Trail of the Spellmans: Document #5

by Lisa Lutz

  Mrs. Meyers said she made a habit of getting to know the people who lived in her vicinity (brownies were her icebreaker) and keeping up with the goings-on about town. As far as she could tell, Meg and Adam were a normal couple with their share of problems. When I inquired as to the type of problems they might have, Mrs. Meyers switched into generalizations, for fear of losing Adam a job, I suspect.

  “We are already aware of Mr. Cooper’s credit issues,” I explained.

  “I see,” Mrs. Meyers replied.

  “I understand your wish to be discreet, Mrs. Meyers, but this position could put Mr. Cooper’s past under a microscope. It is better if we have all the information from the start so that we can protect him from any undesirable elements.”

  My generalized “we” was starting to sound like a preposterous fringe spy organization. I was hoping that Meyers watched too much television. Pretext calls are not my area of expertise (Mom, on the other hand, could probably get a Social Security number off an attorney). Fortunately, Meyers took the bait.

  “The Coopers lived above their means,” Meyers replied.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Always leased new cars; Adam used to park in my driveway every weekend and wash and wax it. He loved that BMW. They always wore expensive clothes; at least that’s what Gloria told me.”

  “And who is Gloria?”

  “She lived next door to them, in the apartment complex. Unit 4C, I think.”

  “Is she still there?”

  “No, but I have her number.”

  “I’m going to need that.”

  Gloria took a bit longer to convince. I could discern from her voice that she was younger, so I skipped the spy act and asked when she’d last had contact with Mrs. Cooper. Since five years had passed, I gathered they weren’t close and I explained that I was a private investigator working for her current husband and hoping to glean some information on Meg’s past.

  Gloria was more than happy to help, which led me to believe that Meg and she weren’t neighborly neighbors. Friends can be virtually useless in a background investigation, but a five-minute conversation with an enemy can reveal more information than hours behind the glare of a computer screen.

  The walls were thin in the Palms Caribbean apartment complex. Also, there was only one palm tree, which really got under Gloria’s skin (she worked as a proofreader at a law firm). Meg and Adam had a happy marriage for the most part. They were often inseparable and their public displays of affection bordered on pornography (according to Gloria). But like any couple, they did fight. They fought over money. Meg wanted more and Adam couldn’t provide it. But not for lack of trying.

  Eventually Meg and Adam moved to San Francisco, where they hoped to find better job opportunities. I asked Gloria if she thought the couple was headed for divorce.

  “Aren’t they all?” she dryly replied.

  Our call ended on that note.

  I looked up the Coopers’ divorce records (the ubiquitous “irreconcilable differences” were the cause) and learned that only four months after they moved to the city, they got divorced. However, according to Meg’s credit report, she and Adam lived under the same roof for a full year after that. I phoned the landlord to verify.

  He got back to me two days later.

  I asked him how long the couple had lived in his building and he responded by clearing his throat.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “I’m curious how long Mr. and Mrs. Cooper lived in your building.”

  “Miss Cooper,” the landlord said, clarifying. “Adam is Meg’s older brother. It was a two-bedroom apartment. They lived there for a year and a half until Meg got married.”

  “I see,” I replied. “Thank you for your time.”

  While there may have been other explanations for the ruse, I couldn’t help wondering whether Meg and Adam had been working on a long con for years. And if that was the case, were they still in it together, or had Meg jumped ship?

  BACK ON PLANET SPELLMAN . . .

  Monday morning, I arrived at the Spellman compound at noon. D and Grammy had recently discovered that they shared a guilty pleasure—D’s soap opera, Gossamer Heights. However, this common ground did little to soften the tension between them. Grammy still held her purse to her chest, pretending she needed to access her medicine during commercial breaks. She sat on the farthest end of the couch, twisting her neck at an uncomfortable angle to see the TV screen.

  Although she couldn’t resist snacking on D’s homemade Chex Mix.1

  During commercial breaks she would attempt awkward conversation, continuing her habit of referencing any positive role model in the African-American community. She liked to talk about the president quite a bit. Although, in whatever etiquette class Grammy had taken, politics were apparently off the table, so she basically mentioned his excellent posture and choice of ties.

  To stoke the fire of the conflicts that abounded, Rae paid us all a surprise visit. First on her agenda was repossessing her car. She planted herself in front of my father’s desk and waited for him to look up.

  “Good afternoon, Rae. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I’d really like to have my car back.”

  “I’d like to have my hair back,” Dad replied.

  “Dad, if I had your hair, I would give it back.”

  “Actually you’d probably hold it for ransom.”

  “Maybe,” Rae replied. “But eventually it would be returned, because I have my own hair.”

  “Thank you,” Dad said. “I’m really glad to hear that. But this is all hypothetical. You don’t have my hair to auction off.”

  “Are you going to give me my car back?”

  “No. Not just yet. I need it.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense,” Rae said, too baffled by the turn of events to summon much indignation.

  “Many things in life don’t make sense,” Dad said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make.”

  My father picked up the receiver and may have dialed a legitimate number, maybe not. Rae turned to my mother for an explanation.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, dear. Remember, the car is in your father’s name and he needs it for now. San Francisco has an excellent public transportation system. Many people in this city have never owned a vehicle.”

