The questions were obvious. If Tippy Parsons could support David Barney's alibi, why hadn't she stepped forward with the information years ago? Of course, she might not have been there. He might have seen someone else or he might have manufactured her presence to suit his own purposes. If she was there, she might not have seen him-there was always that chance-but placing her at the scene would certainly lend credibility to his claims. And what about the guy Barney claimed was at the scene? Where was he in all this?

I reached for the telephone and dialed Rhe Parsons, hoping to catch her in her studio. The number rang four times, five, six. On the seventh ring she answered, sounding breathless and out of sorts. "Yes?"

"Rhe, this is Kinsey Millhone. Sorry to disturb you. It sounds like I caught you right in the middle of your work again."

"Oh, hi. Don't worry about it. It's my own fault, I guess. I should get a portable telephone and keep it out in the studio. Sony for all the heavy breathing. I'm really out of shape. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Is Tippy there by any chance?"

"No. She works until six tonight. Santa Teresa Shellfish. Is there something I could help you with?"

"Maybe so," I said. "I was wondering where she was the night Isabelle was killed."

"She was home, I'm sure. Why?"

"Well, it's probably nothing, but somebody thought they saw her driving around in a pickup."

"A pickup? Tippy never had a pickup."

"It must be a mistake then. Was she with you when the police called?"

"You mean, about Isabelle's death?" There was a moment of hesitation, which I should have taken as a warning, but I was so intent on the question, I forgot I was dealing with a m-o-t-h-e-r. "She was living with her father during that period," she said with care.

"That's right. So you said. I remember that now. Did he have a truck?"

Dead silence. Then, "You know, I really resent the implications here."

"What implications? I'm just asking for information."

"Your questions sound very pointed. I hope you don't mean to suggest she had anything whatsoever to do with what happened to Iz."

"Rhe, don't be silly. I'd never suggest such a thing. I'm trying to disconfirm a report. That's all it is."

"What report?"

"Look, it's probably nothing and I'd rather not get into it. I can talk to Tippy later. I should have done that in the first place."

"Kinsey, if somebody's making some claim about my daughter, I'm entitled to know. Who said she was out? That's an outrageous accusation."

"Accusation? Wait a minute. It's hardly an accusation to say she was driving around in a pickup truck."

"Who told you such a thing?"

"Rhe, I'm really not at liberty to divulge my sources. I'm working for Lonnie Kingman and that information is privileged…" This was not true, but it sounded good. Lawyer-client privilege didn't extend to me and had nothing to do with any witnesses I might approach. I could hear her try to get a grip on her temper.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what's going on. I promise I won't ask about your sources, if that's really an issue."

I debated briefly and decided there was no reason to withhold the information itself. "Someone claims to have seen her out that night. I'm not saying it has any bearing on Isabelle's death, but it struck me as odd that she's never spoken up. I thought she might have mentioned something to you."

Rhe's tone was flat. "She's never spoken up because she wasn't out."

"Great. That's all I need to know."

"Even if she was, it's no business of yours."

I cupped a mental hand behind my mental ear. "'Even if she was' meaning what?" I said.

"Nothing. It's a turn of phrase."

"Would you ask her to call me?"

"I'm not going to ask her to call you!"

"Do what you like, Rhe. I'm sorry for the interruption." I banged down the receiver, feeling my face suffuse with heat. What was her problem? I made a note about a subpoena for Tippy Parsons if there wasn't one already. I hadn't attached that much credence to Barney's claim until I heard Rhe's reaction.

I buzzed Ruth on the intercom and asked her to order me a complete new set of transcripts from the criminal trial. Then I slouched down in my swivel chair, my feet up on the desk, fingers laced in front of me, as I thought about developments. No doubt about it, things were looking bad. Between Morley's sloppy records and his untimely death, we had a mess on our hands. Lonnie's prime witness suddenly seemed unreliable and now it looked as though the defendant actually had an alibi. Lonnie wasn't going to like this. It was better that he hear it now than on the first day of the trial when Herb Foss made his opening remarks to the jury, but it still wasn't going to sit well. He was going to get home Friday night and spend a lovely weekend with his wife. He'd been married for eight months to a kenpo karate instructor whom he had successfully defended against charges of felonious assault. I'm still trying to find out what Maria actually did, but all Lonnie would tell me is that the court case stemmed from a rape attempt by a man now retired from active life. I pulled my wandering thoughts back to the situation at hand. When Lonnie ambled into the office Monday morning, the dog-doo would start flying. Some of it was bound to land on me.