I is for Innocent

5

She moved into the tiny kitchen area and began to take items from the tiny fridge.

"Can I do anything to help?"

"No, thanks. There isn't really room enough for two of us to work. Guys love it, unless it turns out they have a passion for cooking. Then they take over here and I sit out there where you are."

I half turned on the stool, checking out the room behind me. "Great house," I remarked.

She flushed with pleasure. "You like it? Isabelle designed it… the start of her career."

"She was an architect? I didn't know that."

"Well, she wasn't really, but she passed for one in some respects. Look around if you like. It's only three hundred square feet."

"Is that all? It seems bigger." I stepped out onto the front porch, curious to see how the general layout related to the interior. Since the windows were cranked open, I could talk to her easily as I rounded the structure. The cottage felt as if it had been miniaturized, scaled down from human-size dimensions to a little playhouse for grown-ups. Every comfort seemed attended to, without flourish or wasted space. There was even a small chimney. I stuck my head in the window so I could peer at the compact fireplace. Many interior surfaces, including the hearth, sills, and countertops, were covered with hand-painted blue-and-white tiles in a flower motif. "This is wonderful."

Simone flashed me a smile.

I withdrew from the window and circled the perimeter. Herbs had been planted in every sunny spot. I could smell rosemary and thyme when the breeze whiffled through. The house was situated on an apron of grass that spread out in a half-moon. Below, the hillside fell away steeply into a tangle of live oak and chaparral. The view was to the mountains across the town of Santa Teresa. I reentered the only door, which opened into the kitchen. "You'll have to see my place sometime. It has a similar feel to it. A perfect little hideaway."

I continued my survey while she cut several slices from a loaf of wheat bread. The place was so small I could tour without moving far. The furnishings were antique: a crude pine table, two cane-bottom chairs, a corner cabinet with wavy, blue-tinted glass panes, a brass bed with a patchwork quilt, white on white. The bathroom was small, the only portion of the house that was fully enclosed. The rest was essentially one large room, with areas defined according to function. Everything was open, airy, tidy, full of light. Every detail was perfect, like a series of illustrations for a glossy household magazine. There were views from the front and side windows, but none from the back, where the slope rose again sharply to the main house above.

I pulled a stool up to the counter and watched her make sandwiches. She'd assembled plates, cutlery, and blue-and-white cloth napkins, which she passed to me. I set two places at the table. "If she wasn't an architect, how'd she do this?"

"She was like an unpaid apprentice to a local architect. Don't ask me how she managed it or why he agreed. She sort of went in when it suited her and did what she pleased."

"Not a bad deal," I said.

"That's where she met David. He came to work for the same firm. Her boss's name was Peter Weidmann. Have you talked to him yet?"

"No, but I intend to, as soon as I leave here."

"Oh, good. He and Yolanda live close by. About a mile from here. He's a nice man, retired now. He really taught Isabelle a lot. She was an artist by nature, but she didn't have the discipline. She could do anything she wanted, but she was always such a dilettante-full of great ideas, but lousy at development. She lost interest in most things-until she started doing this."

"This, meaning what?"

"She designed tiny houses. Mine was the first. Somehow Santa Teresa Magazine heard about it and did a big photo spread. The response was incredible. Everybody wanted one."

"For guests?"

"Or for teens, in-laws, art studios, meditation retreats. The beauty is you can tuck one into any corner of your property… once you get past the zoning sharks. She and David pulled out of Peter's firm when this whole thing took off. The two of them went into business and made a fortune overnight. She was written up everywhere, from the snooty publications to the mundane. Architectural Digest, House if Garden, Parade. Plus, she won all these design awards. It was astonishing."

"What about David? How did he fit in?"

"Oh, she had to have him. She was such an airhead about business. She originated the designs, did preliminary sketches, and roughed out the floor plans. David had a degree and he was AIA, so he was responsible for drafting, all the blueprints and specs, things of that sort. He also did the marketing, advertising… the grunt work, in effect. Hasn't anybody told you this?"

