I is for Innocent

6

It's been my observation that the rich like to subdivide into the haves and the have-mores. What's the point in achieving status if you can't still be compared favorably with someone else in your peer group? Just because the wealthy band together doesn't mean they've relinquished their desire to be judged superior. The circle is simply more select and the criteria more exotic. The assessment of personal real estate is a case in point. Mansions, while easily distinguished from middle-income tract houses, can be further classified according to a few easily remembered yardsticks. The size and location of the property should be given first consideration. Additionally, the longer the driveway, the more points will be accorded. The presence of a private security guard or a pack of attack-trained dogs would naturally be counted more discerning than mere electronic equipment, unless of an extremely sophisticated sort. Beyond that, one must factor in such matters as guesthouses, spiked gates, reflecting pools, topiary, and excessive outdoor lighting. Obviously the fine points will vary from community to community, but none of these categories should be overlooked in assessing individual worth.

The Weidmanns lived on Lower Road, one of Horton Ravine's less prestigious addresses. Despite the pricey tone of the neighborhood, half the homes were nondescript. Theirs was unremarkable, a one-story pale green stucco, adorned with wrought-iron porch supports and topped with a flat rock-composite roof. The lot was large and nicely landscaped, but the house was too close to the road to count for much. Given the fact that Peter Weidmann was an architect, I'd expected a lavish layout, an entertainment pavilion or an indoor pool, embellishments that would reflect the full range of his design talents. Or maybe this one did that.

I parked on a concrete apron to one side of the house. Once on the porch, I rang the bell, and waited. I half expected a maid, but Mrs. Weidmann came to the front door herself. She must have been in her seventies, smartly turned out in a two-piece black velour sweatsuit and a pair of Rockport walking shoes.

"Mrs. Weidmann? I'm Kinsey Millhone," I said, holding out my hand politely.

She seemed disconcerted by the move and there was one of those embarrassing delays until we actually shook hands. There was something in the hesitation-distaste or prudery-that caused me to bristle inwardly. Her hair was a stiff cap of platinum blond, parted down the middle, the strands separating into two tense curls, like rams' horns in the center. She had bags under her eyes and her upper lids had begun to droop, reducing the visible portion of her irises to mere hints of blue. Her skin was a peachy color, her cheeks tinted a hot pink. She looked like she'd just flunked a stress test, but a closer examination showed she was simply wearing foundation and blusher in a shade far too vivid for her coloring.

She stared at me, as if waiting for a little door-to-door salesmanship. "What was this regarding? I'm afraid it's slipped my mind."

"I work for Lonnie Kingman, Kenneth Voigt's attorney in his suit against David Barney-"

"Oh! Yes, yes, yes. Of course. You wanted to speak to Peter about the murder. Terrible. I believe you said the other fellow died. What was his name, that investigator…?" She tapped her fingers on her forehead as if to stimulate thought.

"Morley Shine," I said.

"That's the one." She lowered her voice. "I thought he was dreadful. I didn't like him."

"Really," I said, feeling instantly defensive. I'd always thought Morley was a good investigator and a nice man besides.

She wrinkled her nose and the corners of her mouth turned up. "He smelled so peculiar. I'm sure the man drank." Her expression was one of perpetual pained smiles superimposed on profound disapproval. Age plays cruel tricks on the human face; all our repressed feelings become visible on the surface, where they harden like a mask. "He was here several times, asking all these silly questions. I hope you don't intend to do that."

"I will have to ask some, but I hope not to be a bother. May I come in?"

"Of course. Please excuse my bad manners. Peter's in the garden. We can chat out there. I was going out for my walk when you knocked, but I can do that in a bit. Do you exercise?"

"I jog."

"Jogging's very bad. All that pounding is much too hard on the knees," she said. "Walking's the thing. My doctor is Julian Clifford… do you know him?"

I shook my head.

"He's a top orthopedic surgeon. He's also a neighbor and a very dear friend. I can't tell you how often he's warned me about the harm people do in their determination to jog. It's absurd."

"Really," I said faintly.

She went on in this vein, her tone argumentative though I offered no resistance. I had no intention of altering my regimen for a woman who thought Morley smelled bad. Her shoes made no sound as we crossed the marble-tiled foyer and moved down a hallway to the rear of the house. While the exterior was strictly fifties ranch style, the interior was furnished in an Oriental motif: Persian carpets, matching silk-paneled screens, ornate mirrors, a black lacquer chest inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She had two matching cloisonné vases the size of umbrella stands. Many items seemed to come in pairs, one placed on either side of something grotesque.

