Painted Ladies

by Robert B. Parker

  I poured some safflower oil into my big frying pan, and let it heat.

  “Like booze,” I said.

  “Yes,” Susan said. “You like to drink. But you can choose not to. You can stop when it’s appropriate. It doesn’t interfere with your work, or our relationship, or anything else. But if you had to drink and couldn’t stop and it was screwing up your life, and mine, then you have an illness, alcoholism, and you’d need help.”

  “So if I’m that way about sex, have to have it, can’t restrain myself, force myself on people . . .”

  “That’s just you being you,” Susan said.

  “Wait a minute,” I said.

  She laughed.

  “I couldn’t resist,” she said.

  “Maybe you have an illness?” I said.

  “No doubt,” she said. “But your analogy is apt. If you are, so to speak, a sexual alcoholic, then you have an illness, and you need help.”

  “Would someone like that be likely to seek help?”

  “I don’t know. Most people with whatever problem don’t seek shrink help. I’ve had very few cases of either men or women with out-of-control sexual issues.”

  “Would men be likely to seek help from a woman?” I said.

  “They might,” Susan said. “It might excite them to think of talking about it with a woman. Are you thinking Prince sought help?”

  “I don’t know. Certainly the college would have a shrink on retainer, wouldn’t they?”

  “Most colleges do,” Susan said. “Why are you investigating Prince so carefully? He’s the victim.”

  With a pair of tongs, I began to place the batter-coated apple rings into the hot oil.

  “The fact that they planned ahead of time to kill him makes me wonder a little,” I said.

  “Because they prepared the bomb and everything?” Susan said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “They didn’t improvise that at the spur of the moment.”

  “No,” Susan said. “Of course.”

  “And,” I said, “more important, he’s all I’ve got. I don’t investigate him, and I may as well be sitting on the dock of the bay.”

  “Yes,” Susan said. “It’s not so different than what I do.”

  I took a few fritters out of the fry pan, added a little oil, let it heat, and placed a few more rings in there.

  “Why so few at a time?” Susan said. “There’s room for more.”

  “You crowd them and they don’t come out right,” I said.

  “I didn’t know that,” Susan said.

  “You would if you needed to,” I said.

  “Would Rita?”

  “Not as well as you would,” I said.

  “Right answer,” Susan said.

  “No fool I.”

  16

  The fax from Crosby finally arrived in my office on Monday morning. There were eight names on it. Three of them were women. One of them was Melissa Minor. I sat back in my chair. Melissa Minor. Minor wasn’t an exotic name. But it wasn’t particularly common, either. I could not remember, in the course of my lifetime, meeting anyone named Minor. And now on the same case in a matter of days I encounter two?

  I swiveled around and picked up my phone and called Crosby.

  “Spenser,” I said. “Thanks for the fax.”

  “Maybe I’ll change the department motto,” Crosby said. “Stay mum and be helpful?”

  “Needs work,” I said. “Can you get me the name of Melissa Minor’s mother?”

  “Who’s Melissa Minor?”

  “One of the students in Prince’s seminar,” I said.

  “Oh, hell, I didn’t even read the list,” Crosby said. “When they sent it to me, I had my secretary fax it on over.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Can you get me her mother’s name?”

  “Yeah, they’ll have that.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Where they probably send the tuition bill.”

  “Lemme know,” I said.

  “Call you back,” Crosby said. “This is exciting. I almost feel like a cop.”

  “Try to remain calm,” I said.

  We hung up.

  While I waited, I looked out my window at the corner of Berkeley and Boylston. While I’d been spinning my wheels, we’d settled into December, and every commercial enterprise that would support a Christmas decoration had several. It hadn’t snowed yet. But it was cold, and the young women who worked in the area were bundled up so that it was less fun to watch them walk by than it was in the summer. But it wasn’t no fun. And though my commitment to Susan was absolute, that was no reason not to survey the landscape.

  The phone rang.

  “Mother’s name is Winifred Minor,” Crosby said. “No father listed. Mother lives in Charlestown. Employed at Shawmut Insurance on Columbus Ave.”

  “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, may
be 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.

  We drank. They drank faster. They were nearly through the first drink by the time I got to my interrogation.

  “Did you like Dr. Prince?” I said.

  “Well, sure,” Sandy said. “I mean, the poor man.”

  “You don’t need to like him because he was killed,” I said. “Did you like him when he was alive?”

  They looked at each other. It was apparently a harder question than I had expected. While they looked, I got the waitress and ordered another round.

  “I always had the feeling,” Sandy said after the drinks came, “that he was, like, looking through my clothes.”

  Sandy was slight, with brown hair and glasses and nice eyes.

  “Face it,” Bev said. “He was a cockhound.”

  Bev was dark-haired and somewhat zaftig, with a slight almond shape to her eyes.

  “He ever make an attempt on your virtue?” I said.

  “He made an attempt on everyone’s virtue,” Sandy said.

  “He succeed much?” I said.

  “Not with me,” Sandy said firmly.

  I looked at Bev. She grinned at me. Both girls had emptied their glasses again. We got another round. Sometimes it went easier with booze.

  After the waitress left, I said, “How about you, Bev?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “We had a night,” she said. “He seemed like he was in a hurry.”

  “How so?” I said.

  “It was like . . . you know, not a lot of foreplay.”

  “Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am,” I said.

  Bev laughed.

  “Exactly,” she said. “It was like once he got me into bed, he wanted to get it over with and move on somewhere.”

  “Probably the next girl,” Sandy said.

  Bev smiled again.

  “Like I said, he’s a cockhound . . . was.”

  “He, ah, friendly,” I said, “with others in the class?”

  “Others?” Sandy said. “The only other girl in class is Missy. He wasn’t interested in the boys.”

  “Was he friendly with Missy?” I said.

  “Sure,” Sandy said.

  I could hear the wine in her voice.

  “How friendly?”

  “She liked him,” Bev said.

  “She was sort of his girlfriend, I think,” Sandy said.

  “Doesn’t seem the girlfriend type,” I said.

  Sandy shrugged.

  “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.

  I put some red sauce on a littleneck clam, and ate. She messed around with her fork in her salad bowl. But she didn’t put any food in her mouth.

  “And I’d have been more willing to accept that,” I said, “if you had mentioned to me that there was a daughter.”

  “I didn’t consider it germane,” Winifred said. “I was unaware that she knew Prince.”

  “Was she an art major?”

  “Yes.”

  “At Walford?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “You know that.”

  “How long were you with the Bureau?” I said.

  “Fifteen years.”

  I ate a shrimp. She appeared to be counting the anchovies in her salad. The bar was partly full. Mostly people having lunch but a sprinkling of thank-God-it’s-noontime people. Men, mostly, who worked in the big insurance companies. No wonder they drank.