I Is for Innocent

napping – a formal garden with the lawn stretching off toward the trees.
    Methodically, I removed the index cards from my bulletin board and put them up again. What had Morley seen that I wasn't seeing? I pulled out his Month at a Glance from one of the stacks of files sitting on my counter. I started with the month of October, trying to get a feel for what he'd been doing the last two months. Most squares were empty. November was similarly blank except for a couple of notations: two doctor's appointments, a haircut one Wednesday afternoon. This month, December, had been slightly busier and it looked like he'd actually conducted a couple of interviews. Lonnie would be thrilled to hear he'd done something for his pay. Yolanda and Peter Weidmann's names appeared twice. The first appointment must have been canceled because he had a line drawn through the time and a big penciled arrow extended from that date to the same day and time a week later. I remembered Yolanda complaining about what a pest he'd made of himself, so he must have been there more than once.
    On December 1, a week ago Thursday, he'd penciled in the initials F.V. at 1:15. Voigt? Had he talked to Francesca? She'd told me she'd never met the man. I'd come across a folder made up with her name on the tab, but the file had been empty. Of course, the F.V. could have been a witness on another case, but it didn't seem likely. The Voigts' home phone number was noted at the top of the page. Had she lied about seeing him? There was also the notation on Saturday morning of the appointment with Laura Barney. She'd told me about the appointment herself, claiming Morley never showed. But Dorothy said he'd gone out to the office to pick up his mail. If my theory was right, the fatal pastry could have been delivered as early as Friday afternoon, probably no later than Saturday morning, since he became ill shortly after lunch. Might bear checking out. Working in a medical clinic, Laura Barney would certainly have access to information about poisons. Maybe I'd start with her and work my way back through the list.
    I locked up the apartment and went out to the car. I fired up the engine and headed toward the freeway overpass. I cut under the 101 on Castle, turning right on Granita and then left on Bay. It was just past 5:00 when I reached Santa Teresa Medical Clinic, which was in a pleasant treelined neighborhood of medical buildings and single-family dwellings. I was hoping I hadn't missed Laura. The clinic probably closed at 5:00, which meant I was going to arrive to find the door locked and the personnel gone for the weekend. I didn't have her home address, and though I could probably find it, I was impatient at the delay. To my astonishment, I spotted her, head bent, a light coat over her uniform, white crepe-soled shoes moving rapidly as she crossed the street in front of me. I tooted my horn. She shot me a look of annoyance, apparently assuming that I was chiding her for jaywalking.
    I waved and leaned over to roll down my car window on the passenger side. "Can I talk to you?"
    "I just got off work," she said.
    "It won't take long."
    "Can't it wait? I'm exhausted. I was looking forward to a big glass of wine and a hot bath. Come back in an hour."
    "I have to be someplace else."
    She broke off eye contact. I could see her debate, not really wanting to give in. She made a slight face, staring at the sidewalk with annoyance.
    "It'll take five minutes if that," I said.
    "Oh, hell. All right," she said. She cocked her head at the house behind her, a Victorian structure that had apparently been converted into apartments. "This is where I live. Why don't you go find a place to park and come on up. That'll give me time to get out of this uniform and take my shoes off. It's apartment six, down the hall at the back."
    "I'll be right there."
    She turned and walked quickly up the porch steps, disappearing through the front door. I found a parking spot six doors down, on the far side of the street. In a little flicker of paranoia, I wondered if she really lived somewhere else. I pictured her entering the building, then leaving by a back exit before I could catch up with her. I went up the wooden porch steps and opened a glass-paneled door into a shadowy hallway. The place was quiet. To the left, there was a hall table with a lamp that hadn't been turned on yet. Mail was piled up, along with several copies of the day's paper. Doors along the corridor had been closed off. What