“Good student.”

“Don’t know about her grades,” said Tim. “Brainiac’s more than good grades, it’s a category, you know? Concentrating on books, art, music, all that good stuff.”

“Music,” said Baker.

“She played piano. I saw her at a party. Tristan was standing with her, singing along with her.”

“Good voice?”

“He sounded okay.”

“What kind of music?”

Tim frowned. “Something like old jazz, maybe Sinatra, which was kind of weird; everyone thought it was funny they were playing old-people music but they were serious. My mom plays Sinatra. Sammy Davis Junior, Tony Bennett. Has those vinyls, you know?”

“Antiques,” said Baker.

Tim said, “She has a typewriter, too. Likes me to know how things used to be.”

“What do you know about Tristan’s music?”

“His what?”

“We’ve heard that he wrote songs.”

“That’s a new one for me,” said Tim. “I never heard rumors he and Sheralyn broke up, but maybe he was looking to get another girl.”

“Why do you say that?”

“That’s mostly why guys write songs.”

10

Googling BriarLane Academy Sheralyn pulled up a review in the girl school’s campus paper, The Siren Call. Last October, the Thespian Club had presented a “post-modern version of As You Like It.” The reviewer had loved the show, singling out Sheralyn Carlson’s portrayal of Rosalind as “mercilessly relevant and psychologically deep.”

They traced the girl to an address in Brentwood- Nashville ’s other high-priced spread. Five miles south of Belle Meade, Brentwood had a higher concentration of new money than its cousin, with rolling hills and open land a magnet for music types who’d cashed in. Faith and Tim and Dolly had Brentwood spreads. So did Alan Jackson and George Jones. Homes ranged from horse estates to sleek ranch houses. Ninety-four percent white, six percent everything else.

Sheralyn Carlson might’ve posed a problem for the census taker, with a Chinese radiologist mother and a hulking, blond radiologist father who would’ve looked fine in Viking duds. The girl was gorgeous, tall and lithe with long, shiny, honey-colored hair, almond-shaped amber eyes, and a soft-spoken disposition of the type that tended to reassure adults.

Drs. Elaine and Andrew Carlson seemed like quiet, inoffensive types, themselves. They briefed the detectives on the fact that their only child had never earned a grade lower than A, had never given them a lick of problem, had been offered a spot in the Johns Hopkins gifted writer program but had turned it down because, as Dr. Elaine phrased it, “Sheralyn eschews divisive stratification.”

“Our view as well,” added Dr. Andrew.

“We try to maintain family cohesiveness,” said Dr. Elaine. “Without sacrificing free expression.” Stroking her daughter’s shoulder. Sheralyn took her mother’s hand. Dr. Elaine squeezed her daughter’s fingers.

“My daughter- our daughter,” said Dr. Andrew, “is a fabulous young woman.”

“That’s obvious,” said Baker. “We’d like to talk to her alone.”

“I don’t know,” said Dr. Andrew.

“I don’t know, either,” said Dr. Elaine.

“Know,” said Sheralyn. “Please.” Flashing a brief, tight smile at her parents.

The Drs. Carlson looked at each other. “Very well,” said Dr. Andrew. He and his wife left the stark, white contempo living room of their stark, white contempo house as if embarking on a trek across Siberia. Glancing back and catching Sheralyn’s merry wave.

When they were gone, the girl turned grave. “Finally! A chance to express what’s been on my mind for some time. I’m extremely concerned about Tristan.”

“Why?” said Baker.

“He’s depressed. Not clinically, at this point, but dangerously close.”

“Depressed about his father?”

“His father,” she said. Blinking. “Yes, that, of course.”

“What else?”

“The usual post-adolescent issues.” Sheralyn turned her fingers like darning needles. “Life.”

Lamar said, “Sounds like you’re interested in psychology.”

Sheralyn nodded. “The ultimate questions always revolve around human behavior.”

“And Tristan’s behavior concerns you.”

“More like lack of behavior,” she said. “He’s depressed.”

“Going through rough times.”

“Tristan’s not what he seems,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard. She had the refined good looks of a beauty queen, but aimed for edgy. Floral minidress, combat boots, henna patterns banding the tops of her hands, four pierces in one ear, three in the other. There was a tiny little dot above her right nostril where a stud had once rested.

“What do you mean?”

“At first glance,” she said, “Tristan comes across as Mega Jock From Planet Testosterone. But he’s preternaturally sensitive.”

“Preternaturally,” said Baker.

“We all have our masks,” the teen remarked. “A less honest person might have no trouble donning his. Tristan’s soul is honest. He suffers.”

Neither detective was really sure what she meant. Lamar said, “Is he going through an identity crisis of some kind?”

She looked at him as if he needed tutoring. “Sure, why not.”

“Changing his ways,” said Baker.

Silence.

Lamar said, “We know he took a leave from Brown. Where is he?”

“At home.”

“Living with his mother?”

“Only in a physical sense.”

“They don’t get along?”

“Tristan’s home is not a nurturing place.”

“Conflict with his mother?”

“No-o,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “For conflict, there needs to be involvement.”

“Mrs. Poulson’s not involved.”

“Oh, she is.” The girl frowned. “With herself. Such a cozy relationship.”

“You don’t like her,” said Baker.

“I don’t think about her enough to dislike her.” A second later: “She represents much that repels me.”

“How so?”

“Have you met her?”

“Sure have.”

“Yet you ask,” said Sheralyn Carlson, working at looking amused.

Baker said, “What’s her problem, besides being a distant mom?”

The girl took several moments to answer. Twisting those fingers. Playing with her hair and the hem of her dress. “I love Tristan. Not as a sexual lover, there’s no longer that spark between us.” She crossed her legs. “Words don’t do it justice but if I had to encapsulate, I’d say brotherly love. But don’t take that as a Freudian hint. Tristan and I are quite proud that we’ve managed to transition our relationship from the realm of the physical to idealistic companionship.” Another long pause. “Tristan and I have both taken on the mantle of celibacy.”

Silence.

Sheralyn Carlson smiled. “So-called adults shudder at the notion of so-called adolescent sexuality but when the s.c. adolescent eschews sexuality, the s.c. adults think it’s bizarre.”

“I reckon that’s not too foreign a concept in these parts,” Baker said. “Churchgoing people every Wednesday and Sunday like clockwork.”

She frowned. “The point is that Tristan and I have opted for a more internal life. Since his senior year.”

“Art and music,” said Lamar.

“The internal life,” the girl repeated.

“Well, that’s fine, Sheralyn. And now he’s living at home. You see each other much?”

“At home and about.”

“About where?”

“He tends to gravitate toward Sixteenth Street.”

“Looking for a record deal on Music Row?”

“Tristan is close to tone deaf, but he loves to write. The obvious choice is lyrics. For the last month, he’s been attempting to sell his lyrics to the philistines on Music Row. I warned him he’d encounter nothing but crass commercialism, but Tristan can be quite determined.”

“From jock to songwriter,” said Baker. “How’d his mom take that?”

“She would have to care to take.”

“Apathetic.”

“She would have to believe that others exist in order to fit into any sort of category such as ‘apathetic.’ ”

Lamar said, “Mrs. Poulson lives in her own little world.”