Trail of the Spellmans: Document #5

by Lisa Lutz

  “The least she could do is take some hallucinogens like everybody else at Berkeley,” Rae said.

  My father shot my mother a concerned glance, which my mother nodded away.

  “Relax. She’s just messing with you, Al.”

  My father then perused the file and furrowed his brow. Of all our current cases, one might have expected Vivien Blake’s to offer at least a shred of indecency.

  “How do you know she had two beers?” I asked.

  “Because I was also at the party.”

  “You crashed a party to follow a suspect?” I asked.

  “What were my options?” Rae said.

  “Did you make any new friends?” Dad asked.

  “I was on the job,” Rae replied.

  “How many drinks did you have?” I asked.

  “Only two.”

  “Young lady, you’re still underage,” said one member of the unit. I can’t recall which.

  “I had to blend in.”

  “Club soda and cranberry juice looks just like a sea breeze,” Mom suggested, sounding ridiculously prim.

  “If you keep following her into parties, she’s going to make you,” I said.

  “Maybe that’s the way to go. I befriend her and then I can give you the inside scoop.”

  “Absolutely not,” Dad said. “This is not some undercover DEA operation. It’s a simple surveillance. If you can’t maintain the standards that we’ve imparted to you over the past . . . how many years—”

  “Fourteen,” Rae replied, sounding positively bored.2

  “—then we’ll take you off the case,” Dad said.

  “I got it,” Rae said.

  “Maybe we should tell the Blakes that there’s nothing there. It’s a lot of money to spend on a fishing expedition in a swimming pool,” Mom said. I could tell the company bookkeeper and the sympathetic parent with fiscal responsibilities were in an internal war.

  “Give it another week,” Dad said.

  “Okay,” Rae replied. “Can I go now?”

  “You have more important places to be?” Mom asked.

  “Always.”

  “I remember when this job used to be your life,” Mom said wistfully.

  “Some people grow up,” Rae said, obviously jabbing at me.

  I held my tongue but gave her the finger; I know, not a grown-up thing to do.

  “We were talking about work, I believe,” Dad interrupted.

  “Yes, give the Blake job one more week,” said Mom. “But remember the fourth wall. Surveillance is like theater.”

  “I get it,” said Rae.

  “So, you know what the fourth wall is?” Mom asked.

  “We studied Diderot in high school, Mom,” Rae replied snappishly.

  “Who the fuck is Diderot?” I asked.

  “Is it necessary to use the F-word?” asked Mom.

  “Since we’re pitching fancy theater references, David Mamet sure thinks so,” I replied.

  “You know who David Mamet is?” Rae asked.

  “Why don’t you shut up and eat some M&M’s?”

  “Excellent idea,” Rae replied, opening her desk drawer to the bag of mealy carrots I had placed in their stead.

  “It’s really tragic that at your age a lame prank gives you so much pleasure,” said Rae.

  “How is that tragic? It means I potentially have a lifetime of happiness to look forward to.”

  “Eventually I’ll strike back.”

  “Bring it,” I replied. “You’re no match for me.”

  “You got that right. It would be like a shark fighting a puppy.”

  “Well, if we’re fighting on land, which we are, I think this puppy will do just fine.”

  “Since we’re on the subject of theater,” Dad said, “why don’t we all pretend that there’s a fourth wall between us?”

  THE IDLE CEO

  While Rae was on the trail of Vivien Blake, I commenced my surveillance of Edward Slayter, who was coincidentally also a snore. Slayter was the head of a major investment banking firm, on the board of numerous worldwide charitable organizations, a coveted public speaker, and an avid tennis player, and yet on three of the five days I was surveilling him, he took an extended lunch break in Golden Gate Park, sitting on an isolated bench by North Lake, feeding ducks. This particular pond (not a lake) was tucked away off of JFK Drive, so I had to plant myself in the trees with a set of binoculars to maintain a visual on the subject.

  I phoned Mrs. Slayter to inquire about her husband’s recent activities.

  “Yes,” she answered the phone.

  “This is Isabel.”

  “I know,” Mrs. Slayter curtly replied.

  “Your husband is in the park again.”

  “And?” Mrs. Slayter asked.

  Based on experience, the next obvious question a spouse would ask is “Is he alone?” She didn’t ask.

  “He’s alone,” I said.

  “Does it look like he will be leaving any time soon?”

  “Well, he still has half a loaf of bread left.”

  “He’s eating bread?” Mrs. Slayter asked incredulously. “How odd. He never eats bread.”

  “No, he’s feeding it to the ducks.”

  “Oh, that makes more sense.”

  “Does it?” I asked, since duck-feeding hardly seems like a common pastime for a CEO.

  “Excuse me,” she replied. “I am quite busy right now. Feel free to text me when he’s on his way home or back to the office.”

  While I was aware that Mrs. Slayter was anxious to end the call, I’m quite good at pretending not to notice verbal cues. “Is your husband particularly fond of ducks?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Does your husband like ducks a lot?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Then I wonder why he’s visited the park three times this week and dropped two and a half loaves of sourdough on them.”

  “Ms. Spellman, I really must go.”

  “One more question: Is this behavior ordinary?”

