The Spellman Files

by Lisa Lutz

  I managed snippets of conversation with Daniel as he cleaned my teeth. But the window was short—somewhere between “rinse” and Daniel sticking his fingers back in my mouth.

  “Rinse.”

  I’d rinse and spit and say, “Is it possible for you to forgive me?”

  He’d resume cleaning my teeth and reply, “It is within the realm of possibility. You don’t floss, do you?”

  I’d offer an inaudible response.

  “Rinse.”

  I’d rinse and spit and continue, “So could you give me some kind of timeline for this forgiveness?”

  Twenty more minutes of teeth cleaning, spitting, and unanswered questions passed; Daniel removed the bib and said, “We’re done.”

  “Are we done?” I asked, needing the answer.

  Daniel pulled his chair in close and put his hand on my knee.

  “I knew you were lying. I knew you couldn’t be a teacher. I even knew the clothes were all wrong. The way you always pulled at your skirt and stared at your legs as if you had never seen them before.”

  “It had been a while.”

  “Since I have a medical degree and am moderately attractive, women tend to like me.”

  “That must be hard for you.”

  “Isabel,” he said in that “this is your first warning” tone.

  “I can’t help it. I swear.”

  “I got the feeling you liked me, not because I was a dentist, but in spite of it. You seemed to like me for different reasons.”

  “It was the tennis game with the guy who is not gay, your bad cooking, and the fact that you know KAOS1 is spelled K-A-O-S.”

  “My cooking is not that bad.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  “I miss you, too. But if you lie to me again, we’re done.”

  Then he kissed me and I figured I had him for good. In my mind, he was forever off all my lists.

  THE SNOW CASE

  CHAPTER 4

  Two weeks after I first telephoned Martin Snow, he still had not returned any of my calls. It was time to let him know I was serious. I dropped by his office the following morning.

  “Wendy Miller from the C-A-T-N-A-P [not a real organization] to see Martin Snow.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” his secretary asked.

  “No. But it’s urgent.”

  “Can I ask what it’s regarding?”

  “It would be better if I could speak to him privately. Is he in?”

  “Yes. But—”

  Too late. I entered Martin’s office and shut the door behind me. Through the intercom his secretary said, “Wendy Miller from the CTA—”

  “CATNAP,” I corrected her. “Thanks,” I shouted back through the intercom. “I’ve got it from here.”

  “Who are you?” Martin asked, still in a somewhat polite mode. “What is the CA—”

  “Forget it,” I said. “I’m Isabel Spellman. You know, the woman you refuse to call back.”

  “What are doing here?” he asked.

  I couldn’t help but notice that beneath the look of fear on Martin Snow’s face was virtually the same man from the photograph in my file. Often the ten post–high school years wreak the worst havoc on men’s looks, but Martin, if anything, was handsomer. The only noticeable difference was that his look of confidence seemed to vanish the moment I said my name.

  “I have some questions that only you can answer.”

  “The police fully investigated the matter and then your family continued the investigation for another year. What can you possibly learn twelve years later?”

  “Maybe nothing. But I have to admit that the lack of cooperation I’ve been getting is making me suspicious.”

  “Suspicious of what?”

  “Why haven’t you returned my phone calls?”

  “Because I thought if I ignored them, you’d stop calling.”

  “Now that was dumb.”

  “I don’t want to go through this again, Ms. Spellman. It was hard enough twelve years ago.”

  “If you answer a few of my questions, I’ll go.”

  “If I call security, then you’ll go.”

  “Maybe. But I’ll keep calling you,” I replied. “And I can be very persistent.”

  “Three questions. That’s it.”

  “Why didn’t Greg Larson go camping with you that weekend?”

  “He was visiting his uncle in the city.”

  “Did Greg often visit his uncle?”

  “Why are you so interested in Greg? Are you looking for an alibi?”

  “Not really. Can you answer the question?”

  “No. He didn’t visit his uncle very often. I think there was a concert he wanted to see. That was two questions. You’ve got one more.”

  “When I spoke to your mother a couple of weeks ago, she mentioned that they spent almost a hundred thousand dollars on your education.”

  “What’s the question, Ms. Spellman? I’m a very busy man.”

  “The question is, if they gave you all that money for college, why do you have a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar loan with the U.S. Department of Education? According to my calculations, those numbers do not add up.”

  I could tell that Martin was scrambling for a logical answer, formulating a lie right in front of me. I stood to leave and saved him the trouble.

  “Save your energy, Martin. I’m not interested in exposing your college tuition scam. But something is not right here and if you think I’m going to let it slide, you’re mistaken.”

  The holes in the Snow case kept me awake that night. The number of questions grew disproportionately to the number of answers. Sleep was getting harder and harder to come by. The following morning I staggered out of bed and decided to chance it in my parents’ kitchen since I was desperate for coffee. The pot was full and the kitchen empty—the ultimate oasis. I poured an enormous cup, which drained half the pot. I sat down and hoped that the silence would last. Then David entered the kitchen, all suited up for work, and sat down at the table.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Isabel, how are you this morning?”