I followed her through the kitchen and out the back door, where a concrete patio ran across the rear of the house. Four low steps led down to a brick walk that extended into a small formal garden. Toward the rear of the property, I could see a woody area peppered with toadstools, some growing singly, some in fairy rings. The air smelled damply of dead leaves and mosses. A few forlorn birds were still perched in the treetops, their singing disconsolate as winter crept closer.

The patio furniture was wrought iron and canvas, the seat cushions fading from exposure to the weather. Peter Weidmann was napping, a thick hardback book lying open in his lap. I'd glanced at a copy in a bookstore recently: Part One of some celebrity's boring autobiography 'as told to' some writer who'd been hired to render it intelligent. It looked as if he'd read all the way to page five. A sprinkling of cigarette butts surrounded his chair. He was probably not allowed to smoke in the house.

He looked like a man who'd lived all his life in a business suit. Now retired, he wore dark, stiff jeans and a new plaid flannel shirt, packing creases still showing, two buttons open to expose a portion of his white undershirt. Why does a man like that look so vulnerable in leisure clothes? He was narrow through the face, with black unruly eyebrows and short-cropped white hair. He and Yolanda had reached that stage in their fifty-year marriage where she looked more like his mother than his wife.

"This is called active retirement," she said with a laugh. "I wish I could retire, but of course, I never had a job." Her tone of voice was jocular, though her comment was bitter. The pretended humor barely served to mask the bite underneath. She nudged his shoulder, relishing the excuse to disturb his peace and quiet. "Someone to see you, Peter."

"I can come back a little later. There's no need to wake him."

"He won't mind a bit. It's not as if he's done any hard work today." She leaned close and said, "Peter."

He roused himself with a start, disoriented by the depths of his sleep and the sudden voice in his ear.

"We have company. It's about Isabelle and David. This young woman is Mr. Kingman's secretary." She turned to me with a sudden worry. "I hope that's right. You're not an attorney yourself, are you?"

"I'm a private investigator."

"I didn't think you looked like an attorney. Your name again is what-?"

Mr. Weidmann set his book aside and rose to his feet. He extended his hand. "Peter Weidmann."

We shook hands. "I'm Kinsey Millhone. Sorry to disturb you."

"That's quite all right. Would you like some coffee or a cup of tea?"

"Thanks, but I'm fine."

Yolanda said to him, "Well, it's much too chilly to be out on the porch." And then to me, "He's had the flu twice this winter and I'm not about to go through that again. I was exhausted from all the fetching and carrying. Men are such babies when it comes to being sick." The complaint was accompanied by a wink to me. She'd claim she was teasing if Peter took offense.

"I'm afraid I don't make a very good patient," he said.

"It's not something you'd want to be good at," I replied.

He made a gesture toward the house. "We can talk in the den."

We formed a little three-person procession into the house, which seemed nearly stuffy after the damp air outside. The den was small and the furniture had the same shabby feel as the porch chairs. I suspected the house was divided into 'his' and 'hers.'

'Her' portion was well appointed-expensive, overdecorated, filled with objects probably collected from various trips to foreign ports. She'd co-opted the living room, the formal dining room, the kitchen, the breakfast room, and most probably all the bathrooms, the guest bedroom, and the master suite. He'd been accorded the back porch and the den, where he'd carefully hoarded all the household items she was threatening to throw out.

As soon as we entered the paneled den, she began to wave her hands in the air, making a face about the smell of cigarette smoke. "For heaven's sake, Peter, this is dreadful. I don't see how you can stand it." She moved over and cranked a window open, fanning the air with a magazine she'd picked up.

I'm not all that fond of cigarette smoke myself, but with her making such a scene, I found myself coming to his defense. "Don't worry about it. It doesn't bother me," said.

She picked up a filled ashtray and made a face. "Well, it might not bother you, but it's disgusting," she said. "Just let me fetch the Airwick." She moved out of the room taking the offending ashtray with her. The tension level dropped a notch. I turned my attention to the wall above the fireplace, which was hung with framed 'celebrity' photographs. I moved closer to have a look. "These are you?"

"In the main," he said.

