I Is for Innocent

had once been the front parlor and the dining room probably now formed one unit, with a second at the back, with maybe a studio at the rear. I was guessing three apartments down, another three above. A set of stairs angled up on the right.
    I went upstairs as instructed. This was not the cheeriest place I'd ever been, I thought, but it was clean enough. The wallpaper looked new, chosen for its Victorian flavor, which is to say saccharine. Nosegays and trailing ribbons led the eye on a merry chase. The effect was depressing despite all the pink and green and mauve activity.
    I knocked at the door marked with an oversize brass 6. Laura appeared a moment later, tying a cotton kimono at the waist. I could see her white nursy shoes on the floor near an upholstered chair where she'd tossed her white uniform. I could hear bathwater running, which seemed pointed enough. The apartment consisted of two very large rooms with a cramped bathroom, probably converted from a linen closet. I could see the space heater from the front door and the rim of an ancient tub. The ceilings were high and there was lots of woodwork of the sort that somehow smells of shellac even if it hasn't been touched by a brush for years. The place was sparsely furnished, but what she had was good. She watched me survey the living room/bedroom combination with a trace of amusement. "Does it suit you?"
    "I'm always curious to see how other single people live."
    "How do you live?"
    "About like this. I try to keep it simple," I said. "I don't like working just to pay a bunch of bills every month."
    "I hate being single. Have a seat if you like."
    "You do?"
    "Of course, don't you? It's lonely. And who wants to live like this?" She made a gesture that embraced more than the physical surroundings. She moved into the bathroom and turned off the water. Belatedly, I picked up the damp herbal scent of Vitabath.
    "Looks great to me. Besides, nobody's going to take care of you," I said.
    She returned to the room. "Well, I hope that's not true. I'm not resigned, I must say."
    "Togetherness is an illusion. We're all on our own."
    "Oh, spare me. I hate talk like that," she said. "You want to tell me what you came for?"
    "Sure. It's about Morley Shine. You had an appointment last Saturday."
    "That's right, but he never showed."
    "His wife says he went to his office that day."
    "I was there at nine. I waited half an hour and then I left," she said.
    "Where'd you wait? Were you actually in his office?"
    "I was out in the drive. Why? What difference does it make?"
    "None, I suppose. I was curious about a delivery," I said.
    "That box from the bakery."
    "You were there when that arrived?"
    "Sure, I was out in my car. The bakery truck pulled up beside me. Some guy got out with this white bakery box. As he passed me he asked if I was Maria Shine. I told him the name was Morley and the guy was late arriving. The sucker tried to give me the box, but I'd waited long enough and I was out of there. I hate being stood up. I got better things to do."
    "What'd the guy do with it?"
    "The box? I don't know. He probably took it in the front. Maybe he left it on the porch."
    "What bakery?"
    "I didn't see. The truck was red. Might have been a messenger service, come to think of it. Why the quiz?"
    "Morley was murdered."
    She said, "Really." And her surprise seemed genuine.
    "It was probably the strudel in the box you saw. I just talked to the guy in the coroner's office."
    "He was poisoned?"
    "Looks like it."
    "Where does that leave you?"
    "I don't know yet. Morley knew something. I'm not sure what it was, but I think I'm close."
    "Too bad he didn't leave you the answer."
    "In a way, he did. I know how his mind worked. He and the fellow who taught me the business were in partnership for years."
    "What else do you need from me?"
    "Nothing, at this point. I'll let you get to your bath."
    I headed over to the freeway, driving north on 101 until I reached the Cutter Road off-ramp. I turned left, driving into Horton Ravine through the front gateposts. I felt as if I'd spent the whole week trekking back and forth between Colgate, downtown Santa Teresa, and the Ravine itself. The afternoon was turning gray, typical December with the temperature dipping close to fifty, the kind of cold snap only Californians could complain about. I parked in the circular drive and rang the bell. Francesca came to the door herself. She wore a wool shirtwaist dress in a chocolate brown, black tights, and boots, with a