  “How do you think I am?”

  “Based purely on appearances: not good.”

  “Thanks. Why are you here?”

  “I’m going to school with Rae. Career day. I’m giving a talk.”

  “Why wouldn’t she ask Mom or Dad?”

  “Something about not wanting any of her classmates to be encouraged to go into the business. Says she doesn’t need any competition in the future.”

  “The foresight is impressive.”

  “I thought so.”

  “She’s got dirt on you, doesn’t she?”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “You work eighty hours a week. You have a mystery girlfriend. You supplement her allowance for no apparent reason. You have time to kill half a day talking to a bunch of ninth-graders about the law, especially when you know that there will be a dozen lawyers there already?”

  “You’ve got it all worked out, don’t you?”

  “A few months ago, Mom had something on you. Now Rae has something. I think it’s the same thing. And I think you are going to great lengths to maintain their silence for the sole purpose of keeping it from me.”

  “Rae, get your ass down here now!” David yelled nervously and I knew I had it on the nose.

  “ONE MINUTE!” Rae shouted back as loudly as she could.

  “She wouldn’t talk to you like that if you were graciously doing her a favor. Why don’t you just tell me your little secret and then you can stop being her patsy.”

  “I will. As soon as you tell me what your next job is going to be.”

  “’Bye,” I said and headed upstairs.

  After a few steps, I tripped on my robe and spilled some coffee. I sat down on the stairs, removed my sock, and sopped up the spill. I inadvertently sat down in a “soft spot.” The fourth stair from the second landing was the best place in the house to eaves
drop on kitchen conversations. It was as good as if you were right there. A few steps up or down you had nothing, but on the fourth stair you could hear it all. It was purely an accident that I happened to be sitting on it and happened to hear my mother say, “Was that Isabel?”

  “I think so. So hard to tell these days,” said my brother.

  “Did she eat anything?”

  “Coffee only. Can I make a suggestion?”

  “You’re going to anyway, aren’t you?”

  “Tell her to drop the case. Let her quit. Let her go and she’ll come back. What you’re doing now is just going to drive her away, and I’m surprised that after all these years, after all you know about her, you haven’t figured that out.”

  “Sweetie, I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you?”

  “If she works the case long enough, she’ll forget why she wanted to quit in the first place.”

  “Why not let her quit and decide to come back on her own?”

  “Because I need to keep an eye on her, David.”

  “Why?”

  “Old Isabel is making a comeback. I can’t go through that again. I can’t.”

  “That isn’t Old Isabel, Mom. It’s a completely new mutation.”

  My mother ignored his comment and said, “Do you remember what she was like? Because I sure do. I never saw a person so ready to self-destruct. It was terrifying. Every time she didn’t come home, every time I found her passed out in the car, on the porch, in the bathtub, I thought she was gone. I’ve let her go too many times. I won’t do it anymore.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe this job wasn’t for her?” David asked.

  “Without this job, she’s Uncle Ray waiting to happen.”

  THE SNOW CASE

  CHAPTER 5

  The coffee hit me later that morning as I stared at the Snow file for the third hour.

  I phoned Sheriff Larson to arrange another meeting. I could tell he was disappointed that I contacted him so soon after our first encounter, but he agreed. More precisely, he told me where he would be drinking that night and said that if I had a question or two, he might answer them.

  Later that afternoon, as I was sitting in the Spellman office running a statewide criminal record check on all the individuals I had interviewed on the Snow case (by the way, coming up dry), my parents entered the office and handed me an envelope.

  “What is this?”

  “Severance pay,” said my dad.

  “You’re off the job,” said my mom.

  “Why?”

  “Martin Snow called. He wants you to quit working the case. Says it is too upsetting for his mother.”

  “Do you honestly think he cares how his mother feels?”

  “If you want to do something else, go ahead and do it. The money should keep you for a while,” said my mom.

  I slid the envelope back across the desk and told them to keep their money, told them that I still had work to do. They told me that the case was over. And I told them it was over when I said it was over, and left.

  I arrived at McCall’s tavern shortly before Sheriff Larson. It was good to get out of the house and into a place that served booze. I drank a beer and soaked up the atmosphere. It was an establishment on the edge of a dive bar. The decor gave it an elegance that its clientele took away, but still, it was a safe place for a woman to sit alone, drink, and contemplate the end of a man’s life.

  Sheriff Larson’s off-duty attire consisted of faded blue jeans, a wrinkled long-sleeve T-shirt, and a hooded wool jacket. Without the clean lines of the uniform emphasizing his overly structured face, Larson looked like someone I would look twice at. In fact, if it weren’t for the toothpick hanging out of his mouth and my nagging suspicion about him, he would be just my type. I found his unfettered coolness somewhat compelling, the way he barely raised an eyebrow in recognition when he spotted me, the manner in which he slowly walked over to the bar, nodded his head once, and sat down.

