I is for Innocent

19

"Coroner'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 Morley. 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."

"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 of 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 something 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 Maria 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."

"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."

"Milk 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 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.