by Lisa Lutz
“Unless you’ve met every woman, you can’t say for sure.”
“What’s Mr. Snow like?” I asked, changing the subject.
“He wasn’t there?”
“No, he was playing golf.”
“Hmm. I wouldn’t have pegged him as a golf man. Isabel, are you on a hunger strike?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Because you appear to be boycotting the kitchen.”
“I have a kitchen in my apartment.”
“Is there food in it?” she asked, eerily on the nose.
“I know how to buy food, Mom.”
“I’m sure you know how, but you usually don’t. My point is: If you’re hungry, there’s food in our kitchen and you’re welcome to it as usual, even though you are ashamed of our family and what we do for a living.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said as I disappeared upstairs with the Snow file.
My mom was, in fact, right. I had been boycotting the kitchen to avoid further jabs at my quest for independence. And like a silly teenager, I went hungry to prove a point.
Later that evening, Rae knocked on my apartment door, offering me food. I found it interesting that she was perceptive enough to know I was hungry, yet not perceptive enough to realize that what I craved could not be served from a cardboard box. There was something so endearing about the way she set my table, poured me a heaping bowl of Froot Loops with a quarter cup of milk, placed the napkin on my lap, and handed me a spoon that I ate it anyway. Rae pulled a chair across from me and snacked from the box. I gave her the eye that reminded her of the sugar rule and then she gave me the eye back that said it’s Saturday.
I could tell Rae had something on her mind because, in between devouring fistfuls of Froot Loops, she sorted my giant stack of mail in order of size, then re-sorted it according to color. I didn’t rush her, since I wasn’t anxious to hear what was on her mind. But eventually she spoke, as I knew she would. My sister doesn’t like to stress her nervous system by holding things back.
“Mom says there’s only one difference between you and me.”
“Really,” I said. “Would that be the fourteen years?”
“No.”
“How about the six inches I’ve got over you?”
“No.”
“Hair color?”
“No.”
“I’ve got three things already, so clearly there’s more than one difference between you and me.”
“Don’t you want to hear what it is?”
“Not really.”
“I don’t hate myself. That’s the difference,” said Rae.
I picked up the box of Froot Loops and tossed it into the hallway. Then I picked up Rae, literally, and did the same.
“Give it time. You will,” I replied.
Rae landed on her feet and said, “You don’t know how to do anything else.”
I kicked the door shut, without offering any response. There was no response, because she was right: I don’t know how to do anything else. She might have been right about the other thing, too.
Rae’s words lingered, preventing me from sleeping. I tried to think about my future, a future without Spellman Investigations, but it was impossible. At twenty-eight, I had lived under the same roof and worked for my parents almost my entire life. I had no other plans. I had no other skills. I needed an escape, but there was no exit. Not a door, not even a window. So I stopped thinking about myself and began thinking about Andrew Snow. I put on my bathrobe and went down to the office to review the case file once again.
I was still awake at 2:30 in the morning when my father came into the office with a plate of cheese and crackers, which he placed on my desk in front of me.
“Rae told me you ate Froot Loops. You don’t eat Froot Loops. I assume that meant you were hungry.”
“Thanks,” I said and devoured the snack shamelessly.
My father pretended to work, but he wasn’t there for work. He wanted to have one of those awkward yet ambitious father-daughter chats that he breezed through with Rae but could barely approach with me.
“If you need to talk about anything, I’m here.”
“I know,” I said, politely dismissive, not wanting to hurt the man who had served me a plate of cheese and crackers.
“You know there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” my father said in his most heartfelt tone.
“Would you rob a bank for me?” I asked.
Sigh. “No.”
“So there is that one thing.”
My father walked over to my desk, patted me on the head, and said, “I love you, too.” Then he left me alone in the office to obsess about Andrew Snow. My mother had picked the case because she knew that the concept of someone being gone without explanation would be impossible for me to resist. I grew up in a home where explanations were required for everything. If someone left an empty jug of milk in the refrigerator, interrogations ensued until the truth was uncovered. Uncle Ray left the empty milk jug in the refrigerator because that’s what he always does. But not all truths can be unearthed as simply as Uncle Ray’s finishing off the milk. And sometimes the truths that you have grown accustomed to suddenly change.
Monday morning as I was heading out the door, I overheard what sounded like an amicable conversation between my uncle and my sister.
“You see what I’m doing here, kid?”
“I’m not blind.”
“Milk and salt and you beat those eggs to death.”
“The onions are burning.”
“That’s good. You want to burn ’em a bit.”
“The fire alarm will go off.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
I entered the kitchen to the sound and smell of eggs sizzling in a sauté pan. Uneducated eyes would have told you that Uncle Ray was teaching Rae how to make his favorite omelet. But my eyes were educated and never imagined in a million years they would see such a thing, and so I asked what might have seemed like an obvious question.
“What is going on in here?”
“I’m teaching the kid how to cook eggs.”