  “What behavior?”

  “Loitering in parks, taking in nature, and whatnot.”

  “No, but maybe work stress has gotten to him.”

  “Maybe you should suggest a vacation,” I suggested.

  “What an extraordinarily original idea.”

  Then Mrs. Slayter disconnected the call. Mr. Slayter took a turn around the lake and returned to the same bench, where he sat and stared blankly into the distance.

  My cell phone vibrated.

  “Hello.”

  “There’s an electrical fire at my apartment.”

  “Well, probably not,” I replied.

  “Still, just to be safe.”

  “I’ll call you after I’ve investigated.”

  “Thanks, Isabel.”

  “Good-bye, Walter.” I phoned my mother, who was in the midst of surveilling the sister of the Man from the Library and couldn’t break away. I texted Rae, but she was in class. My father was at a lunch meeting and D was manning the office—which could have been left unattended for a legitimate emergency, but an imaginary electrical fire didn’t count. Still, until I phoned and confirmed that his suspicion was wrong, Walter wouldn’t be able to think of anything else. I wasn’t comfortable skipping out on the Slayter surveillance even though Slayter was merely duck-watching.

  On a hunch, I made one more call.

  “Fred Finkel.1 How quickly can you get to Golden Gate Park?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Twenty-five an hour and a case of O’Doul’s.”

  “Make it thirty and you can keep the fake beer.”

  “I’m at JFK and North Lake Drive. Make it snappy.”

  “You’re not in a position to bark orders,” Fred replied.

  “Is that so? Because if I remember correctly you have a certain skeleton in your closet that I think you’d like me to keep to myself.”

  “It’s hardly a skeleton,” Fred replied.

 
; “Are we going to yap on the phone all day or are you going to get your ass over here?”

  “Good-bye.”

  Twenty minutes later, I passed the binoculars to Fred, showed him the target, and made sure my cell number was programmed into his speed dial. I then borrowed his bike and rode the two miles to Walter’s apartment, unlocked the door, and entered a home that was clearly not engulfed in flames. I slipped off my shoes and checked the power cords in the kitchen. No appliance was plugged in—except the oven and the refrigerator. I checked the bathroom faucets and they were also clamped shut. Not a drop of water could possibly escape. I phoned Walter to ease his mind. “No electrical fire.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “I double-checked the faucets and electrical cords. Everything’s clear.”

  “One more thing. Can you make sure that the water line to the washing machine is turned off?” Walter asked.

  “Of course.”

  I walked over to the closet that housed Walter’s washer and dryer.

  “It’s off.”

  “Thank you, Isabel. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Maybe you’d have to get better.”

  “Good-bye, Isabel.”

  As I combed the rug with a carpet rake, erasing evidence of my presence in Walter’s apartment, I spotted evidence of someone else in Walter’s apartment. It was a heel print made from some kind of smooth-bottomed shoe that rested at a right angle by Walter’s front door. There was a single print, which could have easily been Walter’s, only Walter never misses his shoe print. Never. It occurred to me that it was possible that Walter had a guest over and missed the print. Although Walter rarely has guests. It’s also possible that Walter’s excessive vigilance was being transferred to me and I was overreacting to something that I would otherwise have not given a second thought to. I raked the carpet clean of all evidence of life and departed.

  When I returned to the park, I found Fred Finkel sitting next to Edward Slayter on the park bench. They were sipping cups of coffee from a café just off of Lincoln. I phoned his cell.

  “Hello?” Fred answered.

  “You’re doing it wrong,” I said.

  “I see. That’s an interesting proposal,” Fred replied.

  “What part of surveillance don’t you understand?”

  “I’m afraid I’m quite happy with my long-distance carrier. But should I decide to make a change, I’ll keep you in mind. Good-bye.”

  For the next twenty minutes Fred and subject sat on the bench, drank coffee, communed with nature, and chatted about God knows what, while I crouched in the shrubbery on a wet patch of gravel, dying for a warm beverage myself. Eventually the two men stood, shook hands, and parted ways.

  I walked past my incompetent operative as I followed subject to the corner of Chain of Lakes and Fulton Street, where his driver was waiting for him. Subject entered the vehicle and departed. I returned to the lakeside bench, where Fred was sipping the last of his coffee.

  “Did he tell you where he was going?”

  “Home,” Fred replied.

  “You’re fired,” I said.

  “Final paycheck,” Fred replied, extending the palm of his hand.

  I relinquished whatever bills I had in my pocket and texted Mrs. Slayter that her husband was on the way home and the surveillance was over.

  “You don’t usually buy surveillance subjects a cup of coffee,” I sharply suggested.

  “He bought. Not my fault. He was wandering along Lincoln Drive, I was on his tail, then he turned around, looking lost, asked me where the closest coffee shop was. He made me. What was I going to do, follow him around while he searched for coffee and risk making him paranoid? The logical solution was to steer him in the right direction. Besides, I couldn’t let him go to a Starbucks, which is where he would have gone if I didn’t help him. It’s important that we support our local small businesses or our entire world will be composed of strip malls with chain stores. Maybe you’re a big fan of the Olive Garden, but some of us want more out of life than a bottomless soup bowl and unlimited bread sticks.”

