Trail of the Spellmans

by Lisa Lutz

  Once all the guests were seated at the dinner table, I turned on my tape recorder. A visit from Grammy Spellman is a rare enough event, but this visit, which started off as, say, a Category One hurricane, turned into a Category Four once the news was broken.

  But first the silence at the dinner table needed breaking:

  DAVID: The food looks amazing, Demetrius.

  D: I’m testing a new recipe, so feel free to be honest.

  [MAGGIE takes a bite of the coq au vin.]

  MAGGIE: Incredible, D. You’ve outdone yourself.

  DAVID: I feel like all I ever eat these days are fish sticks and grilled cheese sandwiches.

  GRAMMY: You have put on weight, haven’t you?

  DAD: Mom, that’s a little rude, don’t you think?

  GRAMMY: One side of our family tends to get heavy, so you have to be extra careful. You might have caught some of that gene, David.

  DAVID: Or, I’m busy raising a child and don’t have as much time to go to the gym.

  ME: Maggie, will you pass the wine?

  GRAMMY: Empty calories, Isabel.

  ME: “Empty” is an appropriate word, since that’s how I feel inside.

  DAD: [warning] Isabel.

  GRAMMY: I never understood this one.

  RAE: You and me both.

  ME: Shut up, Mengele.

  GRAMMY: Watch your language,1 Isabel.

  RAE: I’m shocked you even know who that is.

  ME: I know a lot more than you think. And a lot of it you’re going to want me to keep to myself.

  RAE: Do you have anything besides idle threats up your sleeve?

  DAVID: [glaring viciously] I do.

  GRAMMY: [to my mother] You should have sent this one2 to finishing school, like I asked.

  MOM: [ignoring her] Would somebody please tell me what is going on with you three? David, I’ve never seen you hold a grudge this long.

  DAVID: I don’t want to talk about it.

  MOM: This can’t go on forever.

  SYDNEY: Banana.

  DAVID: [to Maggie] She wants potatoes.

  GRAMMY: Then why did she say “banana”?

  ME: Don’t go there.

  GRAMMY: Don’t go where?

  D: [trying to cut the tension] Coq au vin is such a rich meal, I had to complement it with salad and sunchokes. However, I had an incredible recipe for fingerling potatoes; I couldn’t resist.

  GRAMMY: Does the cook usually eat with the family?

  MOM: Ruth,3 I thought Albert explained this to you. Demetrius is our employee at Spellman Investigations and he lives in the attic apartment. He enjoys cooking and so he was kind enough to make this meal for us, but he is not our personal chef.

  [I pour some wine, scan the table for takers, until the bottle is empty.]

  GRAMMY: I see. I apologize for the misunderstanding, Mr. Demetrius.

  D: No apology necessary.

  DAD: The fingerling potatoes are amazing.

  MOM: So is the salad. Hint, hint.

  DAD: This is a French meal, so the salad comes last.

  GRAMMY: I think Morgan Freeman is an excellent actor.

  [Complete silence.]

  ME: Pass the potatoes.

  D: Why don’t you finish the ones on your plate first?

  ME: Pass the salad then.

  MOM: Save some for your father.

  ME: Okay, I’ll have more wine.

  [While the conversation continues, I get up and search for another bottle in the kitchen. It’s white and room temperature, but that’s what ice cubes are for.]

  GRAMMY: I really liked that movie Driving Miss Daisy.

  RAE: Oh my God.

  MAGGIE: Really, the food is simply amazing.

  SYDNEY: Banana.

  DAVID: Potatoes, Sydney. They’re called po-ta-toes.

  MOM: This banana obsession is a complete mystery.

  ME: Not really.

  GRAMMY: I also like Sidney Poitier.

  DAD: More wine, please.

  ME: Grammy, everyone likes Sidney Poitier. It’s kind of like saying you like Mother Teresa or something.

  GRAMMY: That doesn’t make any sense. They’re nothing alike.

  ME: My point was that you don’t need to mention that you like someone that everyone likes.

  GRAMMY: I’m just making polite conversation.

  DAVID: Maybe Grammy thinks we named Sydney after him.

  GRAMMY: No. That thought never occurred to me. He really is a wonderful actor.

  RAE: Oh my God. This is torturous.

