Deception

CHAPTER

16

Milo was at my house by nine the following morning. We took the Seville to Santa Barbara because “two hours on the road, pal, I like leather and functional A.C.”

I said, “How’d the sister react to the news?”

“Gasped once, then she got calm pretty fast. Sexy voice. Like Elise’s on the disc minus the depression.”

As I drove up the Glen, he unwrapped the skirt-steak/baked-chicken/bacon/fried-potatoes-on-rye sandwich he’d constructed from leftovers scrounged in my fridge. Hydration came from slurps of Diet Dr Pepper in a half-liter bottle he’d brought with him.

By the time I reached Mulholland, he was phoning and eating, trying to find out why his priority request for Elise Freeman’s phone records had received no response. Drones at her carrier kept transferring him, then cut him off. A second attempt produced “technical issues” as an excuse.

When he inquired about the subpoena of her financials at the D.A.’s office, he was informed of “transfer delays.” He tried Deputy D.A. John Nguyen, who put him on hold.

One minute later, Milo clicked off, scowling. “John can’t cut through the fog, either.”

“Everything gets shunted to the chief’s office.”

“Hardening of the procedural arteries.” Clutching his chest in mock horror, he buried his face in animal protein. Gulping fast, without taking a breath. More distraction than gustatory pleasure.

I picked up the 405 North at Sepulveda, merged to the 134 West, coasted through the western reaches of the Valley as it turned into the 101. Speeding past brown-felt hills and plugs of the heroic trees that gave Thousand Oaks its cachet, I cut through the widening gullies and ambitious peaks of Camarillo. A few exits north and plein-air ceded to concrete: one beige mall after another.

A razor-straight shot through the agricultural bounty of Oxnard and Ventura took us past Carpinteria, where the Pacific became a western neighbor. Flat, blue, breaking frothily, the water soft-sold peace of mind. Sea lions bobbed, surfers took advantage of swells, tankers big enough to merit a zip code floated on the horizon. A few miles before Santa Barbara, the rich green buffer formed by the old-growth vegetation of Montecito cooled and sweetened the air. Global warming on your mind? Plant a tree.

Santa Barbara announced itself with a glorious lagoon that rimmed Cabrillo Boulevard’s eastern edge. To the west, the ocean persisted. Tourists worked both sides of the sun-kissed thoroughfare on bikes and pedicabs. Sandra Freeman Stuehr lived a few miles past Stearn’s Wharf, west of State, in a mint-green bungalow on a quiet, shady street. Three individual units on an eighth-acre lot. Hers faced the street.

Not that different in style from her sister’s home, but none of the isolation.

She came to the door holding a coffee mug and flexing a bare foot. She wore a crisp, black linen mandarin-collar blouse, butter-yellow walking shorts, hoop earrings, half a dozen gold bangles. Her toenails were polished scarlet, her fingers glazed flesh pink. Honey-blond hair was clipped in a pageboy.

Thirty pounds heavier than Elise and two years younger, she had bone-china skin, clear blue eyes, and a way with makeup that widened the age gap; she could’ve passed for late twenties.

Milo made the introductions. Sandra Stuehr’s handshake was topped by a quick little after-squeeze, the merest pressure of warm fingertip on knuckle. She beckoned us in, curling hair around an index finger, cocking a hip, and secreting Chanel No. 5. A perfect hourglass shape was enhanced by an even cushion of firm flesh. Back in Reubens’s day, painters would’ve lined up for the privilege.

Milo said, “So sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I’m ready to help you with whatever I can.” Brief pout but no evidence of tear-tracks and her sapphire eyes sparkled. “Coffee? I’m having a refill.”

“If it’s no trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” Pivoting like a dancer, she crossed to a bright, open kitchen with a view of coral bougainvillea.

The aroma of French perfume permeated the little house’s interior. We were miles from the beach but Sandra Stuehr’s décor did its best to evoke sand and surf: overstuffed seating slip-covered in white canvas, pine tables waxed to a soft gleam, seashells and driftwood and bits of tumbled rock placed cleverly, so as not to crowd the limited space.

“Here you go.”

The mug she handed me was pearl gray, embossed with a gold crucifix and a gilt legend.

Blessed Heart College. The First Hundred Years.

She settled on a love seat, folded her legs to one side. “How was the traffic from L.A.?”

