I is for Innocent

"Yes. Nice to meet you." She carried a pair of gardening scissors and a shallow wicker basket piled with cut flowers, which she set down. Her smile was brief as she held out her hand for me to shake. I judged her to be in her late thirties or very early forties. She was slightly shorter than I with wide shoulders and a stocky build, which she managed to minimize by the clothes she wore. Her hair was a reddish-blond, a fine flyaway shade much darker at the roots, cut shoulder length and crinkled from a perm. Her face was square, her mouth wide. Her eyes were an unremarkable shade of blue with mascara-darkened lashes and fine reddish brows. The outfit she wore was a black-and-white geometric print, a washable silk jacket over a long black tunic top, her long loose skirt brushing the tops of black suede boots. Her fingers were blunt and there was clear polish on her nails. She wore no jewelry and very little makeup. Belatedly, I noticed that she used a cane. I watched while she transferred it from her left hand to her right. She adjusted her stance and shifted some of her weight to the cane as she leaned down and picked up the basket at her feet.

"I have to get these in water. Come on in." She opened the bottom portion of the Dutch door and I followed her in.

I said, "Sorry to have to trouble you again on this. I know you talked to Morley Shine several months ago, I suppose you heard about his death."

"I spotted his obituary in this morning's paper. I called Lo

"Have a seat," she said. She pulled out one stool and perched on it while I took the other.

"I'll try not to take too much of your time," I said.

"Listen, if it helps convict the shitheel, you can take all the time you want."

"Isn't it a bit awkward, your living on the property just a hundred yards away from him?"

"I hope so," she said. The depth of bitterness in her voice seemed to affect its very pitch. She looked up in the direction of the big house. "If it's awkward for me, think how it must feel to him. I know it galls him that I refuse to be driven off. He'd love nothing better than to force me out."

"Can he do that?"

"Not as long as I have anything to say about it. Izzy left me the cottage. It was part of her will. She and Ke

"Sounds very businesslike. Did she do that with the others?"

"She didn't have to. The first two had money. Ke

"So he'll never get title to this place?"

Simone shook her head. "She rewrote her will, leaving him a life interest. When he dies-which I hope is real soon, I might add-it goes to her daughter, Shelby. The little house is mine-as long as I'm alive, of course. When I die, it reverts."

"And you're not afraid?"

"Of David? Absolutely not. He got away with murder once, but the man's not a fool. All he has to do is sit tight. If he wins this civil suit, it's all his, isn't it?"

"It looks like it."

"He could come out of the whole deal smelling like a rose. So why in the world would he jeopardize that? Something happened to me, he's the first place they'd look."

"What if he loses?"

"My guess is he'd head straight for Switzerland. He's probably salting away money in a secret bank account. He's too clever to kill again. What would be the point?"

"But why did Isabelle set it up like that? Why tempt the Fates? As I understand it, between the prenuptial agreement and the terms of the will, she might as well have gone ahead and stuck her head in the noose."

"She was in love with the guy. She wanted to do right by him. She was also a realist. He was husband number three and she didn't want to get ripped off. Look at it from her perspective. You marry some guy; you don't think he's going to kill you. If you really thought that, you wouldn't marry him in the first place." Her eyes strayed to her watch. "Jesus, it's nearly one. I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Have you had lunch?"

"You go ahead," I said. "I shouldn't be too much longer. I'll grab a bite on the way back to the office."

"It's no problem. Please join me. I'm just making sandwiches. I'd like the company."

The invitation seemed genuine and I smiled in response. "All right. That'd be nice."

5

She moved into the tiny kitchen area and began to take items from the tiny fridge.

"Can I do anything to help?"

"No, thanks. There isn't really room enough for two of us to work. Guys love it, unless it turns out they have a passion for cooking. Then they take over here and I sit out there where you are."

I half turned on the stool, checking out the room behind me. "Great house," I remarked.

She flushed with pleasure. "You like it? Isabelle designed it… the start of her career."

"She was an architect? I didn't know that."

"Well, she wasn't really, but she passed for one in some respects. Look around if you like. It's only three hundred square feet."

"Is that all? It seems bigger." I stepped out onto the front porch, curious to see how the general layout related to the interior. Since the windows were cranked open, I could talk to her easily as I rounded the structure. The cottage felt as if it had been miniaturized, scaled down from human-size dimensions to a little playhouse for grown-ups. Every comfort seemed attended to, without flourish or wasted space. There was even a small chimney. I stuck my head in the window so I could peer at the compact fireplace. Many interior surfaces, including the hearth, sills, and countertops, were covered with hand-painted blue-and-white tiles in a flower motif. "This is wonderful."

Simone flashed me a smile.

I withdrew from the window and circled the perimeter. Herbs had been planted in every su

I continued my survey while she cut several slices from a loaf of wheat bread. The place was so small I could tour without moving far. The furnishings were antique: a crude pine table, two cane-bottom chairs, a corner cabinet with wavy, blue-tinted glass panes, a brass bed with a patchwork quilt, white on white. The bathroom was small, the only portion of the house that was fully enclosed. The rest was essentially one large room, with areas defined according to function. Everything was open, airy, tidy, full of light. Every detail was perfect, like a series of illustrations for a glossy household magazine. There were views from the front and side windows, but none from the back, where the slope rose again sharply to the main house above.

I pulled a stool up to the counter and watched her make sandwiches. She'd assembled plates, cutlery, and blue-and-white cloth napkins, which she passed to me. I set two places at the table. "If she wasn't an architect, how'd she do this?"