by Lisa Lutz
“A freshman in college should not be under surveillance,” I said.
“They’re concerned for her future, Isabel.”
Demetrius sat behind his desk and, like my dad, tried to pretend we weren’t talking to him.
“Demetrius,” I said, demanding a reply. “Remember who freed you.”
“Stop playing the ‘I got you out of jail’ card,” Mom said.
“I’m Switzerland,” Demetrius said, as usual.
“There’s no Switzerland in Spellman Investigations. Everybody picks a side,” I intoned.
Dad took a bite of his muffin and made a face. Not a good one. Then he said, sounding as dry as the muffin most likely was, “Once again, D, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Thanks, Al,” D replied, knowing that the compliment was a bald-faced lie.
“Just break the tie so I don’t have to listen to them arguing for the rest of the day,” Dad said.
Demetrius was clearly in conflict over this decision. Having had no privacy of his own for fifteen years, he wanted to respect it in others, but he couldn’t help but feel concern for the young coed. But one might suppose that there is a rather profound distinction between not being able to use a toilet in private and being watched from afar by a pack of harmless PIs.
“Take the case,” Demetrius said. “She’s legal now. If she crosses the line, she could have a record for the rest of her life.”
And that is how we caught the case of Vivien Blake.
Even I’ll admit that there was something bizarrely symmetrical about our recent caseload—surveilling a husband, a sister, and a daughter all at one time. I know what you’re thinking. Surely all three cases will become ensnared and converge at the end. But don’t get ahead of yourself. That kind of shit only happens in detective novels. How about you quit guessing and let the story unfold as it may? Even I don’t know how all the pieces will fall.
FILLING IN THE BLANKS
I suppose it’s time to take a crayon to this primitive drawing and color between, on, and outside the lines. If you are in the mood for a more complex portrait, you can read the previous four documents. It’s up to you. Remember, I can’t make you do anything. So don’t get peeved at me because I’ve merely made a suggestion. To simplify matters, however, I will refer you to the appendix, where you’ll find a detailed summary of all the key players in the saga. As it turns out, I am the most key player.
My name, if I haven’t mentioned it already, is Isabel Spellman. I am the thirty-four-year-old middle child of Albert and Olivia Spellman. I have a history of delinquency and minor arrests, but I like to think most of that is behind me. Unfortunately, others do not concur. I have a much younger sister, Rae, who is currently a sophomore at UC Berkeley and carrying on my torch of rebellion, although her take on it is far less aimless and booze soaked. Rae lives in our brother’s basement apartment and remains a part-time Spellman Investigations employee. PI work is in our blood. Rae began working for the family business at age six, trying desperately to follow in my footsteps. I started at twelve, not being quite so eager to follow the footsteps in front of me. The family business eventually became my profession because I had knack for it and I didn’t have a knack for too many other things—especially legal activities. I used to think that one day I would find my real talent and move on. Turns out, this is my real talent. It might sound as if I’ve reluctantly accepted my fate, but that’s not it. I’m fine with my fate, but with it comes responsibility and sometimes the self-doubt eats away at me. The problem with being a private investigator is that you end up making ethical decisions every single day, and I’ve come to accept that I’m not always right and when I’m wrong, I can’t always see it. That said, I’m right most of the time.
