Free I is for Innocent by Sue Grafton

she pleased.”
    â€œNot a bad deal,” I said.
    â€œThat’s where she met David. He came to work for the same firm. Her boss’s name was Peter Weidmann. Have you talked to him yet?”
    â€œNo, but I intend to, as soon as I leave here.”
    â€œOh, good. He and Yolanda live close by. About a mile from here. He’s a nice man, retired now. He really taught Isabelle a lot. She was an artist by nature, but she didn’t have the discipline. She could do anything she wanted, but she was always such a dilettante—full of great ideas, but lousy at development. She lost interest in most things—until she started doing this.”
    â€œThis, meaning what?”
    â€œShe designed tiny houses. Mine was the first. Somehow
Santa Teresa Magazine
heard about it and did a big photo spread. The response was incredible. Everybody wanted one.”
    â€œFor guests?”
    â€œOr for teens, in-laws, art studios, meditation retreats. The beauty is you can tuck one into any corner of yourproperty . . . once you get past the zoning sharks. She and David pulled out of Peter’s firm when this whole thing took off. The two of them went into business and made a fortune overnight. She was written up everywhere, from the snooty publications to the mundane.
Architectural Digest, House & Garden, Parade
. Plus, she won all these design awards. It was astonishing.”
    â€œWhat about David? How did he fit in?”
    â€œOh, she had to have him. She was such an airhead about business. She originated the designs, did preliminary sketches, and roughed out the floor plans. David had a degree and he was AIA, so he was responsible for drafting, all the blueprints and specs, things of that sort. He also did the marketing, advertising . . . the grunt work, in effect. Hasn’t anybody told you this?”
    â€œNot a bit,” I said. “I met Ken Voigt last night and he talked about Isabelle briefly. As I said on the phone, I’ve read all the files, but this is the first time I’ve heard the particulars. How did Barney feel about her getting all the glory?”
    â€œHe probably resented it, but what could he do? His career had gone nowhere. The same was true of Peter Weidmann.”
    Simone moved to the table with a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of sandwiches. We sat down to eat. The coarse-textured bread was thinly sliced and lightly buttered. Leaves hung out of the sandwich like the trimmings from a garden.
    â€œWatercress,” she said when she caught my expression.
    â€œMy favorite,” I murmured, but it turned out to be good—very peppery and fresh. “You have a picture of her?”
    â€œOh sure. Hang on and I’ll get it.”
    â€œNo hurry. This is fine,” I said with my mouth full, but she was up and moving over to the bed table, returning seconds later with a photograph in an ornate silver frame.
    She passed me the picture and sat down again. “She and I were twins. Fraternal, not identical. She was twenty-nine when that was taken.”
    I studied the picture. It was the first glimpse I’d had of Isabelle Barney. She was prettier than Simone. She had a softly rounded face with glossy dark hair that fell gracefully to her shoulders, silky strands forming a frame for her wide cheekbones. Her eyes were a clear brown. She had a strong short nose, a wide mouth, muted makeup, if any. She seemed to be wearing some kind of scoop-necked T-shirt, dark brown like her hair. I found myself nodding. “I can see the resemblance. What’s your family background?”
    I passed the picture back and she propped it up at one end of the table. Isabelle watched us gravely as the conversation continued. “Both our parents were artists and a bit eccentric. Mother had family money so she and Daddy never really did much. They went to Europe one summer on a six-week tour and ended up staying ten years.”
    â€œDoing what?”
    She took