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Mr. Weidma
We shook hands. "I'm Kinsey Millhone. Sorry to disturb you."
"That's quite all right. Would you like some coffee or a cup of tea?"
"Thanks, but I'm fine."
Yolanda said to him, "Well, it's much too chilly to be out on the porch." And then to me, "He's had the flu twice this winter and I'm not about to go through that again. I was exhausted from all the fetching and carrying. Men are such babies when it comes to being sick." The complaint was accompanied by a wink to me. She'd claim she was teasing if Peter took offense.
"I'm afraid I don't make a very good patient," he said.
"It's not something you'd want to be good at," I replied.
He made a gesture toward the house. "We can talk in the den."
We formed a little three-person procession into the house, which seemed nearly stuffy after the damp air outside. The den was small and the furniture had the same shabby feel as the porch chairs. I suspected the house was divided into 'his' and 'hers.'
'Her' portion was well appointed-expensive, overdecorated, filled with objects probably collected from various trips to foreign ports. She'd co-opted the living room, the formal dining room, the kitchen, the breakfast room, and most probably all the bathrooms, the guest bedroom, and the master suite. He'd been accorded the back porch and the den, where he'd carefully hoarded all the household items she was threatening to throw out.
As soon as we entered the paneled den, she began to wave her hands in the air, making a face about the smell of cigarette smoke. "For heaven's sake, Peter, this is dreadful. I don't see how you can stand it." She moved over and cranked a window open, fa
I'm not all that fond of cigarette smoke myself, but with her making such a scene, I found myself coming to his defense. "Don't worry about it. It doesn't bother me," said.
She picked up a filled ashtray and made a face. "Well, it might not bother you, but it's disgusting," she said. "Just let me fetch the Airwick." She moved out of the room taking the offending ashtray with her. The tension level dropped a notch. I turned my attention to the wall above the fireplace, which was hung with framed 'celebrity' photographs. I moved closer to have a look. "These are you?"
"In the main," he said.
There were pictures of Peter Weidma
In his hard hat and coveralls, Peter looked young, very sure of himself. It wasn't simply that the pictures had been taken years ago when he was, in fact, younger. This must have been the apex of his career, with everything going right. He had had big projects in the works. He must have had recognition, influence, money, friends. He looked happy. I glanced over at the man beside me, so lusterless by comparison.
I caught him watching my reaction. "This is great," I said.
He smiled. "I've been very fortunate." He pointed to one of the photos. "Sam Eaton, the state senator," he said. "I did a house for him and his wife, Mary Lee. This is Harris Angel, the Hollywood film producer. You've probably heard of him."
I said, "The name sounds familiar," though it didn't at all.
Yolanda returned with the Airwick. "Maria put this in the refrigerator of all places," she said. She set the bottle on the table and exposed the wick. The scent that wafted out, a cross between Raid and shoe polish, made me long for the smell of cigarette smoke instead.
I took in the rest of the room at a glance. There was a stack of newspapers on the floor beside Peter's leather wing chair, a smaller pile of papers on the ottoman, magazines on the end table, and evidence of lunch dishes. There was a library table arranged under the windows that overlooked the backyard. On it was an old portable typewriter, a stack of books, and a second ashtray filled with cigarette butts. An old dining-room chair was pulled up to the table, with a second chair nearby piled high with paperbacks. The wastebasket was full.
She caught my eye. "He's working on a history of Santa Teresa architecture." I realized in a flash that in spite of her hostility, she was also proud of him.
"Sounds interesting."
"It's just something I'm fooling around with," he put in.
She had to laugh again. "I've got plenty for him to do if he gets tired of that. Have a seat if you can find a place. I hope you can stand the mess. I won't even let the cleaning woman in here. It's too far gone. She can do the whole house in the time it takes her to get this one room straightened up."
He smiled uncomfortably. "Now, Yolanda. Be fair. I clean the place myself… sometimes as often as twice a year."
"But not this year," she said, topping him.
He let the subject matter drop. He cleared his leather wing chair for her and pulled over a dining-room chair for me. I pushed some files aside, making room to sit.
"Just put those files on the floor," she said.
"This is fine." I was already tired of the game they played-her put-downs, his collusion, my pro forma reassurances. "Did you want to get your walk in? I didn't mean to hold you up."
Her expression shifted. Being brittle herself, she was easily injured. "I can certainly do that if you think I'm in the way."
"Now, now, now. You stay right where you are," he said. "I'm sure she's here to talk to both of us."
"I suppose we could have some sherry," she said hesitantly.
He waved her into the chair. "I'll do that. You just have a seat."
"Please don't go to any trouble. I have to be somewhere else shortly." This was not entirely true, but I wasn't sure how much more I could endure. I took my notebook out of my handbag and leafed through the pages. "Let me ask a couple of questions and then I can get out of here. I don't want to take any more of your time than I have to."
Peter sank into a chair. "Exactly what is it you're doing?"
Yolanda adjusted one of the rings she wore, making sure the square-cut diamond was properly centered on her finger. "You'll have to pardon Peter. I only explained it to him twice."
"This is a follow-up to Morley Shine's investigation," I said, ignoring her. "Frankly, we're hoping to strengthen the plaintiff's case. Did you have contact with David or Isabelle on the day she died?"
He said, "I don't remember anything specific, but it seems unlikely."
"Well, of course it's unlikely. You were in the hospital, don't you remember? Your heart attack was December fifteenth that year. You were at St. Terry's until January second. I was afraid to tell you about Isabelle because I didn't want you upset."
His look was blank. "I suppose that's right. I'd forgotten that it all happened in that same period," he said to her. And then to me, "They'd pulled out of the firm by then and set up offices of their own."