I Is for Innocent

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.

Chapter 7
----
    I stopped by the office briefly and typed up my notes. The light on my answering machine was blinking merrily. I punched the Replay button and listened to the message. It was Isabelle's friend Rhe Parsons, sounding harried and dutiful, the kind of person who returns a phone call just to get it over with. I tried her number, letting the phone ring while I leafed through one of the files sitting on my desk. Where was I going to find a witness who could put David Barney at the murder scene? Lonnie's suggestion was facetious, but what a coup that would be. Four rings... five. I was just about to hang up when someone answered abruptly on the other end. "Yes?"
    "Oh, hi. This is Kinsey Millhone. May I speak to Rhe Parsons?"
    "You're doing it. Who's this?"
    "Kinsey Millhone. I left a message –"
    "Oh, right, right," she cut in. "About Isabelle. I don't understand what you want."
    "Look, I know you talked to Morley Shine a couple of months ago."
    "Who?"
    "The investigator who was handling this. Unfortunately, he had a heart at –"
    "I never talked to anyone about Isabelle."
    "You didn't talk to Morley? He was working for an attorney in the lawsuit filed by Kenneth Voigt."
    "I don't know about any of this stuff."
    "Sorry. Maybe I was misinformed. Why don't I tell you what's going on," I said. I went through a brief explanation of the lawsuit and the job I'd been hired to do. "I promise I won't take any more of your time than I have to, but I would like to have a quick chat."
    "I'm swamped. You couldn't have called at a worse time," she said. "I'm a sculptor with a show coming up in two days. Every minute I've got is devoted to that."
    "What about coffee or a glass of wine later this afternoon? It doesn't have to be nine to five. I can come at your convenience."
    "But it has to be today, right? Can't it wait a week?"
    "We have a court date coming up." We're all busy, I thought.
    "Look, I don't mean to sound bitchy, but she's been gone for six years. Whatever happens to David Barney, it won't bring her back to life. So what's the point, you know?"
    I said, "There's no point to anything if you get right down to it. We could all blow our brains out, but we don't. Sure, she's gone, but her death doesn't have to be senseless."
    There was a silence. I knew she didn't want to do it and I hated to press, but this was serious.
    She shifted her position, still annoyed, but willing to bend a bit. "Jesus. I teach drawing at Adult Ed from seven to ten o'clock tonight. If you stop by, we can talk while the students work. That's the best I can do."
    "Great. That's perfect. I appreciate your help."
    She gave me directions. "Room ten, at the back."
    "I'll see you there."
    I arrived home at 5:35 and saw that Henry's kitchen light was on. I walked from my back door to his, peering in through the screen. He was sitting in his rocker with his daily glass of Jack Daniel's, reading the paper while his supper cooked. Through the screen, I was assailed by the heady scent of frying onions and sausage. Henry set his paper aside. "Come on in."
    I opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen. A big pot of water was just coming to a boil and I could see tomato sauce simmering on the back burner. "Hi, babe, how are you? Whatever you're cooking, it smells divine."
    He'd be handsome at any age, but at eighty-three he was elegant – tall, lean, with snowy white hair and blue eyes that seemed to burn in his tanned face. "I'm putting together a lasagna for later. William gets in tonight." Henry's older brother William, who was eighty-five to his eighty-three, had suffered a heart attack in August and hadn't been doing well since. Henry had debated a trip back to Michigan