I Is for Innocent

was there and so was everybody else. Peter and Yolanda Weidmann, the Seegers, the Voigts."
    "Kenneth was there? Her ex-husband and his wife?"
    "Hey, current etiquette. One big happy family, except of course for Francesca. That's Kenneth's wife, the long-suffering. What a martyr she was. Sometimes I think Isabelle just invited them to bug her. All Francesca had to do was refuse to go."
    "What was her problem?"
    "She knew Ken was still hung up on Isabelle. After all, Iz was the one who gave Kenneth the boot. He married Francesca on the rebound."
    "Sounds like a soap opera."
    "It gets worse," Rhe said. "Francesca's beautiful. Have you met her?" I shook my head and she went on. "She's like a model, perfect features and a body to die for, but she's insecure, always choosing men who withhold. You know what I mean? Ken was ideal because she knew she'd never really have his full attention."
    I said, "Let me ask you this. I heard his version last night and he claims Isabelle was the one who was insecure. Is that true?"
    "Not from my point of view, but she may have shown a different side of herself to men," she said. She pointed to a series of driveways coming up on the left. "It's this first one," she said.
    We were in the section of Montebello known as the slums, where the houses only cost $280,000 each. I pulled up in front of a small stucco cottage painted white. She opened the car door on her side, getting out. "I'd ask you in for some wine, but I really do have to get to work. I'll be up half the night."
    "Don't worry about it. That's fine. I'm bushed. I appreciate your time," I said. "By the way, where's the show?"
    "The Axminster Gallery. There's a champagne reception Friday evening at seven. Stop by and see it if you can."
    "I'll do that."
    "And thanks for the ride. If you think of any other questions, you can let me know."
    Henry's house was dark by the time I got home. There were no messages on my machine. As a way of unwinding, I tidied up the living room and scrubbed the downstairs bath. Cleaning house is therapeutic – all those right-brain activities, dusting and vacuuming, washing dishes, changing sheets. I've come up with many a personal insight with a toilet brush in hand, watching the Comet swirl around in the bowl. Tomorrow night I'd dust my way up the spiral staircase, then tackle the loft and the upstairs bathroom.
    I slept well, got up at 6:00 a.m., and did my usual run, whizzing through my morning routine on automatic pilot. On my way into the office, I stopped off at the bakery and bought a huge Styrofoam container of caffé latte with a lid. I had to park my car two blocks away, and by the time I got to my desk the coffee was the perfect drinking temperature. While I sipped, I sat and stared at the file folders strewn across every available surface. I was going to have to straighten things up just to figure out what was what. I drained half the coffee and set the cup aside.
    I pushed my sleeves up and went to work, getting organized. I emptied both boxes, plus the brown grocery bag full of files I'd picked up at Morley's house, adding in the few additional files from his office. I rearranged the piles alphabetically and then painstakingly reconstructed the sequence of reports, using Morley's invoices as a master index. In some instances (Rhe Parsons being a case in point), I had a name itemized on his bill without a file to match. For "Francesca V.," whom I took to be the current Mrs. Voigt, I found a file folder neatly labeled, but there was no report in it. The same was also true of a Laura Barney, who I assumed was David's ex-wife. Had Morley talked to them or not? The former Mrs. Barney apparently worked at the Santa Teresa Medical Clinic in some capacity. Morley'd noted a telephone number, but there was no way to tell if he'd gotten through to her. He'd been paid for sixty hours' worth of interviews, in some cases with accompanying travel receipts, but the corresponding paperwork didn't add up to much. I made a penciled notation of any name without attendant notes or a written report.
    By 10:30, I had a list of seventeen names. Just as a spot check, I tried two. First, I placed a call to Francesca, who answered after one ring, sounding cool and distant.
    I identified myself and verified, first of all, that she was married to Kenneth Voigt. "I'm reorganizing some files and I wondered if you remember what date you talked to Morley Shine."
    "I never talked to him."
    "Not at all?"
    "I'm afraid not.