"Not a bit," I said. "I met Ken Voigt last night and he talked about Isabelle briefly. As I said on the phone, I've read all the files, but this is the first time I've heard the particulars. How did Barney feel about her getting all the glory?"

"He probably resented it, but what could he do? His career had gone nowhere. The same was true of Peter Weidmann."

Simone moved to the table with a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of sandwiches. We sat down to eat. The coarse-textured bread was thinly sliced and lightly buttered. Leaves hung out of the sandwich like the trimmings from a garden.

"Watercress," she said when she caught my expression.

"My favorite," I murmured, but it turned out to be good-very peppery and fresh. "You have a picture of her?"

"Oh sure. Hang on and I'll get it."

"No hurry. This is fine," I said with my mouth full, but she was up and moving over to the bed table, returning seconds later with a photograph in an ornate silver frame.

She passed me the picture and sat down again. "She and I were twins. Fraternal, not identical. She was twenty-nine when that was taken."

I studied the picture. It was the first glimpse I'd had of Isabelle Barney. She was prettier than Simone. She had a softly rounded face with glossy dark hair that fell gracefully to her shoulders, silky strands forming a frame for her wide cheekbones. Her eyes were a clear brown. She had a strong short nose, a wide mouth, muted makeup, if any. She seemed to be wearing some kind of scoop-necked T-shirt, dark brown like her hair. I found myself nodding. "I can see the resemblance. What's your family background?"

I passed the picture back and she propped it up at one end of the table. Isabelle watched us gravely as the conversation continued. "Both our parents were artists and a bit eccentric. Mother had family money so she and Daddy never really did much. They went to Europe one summer on a six-week tour and ended up staying ten years."

"Doing what?"

She took a bite of sandwich, chewing some before she answered. "Just bumming around. I don't know. They traveled and painted and lived like Bohemians. I guess they hung out on the fringes of polite society. Expatriates, like Hemingway. They came back to the States when World War Two broke out and somehow ended up in Santa Teresa. I think they read about it in a book and thought it sounded neat. Meanwhile, money was getting tight and Daddy decided he'd better pay more attention to their investments. He turned out to be a whiz. By the time we were born, they were rolling in it again."

"Who was the oldest, you or Isabelle?"

She took a sip of her iced tea and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "I was, by thirty minutes. Mother was forty-four when she had us and nobody had a clue she was carrying twins. She'd never been pregnant so she assumed she was in menopause when she first stopped having periods. She was a Christian Scientist and refused to see a doctor until the last possible minute. She'd been in labor fifteen hours when she finally agreed to have Daddy take her to the nearest hospital. They barely got her upstairs when I arrived. She was all set to hop off the table and go home again. She figured that was the end of it and the doctor did, too. He was expecting the placenta when Isabelle slid out."

"Your parents still living?"

She shook her head. "Both died within a month of each other. We were nineteen at the time. Isabelle got married for the first time that year."

"Are you married?"

"Not me. I feel like I've been married, watching her go through hers."

"Voigt was the second?"

"Right. Number one was killed in a boating accident."

"What was it like being twins? Were the two of you alike?"

"Unh-unh. No way. God, we couldn't have been more different. She inherited the family talent and all the vices that went with it. Artwise, she excelled, but it all came so easily she didn't take it seriously. The minute she mastered a skill, she lost interest. Drawing, painting. She did a little bit of everything. She made jewelry, she sculpted. She got into textiles and did incredible work, but then she got restless. She wasn't satisfied. She always wanted to do something else. In a way, the tiny houses saved her, though she might have gotten bored if she'd lived long enough."

"I gather, from what Ken says, she had a problem with low self-esteem."

"Among other things. She had all the inclinations of an addict. She smoked. She drank. She took pills any chance she got. She toked two or three joints a day. For a while, she dropped acid."

"How'd she get any work done? I'd be a basket case."

"It didn't affect her in the least. Besides, she could afford all that stuff, which is too bad in a way. She never really had to work because we inherited money. Fortunately, she never got into cocaine or she'd have gone through every cent."

