I is for Innocent (29 page)

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.

 

 

 

 

I
retraced my steps, moving toward the entrance. I could see Henry heading off across the parking lot toward his car. The first cluster of mourners had dispersed to some extent and those who remained in the chapel were just emerging. William appeared from the cool depths of the funeral home, looking somehow offended and confused. He was holding his fedora, which he placed squarely on his head with a slight adjustment to the brim. “I don't understand what denomination that was.”

“I think the service is meant to cover all bets,” I said.

He looked back over his shoulder at the facade with disapproval. “The building looks like a restaurant.”

“Well, you know, eating out is close to a religion these days,” I said dryly. “People used to tithe to the church. Now the ten percent goes to the waiter instead.”

“It wasn't very satisfactory as funerals go. In Michigan, we conduct these services properly. I understand there's not
even going to be a graveside ceremony. Very disrespectful, if you ask me.”

“It's just as well,” I said. “From what I know of Morley, he didn't have a highly developed spiritual side and he probably wouldn't have wanted any kind of fuss made about his death. Anyway, his wife is ill and might not have been up for more than this.” I didn't mention that the body would probably be whisked over to the coroner's office within the hour.

“Where did Henry go?” William asked.

“He's bringing the car around, I think.”

“Will you be coming back to the house with us? We're having a light lunch on the patio and we'd be happy to have you join us. We invited Rosie, hoping to reciprocate her many courtesies.”

“I wish I could, but I have something to take care of. I'll stop by a little later and see what you're up to.”

Henry pulled up beside us in his five-window coupe. It's a 1932 Chevrolet that he's had since it was new. It's been meticulously maintained, boasting the original paint, headliner, and upholstery. If William were driving it, I suspect the car would seem prissy. With Henry at the wheel, there was something rakish and sexy about the vehicle. You have to keep an eye on Henry as he's still very appealing to “babes” of all ages, including me. I could see people turning to admire the car, checking him out afterward to see if he was someone famous. Because Santa Teresa is less than two hours away from Hollywood, a number of movie stars live in town. We all know this, but it's still disconcerting when some guy at the car wash who looks just like John Travolta turns out to be John Travolta.
I saw Steve Martin driving through Montebello once and nearly rammed into a tree trying to get a good look at him. He's Technicolor handsome, in case you're wondering.

William got into Henry's car and the two rumbled off. There was still not a hint about the trap Rosie meant to spring. Whatever her intention, it was still early in the game. William did seem less self-absorbed today. We'd actually made it through a three-minute conversation without reference to his health.

I drove back into town, taking the freeway south on 101. I got off at the Missile off-ramp and headed east until I reached State Street, where I hung a right. The Axminster Gallery, where Rhe Parsons's show would be opening that night, was located in a complex that included the Axminster Theater and numerous small businesses. The gallery itself was located along a walkway that ran behind the shops. I parked on a side street and cut through a public lot. The entrance was marked by a hand-forged iron sign. A panel truck had been backed in close to the door and I could see two guys unloading blocks wrapped in heavily quilted moving pads. The door was standing open and I followed the workmen in.

The entry was narrow, probably scaled down for effect, because I quickly passed into a large room with a thirty-foot ceiling. The walls were a stark white and light cascaded down through wide skylights, currently cranked open to admit fresh air. A complicated arrangement of canvas, cording, and pulleys was affixed at ceiling height so that the fabric shades could be drawn across the opening if the light needed to be cut. The floors were gray concrete
carpeted with Oriental rugs, the walls hung with batiks and framed watercolor abstracts.

Rhe Parsons was consulting with a woman in a smock, the two of them apparently discussing the placement of two final pieces the workmen were bringing in. I circled the room while the discussion continued. Tippy was perched on a stool near the back wall, commenting on the overall effect from her vantage point. Rhe's show consisted of sixteen pieces arranged on pedestals of varying heights. She was working in resins, casting large polished pieces—maybe eighteen inches on a side—which at first seemed identical. I inspected five in range of me. I could see that the translucent material was formed into subtly tinted layers, with sometimes an object buried at the heart—a perfectly preserved insect, a safety pin, a locket on a chain, a ring of brass keys. With the light shining through, the effect was of peering through blocks of ice, except that the resin looked solid and indestructible. It wasn't hard to imagine these totems being dug up at some point in the future, along with bleach bottles, pull tabs, and disposable diapers.

Rhe must have seen me, but she gave no sign of recognition. She was wearing jeans and a heavy mohair sweater in shades of pale blue and mauve. Her dark hair was banded at the nape of her neck, a long silky tassel reaching almost to her waist. Tippy wore a jumpsuit in a lightweight denim. Unseen by her mother, she greeted me with a wiggle of her fingers, which I took to mean “Hi.” It was heartening to realize that the person whose life I'd allegedly ruined was alive and well and still speaking to me.

Rhe murmured something to her companion, who turned
to stare at me. The woman picked up a clipboard and clopped off across the room, stack heels resounding on the concrete floor.

“Hello, Rhe.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I thought we should talk. I didn't mean to cause you any trouble.”

“Wonderful. That's great. I'll tell my attorney you said so.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tippy hop down from the stool and cross the room toward us. Rhe made the kind of gesture an owner uses with a dog. She snapped her fingers and held her hand flat, meaning “Stay” or “Lie down.”

Tippy wasn't that well trained. She said “Mom . . .” in a tone that embraced both outrage and insult.

“This doesn't concern you.”

“It does too!”

“Wait for me in the car, baby. I'll be there in a minute.”

“Can't I even listen to the conversation?”

“Just do as I tell you!”

“Well, God!” Tippy said. She rolled her eyes and sighed hard, but she did as her mother asked.

As soon as she'd left, Rhe turned on me with a chill fury. “Do you have any idea the damage you've done?”

“Hey, I came here to discuss the situation, not to take abuse. What did I do?”

“Tippy
just
got herself squared away. She's finally on track and now you come along with this trumped-up allegation.”

“I wouldn't call it trumped up. . . .”

“Let's not get into semantics. The point is, even if it's true, which I greatly doubt, you didn't have to turn it into a big deal—”

“What big deal?”

“Besides which, if you're convinced she's guilty of some kind of criminal behavior, she's entitled to an attorney. You had no right to confront her without my being present.”

“She's twenty-two, Rhe. In the eyes of the law, she's an adult. I don't want to see her charged with anything. There might have been an explanation, and if so, I wanted to hear it. All I did was talk to her, trying to get information, and I did that without going to the cops first, which I could easily have done. If I'm aware a crime's been committed, I can't look the other way. The minute I cover for her, I become an accessory.”

“You intimidated her. You were threatening and manipulative. By the time I go home, she was hysterical. I really don't know what your story is, but you had better take a good hard look at yourself. You are not judge and jury here—”

I raised my hands. “Wait a minute. Just wait. This isn't about me. This is about Tippy, who seems to be dealing with reality a lot better than you are. I understand you feel protective—I would, too—but let's not lose sight of the facts.”

“What facts? There aren't any facts!”

“Let's skip it. Never mind. Discussion isn't possible. I can see that now. I'll have Lonnie talk to your attorney as soon as he gets back.”

“Good. You do that. And you better be prepared for the worst.”

Trying to get the last word in was almost irresistible,
but I closed my mouth and removed myself from the room before I said something I might regret later. As I left the gallery, Tippy approached and fell into step with me. “I wouldn't let your mother see us together if I were you.”