“He gave me five dollars to have an open mind,” said Rae, who last ate an egg when her vocabulary was still under one hundred words.
“Time for the cheese, kid. Hurry up,” said Uncle Ray, who then added more cheese and more cheese.
“Great. So instead of diabetes, you can have a cholesterol problem,” I said to my sister.
“You want some?” asked Uncle Ray.
“Yes,” I said, and a plate of cheese and eggs was served.
My mother entered the kitchen as I was finishing my last bite.
“Isabel is eating!” she shouted to no one in particular.
“Your observational skills are uncanny,” I said.
“I’m glad. That’s all. What are you up to today?”
“Driving to Tahoe to speak to the detective who was originally in charge of the Snow case.”
“Is he still on the job?”
“Three years until retirement. Runs the department now.”
“Can’t you just interview him over the phone?”
“I could. But I want to get a copy of the file—”
“There’s this thing now called the United States Postal Service. Shall I explain how it works?”
“No. I’m driving to Tahoe. I don’t like interviewing people on the phone. You can’t see what they’re doing with their hands.”
“Well, one hand is probably holding the phone.”
“It’s the other hand I’m worried about.”
“Where did you get that sense of humor?” my mother asked, genuinely baffled.
“Mom, you gave me the case. I’m going to work it. See you later.”
THE SNOW CASE
CHAPTER 2
I had called Abigail Snow earlier that morning and asked if she had saved any of Andrew’s high school yearbooks. She had kept them in storage, and after much persuading and a promise that this would be the last time I would contact her,
she agreed to locate them for me. Mill Valley was hardly on the way to Tahoe, but I thought I’d better get the yearbooks before she changed her mind.
Mrs. Snow opened the door in a dress that was a different pattern from the first but precisely the same otherwise. She handed me the yearbooks without inviting me inside.
“Is Mr. Snow around?” I asked.
“I’m afraid he’s not.”
“Playing golf again?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Sounds like you’re a golf widow.”
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Snow said, sounding offended.
“‘Golf widow.’ It’s a term for the wife of someone who plays a lot of golf. Because golf is a very long game and so it seems like the husbands are, well—”
“I see.” Mrs. Snow cut me off without any real expression.
“Thanks for the yearbooks,” I said, but my mind was still on Mr. Snow and his golf habit.
I hadn’t checked the weather report before I started the drive and found myself buying chains on the side of the road to make it the final twenty miles. What should have been a three-hour drive took five and a half hours through a blinding snowstorm and unrelenting wind. My mother, however, did check the weather report and called me three times during the trip to make sure I hadn’t careened off the road to my death. All three phone calls followed a similar pattern:
“Hello.”
“How fast are you driving?”
“Thirty-five miles an hour.”
“That’s too fast.”
“I’m moving with traffic.”
“Isabel, if you die before me, I will never recover.”
“I’m slowing down, Mom.”
I phoned Daniel during the drive and attempted my pretend-nothing-is-wrong method of easing out of a fight. I left a message on his answering machine that went something like this:
“Hi, Daniel, it’s Isabel. I was thinking maybe I could come over tonight or tomorrow or maybe early next week, whatever works for you. Oh, and I’ll cook. There’s this Get Smart episode that I really need to see again. It’s the one where that doctor slips something in Max’s wine, which turns out to be the map to the Melnick uranium mine. But the map won’t work unless Max remains vertical for forty-eight hours. After that it will show up as a rash on his chest. Unfortunately this is the day before Max and 99 are supposed to get married and so nobody believes Max’s story when he tries to postpone the wedding and they think he just has cold feet. Then Max is held hostage by KAOS1 agents, who plan to read the map when it’s ready, then fake Max’s suicide. It’s a classic. Call me.”
I caught Captain Meyers on his way to lunch. He picked up the Snow file and invited me to join him. We ate in one of those unambiguously male restaurants. Wood paneling covered the walls, a rich fire burned in the corner, and various dead animals peered down at you from their final resting place. The lighting was dim for lunch, and with the candlelight and Meyers holding the chair for me and all, it felt oddly like a date. Except that Captain Meyers had no interest in me. Once again, oddly like a date.
Captain Meyers couldn’t provide very much new information for me. We spent some time discussing the Snow family and agreed that the mother was odd and slightly controlling. But Meyers didn’t just find the mother suspicious, he found the whole family odd. Abigail, he said, seemed genuinely unconcerned the first few days of Andrew’s disappearance, insisting that he would show up any minute. It was almost as if she thought Andrew had run away. At least that was Captain Meyers’s assessment. As for Andrew’s brother, he said that Martin participated in the search party activities but without a sense of commitment. Meyers also said that Martin didn’t seem to blame himself for his younger brother’s disappearance, even though that would have been a natural response to the situation. But still, Meyers said, “There was no reason to suspect foul play.”
“What can you tell me about the campsite?” I asked, hoping the captain wouldn’t notice that my investigation had no focus.
