I is for Innocent

"Your mother's right. It's probably a good idea to see an attorney before you do. You need some advice about presenting your side of it."

"I don't care about that. I just want to get it over with."

"It still might be smart. They'll want your attorney there anyway before you make a statement. You want me to go with you?"

She shook her head. "I can handle it, but thanks."

"Good luck."

"You, too." She glanced back toward the gallery reluctantly. "I better split. I don't guess we'll see you at the opening tonight."

"Probably not, but I do like her work," I said. "Call if you need me."

She smiled and waved, walking backward, then turned and went back to the gallery.

I got in my car and sat there for a minute, feeling heavyhearted. Tippy was a good person. I wished there were some way to spare her what she would have to go through. She'd be okay in the end, I was confident of that, but I didn't relish having been the impetus for her pain. I could argue she'd actually brought it on herself, but the truth was, she'd found a way to live with the situation for six years now. I had to guess she'd experienced remorse and regret in privacy. Maybe there simply wasn't any way to avoid public penance. In the meantime, I was left with feelings of my own. I really couldn't deal with any more angry people. I'd had it with accusations, threats, and bullying. My job was to figure out what was going on and I intended to do that.

I reached for the ignition key and fired up the VW, then did an illegal U-turn. There was a drugstore a block up and I pulled into the tiny lot, ducking in just long enough to buy three packages of three-by-five index cards-one white, one green, and one a pale orange. After that, I went home. I still had a batch of files from Morley's Colgate office in my car. I found a parking spot across the street from the apartment. I unloaded the backseat and proceeded through the gate, weighted down like a pack mule. I eased around to the backyard and fumbled with my keys.

In the glass-enclosed breezeway that links Henry's place with mine, I caught sight of the luncheon in progress. The December sun was weak, but with so many windows the space functioned like a greenhouse. William and Rosie had their heads bent together in earnest conversation. The subject was probably pericarditis, colitis, or the perils of lactose intolerance. Henry's face was dark and I could have sworn he was sulking, a behavior utterly unlike the Henry I knew. I anchored the stack of files against the doorframe with my hip while I unlocked my apartment and let myself in. I dumped everything on the counter. I turned around to find Henry coming in behind me with a plate piled with food-lemon chicken, ratatouille, green salad, and homemade rolls.

"Hi, how are you? Is that for me? It looks great. How's it going?" I asked.

He put the plate down on the counter. "You won't believe it," he said.

"What's the matter? Hasn't Rosie found a way to whip William into shape?"

Henry squinted his eyes and tapped his temple with his index finger. "It's fu

"Rosie always flirts."

"But William's flirting back." He opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a knife and fork, which he handed me with a paper napkin.

"Well, there's no harm in that," I said, and then saw his look. "Is there?"

"You eat while I talk. Suppose the two of them get serious? What do you think's going to happen?"

"Oh, come on. They've known each other one day." I tried a bite of roll first, tender and buttery.

"He's going to be here two weeks. I hate to think what the next thirteen days are going to bring at this rate," he said.

"You're jealous."

"I'm not jealous. I'm terrified. He was fine this morning. Obsessed with his bowels. He took his blood pressure twice. He had several mysterious symptoms that occupied him for an hour. Then we went off to the funeral and he still seemed okay. We get home and he had to go and rest for a while. Same old William. No sweat, I can handle it. I put lunch together and then Rosie shows up wearing rouge on her cheeks. Next thing I know, the two of them are in there with their heads together, laughing and nudging like a couple of kids!"

"I think it's sweet. I like Rosie." I had moved on to the chicken, tucking into lunch in earnest. I hadn't realized I was hungry until I started chowing down.

"I like her, too. Rosie's fine. She's great. But as a sister-in-law?"

"It won't come to that."

"Oh, it won't? You ought to go in and listen to ' em talk. It would make your stomach turn."

"Come on, Henry. You're overreacting. William's eighty-five years old. She's probably sixty-five, if she'd ever admit to it."

"My point exactly. She's too young for him."

I started laughing. "I can't believe you're serious."

"I can't believe you're not! What if they get 'involved' in some flaming affair? Can you imagine the two of them in my back bedroom?"

"Is that your objection, that William might have a sex life? Henry, you astonish me. That's not like you."

"I think it's tacky behavior," he said.

"He hasn't done anything yet! Besides, I thought you wanted him to quit harping on his health. What better way? Now he can harp on something else."

Henry stared at me, his expression suddenly tinged with uncertainty. "You don't think it's vulgar? Romance at his age?"

"I think it's great. You had a romance of your own not that long ago."

"And look how that turned out."

"You survived it."

"But will he? I keep picturing Rosie flying back to Michigan for Christmas. I hate to sound snobbish, but the woman has no class. She picks her teeth with a bobby pin!"

"Oh, quit worrying."

His mouth formed a grudging line as he reconsidered his position. "I don't suppose it would do any good to protest. They'd just act as if they didn't know what I was talking about."

I kept my mouth shut, concentrating on the food instead. "This is great," I said.

"There's some for later if you want it," he remarked. He pointed to the cards. "You have work to do?"

I nodded. "As soon as I finish this."

He blew out a breath. "Well, enough of this nonsense. I better let you get to it."

"Keep me posted on developments."

"Absolutely," he said.

We made the usual departing mouth noises and then he disappeared. I closed the door behind him and made a beeline for the loft, where I kicked off my flats and peeled out of the all-purpose dress and panty hose. I pulled on my jeans, turtleneck, socks, and Nikes. Heaven.

I went downstairs, popped open a Diet Pepsi, and got down to business. I spread all the material on the counter: Morley's files, his calendar, his appointment book, and his rough-draft reports. I made a list of all the people he'd talked to, the dates, and the details of what was said, according to his notes. I opened the first pack of index cards and started making notes of my own, laying out the story as I understood it. I used to use this technique for every case I worked, pi