Painted Ladies

“She never said much,” Sandy said. “But I know she was with him a lot.”

“You didn’t like him,” I said to Sandy.

“I thought he was a creepy old guy. I didn’t want to see him with his clothes off. . . .” She made a face.

“But you liked him,” I said to Bev.

I had no idea where I was going. I just wanted to keep them talking and see if anything popped out.

“Not really,” Bev said. “But I kinda liked the idea of bop-ping a professor, you know? Only once, though.”

“Ever meet his wife?” I said.

They both shook their heads.

“I didn’t know he had one,” Bev said.

“I guess neither did he,” Sandy said.

“Would it have mattered?” I said to Bev.

“Hell, no,” Bev said. “That’s between him and her. Not up to me to, you know, keep him faithful to his wife.”

“True,” I said.

We lasted another hour. I didn’t learn anything else. But they had gotten drunk enough so I wouldn’t have had much faith in anything they told me, anyway. I stood.

“Good night, ladies,” I said.

“How ’bout you,” Bev said. “You married?”

“Kind of,” I said.

“You cheat?” Bev said.

“No,” I said.

“Really?” Bev said.

“Really,” I said. “But thanks for asking.”

19

I got Missy Minor’s campus address from Crosby, and in the mid-morning I fell into step with her when she came out.

“You’re that detective,” she said.

“Spenser’s the name,” I said. “Law and order’s the game.”

“I told you yesterday that I don’t know anything about Dr. Prince, except that he was an okay teacher and an easy grader.”

“I heard you were his girlfriend,” I said.

She was silent for a beat.

Then she said, “That’s crazy. Where’d you hear that.”

“I’m a detective, “I said. “I have my sources.”

“Speaking of which,” she said, “let me see your badge.”

I took a business card from my pocket and handed it to her.

“Private,” I said. “Working with the police.”

“ ‘Private’?” she said, looking at my card. “A private detective? I don’t have to talk with you.”

“But why wouldn’t you?” I said. “I’m a lot of fun.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I can see that.”

“Plus,” I said, “we have a connection.”

“What?” she said.

“I know your mother,” I said.

Again, a short silence.

Then she said, “You know Winifred?”

“I do,” I said.

“You been talking to her about me and Dr. Prince?”

“No,” I said. “If I did, what would I say?”

“My mother’s a worrier,” Missy said. “She heard any of your bullshit theory about me being his girlfriend, she’d go crazy.”

“Even though there’s no truth to it.”

“She’s a worrier,” Missy said.

“How about your father?” I said.

“Don’t have one,” Missy said.

“Ever?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t want to discuss it,” she said.

“Did you have any sort of relationship with Ashton Prince?” I said.

She shook her head again.

“Why do you suppose people had the idea that you did?” I said.

“You’re the detective,” she said. “You figure it out.”

“He hit on you?”

“He was my professor,” she said. “That’s all. I don’t see why you’re harassing me like this. It’s not my fault I was in his class, and it’s not my fault somebody blew him up with his damn painting.”

The other girls hadn’t mentioned the painting. It wasn’t secret. But you needed to be interested to remember that the infernal device had been the painting, or something everyone thought was the painting.

“I’m going to be late,” Missy said. “I wish you wouldn’t bother me about this anymore.”

“I’m sure I won’t need to,” I said.

She scooted off into the science building. I watched her go. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

20

I took Winifred Minor to lunch at Grill 23, which was handily equidistant between her office and mine. We sat at the bar. It was kind of early in the day for the warming pleasures of alcohol, so I ordered iced tea. She ordered a glass of chardonnay. “So,” I said, and raised my glass of tea. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

“You can’t toast wine with tea,” she said.

“You can’t?”

“No,” she said seriously. “It’s bad luck.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. “Thank God you warned me in time.”

She smiled. But she didn’t pick up her glass until I put mine down. Then she raised hers for a sip.

“Missy Minor?” I said.

She finished her sip and put her glass carefully back down on the bar.

“What about Missy Minor?” she said.

“Your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Attractive girl,” I said.

“You’ve spoken with her?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Winifred said.

“You know how this kind of thing works,” I said. “You got nothing, so you start snooping around, looking for a loose end to tug on.”

“And you decided my daughter was such?” Winifred said.

“I went over to Walford, where Prince taught, and talked with everyone I could find. Your daughter was one of them.”

“And you’ve singled her out?” Winifred said.

“Of course,” I said. “I find a woman in Prince’s class whose mother is handling the insurance claims on the crime in which Prince was killed?”

“There’s no connection,” Winifred said.

“I’m sure there isn’t,” I said. “But it’s too big a coincidence to let it slide.”

“Coincidences happen,” she said.

I had ordered a small shellfish sampler for lunch. She was having Caesar salad.

“They do,” I said.