Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel (13 page)

"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 clinical diagnosis for you."

"Sandy lives ninety miles away but hasn't contacted you, so most likely she doesn't know Elise has been murdered. That suggests the sisters weren't close. That could make her a less useful informant. On the other, she may be willing to give up some interesting details."

"I love Santa Barbara. Give me her number."

After he copied it down, I said, "Frank Stuehr's judgment is clouded by animosity but he's right about the link between a sexually abusive father and promiscuity." I told him about the change in Chancellor School's plans.

"The expense of signage," he said. "That's a new one. You're thinking something came out about Ol' Cyrus's past. A middle school, oh, man."

"Inner-city kids would be easy victims. Especially back then. Elise told Fidella her father was rough on her but she never said it was sexual. Clouding the truth is a common defense mechanism and that could've led to a lifelong pattern. Case in point: lying about where she attended college. I checked out Blessed Heart and it's a small, well-thought-of Catholic woman's college with high standards, by no means inferior to U. Maryland. So it's not like she was padding her resume."

"Lying for the hell of it?"

"That's possible," I said. "But I thought of something else: Turns out Blessed Heart's campus is two blocks from Chancellor Middle, so maybe she grew up in that neighborhood. That district is also close to the Pimlico racetrack. What if she developed an early affinity for gambling--and gamblers."

"Fidella," he said. "Yeah, blowing a jackpot in one day says he's probably got gaming issues. Maybe she did, too, and that's why one or both of them hatched up an extortion scheme. Then she changes her mind. My dear vic led a complicated life, talk about multitasking."

"Maybe just the opposite. She compartmentalized--divided her life into little boxes--trying to keep things simple."

"Esteemed teacher by day, wild girl by night. And somehow she ends up in the freezer compartment."

CHAPTER
16

Milo was at my house by nine the following morning. We took the Seville to Santa Barbara because "two hours on the road, pal, I like leather and functional A.C."

I said, "How'd the sister react to the news?"

"Gasped once, then she got calm pretty fast. Sexy voice. Like Elise's on the disc minus the depression."

As I drove up the Glen, he unwrapped the skirt-steak/baked-chicken/bacon/fried-potatoes-on-rye sandwich he'd constructed from leftovers scrounged in my fridge. Hydration came from slurps of Diet Dr Pepper in a half-liter bottle he'd brought with him.

By the time I reached Mulholland, he was phoning and eating, trying to find out why his priority request for Elise Freeman's phone records had received no response. Drones at her carrier kept transferring him, then cut him off. A second attempt produced "technical issues" as an excuse.

When he inquired about the subpoena of her financials at the D.A.'s office, he was informed of "transfer delays." He tried Deputy D.A. John Nguyen, who put him on hold.

One minute later, Milo clicked off, scowling. "John can't cut through the fog, either."

"Everything gets shunted to the chief's office."

"Hardening of the procedural arteries." Clutching his chest in mock horror, he buried his face in animal protein. Gulping fast, without taking a breath. More distraction than gustatory pleasure.

I picked up the 405 North at Sepulveda, merged to the 134 West, coasted through the western reaches of the Valley as it turned into the 101. Speeding past brown-felt hills and plugs of the heroic trees that gave Thousand Oaks its cachet, I cut through the widening gullies and ambitious peaks of Camarillo. A few exits north and plein-air ceded to concrete: one beige mall after another.

A razor-straight shot through the agricultural bounty of Oxnard and Ventura took us past Carpinteria, where the Pacific became a western neighbor. Flat, blue, breaking frothily, the water soft-sold peace of mind. Sea lions bobbed, surfers took advantage of swells, tankers big enough to merit a zip code floated on the horizon. A few miles before Santa Barbara, the rich green buffer formed by the old-growth vegetation of Montecito cooled and sweetened the air. Global warming on your mind? Plant a tree.

Santa Barbara announced itself with a glorious lagoon that rimmed Cabrillo Boulevard's eastern edge. To the west, the ocean persisted. Tourists worked both sides of the sun-kissed thoroughfare on bikes and pedicabs. Sandra Freeman Stuehr lived a few miles past Stearn's Wharf, west of State, in a mint-green bungalow on a quiet, shady street. Three individual units on an eighth-acre lot. Hers faced the street.

Not that different in style from her sister's home, but none of the isolation.

She came to the door holding a coffee mug and flexing a bare foot. She wore a crisp, black linen mandarin-collar blouse, butter-yellow walking shorts, hoop earrings, half a dozen gold bangles. Her toenails were polished scarlet, her fingers glazed flesh pink. Honey-blond hair was clipped in a pageboy.

Thirty pounds heavier than Elise and two years younger, she had bone-china skin, clear blue eyes, and a way with makeup that widened the age gap; she could've passed for late twenties.

Milo made the introductions. Sandra Stuehr's handshake was topped by a quick little after-squeeze, the merest pressure of warm fingertip on knuckle. She beckoned us in, curling hair around an index finger, cocking a hip, and secreting Chanel No. 5. A perfect hourglass shape was enhanced by an even cushion of firm flesh. Back in Reubens's day, painters would've lined up for the privilege.

Milo said, "So sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. I'm ready to help you with whatever I can." Brief pout but no evidence of tear-tracks and her sapphire eyes sparkled. "Coffee? I'm having a refill."

"If it's no trouble."

"It's no trouble at all." Pivoting like a dancer, she crossed to a bright, open kitchen with a view of coral bougainvillea.