  DAVID: [mumbling] Sorry, D.

  D: Relax.

  ME: So, Grammy, how long are you planning on staying?

  GRAMMY: [facing Dad] Didn’t you tell them?

  ME: Tell us what?

  MOM: Ruth is moving in.

  RAE: Oh my God.

  MOM: That’s enough, Rae.

  ME: Seriously?

  GRAMMY: It was either that or move into one of those awful homes. They’re filthy and run by criminals.

  ME: This place isn’t so tidy and, well—

  DAD: Isabel—

  RAE: Where will she stay?

  MOM: In David’s old room.

  ME: It’s weird how you didn’t mention this before.

  MOM: We wanted to surprise you.

  DAVID: You did.

  RAE: [to Grammy] So you’re going to be here all the time?

  GRAMMY: I will be living here, so I suppose that I will often be around, should you wish to visit.

  RAE: I live kind of far away.

  ME: Two miles isn’t considered far unless, say, there’s a blinding snowstorm and you have to hoof it.

  RAE: Was I talking to you?

  GRAMMY: So, Mr. Demetrius, when did you start working at my son’s agency?

  MOM: Technically it’s the family firm. It’s not just Albert’s.

  ME: You can call him D.

  GRAMMY: I don’t think so. What were you saying, Mr. Demetrius?

  D: About six months ago, ma’am.4

  GRAMMY: What did you do before then?

  D: I was in prison for fifteen years.

  DAD: More wine, please.

  MOM: We might need to run out for another bottle or two.

  ME: There’s whiskey in Dad’s rain boot in the front closet.

  GRAMMY: What were you in for?

  D: Murder, ma’am.

  Once we fortified with more cheap wine from the corner shop, the dinner continued on the same perilous path. We explained to Grammy that D was in prison for a crime he did not commit. She said, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. But mistakes do happen, don’t they?” Rae just shouted, “Oh my God!” over and over again. Maggie tried to explain to Grammy that those kinds of mistakes shouldn’t happen, but Grammy had lost interest.

  D then served this amazing cherry dessert called a clafouti. The sound of people chewing has never been more beautiful. The chewing was followed by exhaustive compliments on D’s cooking and clamoring for more wine. Then an intense awkwardness set in as Grammy Spellman began to interrogate each dinner guest, in lieu, I suppose, of a digestif.

  GRAMMY: So, David, I hear you are unemployed.

  DAVID: I am not working by choice. There is a difference, Grammy.

  GRAMMY: Maggie, dear, don’t you think a mother should be at home with her child? And the man in the workplace, providing for his family?

  You get the picture. Now let me get to the good part: The next thing I knew, Mom had slipped into her coat, picked up her book bag, and called to us from the foyer. “You’ll all have to excuse me,” she said. “We’re having a pop quiz in the last hour of Russian class. Simply can’t miss it. Dosvedanya.” She was gone before anyone could protest. I looked at D, having solved my second familial mystery of the week.

  “That explains some things,” I said.

  I had to give my mother credit. For years she had tried to school me against my impulsiveness, had shared the knowledge that a well-laid plan reaps the greatest reward. Mom ha
d indeed laid the groundwork well in advance and now had the perfect excuse to evade Grammy’s company as much as possible. Throughout the years, I’ve had moments of great admiration for my mother, but this moment left the rest in the dust.

  However, I still had to question how my parents would survive with this intruder in their lives. In one evening, the Mussolini of grandmas had invaded the Spellman household. It was impossible to imagine that there wouldn’t be a few casualties in her wake.

  MEG COOPER/MARGARET SLAYTER

  The following Monday, I found Dad and Rae alone in the office.

  “The Gopher is in the building,” Rae said.

  “What’s the Weasel doing here?” I asked.

  “I’m out of here in five,” Rae replied.

  “I never see you anymore,” I said.

  “I know. Isn’t it nice?”

  “Yes. I’ve been meaning to write you a thank-you note.” I turned to my father. “Where are Mom and D?”

  “Your mother is running errands and D has the morning off.”

  “I have a feeling ‘running errands’ will soon become a euphemism. So, Grammy drove D out of the house already?”

  “No, he has a coffee date with a nurse who works the night shift.”

  “Let me be the first to compliment you on your secret-keeping skills. They’ve improved light years since the Just for Men incident of last year.”1

  “We promised not to talk about it anymore.”