"Wasn't that hard on you, her being out of control?"

"It was hard on all of us. I was always the heavy-parental, responsible. Especially since we were so young when our parents died. Isabelle got married, but I still felt like her mother. I admired her tremendously, but she was difficult. She couldn't sustain a relationship. She had nothing to give on a day-to-day basis. She was very self-involved. It was 'me, me, me.'

"Narcissistic," I supplied.

"Yes, but I don't want to give the wrong impression. She had some wonderful qualities. She was warm and witty and she was terribly bright. She was fun. She had a good time. She really knew how to play. She taught me a lot about how to lighten up."

"Tell me about David Barney."

"David. That's a tough one," she said and then paused to consider. "I'll try to be fair. I'd say he's handsome. Charming. Trivial. He and his wife moved up here from Los Angeles when he joined Peter's firm."

"He was married?"

"Not for long."

"What happened to his ex?"

"Laura? She's still around someplace. After David dumped her, she was forced to go to work, like every other ex-wife in town. God, women are getting screwed in divorces these days. For every guy who claims he's been 'taken' by some babe, I can show you six, eight, ten women who've been 'had' financially. Anyway, I'm sure she's in the book."

"Go on."

"Yes, well, David was a snob. He didn't want to work for a living any more than Isabelle did, except she was loving every minute of the work, not surprisingly. I mean, she had this sudden celebrity status and she ate it up. He was pushing her to sell the business while it was hot, before it peaked. He had some cockamamie scheme about prefabs and franchises. I'm not really sure what his idea was, but she hated it. By then, she was disenchanted with the marriage anyway, feeling bullied and suffocated. She wanted out from under."

"If they'd divorced, the business would have been considered community property, wouldn't it?"

"Sure. It would have been divided in half and he'd have lost really big. What'd she need him for? She could find half a dozen guys to fill his slot, but that wasn't true for him. Without her, he had zip. On the other hand, if she died, the business came to him intact… more or less. Her portion would go to Shelby, but he didn't have to worry about a four-year-old. At that point, Isabelle had already come up with so many preliminary sketches he could afford to coast and survive on the proceeds. Plus, with her dead, he must have counted on collecting the insurance. Again, some would go to Shelby, but he's still going to rake in a bunch."

"If he wins," I said. "Where's the house he leased when they separated?"

She flapped her hand toward the ocean. "As you leave the drive you turn left and it's down half a mile. A big white monstrosity, one of those contemporary houses made out of glass and concrete. It's so ugly, you can't miss it."

"Within easy walking distance?"

"He could have crawled it's so close."

"Were you here at the cottage the night she was killed?"

"Well, yes, but I didn't hear the shot. She'd phoned down here earlier to tell me the Seegers would be arriving late. They'd called about the car trouble and she didn't want me to worry if I saw lights on in the house. We chatted for a while and she sounded great. She'd been such a mess."

"Because of his harassment?"

"And the quarrels and the threats. Her life was a nightmare, but she was excited about San Francisco, looking forward to a little shopping, the theater, and the restaurants."

"What time did you talk to her?"

"About nine, I guess. It wasn't late. Isabelle was a night owl, but she knew I was usually in bed by ten. The first time I realized there was something wrong was when Don Seeger came down. He said they were worried because they couldn't get Isabelle to answer the door. They could see the fisheye was missing from the door and the hole looked burned. I grabbed a robe, got my key, and went up to the main house with him. We went in through the back door and found her in the foyer. I felt like a zombie. I was absolutely numb. So cold. It was awful, the worst night of my life." I could see tears for the first time and her face was suffused with pain. She fumbled in her pocket for a Kleenex and blew her nose. "Sorry," she murmured.

I studied her for a moment. "And you really think he killed her?"

"There's not a doubt in my mind. I just don't know how you're going to prove it."

"Me neither," I replied.

