I Is for Innocent

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"