  In what appeared to be a telepathic exchange between Larson and the bartender, a pint of beer was placed in front of him.

  I put five dollars on the bar, but Larson slid my money back to me. “I never let a woman buy me a drink.”

  As a chivalric stance, I found his edict amusing, but let it slide.

  “Come here often?” I said, trying to ease into the conversation.

  “Isabel.”

  “Sheriff.”

  “You can call me Greg,” he said without sounding friendly at all.

  “Greg.”

  “Isabel, what is this all really about?”

  “It’s complicated. Can we leave it at that?”

  “I think people are entitled to a few secrets.”

  “I wish my mom thought like you.”

  “So what do you want from me?” Larson asked, his guard dropping just a bit.

  “I’d like you to tell me what happened to Andrew Snow.”

  “I don’t know what happened.”

  “I had a feeling you’d say that. Now, I can buy that maybe you don’t know exactly what happened to him, but you know more than you’re telling me.”

  Larson gave me a half smile, but no response. Unlike Martin Snow, Larson put on less of a show to convince me of his ignorance. I knew he would be impossible to crack. This was a man born with a poker face. But I had to try.

  “I have some theories about what might have happened to Andrew and I’d like to run them by you. Would that be okay?”

  “Why not?” Larson replied.

  “Theory number one,” I said, consulting my notes. “Andrew took some hallucinogens and wandered off on the camping trip, got lost, and fell victim to the elements.”

  “The elements?”

  “You know, like sunstroke, or drowning, or getting eaten by a bear.”

  “I don’t think animals count as ‘the elements.’”

  “I’m using a more open definition. The point is,” I said, “something in the environment, not foul play, took him. What do you think?”

  “I think that’s a fine theory.”

  “Thank you, but it’s not. It has some problems. First of all, most accounts of Andrew claim that he was a pot smoker; no hallucinogens or narcotics are mentioned. Now, if you’re smoking pot on a camping trip, you’re not going to want to go on a ten-mile hike in the middle of the night. You’re going to want to eat s’mores and stare at the campfire.”

  “You seem to be an expert,” Larson responded.

  “I don’t think it fits. So it would be helpful for you to get me the name of his marijuana source. Maybe then I can find out if Andrew was into any harder stuff.”

  “How am I supposed to know that?”

  “You could ask around,” I offered with a cheerful smile. “Are you ready for theory number two?”

  “Sure.”

  “Andrew and Martin got in a fight on the camping trip. Martin killed his brother, either accidentally or not accidentally, panicked, and hid the body.”

  “Huh” was Larson’s only response. I scanned his face for a hint of recognition, but there was nothing.

  “Theory number three,” I said.

  “I can’t wait to hear this one.”

  “Mrs. Snow murdered her son after he accidentally tracked dirt onto her carpet. The camping trip was a cover-up. She’s hiding the body somewhere in the house.”

  Larson simply stared at me, trying to decide if I was serious.

  “That would explain all the potpourri,” I said.

  Then Larson did something I didn’t even think he was capable of: he laughed.

  I had only a brief window while Larson’s defenses were down to ask the next question: “What is Hank’s last name?”

  “Who?” he asked, easing back into his poker face.

  “Uncle Hank. The man you were staying with the night Andrew went missing. What’s his last name? I’d like to talk to him.”

  I can’t say for sure, but I think I spotted a glitch in Larson’s even stillnes
s. It was kind of like a skip in an otherwise perfect record. If you weren’t paying attention, you might not even hear it.

  “Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “He’s your alibi, isn’t he? You can give me his name or I’ll find out on my own. It’s up to you.”

  “Farber,” he said, taking out a pen. “Here’s his address. You might consider bringing a chaperone. Uncle Hank’s got a bit of a reputation. Is that all, Isabel?”

  “One more question: Are you and Martin still friends?”

  “We’re not enemies.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Had to be over six months ago.”

  “Thank you for your time, Sheriff.” I finished my drink and left the bar.

  The following night, Daniel threatened to cook for me. Now that our relationship was in the full-disclosure phase, I decided it was time to break the news to him.

  “You’re a terrible cook, Daniel.”

  “I know,” he replied. “But it’s the effort that counts.”

  “I hope that’s not the slogan for your dental practice.”

  “Very funny.”

  “How about we do something different tonight?” I suggested.

  “I thought you were desperate to see the episode where Max tries to get recruited as a double agent.”

  “Later,” I said. “I thought maybe you’d like to come with me on a surveillance.”

  “We’re going on a stakeout?” Daniel asked. The excitement in his voice was like all first-timers who could never imagine the depths of boredom that awaited them.

  An hour later, Daniel and I were parked in his car down the street from Martin Snow’s house in Sausalito.

  “I’m hungry,” Daniel said.

  I anticipated the need for snacks and offered Daniel a bag of bridge mix. Daniel rifled through the bag.

  “There are only filberts in here,” he said, disappointed.

  “I really need to have a talk with Uncle Ray.”