage.
What's weird is when I thought about it later, I understood how twisted my thinking had become. Kenneth's, too. I mean, look at us. This is really a very neurotic relationship.”

“You came to this conclusion after talking to Morley?”

“That was part of what triggered the realization that it was time to get out. If I'm ever going to be healthy, I've got to separate myself from Ken, learn to stand on my own two feet for a change—”

“And that's when you decided you were leaving him? Just last week?”

“Well, yes.”

“So it had nothing to do with the cancer two years ago.”

She shrugged. “I'm sure that played a part. It was like waking up. It was like suddenly understanding what my life was about. Honestly, until I talked to Morley, I thought I was happily married. Really. I thought everything was fine. I mean, more or less. After that, I understood it was all an illusion.”

“Must have been a hell of a conversation,” I said.

I waited briefly, but she had lapsed into silence.

“What was the ‘more or less' part?” I asked.

She looked up at me. “What?”

“You want to tell me what you discovered? You said something made you angry. I gather that's why you got in touch with Morley in the first place.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. I was tidying up the study and came across an account Ken had been keeping from me.”

“A bank account?”

“Like that. A ledger sheet. He'd been, uhm, assisting someone financially.”

“Assisting someone,” I repeated blankly.

“You know. Regular cash payments from month to month. This has been going on for three years. Being a good businessman, of course he kept a record. It must not have occurred to him that I'd lay hands on it.”

“What's it about? Does Kenneth have a mistress?”

“That's what I thought at first, but in a way it's worse.”

“Francesca, would you just quit screwing around and tell me what's going on?”

It took her a moment. “He's been giving money to Curtis McIntyre.”

“To
Curtis
?” I said. I could barely take that in. “What for?”

“That's what I asked. I was appalled of course. The minute he came home, I confronted him.”

I stared at her. “And what did he say?”

“He says it was like walking-around money. To help with his rent. A few bucks to get some of his bills paid off. Things like that.”

“Why would he do such a thing?” I asked.

“I have no idea.”

“How much?”

“About thirty-six hundred dollars so far.”

“Well, there goes that,” I said. “Here I've been feeling guilty because I came up with information that throws a monkey wrench into Lonnie's case and now I find out the plaintiff has been keeping the prime witness on retainer. Wait till Lonnie hears. He's going to have a fit!”

“That's what I told Ken. He swears he was just trying to help the guy out.”

“Doesn't he know how that's going to look if it comes to light? It's going to look like he's paying Curtis for his testimony. Trust me, Curtis is not that reliable as it is. How are we going to pass him off as an impartial witness doing his civic duty?”

“He doesn't see anything wrong with it. He says Curtis was having trouble finding a job. I guess Curtis told him he might have to leave the area and go somewhere else. Kenneth wanted to make sure he'd be available—”

“That's what subpoenas are for!”

“Well, don't get mad at me. Ken swears it's not what it looks like. Curtis came to him after David was acquitted—”

“Oh, stop it, Francesca. What's a jury supposed to think? How convenient. Curtis's testimony is going to directly benefit the man who's been paying him now for three years. . . .” I stopped where I was. Something in the way she was clutching at the pillow made me study her more closely. “What's the rest?”

“I gave Morley the ledger. I was worried Kenneth would destroy it so I left it with Morley for safekeeping till I could decide what to do.”

“When was this?”

“When I found the ledger? Wednesday night, I guess. I took it over to Morley on Thursday, and when Kenneth got home later, we had a huge fight. . . .”

“Did he know you'd taken it?”

“Yes, and he was furious. He wanted it back, but there was no way I was going to do that.”

“Did he know you'd given it to Morley?”

“I never said that. He might have figured it out, but I don't see how. What makes you ask?”

“Because Morley was murdered. Somebody baked him a strudel filled with poisoned mushrooms. I found the white bakery box in the wastebasket.”

Her face was blank. “Surely you don't think it was
Ken
.”

“Let's put it this way: I've been through both of Morley's offices. There's no ledger at all and the files are incomplete. I've been operating on the assumption that his housekeeping was sloppy or he was ripping Lonnie off, billing him for work that was never done. Now I'm wondering if someone stole files to cover the theft of something else.”

“Kenneth wouldn't do such a thing. He wouldn't do any of it.”

“What happened Thursday when you couldn't produce the ledger? Did he drop the subject?”

“He asked me repeatedly, but I wouldn't tell him. Then he said it didn't matter anyway because it wasn't a crime. If he lent Curtis money, it was between the two of them.”

“But doesn't it strike you as interesting? Here's Kenneth Voigt paying Curtis McIntyre, whose testimony just happens to incriminate David Barney in a lawsuit that just happens to benefit Kenneth Voigt. Don't you see the symmetry? Or maybe it was blackmail. Now there's a thought.”

“Blackmail for what?”

“Isabelle's murder. That's what all of this is about.”

“He wouldn't have killed Isabelle. He loved her too much.”

“That's what he says now. Who knows what he felt back then?”

“He wouldn't do that,” she said without much conviction.

“Why not? Isabelle rejected him for David Barney. What could be more satisfying than to kill her and have the blame fall on
David
?”

I left her sitting there with the pillow in her lap. She'd twisted one corner until it looked like a rabbit's ear.

 

 

 

 

O
n the way back to Colgate, I stopped at a gas station and filled my tank. This crosstown driving was the equivalent of a round-trip to Idaho and I was beginning to regret the fact that I wasn't charging Lonnie for the mileage. It was just after 6:00 and traffic was heavy, most of it inbound, heading in the opposite direction. Clouds lay across the mountains like a layer of bunting.

I headed for Voigt Motors, trying to calculate the odds of Kenneth Voigt telling me the truth. Whatever his relationship with Curtis, it was time for some straight talk. If I couldn't get it out of Kenneth, I was going to track Curtis down and have a chat with him. I parked in the little strip lot in front of Voigt Motors, tucking my VW between a vintage Jaguar and a brand-new Porsche. I went in through the front door, ignoring the saleswoman who stepped forward to greet me. I went up the wide stairs to the loggia of offices that rimmed the second floor—Credit, Accounting.
Apparently the salespeople were required to be on the floor until closing time at 8:00. Those working the business end were a little luckier, already in the process of going home for the day. Kenneth's office door carried his name in two-inch brass letters. His secretary was a woman in her early fifties who'd gone on being a bleached blonde way beyond the legal age for it. Time had marked the space between her eyes with a goalpost of worry. She was tidying her desk, putting files away, making sure the pens and pencils were placed neatly in a ceramic mug.

I said, “Hi. Is Mr. Voigt here? I'd like to talk to him.”

“You didn't pass him on the stairs as you came up? He left two minutes ago, but he may have gone down the back way. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I don't think so. Can you tell me where he parks? Maybe I can catch him before he takes off.”

Her expression had changed and she regarded me with caution. “What is this regarding?”

I didn't bother to reply.

I ducked out of the office and continued along the upper level, peering briefly into every room I passed, including the men's room. A startled-looking fellow in a business suit was just shaking himself off. God, that would be convenient. If there were any justice in the world, women would have the little hang-down things and men would get stuck with putting the paper down on the seats. I said, “Ooops. Wrong room,” and shut the door again. I found the back stairs through a door marked “Fire Exit.” I took the stairs two at a time going down, but when I reached the parking lot, there was no sign of Ken and there were no cars pulling out of the exit.