I Is for Innocent

generate the scheme himself.
    I sat in my car on the darkened side road. I rolled the window down so I could listen to the crickets. The feel of damp air against my face was refreshing. The vegetation along the berm smelled quite peppery where I'd trampled it. I worked for the Y as a camp counselor (briefly) the summer before my sophomore year in high school. I must have been fifteen, full of hope, not yet into flunking, rebelling, and smoking dope. We'd gone on an 'overnight,' the whole batch of us from day camp, me with the nine-year-old girls in my charge. We did pretty well until we settled down for the night. Then it turned out the tree under which we'd arranged our sleeping bags was a vast leafy nest full of daddy longlegs spiders that commenced dropping down on us from above. Plop, plop. Plop, plop. You've never heard such shrieks. I scared the little girls half to death I'm sure....
    I glanced at my rearview mirror. Behind me, a car turned the corner, slowing as it reached me. The logo on the vehicle was the Horton Ravine Patrol. There were two men in the front seat, the one in the passenger seat directing a spotlight in my face. "You having a problem?"
    "I'm fine," I said. "I'm just on my way." I turned the key and put the car in gear, easing forward on the shoulder until I could pull onto the pavement in front of them. I drove sedately out of Horton Ravine, the guys in the patrol car following conspicuously. I got back on the freeway, more from desperation than from any concrete plan. What was I supposed to do? Most of the leads I'd pursued had suddenly petered out, and until I talked to Curtis I couldn't be sure what was going on. I'd left word for him to call. My only choice seemed to be to head for home, where at least he could reach me if he got one of my messages.
    It was 8:15 by the time I reached my place. I locked the door behind me and turned the downstairs lights on. I transferred the tissue-wrapped toadstool to a Baggie, pausing to search through a kitchen drawer until I found a marker pen. I labeled the Baggie with a crudely drawn skull and crossbones and tucked it in my refrigerator. I peeled my jacket off and perched on a stool. I studied the bulletin board with its road map of multicolored index cards.
    It was aggravating to think there might be something right in front of me. If Morley had spotted something, it had probably cost him his life. What was it? I ran my gaze up one column of information and down the next, watching the sequence of events unfold. I got up and walked around the room, came back, and peered. I went over to the sofa bed and lay down on my back, staring at the ceiling. Thinking is hard work, which is why you don't see a lot of people doing it. I got up restlessly and returned to the counter, leaning on my elbows while I scanned the board.
    "Come on, Morley, help me out here," I murmured.
    Oh.
    Well, there was a bit of a discrepancy that I hadn't paid much attention to. According to Regina Turner at the Gypsy Motel, Noah McKell was struck and killed at 1:11 a.m. But Tippy hadn't reached the intersection at San Vicente and 101 until approximately 1:40, a thirty-minute difference. Why had it had taken her so long to get there? It was probably only four or five miles from the Gypsy to the off-ramp. Had she stopped for a cup of coffee? Filled her tank with gas? She'd just killed a man, and according to David she was still visibly upset. It was difficult to picture what she'd done with that half hour. Maybe she'd spent the time driving aimlessly around. I couldn't think why it would matter, but the question seemed easy to clarify.
    I reached for the phone and punched in the Parsons number, staring at the bulletin board while it continued to ring. Eight, nine. Oh, yeah. Friday night. I'd forgotten about Rhe's opening at the Axminster Gallery. I hauled out the telephone book and looked up the number for the gallery. This time somebody picked up on the second ring, but there was such a din in the background I could hardly hear. I pressed a hand to my free ear, focusing on the sounds from the gallery. I asked for Tippy and then had to make the same request only doubling the volume and pitch of my voice. The fellow on the other end said he'd go and get her. I sat and listened to people laughing, glasses clinking. Sounded like they were having a lot more fun than I was....
    "Hello?"
    "Hello, Tippy? This is Kinsey. Listen, I know this is a bad time to try to talk to you, but I was