“Good place to pitch a tent. During the right season, that is.”
“Good place to get lost?” I asked.
“If you’re asking me what I think the odds are that Andrew wandered off, couldn’t find his way back, and something in the wild took him, I’d say they were good. The landscape is vast, with plenty of deep water and sharp rocks, and enough foliage to hide a body until there’s almost nothing left. Some people, when they lose their way, keep going. They think they can find their way back. Instead, they get themselves more lost. He could have made it a long way overnight. Based on what we know about the boy, it’s the most logical explanation.”
“Or he could have run away,” I suggested.
“Anything could have happened,” he replied.
“Do you think this investigation is a waste of time?”
“Honestly? Yes,” the captain said good-naturedly.
“Maybe you could call my mom and tell her that.”
Captain Meyers said he had already talked to my mom a number of times during their original investigation and didn’t care to repeat the experience. Meyers drank a whiskey with his lunch of lamb chops and garlic potatoes. In spite of his old-school ways—e.g., his habit of calling me “sweetheart”—Meyers was hardly the equivalent of a small-town sheriff. Reno had enough big-city problems to turn the unassuming man into a seasoned investigator. I believe he did a sound job with the Snow investigation. I wasn’t certain he did a great job.
On the drive home, amid my mother’s telephone calls (four) suggesting I find a motel and wait out the storm, two details in the file were nagging at me. A witness at the campsite claimed he saw two brothers the morning following Andrew’s alleged disappearance. That morning, Martin claimed to be alone at the campsite, searching for his brother. Meyers attributed this discrepancy to the witness being faulty on the dates. He would have seen two brothers together the day before and the day before that. It was an easily explained error, except for the fact that the witness was a history professor. They’re usually pretty good with details. And then there was the statement written by Martin when he first went to the police station to file a missing persons report. It was one line that you could skim over or attribute to the shock of the event. It could have been the equivalent of a handwritten typo; it read, “We searched for Andrew all morning.” It was possible that someone helped Martin with his search, but when asked to clarify his statement, Martin said that he was alone all morning while searching for Andrew.
I had left three messages for Martin Snow since the day I began the investigation. He still had not returned any of my calls.
Staged Dental Appointment #2
My mother made the mistake of telling my sister that I was quitting the business because “the dentist,” as he would forever be known, had broken up with me. Even Rae knew this was simply untrue, that my decision was far more complicated than being spurned by a man. But Rae is a fixer at heart and decided to fix what she could. She promptly made an appointment at Daniel’s office under an assumed name.
Mrs. Sanchez handed him a thin file. “Last patient of the day. Room three. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go home now.”
“Mary Anne Carmichael?” asked Daniel.
“She’s new. Uninsured. Promises to pay cash. Wouldn’t let me near her teeth. Insisted on seeing a ‘real dentist.’”
“Have a nice evening, Mrs. Sanchez.”
Daniel entered the examination room and spotted my sister sifting through drawers and cabinets. He did not require a second introduction.
“Rae, what are you doing here?”
“There’s something wrong with my teeth,” replied my sister, simultaneously spinning around and leaning her weight against the open drawer.
“Snooping is impolite, young lady.”
“You’re right. I’ll stop.”
“Sit down.”
Rae sat in the chair and folded her hands politely.
“What is the reason for this visit?”
“All of them?”
“Just one or two.”
“Open up.”
Daniel pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began examining Rae’s teeth.
“Haf chonching inhaha—”
“Please don’t talk.”
“Inhaha. Aaahhhh.”
Daniel removed the scaler and mirror from her mouth.
“I have something important to tell you,” she said.
“Does it relate to your teeth?”
“It’s more important than my teeth.”
“Rae, my relationship with your sister is not any of your concern.”
“Four years ago, my mother investigated a dentist accused of molesting his patients after he had put them out. She made an appointment for a root canal, was given general anesthesia, and while she was unconscious, he did things to her. My parents wouldn’t tell me anything about it, so I snuck into the file room, picked the lock, and read the file about a year ago. They still believe I don’t know about it, so if you could keep this between us, I’d appreciate it.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, I’m not sure that she would have been so mad about what happened except that when they brought the case to the DA he refused to press charges. Said there wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute. We had two cases involving dentists after that: an oral surgeon who was performing root canals while on crack and another who was filling cavities that didn’t exist.”
“Those are unfortunate and disturbing occurrences.”
“So maybe you can understand why my mother said those things to you.”
“Yes, Rae, I can. But your sister lied to me—a lot. That part, I cannot understand.”
“She lies to everyone she likes. She lies to me all the time. She told me Froot Loops give you diabetes.”
“There is a link between high sugar consumption and diabetes.”
“But it’s not like I eat a box of Froot Loops and twenty-four hours later, I have to start on insulin injections.”
“Do you eat an entire box of Froot Loops in one sitting?”