The aroma of French perfume permeated the little house's interior. We were miles from the beach but Sandra Stuehr's decor did its best to evoke sand and surf: overstuffed seating slip-covered in white canvas, pine tables waxed to a soft gleam, seashells and driftwood and bits of tumbled rock placed cleverly, so as not to crowd the limited space.

"Here you go."

The mug she handed me was pearl gray, embossed with a gold crucifix and a gilt legend.

Blessed Heart College. The First Hundred Years.

She settled on a love seat, folded her legs to one side. "How was the traffic from L.A.?"

"Easy," said Milo. "Great coffee, thanks."

"French press and I grind the beans myself." Soft, sad smile. "If you can't do something right, why do it at all?"

"We're trying to investigate your sister's murder the right way, Ms. Stuehr."

"Of course you are." Too-quick, too-wide smile; the tension of a first date.

I rotated the mug so Milo would notice. He pointed and said, "Blessed Heart is how we found you."

"Really."

"They put a call for alumni on the Internet."

"That silly reunion," said Sandra Stuehr.

"You didn't attend, huh?"

"Only sad people live in the past, Lieutenant. Blessed gave out my number?"

"No, that we got from your ex-husband."

"Good old Frank. I'm sure he had all sorts of wonderful things to say about me."

"We didn't get into personal details, Ms. Stuehr. Did Elise happen to attend the reunion?"

"I tend to doubt it."

"You don't know for sure?"

"If that's a subtle way to ask if Elise and I were close, the answer is far from it. Still, I'm devastated by what happened. Did she suffer?"

"No," said Milo. "How often did the two of you see each other?"

"Seldom verging on never," said Sandra Stuehr. "Even after I moved to California--two and a half years ago. Not for lack of trying on my part, one of the first things I did was drive down to L.A. to have lunch with Elise. It was pleasant but not intimate and afterward we both lied about staying in touch. Elise didn't even invite me to her home. I've never seen it."

I said, "So you've never been close."

"Elise always resented me and I got tired of trying to earn her approval. Despite that, I'm crushed by her death. Do you have any idea who could do such a terrible thing?"

Milo shook his head. "That's why we're here."

"Well, I wish I could tell you something profound, Lieutenant, but the harsh truth is, my sister and I have been virtual strangers since birth."

"Why'd she resent you?" I said.

Instead of answering, she said, "I always felt it, a wall--there might as well have been a physical barrier. When we were teenagers it blossomed to outright hostility and we ended up barely tolerating each other. Being the baby, I grew up thinking it was my fault, something I'd done to alienate her. Eventually, I came to realize it was because of what I
was.
" Pause. "The favored child." Eyelash flutter, a flicker of frown. "Which, in our family, meant the
ignored
child."

I said, "Parental attention wasn't much of a prize."

She waved a hand. "Like I said, guys, reminiscence is for losers."

"Your parents--"

"We had one functional parent, Father. Mother was a non-entity, a shadow, just a total dishrag. She came from a poor family, never finished high school. That allowed Father to convince her he'd bestowed a great gift by deigning to wed her. I always suspected they married because he got her pregnant with Elise."

"His family was prominent?"

"Not in the sense of being rich, but they were highly educated. His father was a physics professor at Hopkins, his mother taught violin. I'm sure Mother was initially impressed." Dagger-point laugh. "She died when I was three and Elise was five and I'm not even sure the memories I have of her are accurate. All of them revolve around drudgery--down on her knees scrubbing something, as if she was the maid. I suppose she was, we never had help."

I said, "After she died is when the problems began."

Her mouth hardened. "What are you getting at?"

"Paternal attention not being welcome."

Her mug faltered. She held it with both hands until it steadied, ran a finger under her bangs. "I've worked hard at resolving, so I can talk about it. But I don't see how it relates to what happened to Elise."

"Anything that helps us understand Elise is useful."

More hair-curling. She picked up a cowry shell, massaged it, laid it down. "He was a monster. He damaged Elise and that prevented the two of us from becoming real sisters. The pathetic thing is Elise and I had so much in common. We liked the same music, enjoyed the same subjects in school, both of us became teachers. Though I never need to work. We could've had a fantastic relationship if that bastard hadn't fucked things up."

Her mug went down hard on an end table. Coffee sloshed, wood thrummed. She stared at the stain. "He abused her but not me. I'm sure she blamed me. I refuse to feel guilty. Maybe if she'd talked about it, we could've worked it out, I don't know."

Milo said, "Physical abuse or--"

"Oh, it was sexual, all right," said Sandra Stuehr. "It was nothing
but
sexual, those good old, dependable late-night visits to Elise's bedroom. You could set your watch by it. Eleven twenty p.m. and his slippers were making those vile, scraping sounds on the carpet. Like a slithering snake, I still hear it from time to time."

"You shared a room?"

Rapid head shake. "Elise and I had adjacent bedrooms but I could hear his footsteps, hear the bed bump--feel it, my headboard was right next to the wall. Then everything would grow quiet and I'd hear Elise whimpering. I could hear her. I was too scared to do anything but stay in my bed, what if he paid me a visit and started bumping my bed? But he never did. I was relieved. When I wasn't wondering if it was because Elise was the slim, pretty one and I was the chubby little Pillsbury dough-girl."

Her lips folded inward. She got up, took her mug to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, popped a can of Fresca and sat back down.

"Sure be nice to put some vodka in this, but I don't drink anymore. Not that I had a problem, nothing like that, I was always moderate. But since I moved here, I decided to get healthy. Yoga, meditation, walking on the beach, I quit smoking. Put on fifteen pounds, but I can breathe again."