“Easy,” said Milo. “Great coffee, thanks.”

“French press and I grind the beans myself.” Soft, sad smile. “If you can’t do something right, why do it at all?”

“We’re trying to investigate your sister’s murder the right way, Ms. Stuehr.”

“Of course you are.” Too-quick, too-wide smile; the tension of a first date.

I rotated the mug so Milo would notice. He pointed and said, “Blessed Heart is how we found you.”

“Really.”

“They put a call for alumni on the Internet.”

“That silly reunion,” said Sandra Stuehr.

“You didn’t attend, huh?”

“Only sad people live in the past, Lieutenant. Blessed gave out my number?”

“No, that we got from your ex-husband.”

“Good old Frank. I’m sure he had all sorts of wonderful things to say about me.”

“We didn’t get into personal details, Ms. Stuehr. Did Elise happen to attend the reunion?”

“I tend to doubt it.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“If that’s a subtle way to ask if Elise and I were close, the answer is far from it. Still, I’m devastated by what happened. Did she suffer?”

“No,” said Milo. “How often did the two of you see each other?”

“Seldom verging on never,” said Sandra Stuehr. “Even after I moved to California—two and a half years ago. Not for lack of trying on my part, one of the first things I did was drive down to L.A. to have lunch with Elise. It was pleasant but not intimate and afterward we both lied about staying in touch. Elise didn’t even invite me to her home. I’ve never seen it.”

I said, “So you’ve never been close.”

“Elise always resented me and I got tired of trying to earn her approval. Despite that, I’m crushed by her death. Do you have any idea who could do such a terrible thing?”

Milo shook his head. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Well, I wish I could tell you something profound, Lieutenant, but the harsh truth is, my sister and I have been virtual strangers since birth.”

“Why’d she resent you?” I said.

Instead of answering, she said, “I always felt it, a wall—there might as well have been a physical barrier. When we were teenagers it blossomed to outright hostility and we ended up barely tolerating each other. Being the baby, I grew up thinking it was my fault, something I’d done to alienate her. Eventually, I came to realize it was because of what I was.” Pause. “The favored child.” Eyelash flutter, a flicker of frown. “Which, in our family, meant the ignored child.”

I said, “Parental attention wasn’t much of a prize.”

She waved a hand. “Like I said, guys, reminiscence is for losers.”

“Your parents—”

“We had one functional parent, Father. Mother was a non-entity, a shadow, just a total dishrag. She came from a poor family, never finished high school. That allowed Father to convince her he’d bestowed a great gift by deigning to wed her. I always suspected they married because he got her pregnant with Elise.”

“His family was prominent?”

“Not in the sense of being rich, but they were highly educated. His father was a physics professor at Hopkins, his mother taught violin. I’m sure Mother was initially impressed.” Dagger-point laugh. “She died when I was three and Elise was five and I’m not even sure the memories I have of her are accurate. All of them revolve around drudgery—down on her knees scrubbing something, as if she was the maid. I suppose she was, we never had help.”

I said, “After she died is when the problems began.”

Her mouth hardened. “What are you getting at?”

“Paternal attention not being welcome.”

Her mug faltered. She held it with both hands until it steadied, ran a finger under her bangs. “I’ve worked hard at resolving, so I can talk about it. But I don’t see how it relates to what happened to Elise.”

“Anything that helps us understand Elise is useful.”

More hair-curling. She picked up a cowry shell, massaged it, laid it down. “He was a monster. He damaged Elise and that prevented the two of us from becoming real sisters. The pathetic thing is Elise and I had so much in common. We liked the same music, enjoyed the same subjects in school, both of us became teachers. Though I never need to work. We could’ve had a fantastic relationship if that bastard hadn’t fucked things up.”

Her mug went down hard on an end table. Coffee sloshed, wood thrummed. She stared at the stain. “He abused her but not me. I’m sure she blamed me. I refuse to feel guilty. Maybe if she’d talked about it, we could’ve worked it out, I don’t know.”

Milo said, “Physical abuse or—”

“Oh, it was sexual, all right,” said Sandra Stuehr. “It was nothing but sexual, those good old, dependable late-night visits to Elise’s bedroom. You could set your watch by it. Eleven twenty p.m. and his slippers were making those vile, scraping sounds on the carpet. Like a slithering snake, I still hear it from time to time.”

“You shared a room?”

