What kind of Martian was her psychology teacher?

"I'm not going back," Sheila warned. "And if you take me, I'll just run back here and not tell you where I am."

Now what? It was one of those mother-daughter crisis moments where you wish your own mama was around to clue you in. I looked at Sheila, I looked at her mangy dog, and I sighed.

"Good!" Sheila cried. "I knew you'd see it my way. Now, where are we going?"

I shook my head and started walking off toward my car, then stopped. Why take my car when everybody knew it was mine?

"Let's take the pickup," I said. "I'll drive."

"Mama," Sheila started, then for some reason let it go and handed me the keys.

We climbed up into the cab of Earl's old Ford pickup. He'd had a run-in with a fence post or something because you had to pull hard to close the door, and when you did, the hinges screamed in agony. It was a clunker, but when I stuck the key in the ignition and turned, it roared to life with all of its V-8 power.

We bounced out of the lot onto Washington Street and headed for Elm. There was only one set of condominiums large enough to hide a well-kept bimbo, and I headed right for it.

"What did you name him?" I asked.

Sheila looked down at her puppy, stroked its head, and was rewarded by a frenzy of licking.

"Wombat."

I laughed in spite of myself. "You named a dog Wombat? Why?"

Sheila hitched him up in her arms like a baby. "I don't know, on account of he's so strange looking, I guess. I mean, he's got black hair, and brown and gray and white and yellow. It's curly up front and straight in the back. His legs are long and he doesn't have a tail. Mama, when he's happy, he wags his little stump so hard it knocks him over! Isn't he cute?"

I looked over at Wombat. Wombat's eyelashes were longer than Rozetta's fakes, and his eyes were a whole lot prettier.

"I guess he does have a way about him."

We pulled into the lot of the ten-story condo building and stared up at it.

"Now what?" she asked. "Which one is it?"

I leaned on the steering wheel. "I don't know."

"Mama!" Sheila said. "There's gotta be ten gazillion apartments in there." She sighed. "Wait a minute, I'll go find out. What's the name?"

"Pauline Conrad, but the apartment may be in Nosmo King's name."

Sheila had the door open and was almost gone before I could stop her.

"Sheila, they won't tell you where she lives. It's part of their security system."

Sheila jumped out of the truck, handed me the puppy, and straightened her camisole top.

"Well, like, duh. Of course not. I'm not going to ask them like that. I'm going to ask them like a stupid harmless kid would ask them. Just wait here."

She started out, stopped, and walked back up to the passenger-side window.

"So, like, if I'm not back in, like, five minutes…" She paused for effect. "Call the freakin' cops!"

As I watched, Sheila walked across the parking lot, hitching her school backpack up on her shoulder and slouching. She walked up to the entrance, opened the door, and disappeared inside. Within two minutes she was back, a triumphant smile on her face.

"Ten A," she said.

"How did you do that?"

Sheila sighed, as if the explanation was too much for her. "I just told them that I was supposed to stay with my aunt after school, but I couldn't remember the apartment number."

Sheila smirked. "That is sooo adolescent, don't you think? Teenagers just never listen. And then, after he told me, he went right off upstairs to help some little old lady move a chair. That is, like, so dumb. What if I was a criminal or something?"

I handed Wombat to her. "You might oughta walk him," I said. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

"I'm coming with you," she said.

I shot her a look that said, don't even try me.

"All right, you don't need to take on an attitude!"

I walked away and left her standing there, her ridiculous puppy in her arms. This was going to be a hell of an investigation.

I swept past the empty doorman's stand, hit the elevator, and rode up to the tenth floor. "A" was the first door on the left. I walked across the thickly carpeted hallway and punched the doorbell. It rang like a high-class doorbell, a deep dinging that sounded nothing like a shrill apartment buzzer.

I waited, heard footsteps cross the foyer, and then waited some more as I was checked out through the peephole and a decision made.

Finally the door swung open, just wide enough to stretch the security chain. It was not Pauline Conrad who answered the door; it was her blonde friend, Christine.

"Hey," she said, her voice wary. "You're that girl from the funeral. What're you doing here?"

She did not seem at all pleased to see me.

"I need to talk to Pauline, please." I smiled and tried to look harmless, like I'd dropped by for a glass of tea.

"She's not here," Christine said, but she was lying. I could hear water running in the background and someone was humming.

"I really do need to talk to her," I insisted.

"About what?" Christine's expression looked skeptical. Her eyes were narrowed and her mouth was a flat line of displeasure with what she was hearing.

"Nosmo King," I said. "She and my ex-husband were probably the last two people to see him alive. I just wanted to talk to her about-"

Christine cut me off. "You're Vernell Spivey's wife? Well, we for sure don't want to talk to you."

"Fine," I said, "then I'll just talk to the police about it."

It always works on TV, but Christine wasn't buying it.

"Fine then," she said. "Talk to them." And closed the door.

I stood out in the hall listening to her footsteps dying away, hoping to hear her talking to Pauline, but there was not a sound.

"Great," I muttered. "Some detective I am."

I rode the elevator back downstairs, walked outside, and found Sheila and Wombat deep in conversation with a young guy with long stringy hair and a goatee. Sheila had a knack for attracting oddballs.

I walked to the truck, pulled open the squeaky door, and climbed up inside. Sheila noticed me, waved me off, and continued talking. I watched her through the rearview mirror, watching her toss her head and laugh at something the boy said. She was so young, and despite her facade, so vulnerable.

After a few moments, Sheila stood, gathering Wombat up into her arms and saying her good-byes. The kid watched her walk away and I watched them both in the mirror. Young love.

I cranked the truck as she stepped up into the cab.

"I believe you could find a boy to talk to in an all-girls school, Sheila."

Sheila smiled and tried to speak without moving her lips. "Mama, just wait until he can't see us."

I shrugged and pulled back out onto Elm Street. I debated for a moment about where to go and then figured my house was best, even though it was broad daylight.

Sheila startled me when she started talking again. "Mama, that was no boy, as in attractive, go-out-with type boy. He works as a maintenance guy at the condos."

"Nothing's wrong with a service profession," I started.

"Mama, get a grip! That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying he's worked on that girl's apartment and he was telling me all about her." Sheila took a deep breath. "Mama, she is, like, totally shallow, you know what I'm saying? Like totally not authentic. She was Nosmo King's, like, woman. He paid for everything. The apartment and all is in his name. Did you know that?"

I sighed. "Yes."

"Well, so, like, did you know that Nosmo was cheating on his girlfriend with her own girlfriend?"

Now she had me. I looked over at her. "What do you mean?"

Sheila sighed. "What do I mean? I mean, Todd said that once, when Pauline was out, he had to go in and do something to, like, her toilet or something. And guess what? That King guy was there, and so was this friend of Pauline's, some blonde girl that's always around. Well," she said, "the blonde girl was topless. See, they didn't know Todd was coming. And when he opened the door…"