  I paused a moment to make sure Fred didn’t have an off-point fast-food diatribe he needed to get out of his system.

  “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m in the mood for homogenized Italian food.”

  “Thank you.”

  I pulled another forty dollars from my pocket and showed it to Fred. “All this can be yours,” I said.

  “What’s the catch?” Fred skeptically replied.

  “Tell me what Rae did to David.”

  “She didn’t do anything to David,” Fred replied.

  He was telling the truth. I had no doubt about that, but sometimes you can lie behind the truth. There was more to the story, but he didn’t reach for the dough. Fred was no canary. I needed to find another bird to sing.

  SUNDAY-NIGHT DINNER #48

  My family’s obligatory Sunday-night dinners have always had the atmosphere of a disappointing baseball game: lots of shouting, subpar and semidigestible dining options, and various individuals occasionally making a run for it. You could also say that by the end of the evening there are usually clear winners and losers. And, since baseball is not really my game, I should probably end my analogy there.

  Since Gertrude was the guest of honor and famous for giving birth to one of the most polite individuals my mother has ever met, Mom was on her best behavior, which (if you ask me, and if you’re reading this, you do) is also her most unpleasant. Obsequious Mom is a hovering shadow of her more lively self. In fact, this new version of Mom has cropped up quite often with the arrival of D. That’s not to say that Old Mom has vanished entirely. But she can toggle between the two with the simple ease of flicking on and off a light switch.

  “Mom” had purchased flowers as a centerpiece and consulted Demetrius on the entire dinner menu. I’m pretty sure the food was excellent, since D was involved, but distractions swarmed the room like killer bees. Who could concentrate on a well-executed roast?

  Had Gerty been the kind of woman I’d expected Henry’s mother to be, I would have provided her with a full debriefing on the family and suggested various methods of coping throughout the evening: boozing, excessive use of the restroom, and, if all else failed, taking advantage of an easily navigable escape route from the den. But Gerty could take care of herself. When she arrived, I kissed her on the cheek, handed her a scotch on the rocks, and said, “They’re all insane,” to which she replied, “Who isn’t?”

  I suppose there are a few other details worth mentioning. When Sydney arrived with her parents I said to my niece, “Hey, Sydney, what’s going on?” As usual, she merely stared at me.

  “Can you please act normal around her?” David said.

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “You don’t talk to a toddler like that. How do you expect to bond with her?”

  “I’ll slip her five bucks on the way out. That always worked with Rae.”

  “She’s eighteen months old, you can’t give her money. She’ll eat it.”

  “You just defined our problem in a nutshell,” I said. “Sydney and I have nothing in common. I’ll bond with her when she learns the value of a dollar.”

  David then held his daughter up close to my face like maybe she was nearsighted and couldn’t quite place me.

  “Sydney. Say hello to Aunt Izzy.”

  Sydney said, “Banana.”

  “I don’t know how you expect me to bond with someone who calls me ‘banana.’”

  I noticed D in the kitchen with his coat on, giving my mother strict instructions on when to put the biscuits in the oven and when to take them out.

  “Olivia, set the timer. It’s right there; it takes two seconds. Why ruin your dinner with the smoke alarm going off again?”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.1

  D looked at his watch and said, “Make sure your mama sets the timer.”

  “Where are you going?” I sa
id, worried about losing my only non-Spell-man guest for backup.

  “I have a date,” D replied.

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “A florist,” Mom said with a note of pride. “I picked her,” she then whispered.

  “Text me if any questions arise,” D said.

  “Horosho provesti vremya,” Mom said to D.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “‘Have a good time,’” Mom translated.

  “Dosvedanya,” D replied, making a beeline for the door.

  I got in step with him because there was some shift in his manner when my mother mentioned the word florist. I smelled a lie, to put it bluntly. I’ve found (and you may not agree) that the best way to sniff out a lie is to call someone on it immediately.

  “D, what are you up to?”

  “I’m going on a date.”

  “With the florist?”

  “With the florist.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” D replied, opening the front door.

  “Why the need to keep secrets, D?”

  “Have a lovely evening,” D said, smugly tipping an imaginary hat. Unlike the rest of the family, I don’t have much leverage with D—he doesn’t have to prove anything to me. But I knew for a fact that he was lying. Unfortunately, he was out the door before I could implement any of my backup methods.

  As far as Spellman family dinners went, this one was surprisingly low on drama. My mother and Gerty got along swimmingly once I pulled my mother aside and told her that I would break a glass every time she used the word splendid or, delightful.2 David and Maggie had a quiet bickering session over Sydney upon their arrival. My bionic ear (literally a device that amplifies sound across the room) informed me that Maggie wanted to have Sydney tested for some kind of delayed language function and David adamantly refused, ending the conversation then and there. Over dinner I had to admit that Maggie might have had a point.

  My mother served Sydney sliced apples and Sydney repeatedly called them bananas. She also called the juice box and all green vegetables bananas, but when my mother finally served her a banana, Sydney said, “No apple!” After which David explained that Sydney hates bananas. My mother, thankfully, held her tongue.