I is for Innocent

17

I slept badly that night and jogged Friday morning in a halfhearted fashion. Morley's funeral was scheduled for 10:00 and I was dreading it. There were still too many questions up in the air and I felt as if I'd been responsible for most of them. Lonnie would be coming back from Santa Maria as soon as he wrapped up his court case. I still had a batch of subpoenas Morley'd never served, but it didn't make sense to try to get those out until I knew where things stood. Lonnie might not be going into court at all. I showered and then dug around in my underwear drawer, searching for a pair of panty hose that didn't look like kittens had been climbing up the legs. The drawer was a jumble of old T-shirts and mismatched socks. I was really going to have to get in there and get it organized one day. I put on my all-purpose dress, which is perfect for funerals: black with long sleeves, in some exotic blend of polyester you could bury for a year without generating a crease. I slipped my feet into a pair of black flats so I could walk without hobbling. I have friends who adore high heels, but I can't see the point. I figure if high heels were so wonderful, men would be wearing them. I decided to skip breakfast and get into the office early.

It was 7:28 and mine was the first car in the lot. With no access to daylight, the interior stairwell was intensely dark. The little flashlight on my keychain provided just enough illumination to prevent my tripping and falling flat on my face. When I reached the third floor, I let myself in by the front entrance. The place was gloomy and cold. I spent a few minutes turning lights on, creating the illusion that the workday had begun. I set up a pot of coffee and flipped the switch to On. By the time I'd unlocked my office, the scent of perking coffee was beginning to permeate the air.

I checked my answering machine and found the light blinking insistently. I pressed the button for messages and was greeted by an annoyed-sounding Kenneth Voigt. "Miss Millhone. Ken Voigt. It's… uh… midnight on Thursday. I just got a call from Rhe Parsons, who's very upset over this business with Tippy. I've put a call through to Lonnie up in Santa Maria, but the motel switchboard is closed. I'll be at the office by eight tomorrow morning and I want this straightened out. Call me the minute you get in." He left the telephone number at Voigt Motors and clicked off.

I checked my watch. It was 7:43. I tried the number he'd left, but all I got was a recording, advising in cultured tones that the dealership was closed and giving me an emergency number in case I was calling to announce that the building was going up in flames. I was still wearing my jacket and it didn't make sense to settle in at my desk. Might as well face the music. Ida Ruth was just arriving so I told her where I was going and left the place to her. I went back down to the parking lot, where I retrieved my car. I'd only met Kenneth Voigt once, but he'd struck me as the sort who'd enjoy being on the sending end of a good chewing out. I really didn't want to discuss the latest developments in the case. For one thing, I hadn't told Lonnie what was happening and I figured it was his place to deliver bad news. At least he could advise Voigt about the legal consequences.

Traffic on the freeway was still fairly light and I made it to the Cutter Road off-ramp by five minutes after eight. Voigt Motors was the authorized dealer for Mercedes-Benz, Porsche, Jaguar, Rolls-Royce, Bentley, BMW, and Aston Martin. I parked my VW in one of ten empty slots and moved toward the entrance. The building looked like a Southern plantation, a glass-and-concrete tribute to gentility and taste. A discreet sign, hand-lettered in gold, indicated that business hours were Monday-Friday 8:30am to 8pm, Saturday 9am to 6pm, and Sunday 10am to 6pm. I cupped a hand against the smoky glass, looking for signs of activity in the shadowy interior. I could see six or seven gleaming automobiles and a light at the rear. To the right, a staircase swept up and out of sight. I tapped a key against the glass, wondering if the tiny clicking sound carried far enough to be effective.

Moments later, Kenneth Voigt appeared at the top of the stairs and peered over the railing. He came down and crossed the gleaming marble floor in my direction. He wore a dark pin-striped business suit, a crisp pale blue dress shirt, and a dark blue tie. He looked like a man who'd built up one of the most prosperous high-end car dealerships in Santa Teresa County. He detoured briefly, taking time to flick on interior lights, illuminating a fleet of pristine automobiles. He unlocked the front door and held it open for me. "I take it you got my message."

"I was in early this morning. I thought we might as well talk in person."

"You'll have to hang on a minute. I was just putting a call through to New York." He crossed the showroom, moving toward a row of identical glass-fronted offices where business was conducted during working hours. I watched as he took a seat in somebody else's swivel chair. He punched in a number and leaned back, keeping an eye on me while he waited for his call to go through. Someone apparently picked up on the other end because I saw his interest quicken. He began to gesture as he talked. Even from a distance, he managed to look tense and unreasonable.