  “Some of those people even have a car and choose public transportation instead,” I said.

  Rae ignored me and continued her dialogue with Mom. “Something is going on that you’re not telling me.”

  “I’m sure that’s always true,” my mother enigmatically replied.

  Rae gave up on the unit and shot dagger eyes at me.

  “You’re behind this. I know it and when I find out how, you’ll be sorry.”

  “My friend Lydia’s children never threaten each other,” Mom said.

  “Lydia’s not your friend,” Rae replied. “She’s just part of your knitting group cover operation.”

  “Crochet,” Mom replied. “You know, her children have lunch once a week just to catch up.”

  “I’d rather kill myself,” Rae said.

  “How does Thursday work for you?” I asked.

  Rae stormed out of the office and prowled the living room for a new victim. I followed her, to make sure she gave D some peace, since Gossamer hour seemed to be his one true escape. Rae plopped down on the couch between Grammy and D, waited for the commercial break, and then said, “Guess what, Grammy? I gained five pounds. Isn’t that awesome?”

  Grammy straightened her posture to appear as if her attention was too wrapped up in the television to hear a word spoken in the real world. But sometimes enemies unite against another enemy.

  “I gained ten pounds since your last visit,” I chimed in.

  “Show-off,” Rae said.

  My mother then entered the room, overhearing the conversation, and added, “I got you both beat,” she said. “Fifteen.”


  “Bullshit,” I said, although Mom had indeed gained weight since D’s arrival.

  D muted the television and looked at three of the four Spellman women as if they’d gone insane. Although he knew better than to ask any questions. Though you might have some of your own. Grammy’s weight obsession is perhaps her most insidious characteristic, and that’s saying something. She could be downright cruel to my father, commenting on every pound he gained, every bite he put in his mouth. Some time ago, during a Grammy visit, Rae (age twelve) watched with discomfort as Grammy commented on my father’s weight gain and suggested he didn’t need a second helping of something. My sister noticed Dad’s acute embarrassment and discomfort, and, I suppose, in an attempt to distract Grammy, she boldly announced that she had gained ten pounds since her previous visit to the doctor. I then jumped in with some weight-increase statistics of my own and Rae and I gave each other a congratulatory high five. This became a running gag for years whenever Grammy came to town.

  “You people,” D said, shaking his head.

  “You people?” I asked.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Grammy sighed at the old joke and clutched her purse more tightly to her chest, like a security blanket. Rae couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.

  “Grammy, you can leave your purse in your bedroom. D doesn’t need your money. He could be a millionaire if he wanted to be.”

  My grandmother and Rae have dollar signs in common. That’s it, but at least it’s something. The comment got Grammy’s attention.

  “How do you mean?” Grammy replied.

  “Demetrius has a lucrative lawsuit he’d win if he filed. In fact, it probably wouldn’t even have to go to court. The police department and the DA wouldn’t want the bad press—they’d make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. For reasons that escape me, D refuses to litigate.”

  D no longer responded to Rae when she went on her diatribes. He un-muted the TV sound and blasted the volume.

  The jingle for an anti-itch cream shook the room.

  Mom spoke from the kitchen, where she was withdrawing more Crack Mix from the safe.2 “Rae, are you bothering D again?”

  “I’m watching TV,” Rae said.

  “Is she bothering you, D?”

  “Everything is under control,” D replied.

  My mother cleared her throat. On cue, Rae got to her feet and returned to the office, where she was assigned one hour of filing as punishment for interrupting D’s soap time. Demetrius returned the television volume to Grammy Spellman’s preferred decibel level, and Gossamer Heights came back from break. I noted that Grammy Spellman clutched her purse with just a bit less vigor. I sat down in the kitchen, mindlessly chowing down on this coma-inducing cereal concoction, and observed the odd tableau in the living room. When the show ended, D entered the kitchen and took the bowl of Crack Mix away from me.

  “Thank you,” I said, since I wasn’t going to be able to stop eating it on my own.

  “You’re welcome,” D replied.

  “She’s annoying,” I said. “I’m referring to the young one, in case it wasn’t clear.”

  “She’s got big ideas,” D replied forgivingly.

  “I don’t agree with her approach, but she’s right,” I said. “Fifteen years. I think you’ve got something coming to you. I don’t understand why you won’t even consider it.”

  “I have my reasons, Isabel,” D replied. “I hope you can respect that.”

  Unfortunately for D, I really couldn’t.

  Since Rae was already in the house, my father decided to have the Weekly Summit four days early. The Chinese wall had pretty much short-sheeted all work-related communication, making these formal meetings superfluous but blissfully brief. This meeting lasted five minutes. My mother suggested we all do a better job of emptying our trash bins and then my parents told Rae that the Vivien Blake case was currently on hold and she’d be notified if it resumed. This was the simplest way to cut her off from any intelligence on the case. In fact, no more intelligence on any case was shared. I wasn’t provided info on Adam Cooper and Dad wasn’t allowed to view any of my surveillance reports on Mr. Slayter. The wall was so thick, in fact, that when I inquired whether Cooper was paying his bills on time, my father slid his finger across his throat.

