The small stucco cottage that Rhe and Tippy occupied was a two-bedroom bungalow built close to the road. I squeezed my car in on the shoulder and walked up the path to the porch, where I rang the bell. Tippy appeared almost instantly, shrugging into her jacket, purse and car keys in hand. She was clearly on her way out. She stared at me blankly with her hand on the doorknob. "What are you doing here?"

"I have a couple more questions, if you don't mind," I said.

She hesitated, debating, then she checked her watch. Her expression denoted a little impromptu wrestling match-reluctance, annoyance, and good manners doing takedowns. "God, I don't know. I'm meeting this friend of mine in about twenty minutes. Could you, like, really make it quick?"

"Sure. Can I come in?"

She stepped back, not thrilled, but too polite to refuse. She was wearing jeans and high-heeled boots, a portion of a black leotard visible under her blue denim jacket. Her hair was down today and it trailed halfway down her back, strands still showing waves where the French braid had been undone. Her eyes were clear, her complexion faintly rosy. Somehow it made me feel bad that she looked so young.

I took in the cottage at a glance.

The interior consisted of a combination living room/dining room, tiny galley-size kitchen visible beyond. The walls were hung with original art, probably Rhe's handiwork. The floors were done in Mexican paving tiles. The couch was upholstered in hand-painted canvas, wide brushstrokes of sky blue, lavender, and taupe, with lavender-and-sky-blue pillows tossed carelessly along its length. The side chairs were inexpensive Mexican imports, caramel-colored leather in a barrel-shaped rattan frame. There was a wood-burning fireplace, big baskets filled with dried flowers, lots of copper pots hanging from a rack in the kitchen area. Dried herbs hung from the crossbeams. Through French doors, I could see a small courtyard outside with a pepper tree and lots of flowering plants in pots.

"Your mom here?"

"She went up to the market. She'll be back in a minute. What did you want? I'm really really in a hurry so I can't take too long."

I took a seat on the couch, a bit of a liberty as Tippy hadn't really offered. She chose one of the Mexican chairs and sat down without enthusiasm.

I handed her the pictures without explanation.

"What're these?"

"Take a look."

Frowning, she opened the envelope and pulled out the prints. She shuffled through with indifference until she came to the Olympic Paint truck. She looked up at me with alarm. "You went and took a picture of my dad's pickup?"

"Another investigator took those."

"What for?"

"Your father's truck was seen twice the night your aunt Isabelle was murdered. I guess the other P.I. meant to show the pictures to a witness for identification."

"Of what?" I thought a little note of dread had crept into her voice.

I kept my tone flat, as matter-of-fact as I could make it. "A hit-and-run accident in which an old man was killed. This was on upper State in South Rockingham."

She couldn't seem to formulate the next question, which should have been, Why tell me? She knew where I was headed.

I went on. "I thought we ought to talk about your whereabouts that night."

"I already told you I didn't go out."

"So you did," I said with a shrug. "So maybe your father was the one driving."

We locked eyes. I could see her calculate her chances of squirming out from under this one. Unless she fessed up to the fact that she was driving, she'd be pulling her father right into the line of fire.

"My dad wasn't driving."

"Were you?"

"No!"

"Who was?"

"How should I know? Maybe somebody stole the truck and went joyriding."

"Oh, come on, Tippy. Don't give me that. You were out in the truck and you fuckin' know you were so let's cut through the bull and get down to it."

"I was not!"

"Hey, face the facts. I feel for you, kiddo, but you're going to have to take responsibility for what you did."

She was silent, staring downward, her manner sullen and unresponsive. Finally she said, "I don't even know what you're talking about."

I nudged her verbally. "What's the story, were you drunk?"

"No."

"Your mom told me you'd had your license suspended. Did you take the truck without permission?"

"You can't prove any of this."

"Oh, really?"