Don't blow this, I thought. Do not mouth off. The man was Lonnie's client, not mine, and I couldn't afford to antagonize him. I ambled around the showroom, hoping to stifle my natural inclination to bolt. Getting fired had taken some of the cockiness out of me. I focused on my surroundings, taking in the aura of elegance.

The air smelled wonderfully of leather and car wax. I wondered what it felt like to have enough in a checking account to make a down payment on a vehicle that cost more than two hundred thousand dollars. I pictured lots of chuckles and not a lot of haggling. If you could afford a Rolls-Royce, you had to know it would set you back plenty walking in the door. What was there to negotiate, the trade-in on your Bentley?

My gaze settled on a Corniche III, a two-door convertible with a red exterior. The top was down. The interior was upholstered in creamy white leather piped in red. I glanced back at Voigt. He was now fully engrossed in his telephone conversation so I opened the door on the driver's side of the Rolls and got in. Not bad. A copy of the car's specs was printed on parchment, bound in leather, and tucked in the glove box. It looked like the wine list in an expensive restaurant. There wasn't anything as vulgar as a price in evidence, but I did learn that the 'kerb weight' for the motorcar was 2430 kg and the 'luggage boot capacity' was 0,27 m³. I studied all the dials and switches on the instrument panel, admiring the inlaid walnut. I did some serious driving, turning the steering wheel this way and that while I made tire-squealing noises with my mouth. James Bond in drag. I was in the process of navigating a hairpin turn on a mountainous road above Monte Carlo when I looked up to find Voigt standing beside the car. I could feel the color rise in my face like heat. "This is beautiful," I murmured. I knew I only said it as a way of sucking up to him, but I couldn't help myself.

He opened the door and slid in on the passenger side. He surveyed the dashboard lovingly and then touched the supple leather on the bucket seat. "Fourteen hides for every Corniche interior. Sometimes after closing, I come down here and sit."

"You own this place and you don't drive one yourself?"

"I can't afford it quite yet," he said. "I made up my mind if we won this lawsuit I was going to buy one of these, just for the thrill of it." His expression was pained. "From what Rhe tells me, you've stirred up a hornets' nest. She's talking about suing the shit out of you and Lonnie both."

"On what grounds?"

"I have no idea. People who sue hardly need a reason these days. God only knows how it's going to impact my case. You were hired to serve subpoenas. You weren't instructed to go off on any tangents."

"I can't assess the situation from a legal standpoint-that's really Lonnie's job…"

"But how did it happen? That's what I don't get."

Trying not to sound defensive, I told him about my conversation with Barney and what I'd found out since then, detailing Tippy's involvement in the death of the elderly pedestrian. Voigt didn't let me get to the end of it.

"That's ludicrous. Absurd! Morley worked on this case for months and he never came up with any information about Tippy and this hit-and-run accident."

"Actually, that's not true. He was pursuing the same lead I was. He'd already taken pictures of her father's pickup, which was my next step. I showed the photographs to the witness, who's identified it as the vehicle at the scene."

His brow furrowed. "Oh, for God's sake. So what? After all these years, that doesn't constitute proof. You're jeopardizing millions and what's the point?"

"The point is I talked to Tippy and she told me she did it."

"I don't see the relevance. Just because David Barney claims he saw her that night? This is bullshit."

"You might not see the relevance, but a jury will. Wait until Herb Foss gets hold of it. He'll play the timing for all it's worth."

"But suppose it was earlier? You can't be sure about what time it was."

"Yes, I can. There's a corroborating witness and I've talked to him."

He wiped his face with one hand, palm resting across his mouth briefly. He said, "Jesus. Lonnie's not going to be happy. Have you talked to him?"

"He'll be back tonight. I can talk to him then."

"You don't know how much I have wrapped up in this. It's cost me thousands of dollars, not to mention all the pain and suffering. You've undone all of that. And for what? Some six-year-old hit-and-run accident?"

"Wait a minute. That pedestrian is just as dead as Isabelle. You think his life doesn't matter just because he was ninety-two? Talk to his son if you want to discuss pain and suffering."

A look of impatience flitted across his face. "I can't believe the police will press charges. Tippy was a juvenile at the time and she's led an exemplary life since. I hate to seem callous, but what's done is done. In Isabelle's case, you're talking cold-blooded murder."

"I don't want to argue. Let's just see what Lonnie says. His point of view may be entirely different. Maybe he'll come up with a whole new strategy."

"You better hope so. Otherwise, David Barney's going to get away with murder."

