Painted Ladies

I was lingering as inconspicuously as I could on the second floor of the Fine Arts building, outside the room where the “Low-Country Realism” seminar was finishing up. Since I was the only person in the corridor at the moment, I was about as inconspicuous as a wolverine in a hair salon. But, master of disguise that I am, I was carrying Simon Schama’s book on Rembrandt under my arm.

No one paid much attention to me as class let out. It was a no-brainer. There was only one tall blonde, and except for hair color, which is not immutable, she looked very much like her mother. She was wearing a thick white cable-knit sweater that looked a couple of sizes too big for her. Below the sweater were very tight black jeans. The jeans were tucked into high tan boots with white fur trim around the tops. If she was dressing like an artist, it was a successful artist. The boots cost more than everything I was wearing, including my gun. Over her left arm she was carrying a fleece-lined leather coat with a fleece collar. She had neither books nor a notebook. She was talking with the other two girls when I interrupted.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Melissa?”

“Missy,” she said, as if the correction was automatic.

“Missy Minor,” I said. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Who are you?” she said.

“My name is Spenser,” I said. “I’m a detective.”

“Is it about Dr. Prince?” Missy said.

The two girls with her were both shorter than Missy. One wore a sweatshirt with a Red Sox logo. The other had on a short plaid skirt and cowboy boots.

“Yes,” I said, and turned to the two other girls. “What are your names?”

“Sandy Wilson,” the one in the sweatshirt said.

“Bev DeCarlo,” the other one said.

“I don’t know anything,” Missy said.

“Me, either,” Sandy said.

“I told the other policeman I don’t know anything,” Bev said.

“Don’t be so hard on yourselves,” I said. “You had class with him for nearly a semester. I’ll bet you know a lot.”

“I gotta go,” Missy said. “I got another class.”

“At five o’clock?” I said.

“Gotta go,” Missy said, and walked away.

“The other cop just came and talked to the class after Dr. Prince was killed,” Bev said. “He didn’t tell us anything.”

“We read about it in the papers,” Sandy said. “It’s very awful.”

“Yep,” I said. “If we could talk, maybe you could help.”

“Help?” Bev said.

“More I know,” I said, “more chance there is I’ll catch the bastards.”

“We were going down to the pub,” Sandy said. “You wanna come along?”

“Okay with you, Bev?” I said.

“Sure,” she said. “Actually, you’re kind of cute.”

“Everybody tells me that,” I said.

18

The pub was in the student union, off the student cafeteria. A sign at the door said Proper ID Required for Service. It was neat and clean, with a lot of glass and stainless steel. It didn’t look like a pub. It looked like the cocktail lounge at an airport. There was music I didn’t like that was playing in the room. But it was discreet enough so we could talk. Things were slow still, and the room was two-thirds empty.

Bev and I had a beer. Sandy had a glass of chardonnay.

“Thank God it’s evening,” Bev said.

We drank. They drank faster. They were nearly through the first drink by the time I got to my interrogation.

“Did you like Dr. Prince?” I said.

“Well, sure,” Sandy said. “I mean, the poor man.”

“You don’t need to like him because he was killed,” I said. “Did you like him when he was alive?”

They looked at each other. It was apparently a harder question than I had expected. While they looked, I got the waitress and ordered another round.

“I always had the feeling,” Sandy said after the drinks came, “that he was, like, looking through my clothes.”

Sandy was slight, with brown hair and glasses and nice eyes.

“Face it,” Bev said. “He was a cockhound.”

Bev was dark-haired and somewhat zaftig, with a slight almond shape to her eyes.

“He ever make an attempt on your virtue?” I said.

“He made an attempt on everyone’s virtue,” Sandy said.

“He succeed much?” I said.

“Not with me,” Sandy said firmly.

I looked at Bev. She grinned at me. Both girls had emptied their glasses again. We got another round. Sometimes it went easier with booze.

After the waitress left, I said, “How about you, Bev?”

She nodded slowly.

“We had a night,” she said. “He seemed like he was in a hurry.”

“How so?” I said.

“It was like . . . you know, not a lot of foreplay.”

“Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am,” I said.

Bev laughed.

“Exactly,” she said. “It was like once he got me into bed, he wanted to get it over with and move on somewhere.”

“Probably the next girl,” Sandy said.

Bev smiled again.

“Like I said, he’s a cockhound . . . was.”

“He, ah, friendly,” I said, “with others in the class?”

“Others?” Sandy said. “The only other girl in class is Missy. He wasn’t interested in the boys.”

“Was he friendly with Missy?” I said.

“Sure,” Sandy said.

I could hear the wine in her voice.

“How friendly?”

“She liked him,” Bev said.

“She was sort of his girlfriend, I think,” Sandy said.

“Doesn’t seem the girlfriend type,” I said.

Sandy shrugged.