There were pictures of Peter Weidmann with the mayor at a groundbreaking ceremony, Isabelle Barney in the background; Peter at a banquet receiving some kind of placard; Peter at a construction site, posed with the contractor. The latter photo had apparently been run in the local newspaper because someone had clipped it, framed it, and hung it beside the original. The caption identified the occasion as the dedication of a new recreational facility. From the various cars visible in the background, I judged the majority of the pictures had been taken in the early seventies. Along with the commercial projects, there were photographs of residential sites. Two photographs featured minor-level "movie stars" whose homes he'd apparently designed and built. I took a moment to view the whole gallery, as interested in seeing Isabelle as I was in seeing him. I like to watch people at work. Our occupations bring out aspects of our personalities no one would ever dream of if they met us in "civilian" settings.

In his hard hat and coveralls, Peter looked young, very sure of himself. It wasn't simply that the pictures had been taken years ago when he was, in fact, younger. This must have been the apex of his career, with everything going right. He had had big projects in the works. He must have had recognition, influence, money, friends. He looked happy. I glanced over at the man beside me, so lusterless by comparison.

I caught him watching my reaction. "This is great," I said.

He smiled. "I've been very fortunate." He pointed to one of the photos. "Sam Eaton, the state senator," he said. "I did a house for him and his wife, Mary Lee. This is Harris Angel, the Hollywood film producer. You've probably heard of him."

I said, "The name sounds familiar," though it didn't at all.

Yolanda returned with the Airwick. "Maria put this in the refrigerator of all places," she said. She set the bottle on the table and exposed the wick. The scent that wafted out, a cross between Raid and shoe polish, made me long for the smell of cigarette smoke instead.

I took in the rest of the room at a glance. There was a stack of newspapers on the floor beside Peter's leather wing chair, a smaller pile of papers on the ottoman, magazines on the end table, and evidence of lunch dishes. There was a library table arranged under the windows that overlooked the backyard. On it was an old portable typewriter, a stack of books, and a second ashtray filled with cigarette butts. An old dining-room chair was pulled up to the table, with a second chair nearby piled high with paperbacks. The wastebasket was full.

She caught my eye. "He's working on a history of Santa Teresa architecture." I realized in a flash that in spite of her hostility, she was also proud of him.

"Sounds interesting."

"It's just something I'm fooling around with," he put in.

She had to laugh again. "I've got plenty for him to do if he gets tired of that. Have a seat if you can find a place. I hope you can stand the mess. I won't even let the cleaning woman in here. It's too far gone. She can do the whole house in the time it takes her to get this one room straightened up."

He smiled uncomfortably. "Now, Yolanda. Be fair. I clean the place myself… sometimes as often as twice a year."

"But not this year," she said, topping him.

He let the subject matter drop. He cleared his leather wing chair for her and pulled over a dining-room chair for me. I pushed some files aside, making room to sit.

"Just put those files on the floor," she said.

"This is fine." I was already tired of the game they played-her put-downs, his collusion, my pro forma reassurances. "Did you want to get your walk in? I didn't mean to hold you up."

Her expression shifted. Being brittle herself, she was easily injured. "I can certainly do that if you think I'm in the way."

"Now, now, now. You stay right where you are," he said. "I'm sure she's here to talk to both of us."

"I suppose we could have some sherry," she said hesitantly.

He waved her into the chair. "I'll do that. You just have a seat."

"Please don't go to any trouble. I have to be somewhere else shortly." This was not entirely true, but I wasn't sure how much more I could endure. I took my notebook out of my handbag and leafed through the pages. "Let me ask a couple of questions and then I can get out of here. I don't want to take any more of your time than I have to."

Peter sank into a chair. "Exactly what is it you're doing?"

Yolanda adjusted one of the rings she wore, making sure the square-cut diamond was properly centered on her finger. "You'll have to pardon Peter. I only explained it to him twice."

"This is a follow-up to Morley Shine's investigation," I said, ignoring her. "Frankly, we're hoping to strengthen the plaintiff's case. Did you have contact with David or Isabelle on the day she died?"

He said, "I don't remember anything specific, but it seems unlikely."

"Well, of course it's unlikely. You were in the hospital, don't you remember? Your heart attack was December fifteenth that year. You were at St. Terry's until January second. I was afraid to tell you about Isabelle because I didn't want you upset."

His look was blank. "I suppose that's right. I'd forgotten that it all happened in that same period," he said to her. And then to me, "They'd pulled out of the firm by then and set up offices of their own."

"Taking any client they could," she inserted with acid.

"Was there bad blood about that?"

She fiddled primly with her ring. "Not to hear him tell it, but of course there was."

