I is for Innocent (24 page)

“Is that where you're off to?”

I shook my head reluctantly. “I have something else to do first.”

I made a quick call to Santa Teresa Shellfish, but Tippy'd traded shifts and wasn't going to be in that day. I left the motel and headed for Montebello, hoping I could catch Tippy at home . . . preferably without her mother hovering in the background. In essence, I'd put the woman on notice. Rhe knew something was up, though she probably didn't have a way to guess just how serious it was.

West Glen is one of the primary arteries through Montebello, a winding two-lane road lined with tall hedges and
low stone walls. Morning glories spilled over the fence tops in a waterfall of blue. The gnarled branches of the live oaks were laced together overhead, the sycamores interplanted with eucalyptus and acacia trees. Thick patches of hot pink geraniums grew by the road like weeds.

The small stucco cottage that Rhe and Tippy occupied was a two-bedroom bungalow built close to the road. I squeezed my car in on the shoulder and walked up the path to the porch, where I rang the bell. Tippy appeared almost instantly, shrugging into her jacket, purse and car keys in hand. She was clearly on her way out. She stared at me blankly with her hand on the doorknob. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a couple more questions, if you don't mind,” I said.

She hesitated, debating, then she checked her watch. Her expression denoted a little impromptu wrestling match—reluctance, annoyance, and good manners doing takedowns. “God, I don't know. I'm meeting this friend of mine in about twenty minutes. Could you, like, really make it quick?”

“Sure. Can I come in?”

She stepped back, not thrilled, but too polite to refuse. She was wearing jeans and high-heeled boots, a portion of a black leotard visible under her blue denim jacket. Her hair was down today and it trailed halfway down her back, strands still showing waves where the French braid had been undone. Her eyes were clear, her complexion faintly rosy. Somehow it made me feel bad that she looked so young.

I took in the cottage at a glance.

The interior consisted of a combination living room/dining room, tiny galley-size kitchen visible beyond. The walls were hung with original art, probably Rhe's handiwork. The floors were done in Mexican paving tiles. The couch was upholstered in hand-painted canvas, wide brushstrokes of sky blue, lavender, and taupe, with lavender-and-sky-blue pillows tossed carelessly along its length. The side chairs were inexpensive Mexican imports, caramel-colored leather in a barrel-shaped rattan frame. There was a wood-burning fireplace, big baskets filled with dried flowers, lots of copper pots hanging from a rack in the kitchen area. Dried herbs hung from the crossbeams. Through French doors, I could see a small courtyard outside with a pepper tree and lots of flowering plants in pots.

“Your mom here?”

“She went up to the market. She'll be back in a minute. What did you want? I'm really really in a hurry so I can't take too long.”

I took a seat on the couch, a bit of a liberty as Tippy hadn't really offered. She chose one of the Mexican chairs and sat down without enthusiasm.

I handed her the pictures without explanation.

“What're these?”

“Take a look.”

Frowning, she opened the envelope and pulled out the prints. She shuffled through with indifference until she came to the Olympic Paint truck. She looked up at me with alarm. “You went and took a picture of my dad's pickup?”

“Another investigator took those.”

“What for?”

“Your father's truck was seen twice the night your aunt
Isabelle was murdered. I guess the other P.I. meant to show the pictures to a witness for identification.”

“Of what?” I thought a little note of dread had crept into her voice.

I kept my tone flat, as matter-of-fact as I could make it. “A hit-and-run accident in which an old man was killed. This was on upper State in South Rockingham.”

She couldn't seem to formulate the next question, which should have been, Why tell me? She knew where I was headed.

I went on. “I thought we ought to talk about your whereabouts that night.”

“I already told you I didn't go out.”

“So you did,” I said with a shrug. “So maybe your father was the one driving.”

We locked eyes. I could see her calculate her chances of squirming out from under this one. Unless she fessed up to the fact that she was driving, she'd be pulling her father right into the line of fire.

“My dad wasn't driving.”