Rapid head shake. “Elise and I had adjacent bedrooms but I could hear his footsteps, hear the bed bump—feel it, my headboard was right next to the wall. Then everything would grow quiet and I’d hear Elise whimpering. I could hear her. I was too scared to do anything but stay in my bed, what if he paid me a visit and started bumping my bed? But he never did. I was relieved. When I wasn’t wondering if it was because Elise was the slim, pretty one and I was the chubby little Pillsbury dough-girl.”

Her lips folded inward. She got up, took her mug to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, popped a can of Fresca and sat back down.

“Sure be nice to put some vodka in this, but I don’t drink anymore. Not that I had a problem, nothing like that, I was always moderate. But since I moved here, I decided to get healthy. Yoga, meditation, walking on the beach, I quit smoking. Put on fifteen pounds, but I can breathe again.”

I said, “Your father was a middle school principal. Did you see any sign he abused his students?”

“I’m sure he did. All those little girls running around, easy for the taking? He ran Chancellor for nearly forty years, why miss out on a great opportunity? But what goes around comes around, as I’m sure you’ve found out.”

“Something happened to him?”

“You don’t know,” she said. “Nine years ago, someone put a bullet in his head.”

Milo said, “Who?”

“Unsolved,” she said, grinning. “The cops said it was a street robbery, but I’ve always wondered if it was some father or brother getting even. Or even a girl who’d grown up and gotten in touch with her rage.”

“Someone like your sister.”

“Did Elise do it? Maybe. I have no knowledge of her being in Baltimore when it happened, but who knows?”

“Was he still working when it happened?”

“First year of retirement. They found his body on the sidewalk, two blocks from his house. His pants pockets were turned inside out, his wallet was gone, and he was lying facedown with a hole in the back of his head. There was certainly no shortage of muggings in the neighborhood, that part of West Baltimore had changed since he was a boy, he was the last white man standing. Not that it stopped him from taking his nightly walks. Denial, I guess. Or plain old arrogance.”

“How did Elise react to his murder?”

“Neither of us talked about it and we had his body cremated. I’d like to think part of her was happy. If she allowed herself to get in touch with her feelings.”

“Part of her?”

“There was probably sadness. Even I occasionally feel that, crazy as it is. He did make me breakfast every morning for fifteen years. Combed my hair until I was eleven. Everyone said he was a wonderful, nurturing man.”

Milo said, “You and Elise never talked at all about his murder.”

“Not a word. In his will, he asked to be buried next to Mother. I had one of Frank’s busboys toss the ashes into the Chesapeake Bay. Out in back of the Cooker, where the garbage cans are. Can I warm up that coffee for you?”

As we drank, she excused herself, returned with a yellowed newspaper clipping in a plastic sleeve.

Former Principal Murdered.

Milo said, “Could we make a copy?”

“You think it’s relevant to Elise’s murder? I don’t see how it could be.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Ms. Stuehr, but two murders in one family is worth looking at.”

“The Freeman curse?” she said. “You know, last night, when you called and told me what happened to Elise, I actually started thinking about that. Wondering if our family is doomed and I’m next. This morning, I woke up, decided that was stupid superstition, it was time to have a lovely day—you know, don’t even bother copying, keep it. I don’t know why I held on to it in the first place.”

I said, “What you’ve told us about your father might help explain why Elise made some high-risk choices.”

“Such as?”

“She binge-drank.”

Sandra Stuehr’s eyes got huge. “You’re kidding. Are you sure?”

“We are.”

“Wow,” she said. “I’ve always thought of her as the moderate one. From the time she turned twenty-one all I got were pompous lectures about the need to control my drinking. We were both attending Blessed, she was a senior, I was a sophomore. Got into partying pretty hard.”

“Did you see each other much in college?”

“Not even then. It’s a small school but we managed to avoid each other. What did she drink when she binged?”

“Vodka.”

“Interesting,” said Sandra Stuehr. “Something else we had in common.”

She drank her Fresca. “Not a coincidence, I suppose. Part of her sermon was, ‘If you’re going to be pigheaded and make a fool out of yourself, Sandy, at least drink vodka, it’ll keep your breath fresh, no one will know you’re a reprobate.’”

I said, “You avoided each other but she found time to lecture.”

“Exactly. My best years were the two after she graduated, I could finally be myself. Did she do anything else high-risk?”

