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.”