The only other Spellman spawn is David Spellman, my older brother. David was at once the raven-haired golden boy and the black sheep of the family—a freakishly handsome, high-achieving lawyer with a closet full of fancy suits and a jaw-dropping collection of male skin-care products. I am, however, referring to Old David. New David is now a stay-at-home dad to eighteen-month-old Sydney. The contrast between the two Davids is not quite Jekyll and Hyde, but close. Old David was a shark, the kind of handsomely perfect man whom some people find unsettling. Being his sister, I found him more obnoxious. He had an enormous capacity for vanity but managed to come off as down-to-earth. People were drawn to him because he made them feel special. He remembered their names, asked questions, recalled insignificant details of their lives like a politician. I don’t tend to remember data unless I can use it against you at a later date. But I suppose there’s no point in talking about Old David anymore. He’s gone and I don’t think he’s coming back. I can’t say that I miss him. He always made me feel less than, even though that rarely was his agenda. But New David has taken some getting used to. New David has lost all concern for personal vanity or ambition. All of the energy previously expended on himself is now devoted to his daughter, Sydney. He’s kind of like Old David’s sloppy doppelgänger, with an eighteen-month-old girl permanently attached to his hip. While my family has had trouble adjusting to this new incarnation, I can’t imagine what it’s been like for David’s wife.
David is married to Maggie Mason, a defense attorney who once dated Henry Stone, my Ex-boyfriend #13, although we’re still together.1 That might sound confusing. (I’ve always referred to boyfriends, current and former, in the past tense. It just seems easier to anticipate the worst up front.) I’m pretty good at finding fault in people, but I haven’t had much success with Maggie. I suppose since she refuses to hide her flaws, you stop looking for them.
Now let me tell you about the newest member of the Spellman clan. At least the newest member who doesn’t use a sippy cup. Demetrius Merriweather, employee of the month for six months running, has a history that could fill a book in itself.2 Eighteen years ago Demetrius was wrongly convicted for the murder of his neighbor Elsie Collins. D, as I like to call him because I’m prone to laziness, spent fifteen years in jail for a crime he did not commit. Maggie3 and I worked his case pro bono until his release six months ago. Demetrius’s remaining family resides in Detroit. He was welcome home any time he wanted, but after a Christmas visit, D decided he’d grown too accustomed to the California climate, despite the fact that he experienced most of that climate for a mere one hour a day. Immediately upon his release, my parents offered him the attic apartment (where I lived for many years) and a job. D is a God-fearing man capable of profound forgiveness. His integration back into the outside world appears seamless. But nothing is as it seems. Like everyone I know, he’s hiding something.
Almost two years have passed since I’ve found the need to document my family’s activities. A lot can happen in two years, as you’ll see. As much as one might like to believe that I’ve eased into adulthood without a fight, let there be no mistake. I’m still fighting.
THE DEMETRIUS EFFECT
While there have been many unwelcome changes to my work life, the presence of Demetrius Merriweather cannot be added to that list. He works harder, more efficiently, and less erratically than any other employee on the Spellman Investigations payroll—including myself. He’s also a talented cook, an excellent conversationalist, and at times the only voice of reason in the household. That said, every silver lining has its cloud.
Sometime after Demetrius Merriweather moved into the Spellman household, my mother began putting on airs. I suspect the trouble began shortly after she attended church with D and found there were more than a few people in this crazy town of ours who believe in respect, forgiveness, and waking up early on a Sunday morning wearing bright colors in freshly pressed ensembles unmistakable for sleepwear. My mother also noticed that many of Demetrius’s new church friends were well mannered and managed to speak in complete sentences without using four-letter words as emphatic adjectives. It was only then that my mother picked up on the fact that Demetrius himself was well mannered. This had slipped her notice even after three months of working in the same off
ice.
Even though he lived under the same roof as my parents, D always said good morning and good-bye (only when he was leaving, of course) instead of my usual form of greeting1 and adieu.2 When asked a ridiculous question, Demetrius would reply diplomatically: “I’m afraid I don’t know” or “I’ll Google it later,” or “That’s certainly something to ponder.”
“You know, D has never, in the entire time I’ve known him, asked me if I’ve smoked crack,” my mother said to me one early morning, during the footnoted coffee, making a point that I still can’t ascertain. What I can tell you is this: After thirty-some years of living with the manners equivalent of franks and beans, my mother developed a taste for champagne and caviar.
