I is for Innocent

Looking back toward the town, I could see the dark hills carpeted in pinlights. The 101 was laid out parallel to the beach, the California coastline ru

The sun had now dropped from sight but the sky wasn't completely dark, more the ashen charcoal gray of a cold hearth. I reached the brown-painted board-and-batten building that housed the Santa Teresa Shellfish Company. Eight wooden picnic tables and benches were secured to the pier out in front. The three employees inside were young, late teens-in Tippy's case, early twenties-wearing blue jeans and dark blue Santa Teresa Shellfish T-shirts, each emblazoned with a crab. Along the front of the booth, seawater tanks were filled with live crabs and lobsters, stacked on one another like sullen marine spiders. A glass-fronted display case was lined with crushed ice, fish steaks and fillets arranged in columns of gray and pink and white. A counter ran along the back. Beyond it, through a doorway, I could see an enormous fish being gutted.

They were in the process of closing up, cleaning off the counters. I watched Tippy for almost a minute before she spotted me. Her motions were brisk, her ma

"Oh, right. I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was so late." He scooted down toward the tank, pointing to the hapless object of his appetite. She tucked her order pad in her pocket and plunged her arm into the murky water. Deftly, she seized the lobster across its back and held it up for his approval. She plunked it on the counter, grabbed up a butcher knife, and inserted the tip just under the shell where the tail co

"Can I help you?"

"Hi, Tippy. Kinsey Millhone. How are you?"

I saw belated recognition flash in her eyes. "Oh, hi. My mom just called and said you'd be stopping by." She turned her head. "Corey? Can I go now? I'll close out the register tomorrow if you can do it today."

"No problem."

She turned to the fellow waiting for his lobster di

"You have iced tea in a can?"

She took the can out of the cooler, put ice in a paper cup, and extracted a small container of coleslaw from the back of the display case. She scribbled the total across the bottom of the ticket and tore it off with a flourish. He gave her a ten and she made change with the same efficiency. The timer on the steamer began to peep. She reached in with a hot mitt and flopped the steaming lobster on the paper plate. The guy had barely picked up his order when she untied her apron and let herself out the Dutch door to one side.

"We can sit out at one of the tables unless you'd rather go somewhere else. My car's parked over there. You want to talk in the car?"

"We can head in that direction. I really just have a couple of quick questions."

"You want to know what I was doing the night Aunt Isabelle was killed, right?"

"That's right." I was sorry Rhe'd had time to call her, but what could I do? Even if I'd come straight over, Rhe would have had time to telephone. Now Tippy'd had sufficient warning to cook up a good cover story… if she needed one.

"God, I've been trying to think. I was at my dad's, I guess."

I stared at her briefly. "You don't remember anything in particular about that night?"

"Not really. I was still in high school back then so I probably had a lot of homework or something."

"Weren't you out of school? That would have been the day after Christmas. Most kids have the week off between Christmas and New Year's."

She frowned slightly. "I must have been, if you say so. I really don't remember."

"You have any idea what time your mother called to tell you about Isabelle?"

"Uh, I think about an hour later. Like an hour after it happened. I know she called from Aunt Isabelle's, but I think she'd been there awhile with Simone."

"Is there any chance you might have been out around one or one-thirty?"

"One-thirty in the morning? You mean, like doing something?"

"Yes, a date, or maybe just bopping around with your buddies."

"Nunh-unh. My dad didn't like me to be out late."

"He was home that night?"

"Sure. Probably," she said.

"Do you remember what your mom said when she called?"

She thought about that for a moment. "I don't think so. I mean, I remember she woke me up and she was crying and all."

"Does your dad have a truck?"

"Just for work," she said. "He's a painting contractor and he carries his equipment in the pickup."

"He had the same truck back then?"

"He's had the same truck ever since I can remember. He needs a new one actually."

"The one he has is white?"

That one slowed her down some. A trick question perhaps? "Yeah," she said reluctantly. "Why?"

"Here's the deal," I said. "I talked to a guy who says he saw you out that night, driving a white pickup."

"Well, that's screwed. I wasn't out," she said with just a touch of indignation.

"What about your father? Maybe he was using the truck."

"I doubt it."

"What's his name? I can check it out with him. He might remember something."

"Go ahead. I don't care. It's Chris White. He lives on West Glen, down around the bend from my mom."

"Thanks. This has been real helpful."

That seemed to worry her. "It has?"

I shrugged and said, "Well, sure. If your father can verify the fact that you were home, then this other business is probably just a case of mistaken identity." I allowed just the tiniest note of misgiving to sound in my voice, a little bird of doubt singing in a distant part of the forest. The effect wasn't lost.

"Who was it said they saw me?"

"I wouldn't worry about it." I looked at my watch. "I better let you go."

"You want a ride or something? It's no trouble." Little Miss Helpful.

"I walked over from my place, but thanks. I'll talk to you later."

"Night," she said. Her parting smile seemed manufactured, one of those expressions clouded with conflicting emotions. If she didn't watch it, those little frown marks were going to require cosmetic surgery by the time she was thirty. I glanced back and she gave me a halfhearted wave, which I returned in kind. I headed back down the pier, thinking "Liar, liar, pants on fire" for reasons I couldn't name.

I dined that night on Cheerios and skim milk. I ate, bowl in hand, standing at the kitchen sink, while I stared out the window. I made my mind a blank, erasing the day's events in a cloud of chalk dust. I was still troubled about Tippy, but there was no point in trying to force the issue. I turned the whole business over to my subconscious for review. Whatever was bugging me would surface in time.

At 6:40, I left for my appointment with Francesca Voigt. Like most of the principal players in this drama, she and Ke