"You can't very well 'get away with' something if you didn't do it in the first place."

A telephone began to ring in one of the sales offices. Unconsciously, we both paused and looked in that direction, waiting for the machine to pick up. By the fifth ring, Voigt flashed a look of irritation at the rear. "Oh, hell, I must have turned off the answering machine." He got out and crossed the showroom at a quick clip, snatching up the receiver on the seventh or eighth ring. When it was clear that he'd been caught up in another lengthy conversation, I got out of the Rolls and let myself out the side door.

I spent the next hour in a Colgate coffee shop. In theory, I was having breakfast, but in truth, I was hiding. I wanted to feel like the old Kinsey again… talkin' trash and kickin' butt. Being cowed and uncertain was really for the birds.

The Wynington-Blake mortuary in Colgate is a generic sanctuary designed to serve just about any spiritual inclination you might favor in death. I was given a printed program as I entered the chapel. I found a seat at the rear and spent a few minutes contemplating my surroundings. The construction was vaguely churchlike: a faux apse, a faux nave with a big stained-glass window filled with blocks of rich color. Morley's closed coffin was visible up in front, flanked by funeral wreaths. There were no religious symbols-no angels, no crosses, no saints, no images of God, Jesus, Muhammad, Brahma, or any other Supreme Being. Instead of an altar, there was a library table. In lieu of a pulpit, there was a lectern with a mike.

We were seated in pews, but there wasn't any organ music. The hallowed equivalent of Muzak was being piped in, hushed chords vaguely reminiscent of Sunday school. Despite the secular tones of the environment, everybody was dressed up and looking properly subdued. The place was filled to capacity and most of those gathered were unknown to me. I wondered if the etiquette followed that of weddings- the deceased's friends on one side, the survivor's on the other. If Dorothy Shine and her sister were present, they'd be seated in the little family alcove to the right, hidden from public view by a partial wall of glass block.

There was a quiet stirring to my left and I became aware that two gentlemen had just entered the pew from the side aisle. As soon as they'd been seated, I felt a gentle nudge to my elbow. I glanced to my left and experienced a disorienting moment when I caught sight of Henry and William sitting next to me. William was wearing a somber charcoal suit. Henry had forsaken his usual shorts and T-shirt and was quite respectably attired in a white dress shirt, tie, dark sport coat, and chinos. And tennis shoes.

"William wanted you to have support in this your hour of need," Henry murmured to me under his breath.

I leaned forward. Sure enough, William had a mournful eye fixed on me. "Actually, I could use it, but what made him think of it?"

"He loves funerals," Henry was whispering. "This is like Christmas morning for him. He woke up early, all excited-"

William leaned over and put a finger to his lips.

I gave Henry a nudge.

"It's the truth," he said. "I couldn't talk him out of it. He insisted I put on this ridiculous outfit. I think he's hoping for a really tragic cemetery scene, widow flinging herself into the open grave."

There was a rustling sound. At the front of the chapel, a middle-aged man in a white choir robe had appeared at the lectern. Under the robe, you could see he was wearing an electric blue suit that made him look like some kind of television evangelist. He seemed to be organizing his notes in preparation for the service. The microphone was on and the riffling of paper made a great clattering.

Henry crossed his arms. "The Catholics wouldn't do it this way. They'd have some boy in a dress swinging a pot of incense like he had a cat by the tail."

William frowned significantly, cautioning Henry to silence. He managed to behave himself for the next twenty minutes or so while the officiating pastor went through all of the expected sentiments. It was clear he was some kind of rent-a-reverend, brought in for the day. Twice, he referred to Morley as 'Marlon' and some of the virtues he ascribed to him bore no relation to the man I knew. Still, we all tried to be good sports. When you're dead, you're dead, and if you can't have a few lies told about you when you're in your grave, you've just about run out of shots. We stood and we sat. We sang hymns and bowed our heads while prayers were recited. Passages were read from some new version of the Bible with every lyrical image and poetic phrase translated into conversational English.

"The Lord is my counselor. He encourages me to go birding in the fields. He leads me to quiet pools. He restores my soul and takes me along the right pathways of life. Yes, even if I pass by Death's dark wood, I won't be scared…"

Henry sent me a look of consternation.

When we were finally liberated, Henry took me by the elbow and we moved toward the door. William lingered behind, filing with a number of others toward the closed casket, where final respects were being paid. As Henry and I passed into the corridor, I glanced back and saw William engaged in an earnest chat with the minister. We went through the front door to the covered porch that ran the width of the building. The crowd had subdivided, half still in the chapel, the other half lighting up cigarettes in the parking lot. The scent of sulfur matches permeated the air.

