Deception

centennial celebration.

What else had she lied about?

I clicked the reunion link. Elise Freeman appeared in the Where Are You? column. So did Sandra Freeman Stuehr, graduation date two years later.

Four forty p.m. made it past working hours in Baltimore so I tried the city’s white pages. Over five hundred Freemans.

But only one Stuehr, a business address: Stuehr’s Crab Cooker, E. Pratt Street.

The woman who answered put me on hold. A minute or so later, she returned, talking over restaurant clatter. “When do you want your reservation?”

“I’d like to speak to Sandra.”

“Who?”

“Sandra Stuehr.”

Two beats. “Hold on.”

The silence lasted nearly three minutes before a man got on. No more clatter, maybe a private office. “This is Frank, what now?” Clipped diction, vocal cords that sounded as if they’d been dragged a few miles on a gravel road.

“I’m looking for Sandra. You’re Mr. Stuehr?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Pardon?”

“Another lawyer heard from. Christ, stop bugging me.”

I told him who I was, played up the LAPD connection more than reality justified.

“Yeah, right, more cock and bull. Look, pal, I can’t stop you from calling but trust me, next time you won’t get through, just like those other guys.”

“This is a homicide investigation, Mr. Stuehr. The victim’s Elise Freeman. If she’s not related to Sandra —”

“Elise? Someone killed her? You’re kidding.”

“I’m not, Mr. Stuehr.”

Silence. “I haven’t seen Elise in a long time. Not since the wedding.”

“Which was?”

“I married Sandy nine years ago. Wish I could forget the date. Sandy and Elise aren’t close, Elise showed up, drank herself silly, left early.”

“Sandra is her sister.”

“One and only.”

“Could I talk to Sandra?”

“Be my guest, pal. She’s where you are—California. Or maybe it’s Arizona by now, she likes warm weather, could be Florida for all I know. Or care. We’ve been divorced three years, she’s still filing paper on me, she’s money-mad—what’s the diff. For all I know, this conversation really is cock and bull and you’re one of her lawyers.”

“Call the LAPD West L.A. station and ask for Lieutenant Sturgis.” I gave him Milo’s cell.

“You just told me another name.”

“I’m Delaware. Lieutenant Sturgis is the chief investigator on the case. Talk to him directly.”

“About what?”

“We’re trying to track down Elise’s family. There’s a body that needs to be dealt with.”

“Oh… well, that’s not my problem.”

“How about the last known address and number for Sandra?”

He rattled off the information as if he chanted it daily. Gutierrez Street, Santa Barbara. Three years of animosity but he kept his ex close at hand.

I said, “Thanks. Anything you want to tell me about Elise?”

“From what I hear, she’s just like her sister.”

“How so?”

“Hot-pants, thinks she’s an intellectual, lies like a convict. My family’s been running one of the best crab joints in Baltimore for sixty years. Listen to Sandy, it’s a greasy spoon, I’m imposing by wanting her to occasionally help out.”

“Hot-pants,” I said.

Frank Stuehr said, “I’m not talking fashion, that’s an old-fashioned expression for slut. Okay, you want to know something about Elise—and Sandy? Both of them got bothered by their old man. Know what I mean?”

“Molested.”

“That’s another word for it.”

“Sandy talked about that?”

“Only once, when she was in one of her weepy moods, wanted me to put my arm around her or something. After that, nothing, like it never happened in the first place. Only other time I raised the topic was when Sandy and me tried mediation. She was making a play to steal a big chunk of the Cooker and that really pissed me off so I put forth the case she was morally turpitude. Spelled it out. She gets up, walks around the table, smacks me wham across the face. That ended mediation, she screwed herself, the judge didn’t look kindly on her. You find her, don’t give regards.”

“What kind of guy was the father?”

“He died before I met Sandy, but I hear he was a run-around. That’s what people said in the neighborhood. Outward, he was respectable, never met a Mass he didn’t like. Principal of a school, top of that. I’d love to hear his confession. A virtuous father don’t turn out two sluts.”

“Sandy was promiscuous?”

“Sandy was a slut. Never stopped banging other guys the whole time we were married. Out at night all the time, I was a dumb-ass, believed those stories about Scrabble club, bridge, gardening.”

“Same for Elise?”

“Elise once came on to me. Sandy was in the kitchen, Elise makes a grab for my you-know-what. I look at her like are you out of your mind, she pretends it never happened. They’re both good at that. Pretending.”

“What was their mother like?”

“Also dead by the time I met Sandy. Sandy never talked about her, like she didn’t exist.”

“At what school was the father principal?”

“Some black public school, I don’t know.”

“What was his name?”

“Cyrus Freeman,” he said. “Ph.D., Sandy kept reminding me of that, how she’d lowered herself marrying a guy with only one year at Towson. Meanwhile, she’s screwing half the population of Baltimore and spending my money like she’s a member of Congress.”

S. Freeman Stuehr was listed in the Santa Barbara book. Her voice-mail message was warm and friendly, offered in a voice as silky as her ex’s was ragged.

“Hi there, whoever you are, this is Sandy. I’m sure I’d love to talk to you but either I’m out or just catching a little California sunshine. So please leave a message.”

Tempting offer, but I resisted.

One hit for cyrus freeman: a tiny squib in the Baltimore Sun.

Plans to name the auditorium at Chancellor Middle School in West Baltimore after its former principal had been deferred due to “institutional and budgetary concerns, including the expense of new signage.”

I got on the phone. Milo picked up.

“Found you some next of kin, Big Guy.” I filled in the details.

“Nothing like bitter exes for filling in blanks. Thanks for taking the time, Alex. Two lying sluts, huh? There’s a