This place is like an igloo, thought Baker. “How did Tristan take that?”
The girl gnawed her lip.
“Sheralyn?” said Baker.
“He cried,” she said. “Tears of joy. I held him.”
Ten minutes later, Drs. Andrew and Elaine peeked in.
Sheralyn said, “I’m fine,” and waved them away and they disappeared.
During that time, she’d verified that the lyrics Tristan had sent were “Music City Breakdown.” But she denied knowing about any face-to-face meeting between Tristan Poulson and Jeffries. Nor was she willing to pinpoint Tristan’s whereabouts beyond the guest house on his mother’s property.
“He’s still there,” said Baker.
“I believe so.”
“You believe?”
“Tristan and I haven’t been in contact for several days. That’s why I’m concerned. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
“What did you think when you heard Jack Jeffries had been murdered?”
“What did I think?” she said. “I thought nothing. I felt sad.”
“Did you consider that maybe Tristan had done it?”
“Never.”
“Does Tristan carry a weapon?”
“Never.”
“Has he ever shown a violent side?”
“Never. Never never never to any incriminating questions you’re going to ask about him. If I thought he was guilty, I’d never have talked to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d never do anything to incriminate Tristan.”
“Even if he murdered someone?”
Sheralyn rubbed the space to the side of one eye. Same spot she’d touched when discussing Cathy Poulson’s racist comment. Then she sat up straight and stared Baker down- something few people tried.
“I,” she pronounced, “am neither judge nor jury.”
“Just for the record,” said Baker, “where were you the night before last, say between twelve and two AM?”
“That’s not night, it’s morning.”
“Correction duly noted, young lady. Where were you?”
“Here. In my bedroom. Sleeping. I make an effort to sleep soundly.”
“Good habits,” said Lamar.
“I have obligations- school, SATs, theater club, Model UN. Et cetera.”
Sounding bitter.
“Headed for Brown?”
“Not hardly. I’m going to Yale.”
“Sleeping,” said Baker. “First time you heard about Jack Jeffries was…”
“When my father brought it up. He’s our own personal town crier. He reads the morning paper, and comments extensively on every article.”
“You didn’t think anything of it, just sad.”
“Over the loss of life,” said the girl. “Any life.”
“Just that,” said Baker. “Even though you knew this was Tristan’s real dad and Tristan had recently contacted him.”
“I was saddest for Tristan. Am. I’ve called his cell twenty-eight times, but he doesn’t answer. You should find him. He needs comfort.”
“Why do you think he’s not answering?”
“I’ve already explained that. He’s depressed. Tristan gets like that. Turns off the phone, goes inward. That’s when he writes.”
“No chance he’s run away?”
“From what?”
“Guilt.”
“That’s absurd,” she said. “Tristan didn’t kill him.”
“Because…”
“He loved him.”
As if that explained it, thought Lamar. Smart kid, but utterly clueless. “Tristan loved Jack even though he’d never met him.”
“Irrelevant,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “One never falls in love with a person. One falls in love with an idea.”
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.