Painted Ladies

“Wish I could,” I said. “But you are alleged to have been intimate with a murder victim, and the man who killed him appears to be your father.”

“You’re disgusting,” she said.

“But only a little,” I said. “You involved at all with the foundation?”

“I’m not involved with anything,” she said. “I hate you.”

Even for nineteen, she was young.

“Must be hard,” I said. “No father for sixteen years and all of a sudden a father. What’s that like?”

“It’s a bitch, is what it’s like,” she said. “I mean, for sixteen years my mother lied through her teeth that he was dead. You know, she never even told me he sent money. You know that they were never married?”

“She told you they were?”

“Yeah, and that he died after I was conceived,” she said. “Fact is, for crissake, she was shacking up with some guy who had no intention of marrying her, and when she got knocked up, he left.”

“Tough on her, I guess,” I said.

“She wanted him to marry her? There’s a laugh. He didn’t love her. He was just enjoying a little joyride, you know?”

“But he came back,” I said.

“He came back for me,” she said. “He said he always wanted to but she wouldn’t let him.”

“Why do you suppose she did that?” I said.

“Jealousy,” she said. “She knew if he was in my life I’d love him, and she didn’t want that.”

“Wow,” I said. “She was pretty mean, huh?”

Nothing like sowing a little family strife for stirring up information.

“Awful,” Missy said. “But Daddy is great. He got me into Walford. He introduced me to Ashton, Professor Prince; he’s been great.”

“Who pays the tuition?” I said.

“She does. She can afford it, already had the money put aside. Besides, she’s got a good job.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I imagine the foundation doesn’t pay too much.”

“God, no. Daddy’s not interested in money.”

“What does the foundation do?” I said.

She opened her mouth and closed it. I could almost read her face. This way danger lay.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“That’s surprising,” I said. “How close you are.”

“He loves me, and I love him,” she said. “That’s all anyone needs to know.”

“’Cept me,” I said. “I need to know more.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you anything,” she said.

She began to cry and stood suddenly and walked away, almost running. In the detective business, charm never fails.

56

With my feet on my desk and the Globe open before me, I phoned Susan.

“I see in the paper,” I said, “that there’s an Evening of Verse being held at a church in Cambridge.”

“Hot dog,” Susan said.

“One of the performers is Rosalind Wellington.”

“No kidding,” Susan said.

“Do you remember who Rosalind Wellington is?” I said.

“No.”

“She’s Mrs. Ashton Prince,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Want to go?”

“ ‘Go’?” Susan said.

“Attend, listen to her read her poetry,” I said.

“You think she is any good?” Susan said. “That any of the poets reading there will be any good?”

“No,” I said. “No, of course not. It’ll be awful.”