Milo said, “The coroner found opiates in her system.”

“Like heroin?”

“Or something similar.”

Sandra Stuehr placed the flat of a hand against her cheek, as if propping her head. “Unbelievable.”

“People change,” said Milo.

“There’s change and there’s charade,” she said. “All this time I’ve seen her as the smart one. Are there any other crushing insights you want to give me about my sister?”

Milo said, “You lived near Pimlico. Any sign Elise played the ponies?”

“She gambled?” said Sandra Stuehr. “This is like meeting her for the first time. No, I never saw her wager on anything and I sure spent some time at Pimlico. She was the smart one, guys. Summa cum laude at Blessed, Hopkins offered her a scholarship to go to grad school in English. I, on the other hand, barely passed the teacher’s licensing exam. Though that was ’cause I was distracted by my relationship with Frank. She went to the track?”

“No, but she did go to Reno and play blackjack.”

“Must be genetic. He played the ponies. Nothing serious that I knew about, he’d take twenty, thirty dollars to the track, rationalize his losses as ‘recreation.’ Otherwise, he was a total cheapskate. How often did Elise go to Reno?”

Milo said, “We know about once. She went with her boyfriend, guy named Sal Fidella.”

“Sounds like a Mafia type.”

“He’s an unemployed salesman. He and Elise won a five-thousand-dollar jackpot in Reno, lost it the same day.”

“Like Father, like daughter,” said Sandra Stuehr. Her mouth turned down. “Hope that doesn’t end up applying to me. I can’t see how it would.”

I said, “What else can you tell us about Elise?”

“She enjoyed lying.”

“Lying about what?”

“Anything, really. My theory is it began with him. When she was around twelve she began faking illness, probably to keep him out of her bed. She did it all kinds of ways—putting a finger down her throat and vomiting all over herself, soaking a thermometer in hot water, rubbing her skin with one of those sandpaper dish-sponges to bring up a rash, complaining of horrible cramps. She also lied about things that seemed pointless. Not eating the lunch he fixed but telling him it was delicious. Or just the opposite, finishing every bite but coming home and telling him she’d lost her lunch, was starved. I guess she was trying to feel in control. She’d pull sneaky pranks on him. Hiding his slippers, putting his reading glasses where he’d have trouble finding them. Once, I looked out my bedroom window in the middle of the night and saw her letting air out of one of his tires.”

“How old was she?”

“A teenager… maybe fifteen.”

“Did you let her know you’d seen her?”

“No way, I wanted her to like me.”

“Did she lie to anyone but your father?”

“Sure,” she said. “She cheated in school, stole old tests and sold them. I found out because a boy who’d bought one bragged about it to his friend. That night, I searched Elise’s drawers, found a wadded-up bunch of money. I didn’t count it but it looked like a lot. She never got caught, at graduation she won honors and commendations for character.”

“Did your father ever figure out she was pranking him?”

“Not a chance. In his eyes, Elise could do no wrong. She was the clear favorite.”

I said, “Too bad for her.”

Sandra Stuehr turned to me. Her eyes were wet. “Good, bad, right, wrong. Sometimes it all gets scrambled. You’re sure she didn’t suffer?”

♦

Further questioning produced nothing and we were preparing to go when a soft knock sounded on the front door.

Sandra Stuehr said, “It’s open, honey, come on in.”

The man who entered was midtwenties, good-looking, Asian, with expensively spiked hair. He wore a white silk Nat Nast bowling shirt with blue vertical stripes, cobalt linen slacks, brown hand-stitched deck shoes, and a rose-gold Rolex.

She got up, took his hand, kissed his lips lightly. “Perfect timing, we’re finishing up.”

Milo introduced himself.

“Will Kham.”

Sandra Stuehr said, “Will Kham, M.D. Chief resident in rheumatology at Cottage Hospital.”

Kham toed the floor. “It’s okay, Sandy—”

“Will’s been on call for three days, finally has a day off. I’m sure you guys won’t mind if we get going.”

Milo said, “Thanks for your time, Ms. Stuehr. If you think of anything else, please let us know.”

“Of course,” she said. To Kham: “They don’t think she suffered, baby.”

Kham said, “That’s good.”

As we closed the door, she was saying, “I’m thinking San Ysidro Inn, baby, that new chef they’ve got is fantastic.”