It was 2:34 when I left Simone and returned to my car. A heavy marine layer had begun to settle in, obscuring the view. The afternoon light already had the gray feel of twilight and the air was chilly. There was something distinctly unpleasant about having to pass the main house. I glanced quickly at the windows that looked out over the courtyard. There were lights burning in the living room, though the rooms upstairs were dark. No one seemed to be aware of my passing. The BMW was still parked where it had been when I arrived. The Lincoln was gone. I unlocked my car and slid under the steering wheel. I tucked the key in the ignition and paused to scan the house again.

On this side, a loggia ran along the second story, the red tile roof supported by a series of white columns. A vine had grown up the pillars and trailed now along the overhang, lacy green with a white blossom, probably fragrant if you got close enough. The front door was bisected by a shadow from the balcony overhead, the view further eclipsed by the branches of the live oaks that crowded the walled garden. Because the driveway was long and curved up at such an angle, the house wasn't visible from the road below. A passerby might have caught sight of someone, approaching or departing, but at 1:30 in the morning, who'd be up and about? Teenagers, perhaps, getting home from a date. I wondered if there'd been a concert or a play that night, some charitable event that might have kept the area residents out after midnight. I d have to check back through the papers and find out what was going on, if anything. Isabelle had been killed in the early morning hours on the day after Christmas, which didn't sound promising. The fact that no one had ever stepped forward with information made the possibility of a witness seem even more remote.

I started the car and shifted into reverse, backing around to my left so I could head down the driveway. David Barney had claimed he was out for a night jog when Isabelle was shot. Night jogging, right, in a neighborhood dark as pitch. Much of Horton Ravine had a rural feel to it – wooded stretches without streetlights and no sidewalks at all. While no one could corroborate his story, there was no one to contradict it either. It didn't help matters that the cops had never come up with a single piece of evidence tying Barney to the scene. No witnesses, no weapon, no fingerprints. How was Lonnie going to nail the sucker if he had no ammunition?

I eased the VW down the driveway and hung a left at the bottom. I kept one eye on the odometer and the other on the road, cruising past several houses until I spotted the one that I was looking for-the place David Barney leased when he left Isabelle's. The house in question was the architectural equivalent of a circus tent: white poured concrete, with a roof line broken into wedges that fanned out from a center pole. Each triangular section was supported by three gaily painted metal pipes. Most of the windows were irregularly shaped, angled to catch some aspect of the ocean view. My guess was that inside the floors would be aggregate concrete, with the plumbing and furnace ducts plainly visible and raw. Add some corrugated plastic panels and an atrium done up in wall-to-wall Astroturf and you'd have the kind of house Metropolitan Home might refer to as 'assured,' 'unsparing,' or 'brilliantly iconoclastic.'

'Unremittingly tacky' would also cover it. Pay enough for anything and it passes for taste.

I parked my car on the berm and hiked back along the road. I reached Isabelle's driveway in exactly seven minutes. Walking up the drive might take another five at best. If you made the trip at night and didn't want to be seen, you'd have to step off into the bushes if a car went past. At that hour, you weren't likely to find anyone else out on foot. Returning to my car, I timed myself again. Eight minutes this round, but I wasn't really pushing it. I made a note of the numbers on the mailboxes by the road. The neighbors might know something that would be of help. I'd have to do a door-to-door canvass to satisfy myself on that point.

I'd scheduled my appointment with the Weidmanns for 3:30, which gave me twenty minutes to spare. In most investigations I'm hired for, the object of the exercise is to flush out culprits: burglars, deadbeats, embezzlers, con artists, perpetrators of insurance fraud. Occasionally, I take on a missing-persons search, but the process is much the same- like picking at a piece of knitting until you find a loose thread. Pull at the right point and the whole garment comes unraveled. This one was different. Here, the quarry was known. The question wasn't who, but how to bring him down. Morley Shine had already done a thorough (though poorly organized) investigation and he'd come up with zilch. Now it was my turn, but what was left? I made some doodles on the page, hoping something would occur to me. Most of my doodles looked like great big goose eggs.