6

It's been my observation that the rich like to subdivide into the haves and the have-mores. What's the point in achieving status if you can't still be compared favorably with someone else in your peer group? Just because the wealthy band together doesn't mean they've relinquished their desire to be judged superior. The circle is simply more select and the criteria more exotic. The assessment of personal real estate is a case in point. Mansions, while easily distinguished from middle-income tract houses, can be further classified according to a few easily remembered yardsticks. The size and location of the property should be given first consideration. Additionally, the longer the driveway, the more points will be accorded. The presence of a private security guard or a pack of attack-trained dogs would naturally be counted more discerning than mere electronic equipment, unless of an extremely sophisticated sort. Beyond that, one must factor in such matters as guesthouses, spiked gates, reflecting pools, topiary, and excessive outdoor lighting. Obviously the fine points will vary from community to community, but none of these categories should be overlooked in assessing individual worth.

The Weidmanns lived on Lower Road, one of Horton Ravine's less prestigious addresses. Despite the pricey tone of the neighborhood, half the homes were nondescript. Theirs was unremarkable, a one-story pale green stucco, adorned with wrought-iron porch supports and topped with a flat rock-composite roof. The lot was large and nicely landscaped, but the house was too close to the road to count for much. Given the fact that Peter Weidmann was an architect, I'd expected a lavish layout, an entertainment pavilion or an indoor pool, embellishments that would reflect the full range of his design talents. Or maybe this one did that.

I parked on a concrete apron to one side of the house. Once on the porch, I rang the bell, and waited. I half expected a maid, but Mrs. Weidmann came to the front door herself. She must have been in her seventies, smartly turned out in a two-piece black velour sweatsuit and a pair of Rockport walking shoes.

"Mrs. Weidmann? I'm Kinsey Millhone," I said, holding out my hand politely.

She seemed disconcerted by the move and there was one of those embarrassing delays until we actually shook hands. There was something in the hesitation-distaste or prudery-that caused me to bristle inwardly. Her hair was a stiff cap of platinum blond, parted down the middle, the strands separating into two tense curls, like rams' horns in the center. She had bags under her eyes and her upper lids had begun to droop, reducing the visible portion of her irises to mere hints of blue. Her skin was a peachy color, her cheeks tinted a hot pink. She looked like she'd just flunked a stress test, but a closer examination showed she was simply wearing foundation and blusher in a shade far too vivid for her coloring.

She stared at me, as if waiting for a little door-to-door salesmanship. "What was this regarding? I'm afraid it's slipped my mind."

"I work for Lonnie Kingman, Kenneth Voigt's attorney in his suit against David Barney-"

"Oh! Yes, yes, yes. Of course. You wanted to speak to Peter about the murder. Terrible. I believe you said the other fellow died. What was his name, that investigator…?" She tapped her fingers on her forehead as if to stimulate thought.

"Morley Shine," I said.

"That's the one." She lowered her voice. "I thought he was dreadful. I didn't like him."

"Really," I said, feeling instantly defensive. I'd always thought Morley was a good investigator and a nice man besides.

She wrinkled her nose and the corners of her mouth turned up. "He smelled so peculiar. I'm sure the man drank." Her expression was one of perpetual pained smiles superimposed on profound disapproval. Age plays cruel tricks on the human face; all our repressed feelings become visible on the surface, where they harden like a mask. "He was here several times, asking all these silly questions. I hope you don't intend to do that."

"I will have to ask some, but I hope not to be a bother. May I come in?"

"Of course. Please excuse my bad manners. Peter's in the garden. We can chat out there. I was going out for my walk when you knocked, but I can do that in a bit. Do you exercise?"

"I jog."

"Jogging's very bad. All that pounding is much too hard on the knees," she said. "Walking's the thing. My doctor is Julian Clifford… do you know him?"

I shook my head.

"He's a top orthopedic surgeon. He's also a neighbor and a very dear friend. I can't tell you how often he's warned me about the harm people do in their determination to jog. It's absurd."