Free I is for Innocent by Sue Grafton Page A

a bite of sandwich, chewing some before she answered. “Just bumming around. I don’t know. They traveled and painted and lived like Bohemians. I guess they hung out on the fringes of polite society. Expatriates, like Hemingway. They came back to the States when World War Two broke out and somehow ended up in Santa Teresa. I think they read about it in a book and thought itsounded neat. Meanwhile, money was getting tight and Daddy decided he’d better pay more attention to their investments. He turned out to be a whiz. By the time we were born, they were rolling in it again.”
    â€œWho was the oldest, you or Isabelle?”
    She took a sip of her iced tea and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I was, by thirty minutes. Mother was forty-four when she had us and nobody had a clue she was carrying twins. She’d never been pregnant so she assumed she was in menopause when she first stopped having periods. She was a Christian Scientist and refused to see a doctor until the last possible minute. She’d been in labor fifteen hours when she finally agreed to have Daddy take her to the nearest hospital. They barely got her upstairs when I arrived. She was all set to hop off the table and go home again. She figured that was the end of it and the doctor did, too. He was expecting the placenta when Isabelle slid out.”
    â€œYour parents still living?”
    She shook her head. “Both died within a month of each other. We were nineteen at the time. Isabelle got married for the first time that year.”
    â€œAre you married?”
    â€œNot me. I feel like I’ve been married, watching her go through hers.”
    â€œVoigt was the second?”
    â€œRight. Number one was killed in a boating accident.”
    â€œWhat was it like being twins? Were the two of you alike?”
    â€œUnh-unh. No way. God, we couldn’t have been more different. She inherited the family talent and all the vicesthat went with it. Artwise, she excelled, but it all came so easily she didn’t take it seriously. The minute she mastered a skill, she lost interest. Drawing, painting. She did a little bit of everything. She made jewelry, she sculpted. She got into textiles and did incredible work, but then she got restless. She wasn’t satisfied. She always wanted to do something else. In a way, the tiny houses saved her, though she might have gotten bored if she’d lived long enough.”
    â€œI gather, from what Ken says, she had a problem with low self-esteem.”
    â€œAmong other things. She had all the inclinations of an addict. She smoked. She drank. She took pills any chance she got. She toked two or three joints a day. For a while, she dropped acid.”
    â€œHow’d she get any work done? I’d be a basket case.”
    â€œIt didn’t affect her in the least. Besides, she could afford all that stuff, which is too bad in a way. She never really had to work because we inherited money. Fortunately, she never got into cocaine or she’d have gone through every cent.”
    â€œWasn’t that hard on you, her being out of control?”
    â€œIt was hard on all of us. I was always the heavy—parental, responsible. Especially since we were so young when our parents died. Isabelle got married, but I still felt like her mother. I admired her tremendously, but she was difficult. She couldn’t sustain a relationship. She had nothing to give on a day-to-day basis. She was very self-involved. It was ‘me, me, me.’ ”
    â€œNarcissistic,” I supplied.
    â€œYes, but I don’t want to give the wrong impression. She had some wonderful qualities. She was warm and witty and she was terribly bright. She was fun. She had a good time.She really knew how to play. She taught me a lot about how to lighten up.”
    â€œTell me about David Barney.”
    â€œDavid. That’s a tough one,” she said and then paused to consider. “I’ll try to