This was funeral weather, the morning chilly and gray. By early afternoon, the cloud cover would probably clear, but in the meantime the sky was dreary.

I looked to my right, inadvertently catching sight of a departing mourner with a slight limp. "Simone?"

She turned and looked at me. Now I'm an haute couture ignoramus, but today she was wearing an outfit even I recognized. The two-piece 'ensemble' (to use fashion magazine talk) was the work of a designer who'd amassed a fortune making women look ill-shapen, overdressed, and foolish. She turned away, her body rocking as she hobbled toward her car.

I touched Henry's arm. "I'll be right back."

Simone wasn't actually running, but it was clear she didn't want to talk to me. I pursued her at a hard walk, closing down the distance between us. "Simone, would you wait up?"

She stopped in her tracks, letting me pull abreast.

"What's your hurry?"

She turned on me in cold fury. "I got a call from Rhe Parsons. You're going to ruin Tippy's life. I think you're a shit and I don't want to talk to you."

"Hey, wait a minute. I got news for you. I don't make up the facts. I'm being paid to investigate-"

She cut in. "Oh, right. That's a good one. And who paid you? David Barney, by any chance? He's good-looking and single, I'm sure he'd be willing to cut you in on the deal."

"Of course it wasn't David. What's the matter with you? If she committed a crime-"

"The girl was sixteen years old!"

"The girl was drunk," I said. "I don't care what age she was. She has to take responsibility-"

"Don't try that righteous tone on me. I don't have time for this," she said and began to walk away. She reached her car and fumbled with her keys. She got in and slammed the door shut.

"You're pissed because this gets David Barney off the hook."

She rolled the window down. "I'm pissed because David Barney is a horrible man. He's despicable. I'm pissed because good people have to suffer while the bad people walk away with everything."

"You think just because you don't like some guy it's okay to see him falsely convicted of murder?"

"He hated Iz." She put the key in the ignition, turned the engine over, and released the hand brake.

"That doesn't mean he killed her. You were not exactly without a motive yourself."

"Me?"

"The accident you were involved in was her fault, wasn't it? I heard she was drunk and left the car in the drive without the brake pulled on. Because of her, you lost any hope of having children. That's a big price to pay when you'd been cleaning up after her for most of your life. It couldn't have sat well with you-"

"That's ridiculous. People don't murder other people over things like that."

"Of course they do. Pick up the newspaper any day of the week."

"David Barney's full of shit. He'd do anything to shift the blame."

"This didn't come from him. It came from someone else."

"And who was that?"

"I'd rather not go into that…"

"Well, you're a fool if you believe it."

"I didn't say I believed it, but the point is a good one."

"Which is what?"

"Other people had a motive for wanting her dead. We've all been so busy believing David Barney did it, we haven't looked at anyone else."

She seemed momentarily stumped by the thought and then her gaze shifted slyly. "Well, then. Why don't you look in the right direction?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying Yolanda Weidmann. Isabelle wrecked Peter's business pulling out when she did. He really promoted her career. He put in a lot of time and money when no one else would lift a finger. You have to understand just how crazy Isabelle was. Erratic, self-destructive, all the booze and the dope. She didn't have a degree. She didn't have a reputation until Peter took her up. He was her mentor and she shafted him royally. She turned her back on him after all he did. And then, that heart attack of his. That was the finishing touch. In theory, it was brought on by stress and overwork. The truth is, she broke his heart. That's the long and short of it."

"But he didn't seem bitter when I talked to him."

"I didn't say he was bitter. Yolanda's the one. She's really a spider, not a woman you'd want to cross."

"I'm listening."

"You've met the woman. You tell me."

I shrugged. "Personally, I couldn't stand her. I spent half an hour over there and she put him down constantly, all these barbs and zingers, little ha-has at his expense. I'd rather see a knock-down, drag-out fight. At least it's honest. She seemed… I don't know… wily."

Simone smiled slightly. "Ah, yes. She's very cunning. Under it all, I assure you, she's fiercely protective. She can treat him any way she likes, but you try it and look out! I think it makes her a very good candidate."

"But the woman must be sixty-five years old if she's a day. It's hard to believe she'd turn to murder."

"You don't know Yolanda. I'm surprised she didn't do it sooner. As for her age, she's in better shape than I am." She broke off eye contact and her manner became brisk. "I have to go. I'm sorry I blew my stack." She put the car in reverse and backed out of the slot. I stared after her with interest as she pulled away.