It was sometime after the Church Incident, as I would come to call it, although I know that it was no incident, that my mother changed. She quit swearing cold turkey. However, like a lifelong smoker, there was the occasional relapse, which would result in either the first syllable being halted abruptly, or a complete word or phrase followed by “pardon me.” Pre-Demetrius Mom thought nothing of peppering even the most mundane phrase with an F-word. “Pass the fucking casserole,” for example, was a phrase for which I’d need at least all twenty digits to count how many times I’ve heard it.
But those days were over now. “Please” and “thank you” replaced my mother’s most colorful language. It was like watching an unnaturally polite game of Mad Libs, as my mother cut out her instinctual language and glued in a more civil version. Live and let live, I say.3 However my mom wants to talk is her own business, but I take issue when she tries to foist her wishes on the rest of us.
My mom’s first etiquette lesson went something like this:
“Mom, pass me the stapler,” I said.
She replied by clearing her throat.
“You need a cough drop?”
“No.”
“Can I have the stapler?”
“Can I have the stapler . . . what ?”
“Huh?”
“What do we say?”
“I don’t know. What do we say?”
“‘Please.’ ‘Can I have the stapler please.’”
“We don’t say that.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Fuck it. I’ll get it myself.”
Of course in the time it took to have that conversation, I could have amassed every stapler in the household. I made a mental note not to ask for anything within shot-putting distance in the future.
I saw my mother checking Demetrius out of the corner of her eye. He was speed-typing a surveillance report with his index fingers and not paying us any mind.
“Please watch your language in this household,” Mom said to me, her volume raised to be certain that Demetrius could hear, or Mr. Snodgrass next door.
“Mom, D was in prison for fifteen years; he’s heard worse. I bet he could teach you a few words.”
“This is a business establishment. We should maintain professional standards.”
“Since when?”
“Since a civilized human being started working here.”
“D, do you care if I swear?”
“Not unless you’re meeting my mama.”
“See?” I said, looking at my mama. “I promise when Mrs. Merriweather visits we’ll treat her like the queen of England.”
One would think that a man who just got out of prison would be rough around the edges, or worse, sharpened like a blade. But none of the ex-con stereotypes suit D. Except one. He could never have his back to the door. (We had to do a lot of furniture rearranging during his first few weeks with us.) My point is, things changed when Merriweather moved into the Spellman household. He was now a member of the family, and he would come to recognize that came at a price.
Case in point: When I was in the process of investigating Demetrius’s wrongful conviction, I wore a T-shirt that read:
Justice 4
Merri-Weather.
I wore it fairly often—maybe a couple times a week—so I had extras made to avoid any laundry hassles. When D was sprung, I stopped wearing the shirts and they disappeared. Then they reappeared. On Rae, who has taken to wearing them whenever she comes to visit. This D finds particularly irksome since he is currently free and believes that justice eventually won out. Rae, however, made one minor adjustment to the shirt. She added dollar signs, framing the message. Her “message” to Merriweather being that justice will only be served after he files a colossal lawsuit and has a couple million bucks stashed away for a rainy day, or a mansion in Pacific Heights.
Their conversations usually follow a similar pattern.
D: Rae, can you please stop wearing that shirt? It is a reminder of a time I wish to forget.
RAE: I would like to respect your wishes, but I can’t.
D: Why not?
RAE: There is a statute of limitations on police misconduct lawsuits. I would hate to see you squander a chance to be a millionaire.
D: I don’t want to be a millionaire.
RAE: That’s just silly. Everyone does.
D: I don’t want to have this discussion anymore.
RAE: We’ll talk again next week.