“Were you?”

“No!”

“Who was?”

“How should I know? Maybe somebody stole the truck and went joyriding.”

“Oh, come on, Tippy. Don't give me that. You were out in the truck and you fuckin' know you were so let's cut through the bull and get down to it.”

“I was not!”

“Hey, face the facts. I feel for you, kiddo, but you're going to have to take responsibility for what you did.”

She was silent, staring downward, her manner sullen and unresponsive. Finally she said, “I don't even know what you're talking about.”

I nudged her verbally. “What's the story, were you drunk?”

“No.”

“Your mom told me you'd had your license suspended. Did you take the truck without permission?”

“You can't prove any of this.”

“Oh, really?”

“How are you going to prove it? That was six years ago.”

“For starters, I have two eyewitnesses,” I said. “One actually saw you pull away from the scene of the accident. The other witness saw you at the southbound off-ramp on San Vicente shortly afterward. You want to tell me what happened?”

Her gaze flickered away from mine and the color came up in her cheeks. “I want a lawyer.”

“Why don't you tell me your side of it. I'd like to hear.”

“I don't have to tell you anything,” she said. “You can't make me say a word unless I have an attorney present. That's the law.” She sat back in the chair and crossed her arms.

I smirked and rolled my eyes. “No, it's not. That's
Miranda
. The cops have to Mirandize you. I don't. I'm a private eye. I get to play by a different set of rules. Come on. Just tell me what happened. You'll feel better about it.”

“Why would I tell you anything? I don't even like you.”

“Let me take a guess. You were living at your dad's and he was out and these friends of yours called you up and
just wanted to go out for a little while. So you borrowed the truck and picked them up and the three of you or the four of you, however many it was, were just messing around, drinking a couple of six-packs down at the beach. Suddenly it was midnight and you realized you better get home before your father did so you quick took everybody home. You were barreling home yourself when you hit the guy. You took off in a panic because you knew you'd be in big trouble if you got caught. How's that sound? Close enough to suit?”

Her face was still stony, but I could see that she was fighting back tears, working hard to keep her lips from trembling.

“Did anybody ever tell you about the fellow you hit? His name was Noah McKell. He was ninety-two years old and he'd been staying at that convalescent hospital up the street. He had the wanderlust, I guess. His son told me he was probably trying to get home. Isn't that pathetic? Poor old guy used to live in San Francisco. He thought he was still up there and he was worried about his cat. I guess he forgot the cat had been dead for years. He was heading for home to feed it, only he never got there.”

She put a finger to her lips as if to seal them. The tears began. “I've tried to be good. I really have. I'm in AA and everything and I cleaned up my act.”

“Sure you did and that's great. But your gut must send you little messages, doesn't it? Eventually, you'll get back into booze just to silence that voice.”

Her voice shifted up into the squeaky range. “God, I'm sorry. I really am. I'm so sorry. It was an accident. I didn't mean to do it.” She hugged herself, bending over, the sobs
as noisy as those of a child, which is what she was. I watched with compassion, but made no move to comfort her. It wasn't up to me to make life easier. Let her experience remorse, all the grief and guilt. I didn't know that she'd ever let herself assimilate the full impact of what she'd done. The tears came in uncontrollable waves, great gut-wrenching sobs that seemed to shake her from head to toe. She sounded more like a howling beast than a young girl filled with shame. I let it happen, almost unable to look at her until the pain subsided some. Finally, the storm passed like a fit of helpless laughter that peters out at long last. She groped in her purse and pulled out a wad of tissues, using one to mop her eyes and blow her nose. “God.” She clutched the fistful of tissues against her mouth for a moment. She nearly lost it again, but she collected herself. “I haven't had a drop of alcohol since the night it happened. That's been hard.” She was feeling sorry for herself, maybe hoping to stimulate pity or compassion or amnesty.

“I'll bet it has,” I said, “and I applaud that. You've done a lot of hard work. Now it's time to tell the truth. You can't skip over that and expect recovery to work.”