"Now, Yolanda, that's not true. I wished her all the best."

"Peter hates to make a fuss. He won't confront anyone, least of all someone like her. After all he'd done."

"As I understand it, Isabelle came up with the idea for tiny houses while she was working for you."

"That's right."

"What about… what's it called… proprietary rights? Wouldn't the idea actually belong to you?"

Peter started to answer, but Yolanda broke in. "Of course. He never even asked her to sign the form. The woman walked out with everything. He wouldn't even press the point, though I begged him to. In effect, Isabelle stole millions from him-literally millions…"

I formed my next question with care. I could already tell Peter was much too circumspect to be of any use in my investigation. Yolanda, the spite queen, was going to serve me well if I could set her up right. "You must have been furious."

"And why wouldn't I be? She was a self-indulgent, degenerate-" She bit off the sentence.

"Go on," I said.

"Yolanda," Peter said with a warning look.

She amended her stance. "I wouldn't want to speak ill."

"It won't hurt her at this point. I understand she was excessive-"

"Excessive doesn't begin to cover it. She was downright dishonest!"

Peter leaned toward his wife. "I don't think we should present a totally biased view. You may not have been fond of her, but she was talented."

"Yes, she was," Yolanda said, coloring. "And I suppose-to be fair about it-her problems were not all her fault. Sometimes I almost felt sorry for her. She was neurotic and high-strung. The woman had everything but happiness. David latched onto her like a parasite and he sucked her dry."

I waited for more, but she seemed to have run down. I looked at Peter. "Is that your analysis?"

"It's not my place to judge."

"I'm not asking you to judge her. I'd like your point of view. It might help me understand the situation."

He thought about that one briefly and apparently decided it made sense. "She was unfortunate. I don't know what else to say."

"How long did she work for you?"

"A little over four years. An informal apprenticeship."

"Simone told me she didn't actually have an architectural degree," I said.

"That's correct. Isabelle had no formal design training. She had wonderful ideas. She bubbled over with enthusiasm. It was almost as if the same reservoir fed both her creativity and her destruction."

"Was she a manic-depressive?"

"She seemed to live with very high levels of anxiety, which is why she drank," he said.

"She drank because she was an alcoholic," Yolanda put in.

"We don't know that," he said.

She had to laugh at that, patting herself on the chest to curb her merriment. "You'll never get a man to admit a beautiful woman is flawed."

I could feel the tension collecting again at the back of my neck. "What sort of man is David Barney? I gather he's an architect. Is he talented?"

Yolanda said, "He's a carpenter with pretensions."

Peter brushed her response aside. "He's a very good technician," Peter said.

"Technician?"

"That's not meant as criticism."

"He's the defendant. You can criticize all you like."

"I'm reluctant to do that. After all, we're in the same profession even though I'm retired. It's a small town. I don't feel it's my place to comment on his qualifications."

"What about the man himself?"

"I never cared for him personally."

"Oh, for God's sake, Peter. Why don't you tell her the truth? You can't stand the man. Nobody can abide him. He's sly and dishonest. He manipulates left and right-"

"Yolanda-"

"Don't you 'Yolanda' me! She's asked for an opinion and I'm giving her mine. You're so busy being nice you forget how to tell the truth. David Barney is a spider. Peter thought we should all socialize, and we did, over my protest. I felt it was going too far. When the two of them were in Peter's firm, I tried to be pleasant. I didn't care for David, but I did what was expected. Isabelle had brought in a great deal of business and we were appreciative of that. Once she got involved with David… he was not a good influence."

I refocused my attention. She'd be great on the witness stand if she could keep from losing it. "How'd she manage to bring in so much business?"

"She had a lot of money and she traveled in the right circles. People looked up to her because it was clear she had exquisite taste. She was very stylish. Whatever she took up, everyone else followed suit."

"When she and David left, they took a lot of clients with them?"

"That's not unusual," Peter said hastily. "It's unfortunate, of course, but it happens in every business."

"It was a disaster," Yolanda said. "Peter retired shortly afterwards. The last time we saw them was the dinner party they gave Labor Day weekend."

"When the gun disappeared?"

The two exchanged a look. Peter cleared his throat again. "We heard about that later."

"We heard about it at the time. There was a frightful quarrel upstairs in the master bedroom. Of course, we didn't know the subject, but that's certainly what it was."

"What's your theory about who might have taken it?"

"Well, he did, of course," Yolanda said without the slightest hesitation.