  “Don’t you think you’re taking this too far, Dad?”

  “We’re in the business of investigating, not meddling, Isabel.”

  “Are you sure? Because you and Mom are kind of awesome at it, and I’m speaking purely of the meddling part.”

  Mom then began meddling—recreationally, of course. She asked D about his plans for the evening and he tersely explained that he was going to a jazz club in Oakland. My mother asked if he was going alone. My father said that of course he was not going alone. D concurred. My mother asked for the general statistics of his date and received what sounded like a rehearsed answer.

  “Forty-one, divorcée, librarian. Hobbies include dancing, reading biographies, and vacationing anyplace warm.”

  “First date?” my mother asked.

  “Yes,” D replied.

  “You’ve been going on quite a few first dates,” Mom said.

  This fact was disconcertingly true.

  According to my latest count: thirteen. And, based on the intelligence that Mom and I had amassed, he had not gone on a single second date. What Mom was afraid to ask and therefore could not be established was whether D was hugely picky or totally off his game, which would be a reasonable assumption for a man who’d spent fifteen years in prison. That said, I’ve seen D in social settings, and there would be nothing to indicate that he couldn’t hold his own in a conversation. Plus, he does that whole opening-doors-and-pulling-out-chairs thing, which some women totally go for.3 My point is: Like everyone in my universe, D was hiding something.

  “Meeting adjourned,” Dad said, smacking a plastic-covered chocolate gavel on his desk.4 D left for his date and Rae devoured another bowl of the Crack Mix, ignoring the strict rationing that D had implemented a few weeks ago (he simply couldn’t keep up with the demand).

  “I could eat that stuff for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” Rae said. “And dessert, of course.”

  My father took a few nibbles of his blander version and shook his head in confusion.

  “Maybe there’s something wrong with my taste buds. Olivia, do you think I should see the doctor?”

  “No,” my mother quickly replied. “Don’t be a hypochondriac.”

  “I just don’t understand why you all love it so much. Same for his baked goods. Granted, he’s cooked some excellent meals, but I think he’s hit and miss.”

  “Dear, you should keep that to yourself,” Mom said.

  Rae snacked and did some high-speed texting for the next five minutes, then abruptly got to her feet and said, “I’m out of here. Dad, I’d really like my car back one of these days. I’m willing to negotiate. Call me.”

  “Bye, sweetie,” Mom said, furrowing her brow as she watched Rae depart. “What is wrong with her?” Mom said as soon as the door closed.

  “She has been distracted lately,” Dad replied.

  “Maybe she’s lost interest in the job. That’s why she faked the report. She couldn’t be bothered to go on a surveillance,” Mom said.

  “And isn’t it out of character that she hasn’t figured out that the car repossession was a punishment?” I said.

  “Maybe she’s depressed,” Dad said.

  “She’s not depressed,” I replied.

  “And when is this feud with David going to end? I’m surprised you haven’t figured it all out by now, Isabel.”

  “No one’s talking,” I answered. Rather than spoil my blackmail riches, I kept my knowledge under my hat. Also, there was another layer to my motivation. Something about David’s refusal to retaliate seemed off. I wanted more information before I made another move.

  The telephone rang, tabling the Rae conversation for the day.

  “Spellman In
vestigations,” I answered.

  “Izzy, it’s David.”

  “I know.”

  “I need a babysitter tonight,” David said.

  “You’re a grown man. Take care of yourself.”

  BLAME IT ON PUCCINI

  David, of course, was asking me whether I could babysit his child. Apparently, the fourteen-year-old neighbor was grounded for getting a D on her algebra test and the opera wasn’t going to reschedule itself. I did point out to David and then Maggie that this was a perfect excuse for getting out of going to the opera, but both claimed to have been looking forward to it for weeks. I Googled La bohème while I was on the phone with David and asked him to summarize the opera for me, as a quiz of sorts, to ensure that he was as invested in the outing as he claimed.

  “It’s not about the story,” he said. “It’s the music.”

  “Good answer,” I replied, trying to get the gist off the brief paragraph on my computer. “As far as I can tell people sing and someone dies. Wouldn’t you rather have a cozy night in, watching reruns of Taxi?”

  “Isabel, I need to have a night out with my wife; more specifically, my wife has demanded a night out with me. No, she’s threatened me. She wants a proper evening out: dinner, opera, and me in a tuxedo. If she doesn’t get that, she has threatened to call one of those makeover shows. I think she’s joking, but I can’t be sure.”

  “She’s probably not joking. You might rethink this new look you’re rocking. You’re clearly the before picture.”

  “It’s not a look, Isabel. I’m busy. I have a child that needs my full attention and there’s no time for vanity.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Help a brother out. Besides, you need to spend more time with Sydney so that she understands you’re a relative. As it is, she shows more enthusiasm for the UPS guy than for you.”

  “Everybody loves their UPS guy. That’s a no-brainer. He brings you stuff. And it’s not like I haven’t tried with your kid. The last time I bought her a gift, you got angry at me.”