“You don't have to lecture me.”

“Apparently I do. You've had six years to think about this, Tootsie, and you haven't done the right thing yet. I'll tell you this: It's going to look a lot better if you walk into the police station of your own accord. I know you didn't mean to do it. I'm sure you were horrified, but the truth is the truth. I'll give you some time to think, but by Friday I intend to have a conversation with the cops. You'd be smart to get your butt in there and talk to them before I do.”

I got up and slung my big leather bag across my shoulder. She made no move to follow. When I reached the front door, I looked back at her. “One more thing and then I'll leave you to your conscience. Did you see David Barney that night?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“You want to expand on that?”

“I nearly ran into him coming off the freeway. I heard this thump, and when I looked out the window, he was staring right at me.”

“You do understand you could have cleared him years ago if you'd admitted that.” I didn't wait for her response. She was beginning to sound martyred about the whole business and I didn't want to deal with that.

 

 

 

 

I
stopped off at my place after I left Tippy and grabbed a hasty lunch, which I ate without much interest. There was precious little in the refrigerator and I was forced to open a can of asparagus soup, which I think I bought originally to put over something else. I've been told novice cooks are chronically engaged in this hoary ruse. Cream of celery soup over pork chops, baked at 350 for an hour. Cream of mushroom soup over meat loaf, same time, same temp. Cream of chicken soup over a chicken breast with half a cup of rice thrown in. The variations are endless and the best part is you have company once, you never see them again. Aside from the aforementioned, I can scramble eggs and make a fair tuna salad, but that's about it. I eat a lot of sandwiches, peanut-butter-and-pickle and cheese-and-pickle being two. I also favor hot sliced hardboiled egg sandwiches on whole wheat bread with lots of salt and Best Foods mayonnaise. As far as I'm concerned,
the only reason for cooking is to keep your hands busy while you think about something else.

What was bugging me at this point was this question of Morley's death. What if David Barney's paranoia was justified? He'd been right about everything else. What if Morley was getting too close to the truth and had been eliminated as a consequence? I was torn between the notion of murder as too farfetched and the worry that someone was actually getting away with it. I went back and forth, exploring the possibilities. His curiosity might well have been stimulated by his conversation with David Barney. Maybe he'd inadvertently stumbled across something significant. Had he been silenced? I could feel myself shy away from the idea. It was so damn melodramatic. Morley had died of a heart attack. The death certificate had been signed by his family doctor. I didn't doubt there were drugs that could trigger or simulate the symptoms of cardiac arrest, but it was hard to picture how such a drug might have been administered. Morley wasn't a fool. Given his health problems, he wasn't going to take medications not prescribed by his own physician. It almost had to be poison, but I hadn't heard the possibility mentioned. Who was I to step in and distress his ailing widow? She had problems enough and all I had to offer was conjecture.

I finished my soup, washed the bowl, and left it in the dish rack with my solitary spoon. If I kept up this cycle of cereal and soup, I could eat for a week without dirtying another dish. I wandered idly around the apartment, feeling restless and uneasy. I wanted desperately to talk to Lonnie,
but I didn't see a way to do it, short of driving the hour up to Santa Maria. Ida Ruth seemed to feel he'd resent the intrusion, but I thought he should be apprised of what was going on. Currently, his case was in complete disarray, and I didn't see a way to clean it up before he came home. He was going to love me.

This was now Thursday afternoon. Morley's funeral was on Friday, and if I had questions to raise about the cause of death I was going to have to move quickly. Once he was buried, this whole issue would be buried with him. Since his death was attributed to natural causes, my guess was that nobody'd bothered to question his activities the last couple of days of his life. I still had no idea where he'd gone or whom he'd seen. The only thing I was sure about was that he'd taken those pictures. I was assuming his actions had been prompted by his conversation with David Barney, but I couldn't be certain. Maybe he'd talked to Dorothy or Louise about the case.