Read Online I Is for Innocent by Sue Grafton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sue Grafton
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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 sunny spot. I could smell rosemary and thyme when the breeze whiffled through. The house was situated on an apron of grass that spread out in a half-moon. Below, the hillside fell away steeply into a tangle of live oak and chaparral. The view was to the mountains across the town of Santa Teresa. I reentered the only door, which opened into the kitchen. "You'll have to see my place sometime. It has a similar feel to it. A perfect little hideaway."
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?"
"She was like an unpaid apprentice to a local architect. Don't ask me how she managed it or why he agreed. She sort of went in when it suited her and did what she pleased."
"Not a bad deal," I said.
"That'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?"
"No, but I intend to, as soon as I leave here."
"Oh, 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."
"This, meaning what?"
"She 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."
"For guests?"
"Or for teens, in-laws, art studios, meditation retreats. The beauty is you can tuck one into any corner of your property... 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 if Garden, Parade. Plus, she won all these design awards. It was astonishing."
"What about David? How did he fit in?"
"Oh, 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?"
"Not 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
Simone flashed me a smile.
I withdrew from the window and circled the perimeter. Herbs had been planted in every sunny spot. I could smell rosemary and thyme when the breeze whiffled through. The house was situated on an apron of grass that spread out in a half-moon. Below, the hillside fell away steeply into a tangle of live oak and chaparral. The view was to the mountains across the town of Santa Teresa. I reentered the only door, which opened into the kitchen. "You'll have to see my place sometime. It has a similar feel to it. A perfect little hideaway."
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?"
"She was like an unpaid apprentice to a local architect. Don't ask me how she managed it or why he agreed. She sort of went in when it suited her and did what she pleased."
"Not a bad deal," I said.
"That'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?"
"No, but I intend to, as soon as I leave here."
"Oh, 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."
"This, meaning what?"
"She 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."
"For guests?"
"Or for teens, in-laws, art studios, meditation retreats. The beauty is you can tuck one into any corner of your property... 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 if Garden, Parade. Plus, she won all these design awards. It was astonishing."
"What about David? How did he fit in?"
"Oh, 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?"
"Not 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
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