"Why would he try to scam someone at a place he frequented?"

"Why don't you ask him?" she said. "Far as I know no one at Arnie's ever says yes to his b.s."

"He tries that kind of thing regularly?"

"He's always inching up to someone with that look, like he's carrying around the biggest secret in the world. Oh, yeah, I remember another one: He had truckloads of surplus trumpets and trombones coming in, just needed some money to ship them to Indiana or wherever it is they melt trombones down for brass. I pitch in, he'll split the profits with me. Another time he tried to sell everyone New Jersey lottery tickets at a discount. He's annoying but he gives up quick, not pushy and no one gets mad because he's pathetic. I got him pegged as a spineless worm, no guts no glory. That's why it surprises me you think he killed her."

"We don't, Doris- "

"Whatever. He's at his finest after a few," she said. "Six, seven beers and he's creative. You really think he killed her?"

We left Fat Boy, got back into the car.

"Clumsy con man," he said. "Yeah, I can see him getting tumescent over a big-money squeeze job on a place like Prep."

"And correspondingly mad when Elise pulled out of the scheme. Plus, the jealousy angle just got stronger."

"Our tutor and a young guy. She sure covered a lot of ground. Meaning there could be who-knows-how-many partners out there." Chuckling. "She might as well have tutored biology. You got where I was going with that age question."

"A preppie type," I said. "If Doris 's age estimate is off Elise could've been sleeping with a student."

"Pens in the pocket-maybe a math brain but he needed help in English. Be nice to get hold of some Prep yearbooks, have Doris go through the boys."

"If Prep even has yearbooks."

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Mere paper and ink? I'm thinking sacred tablets."

CHAPTER 15

Back at his closet-sized office, Milo belly-dived into the cyber-world. If Windsor Prep issued yearbooks they weren't cataloged online and none of the pay services promising to hunt down alumni had anything on the school.

No snarky critiques on the Internet, either, just paeans to the school's physical plant and academic standards.

I said, "Didn't know police protection could reach that far."

His smile devolved to an abdominal growl. "Time to subpoena Elise's phone records. Something traces back to a student, I'm beelining for the damn school." Rubbing his face. "That'll be so much fun I'll follow it up with do-it-yourself open-heart surgery using a rusty can opener."

I drove home, cleared paper, drank two black coffees, and began my own computer search, starting with MySpace and Facebook and using windsor prep as keywords.

No shortage of smiling, attractive kids attending the school, along with the usual friends lists, music choices, poetic excerpts ranging from lewd to sad, some home-drawn comic strips, the occasional photo of a cat or dog.

A handful of postings about Elise Freeman, but nothing more specific than did u hear? ms. f. died. bizarre.

No memorials or calls for tribute. Not a hint of rumor about sexual indiscretions.

Returning to the commercial alumni sites, I plugged Elise Freeman's name into the U. of Maryland database. No such person. Pairing her name with maryland pulled up a five-year-old search for graduates of Blessed Heart College on Garrison Boulevard in Baltimore, the school wanting to get in touch for a centennial celebration.

What else had she lied about?

I clicked the reunion link. Elise Freeman appeared in the Where Are You? column. So did Sandra Freeman Stuehr, graduation date two years later.

Four forty p.m. made it past working hours in Baltimore so I tried the city's white pages. Over five hundred Freemans.

But only one Stuehr, a business address: Stuehr's Crab Cooker, E. Pratt Street.

The woman who answered put me on hold. A minute or so later, she returned, talking over restaurant clatter. "When do you want your reservation?"

"I'd like to speak to Sandra."

"Who?"

"Sandra Stuehr."

Two beats. "Hold on."

The silence lasted nearly three minutes before a man got on. No more clatter, maybe a private office. "This is Frank, what now?" Clipped diction, vocal cords that sounded as if they'd been dragged a few miles on a gravel road.

"I'm looking for Sandra. You're Mr. Stuehr?"

"Yeah, right."

"Pardon?"

"Another lawyer heard from. Christ, stop bugging me."

I told him who I was, played up the LAPD connection more than reality justified.

"Yeah, right, more cock and bull. Look, pal, I can't stop you from calling but trust me, next time you won't get through, just like those other guys."

"This is a homicide investigation, Mr. Stuehr. The victim's Elise Freeman. If she's not related to Sandra-"

"Elise? Someone killed her? You're kidding."

"I'm not, Mr. Stuehr."

Silence. "I haven't seen Elise in a long time. Not since the wedding."

"Which was?"

"I married Sandy nine years ago. Wish I could forget the date. Sandy and Elise aren't close, Elise showed up, drank herself silly, left early."

"Sandra is her sister."

"One and only."

"Could I talk to Sandra?"

"Be my guest, pal. She's where you are- California. Or maybe it's Arizona by now, she likes warm weather, could be Florida for all I know. Or care. We've been divorced three years, she's still filing paper on me, she's money-mad-what's the diff. For all I know, this conversation really is cock and bull and you're one of her lawyers."

"Call the LAPD West L.A. station and ask for Lieutenant Sturgis." I gave him Milo 's cell.

"You just told me another name."

"I'm Delaware. Lieutenant Sturgis is the chief investigator on the case. Talk to him directly."

"About what?"

"We're trying to track down Elise's family. There's a body that needs to be dealt with."

"Oh… well, that's not my problem."

"How about the last known address and number for Sandra?"

He rattled off the information as if he chanted it daily. Gutierrez Street, Santa Barbara. Three years of animosity but he kept his ex close at hand.

I said, "Thanks. Anything you want to tell me about Elise?"

"From what I hear, she's just like her sister."

"How so?"

"Hot-pants, thinks she's an intellectual, lies like a convict. My family's been running one of the best crab joints in Baltimore for sixty years. Listen to Sandy, it's a greasy spoon, I'm imposing by wanting her to occasionally help out."

"Hot-pants," I said.

Frank Stuehr said, "I'm not talking fashion, that's an old-fashioned expression for slut. Okay, you want to know something about Elise-and Sandy? Both of them got bothered by their old man. Know what I mean?"

"Molested."

"That's another word for it."

" Sandy talked about that?"

"Only once, when she was in one of her weepy moods, wanted me to put my arm around her or something. After that, nothing, like it never happened in the first place. Only other time I raised the topic was when Sandy and me tried mediation. She was making a play to steal a big chunk of the Cooker and that really pissed me off so I put forth the case she was morally turpitude. Spelled it out. She gets up, walks around the table, smacks me wham across the face. That ended mediation, she screwed herself, the judge didn't look kindly on her. You find her, don't give regards."

"What kind of guy was the father?"

"He died before I met Sandy, but I hear he was a run-around. That's what people said in the neighborhood. Outward, he was respectable, never met a Mass he didn't like. Principal of a school, top of that. I'd love to hear his confession. A virtuous father don't turn out two sluts."