"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 all the files, but this is the first time I've heard the particulars. How did Barney feel about her getting all the glory?"

"He 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.

"Watercress," she said when she caught my expression.

"My favorite," I murmured, but it turned out to be good-very peppery and fresh. "You have a picture of her?"

"Oh sure. Hang on and I'll get it."

"No 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."

"Doing what?"

She took 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 it sounded 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."

"Who 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."

"Your 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."

"Are you married?"

"Not me. I feel like I've been married, watching her go through hers."

"Voigt was the second?"

"Right. Number one was killed in a boating accident."

"What was it like being twins? Were the two of you alike?"

"Unh-unh. No way. God, we couldn't have been more different. She inherited the family talent and all the vices that 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."

"I gather, from what Ken says, she had a problem with low self-esteem."

"Among 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."

"How'd she get any work done? I'd be a basket case."

"It 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."

"Wasn't that hard on you, her being out of control?"

"It 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.'

"Narcissistic," I supplied.

"Yes, 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."

"Tell me about David Barney."

"David. That's a tough one," she said and then paused to consider. "I'll try to be fair. I'd say he's handsome. Charming. Trivial. He and his wife moved up here from Los Angeles when he joined Peter's firm."

"He was married?"

"Not for long."

"What happened to his ex?"

"Laura? She's still around someplace. After David dumped her, she was forced to go to work, like every other ex-wife in town. God, women are getting screwed in divorces these days. For every guy who claims he's been 'taken' by some babe, I can show you six, eight, ten women who've been 'had' financially. Anyway, I'm sure she's in the book."