Painted Ladies

12

I found Sarkassian Hall on a circular drive opposite the library. I went to the basement and walked into the faculty cafeteria, trying to bear myself like a man thinking deeply about John Milton. No one paid any attention to me. I could have been thinking about Sarah Palin, for all they cared. It was eleven-thirty. I got a cup of coffee and a large corn muffin and sat at an empty table where I could see the door, and waited.

I had finished my coffee and my corn muffin by the time the two young women from the art office arrived at twelve-ten. They each got a salad and carried it to a table at the other end of the cafeteria. I got up and walked over to them.

“Could I buy you lunch?” I said.

“We already paid,” one of them said. “But you can sit if you want.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I sat.

“My name’s Spenser,” I said. “As you probably gathered, I’m trying to find out who killed Ashton Prince.”

“We heard you in the office,” one of them said. “My name’s Tracy. This is Carla.”

Tracy had shoulder-length dark hair and was a little heavy. Nothing a modest workout schedule wouldn’t fix. Carla was slimmer, with brown hair in a ponytail. Neither one was a stunner. But neither one was beyond the pale, either.

“Agnes minding the store?” I said.

“We have lunch while she covers the office,” Tracy said. “And then we cover the office while she has lunch.”

“Doesn’t trust either of you to do it alone?” I said.

“Big job,” Carla said.

“She tries to make it a big job,” Tracy said. “You know, making sure nobody uses the copy machine unless authorized. Important stuff like that.”

“She hard to work for?” I said.

Tracy shrugged.

“We don’t really work for her. But she’s the chairman’s secretary and we’re just department pool workers, so it sort of works out that way.”

“Actually,” Carla said, “she’s pathetic. You know? I mean, me and Tracy working here is just, you know, a step along the way. Pay’s good, benefits are great. My husband’s a carpenter in town, on his own, no benefits. Tracy’s hub is working on a Ph.D. here. We got lives.”

“And she’s got?”

“The job,” Carla said. “Period. So she makes it into a damn religion. The department is perfect. The professors walk on freaking water.”

“And,” Tracy said, “if she weren’t ever-vigilant, it would all go to hell.”

“So what didn’t she tell me?” I said.

“Why do you think she didn’t tell you something?” Carla said.

“I’m a trained detective,” I said.

“Wowie,” Tracy said.

“So tell me about Ashton Prince,” I said. “The part that made you two sort of giggle at each other.”

“Ash liked the ladies,” Tracy said.

“Especially the young ones,” Carla said.

“How young?” I said.

“Mostly younger than us,” Carla said.

“Not to say he didn’t give us a chance,” Tracy said.

“Which you declined?” I said.

“I like my husband a lot better than I liked Ash Prince,” Tracy said.

“Absolutely,” Carla said.

“Students?” I said.

“You betcha,” Tracy said.

“Any one in particular?”

“Changed from semester to semester,” Tracy said.

“But he usually got them from his seminar,” Carla said.

“He gave a seminar every semester, ‘Low-Country Realists, ’ ” Tracy said.

“Which is where he trolled for them,” Carla said. “He’s something of a legend among the women students.”

“What happened to his seminar?” I said.

“Kids will all get the grade they had on the midterm for a final grade. Ash was a notoriously easy grader. Nobody’s complaining.”

“You don’t happen to know who his current favorite was,” I said.

“Don’t have a name. But there was a blonde girl, tall, very artsy-looking in a sort of fake way,” Tracy said. “You know. Long, smooth hair; high boots; too-long cashmere sweaters; pre-torn designer jeans. She spent a lot of time in his office.”

“When does the seminar meet?” I said.

“Tuesdays, two to five, in the Fine Arts building,” Carla said. “Room Two-fifty-six.”

“Right on the tip of your tongue,” I said.

“I spent most of a day trying to schedule a replacement for Ash when he got killed,” she said. “It’s burned into my brain.”

I gave each of them my business card.

“Hey,” Tracy said. “You’re not a cop.”

“Private,” I said. “You think of anything, you could call me.”

“A private eye?” Carla said. “You carry a gun?”

“I do,” I said.

“You ever shoot anybody?”

“Mostly I use it to get a date,” I said.