11

Drs. Andrew and Elaine Carlson verified that Sheralyn had been home the night/morning of the murder from five PM until eight thirty AM, at which time Dr. Andrew drove her to Briar Lane Academy in his Porsche Cayenne.

“Not that they’d say anything else,” muttered Baker, as they got back in the car. “She’s got them wrapped around her little intellectual finger, could’ve climbed through a window and met up with Tristan and they’d never know.”

“Think she was involved?” said Lamar.

“I think she’d do and say anything to cover for Tristan.”

“Her celibate lover. You believe that?”

“Kids, nowadays? I believe anything. So let’s find this tortured soul and shake him up.”

“Back to Mommy’s mansion.”

“It’s a short drive.”

When they got to the Poulson estate, a lowering sun had grayed the house and a padlock had been fixed to the main gate. The red Benz was in the same place. The Volvo was gone.

No call box, just a bell. Baker jabbed it. The front door opened and someone looked at them.

Black uniform with white trim, dark face. The maid who’d fetched the lemonade- Amelia.

Baker waved.

Amelia didn’t budge.

He shouted her name. Loud.

The sound was a slap across the genteel, silent face of Belle Meade.

She approached them.

“Not here,” she said, through iron gate slats. “Please.”

Her eyes were wide with fear. Sweat trickled from her hairline to an eyebrow but she made no attempt to dry her face.

“Where did the missus go?” said Baker.

Silence.

“Tell us, right now.”

“ Kentucky, sir.”

“Her horse farm.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did she leave?”

“Two hours ago.”

“She take Tristan with her?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We could sit here and watch the house for days,” said Lamar. “We could come back with a warrant and go through every room of this place and make a godawful mess.”

No answer.

Baker said, “So you’re sticking with that story. She didn’t take Tristan.”

“No, sir.”

“No, you’re not sticking with it, or no she didn’t take him?” Baker’s ears were red.

“She didn’t take him, sir.”

“He in the house, right now?”

“No, sir.”

“Where, then?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“When you were here, sir.”

“When we were talking to Mrs. Poulson, Tristan was here?”

“In the guest house.”

“When did he leave?”

“After you did.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Did he take a car?”

“His car,” said Amelia.

“Make and model,” said Lamar, whipping out his pad.

“A Beetle. Green.”

“Did he take anything with him?”

“I didn’t see, sir.”

“You cleaned his room, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any clothes missing?”

“I haven’t been in there today, sir.”

“What we’re getting at,” said Baker, “is did he just take a drive into town or do you think he left town?”

“I don’t know, sir. It’s a big house. I start at one end, takes me two days to get to the other.”

“And your point is?”

“There are many things I don’t hear.”

“Or choose not to hear.”

Amelia’s face remained impassive.

Lamar said, “Tristan left right after we did. Did he and his mother have a discussion?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Why’d Mrs. Poulson decide all of a sudden to fly to Kentucky?”

“It wasn’t all of a sudden,” said the maid. “She flies there all the time. To see her horses.”

“Loves her horses, does she?”

“Apparently, sir.”

“You’re saying the trip was planned.”

“Yes, sir. I heard her calling the charter service five days ago.”

“So you do hear some things.”

“Depends which room I’m working, sir. I was freshening outside the study and she was using the study phone.”

“Remember the name of the charter service?”

“Don’t have to,” said Amelia. “She uses the same one all the time. New Flight.”

“Thank you,” said Lamar. “Now where can we find Tristan?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“Sure about that?”

“More than sure, sir.”

Back in the car, they got the registration stats on Tristan Poulson’s VW and put an alert out on the car. They called New Flight Charter, were told in no uncertain terms that the company maintained strict client confidentiality and that nothing short of a warrant would change that.

“That so…well, good for you,” said Baker, hanging up with a scowl.

“What?” said Lamar.

“They fly big shots like President Clinton and Tom Brokaw, everything hush-hush.”

“Hush-hush but they tell you they fly Clinton.”

“Guess he’s beyond mere mortality. Drive, Stretch.”

On the way back to town, they got a call from Trish, the receptionist at headquarters. A Dr. Alex Delaware had phoned this morning, and then again at two. No message.

Baker said, “Guy’s probably itching to get back home.”

“Guy works with the police,” said Lamar, “you’d think he’d know he’s free to go, we can’t keep him here legally.”

“You’d think.”

“Hmm…maybe you should call him back. Or better yet, let’s drop in on him at the hotel. See if he knew Cathy Poulson in her LA days. While we’re there, we can also show Tristan’s picture around to the staff.”

“Two bad we don’t have two pictures,” said Baker. “Another with all that hair.”

“Like father, like son,” said Lamar. “It always comes down to family, doesn’t it?”

Delaware wasn’t in his room. The concierge was sure of that, the doctor had stopped by around noon to ask directions to Opryland and hadn’t returned.

No one at the Hermitage remembered ever seeing Tristan Poulson, the clean-cut, high school senior photo version. Asking people to imagine long hair and a beard produced nothing but quizzical looks.

Just as they were about to leave for a drive-through of Music Row, Delaware walked in. Spruced up, LA style: blue blazer, white polo shirt, blue jeans, brown loafers. Taking shades off his eyes, he nodded at the concierge.

“Doctor,” said Baker.

“Good, you got my message. C’mon up, I’ve got something to show you.”

As the elevator rose, Lamar said, “How was Opryland?”

Delaware said, “Tracing me, huh? It was more Disneyland than down-home but with a name like Opryland I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had lunch in that restaurant with the giant aquariums, which wasn’t bad.”

“Have a hearty seafood dinner?”

The psychologist laughed. “Steak. Any luck on Jack’s murder?”

“We’re working on it.”

Delaware worked at hiding his sympathy.

His room was the same pin-neat setup. The guitar case rested on the bed.

He opened a closet drawer, drew out some papers. Hotel fax cover sheet, over a couple of others.

“After you left, I started thinking about my sessions with Jack. Something he told me as the trip approached. Dead people don’t get confidentiality. I had my girlfriend, Robin, go through the chart and fax the relevant pages. Here you go.”

Two lined pages filled with dense, sharply slanted handwriting. Not the clearest fax. Hard to make out.

Delaware saw them squinting. “Sorry, my penmanship stinks. Would you like a summary?”

Lamar said, “That would be great, Doctor.”