Painted Ladies

“You know if the father’s deceased?” I said.

“Don’t know nothing about the father,” Crosby said. “I asked about that. Told me in the admissions office that when she filled out the forms she simply drew a line in the space where it said ‘father’s name.’ ”

“What’s the address?” I said.

Crosby gave it to me. I thanked him and hung up. I sat for a while, looking at nothing. Then I got up and walked around my office, which isn’t really big enough for walking. I stood at my window and looked down at Berkeley Street. Then I sat down again. The more information I got, the less I understood.

“Hello,” I said to no one. “Any Minotaurs in there?”

17

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.