While Rae is in school, her work schedule has been capped at ten hours a week; the parental unit wanted to make sure that her studies took priority. On the clock, her duties could range anywhere from client billing to surveillance. Since she has access to the main server from her laptop, sometimes I only see her on Friday afternoons for the weekly Spellman Investigations board meeting. This is when we discuss new cases, handle any in-house disputes, and allow Rae the floor for her myriad business improvement plans—Rae has always liked money, but a college business course took their relationship to the next level. In fact, my sister, once the most dedicated investigator in the family, now seems at times to be no more than a consultant. Although, an enthusiastic consultant to say the least. We used to have her stick her relentless business plans into a suggestion box, but when Rae discovered that I had been shredding its contents, my parents appeased her by giving her the floor for fifteen minutes every session. Once she’s said her piece, she loses interest in the meeting and kills the rest of the time texting and staring at her watch, punctuating each remaining minute with a loud, tired sigh.
THE GOPHER, THE EAGLE, THE TORTOISE, AND THE WEASEL
A side from the common abridgement of “Izzy” from “Isabel,” I have never had an official nickname other than “That One,” which I heard most often during my adolescence. And I think it’s important to mention that I never wanted one. It’s also important to mention that in the Spellman household what I want has never been of much interest to the relevant parties.
It was late afternoon when my dad and Rae returned home from a daylong and rather tedious surveillance. My sister’s reward for eight hours of only Dad’s company was a hot-fudge sundae, of which they both partook. I suspect the dessert had a pharmaceutical effect on the brain chemistry of the duo, since their spirits were enhanced in a way that usually involves spirits. When they entered the house, Rae spotted my mother napping on the living room sofa.
“The Eagle is sleeping,” she whispered.
“Where is the Gopher?” Dad asked.
Unaware that I was the Gopher, I exited the kitchen and headed to the office, brushing past my kin as if they were invisible.
“The Gopher is on the move,” my father said in a conspiratorial whisper.
Dad and Rae followed me into the office and explained how they spent their entire eight hours together: designating a nickname for each family member. When I quizzed the relevant parties for a bit longer, I discovered that Dad had napped for two of those hours while Rae studied. Another three were killed in active pursuit, which would trim superfluous talk. So, in all fairness, they only spent three hours coming up with sobriquets. Still, an unwise use of time. The time killer, as it turns out, was not in working out my nickname or Mom’s; it was duking it out over the nicknames for the two individuals in the car. Dad was baptize
d the Tortoise right off the bat and no matter how many times he tried to shake it off for something cooler, Rae applied another layer of Krazy Glue. Dad’s first Rae moniker was “the Tasmanian Devil,” but both agreed that it was ridiculous to give someone a nickname that took so much longer to say than the real thing. Finally he settled on “the Weasel,” which Rae refused to accept without a second opinion, which I promptly provided.
Rae scowled and said, “Whatever. I can think of worse things.”
A few lingering questions remained after their lengthy exposition.
“What about David?” I asked.
“We still can’t decide whether to nickname Old David or New David, so that one is on hold.”1
“What about Demetrius?”
“We all call him D, so we figured one nickname was enough,” Dad said.
“You’re the Gopher, in case you missed that part,” Rae said.
“No I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are. Do you want to know why you’re the Gopher?”
“No, thank you.”
“Because you like to dig and don’t care what pretty flowers you disturb as you tunnel through the dirt.”
“I don’t want a nickname.”
“That’s the thing about nicknames, you don’t get to decide.”
The telephone rang, ending this conversation at long last.
After a brief exchange, my father hung up the phone and turned to me.
“That was Walter,” he said.
“What is it this time?”
“He thinks he left the stove on again.”
I suppose there’s just one more case on the Spellman docket that I haven’t mentioned.
WALTER PERKINS
Walter Perkins’s “case,” if you can call it that, was simple enough. During his intake meeting (in those glorious pre-code-phrase days), he explained that he needed a responsible person to check on his apartment now and again, when he was out of town. I suggested a neighbor or a friend might be more appropriate for the position and he explained that sometimes he needed someone to check on his apartment even when he was in town but indisposed. I asked him how often he thought these services would be required and he explained that it could be one time a month or weekly or daily, making a stab at sounding casual, but the crack in his voice gave him away.