  “So where is You Know Who?” I whispered.

  “We’re calling her the Goby,” Rae said.

  “No we’re not, Rae,” Dad said.

  Rae then turned to me and in an odious instructor tone said, “Gobies are fish that eat their young.2 You know what a fish is, right?”

  “Do you know what a fist is?”

  “Girls, that’s enough.”

  “Where is You Know Who?” I asked.

  “She’s trying out a new hairdresser down the street.”

  “I forgot. She doesn’t wash her own hair. I hope that works out for her.”

  “It’s a generational thing, Izzy.”

  “And they complain about the youth of today. Imagine only washing your hair once a week.”

  “Perhaps you can put your imagination to more pressing matters,” Dad suggested.

  “She can’t,” Rae mumbled, but loudly enough.

  To fend off the volley of four-letter words that would eventually ensue, my father turned to Rae and said, “Don’t you need to be in class? Or not here?”

  “Excellent idea,” Rae said. Before she left, she opened her desk drawer and tossed her candy stash into her backpack. My sister has always learned her lessons quickly and adapted accordingly. I’ve always admired her for that. After the Weasel departed, I turned to my father and tried to talk some sense into him.

  “It’s going to end badly, Dad.”

  “What is?”

  “Come to think of it,” I said, “all sorts of things come to mind. But mostly, I was thinking about having Grammy Spellman under this roof. She’ll likely drive D away, cause Mom to file for divorce, and turn you into a babbling lunatic. I still remember her last extended visit. One night you spent four hours in the bathtub.”

  “That’s how I relax.”

  “No. It’s the only place she couldn’t get to you. Though I do recall her chatting with you from outside the door.”

  “It’s not permanent, Isabel.”

  “True. She will die, eventually,” I said.

  “What I mean is, we felt that at her age it would be best if she lived in the same city. This was the only way we could convince her to make the move. However, it is our hope that after a few months of living with your mother (and with you underfoot) she might decide that a nice residential facility may be a better option.”

  “And having an ex-con in the house will certainly help matters.”

  “It can’t hurt,” Dad replied, quashing a grin.

  I could tell that the Demetrius Effect was perhaps his favorite part.

  “So, you invited your mother to live with you, just so you could smoke her out?”

  “That’s not how I would put it.”

  “But it’s the gist, isn’t it?”

  “We believe there’s an expiration date on her time here and, once again, I’m not referring to death. Is there anything else on your mind, Isabel?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes. I would like to know why we have two intersecting surveillance jobs that are all highly suspicious.”

  “Unless we witness a client breaking the law, we simply do our job,” Dad replied.

  Ever since I discovered the connection two weeks earlier, I had on numerous occasions broached the subject with Dad and questioned where the harm was in sharing just a bit of intelligence. Each time I mentioned it, my father took another step in securing his client’s information, even going so far as to lock his case files in his desk drawer and keep the key in an undisclosed location. If I pushed harder, my father would respond with yet another stern lecture on investigative ethics.

  “Where is this code written?” I asked.

  “We’re just like lawyers or psychiatrists,” he replied.

  “No we’re not,” I said. “For one thing, we don’t get paid as well. Also, PIs have a history of skirting the law. Half of our contacts are breaching protocol or civil codes when they give us information. Phone records should only be accessed by state or governmental employees, but if you really need them, you can get them. I’ve seen you break laws, Dad. I’ve seen it. This Chinese wall you’ve constructed to protect our clients is really to protect your business. You’re worried that if a client learns that we investigated the merits of his or her case, we’ll earn a bad reputation and get a nasty comment on some online review site. This isn’t about ethics; it’s about money.”

  “That seems reasonable to me,” my dad replied. “I should remind you, Isabel, this business is your future. Who knows what’s on the horizon for Rae? She has other interests and she really likes money; I’m not sure this is the job for her. She’ll survive without it—in fact, I think she could survive a nuclear attack. But I have no idea what you’d do with your life if you ran this business into the ground.”

  “I appreciate your vote of confidence,” I lightly replied.

  I couldn’t let him know how deeply his comment stung.

  “I’m doing what’s best for you,” my father said with a note of finality.

  The conversation was over. However, the conflict was not.

  I believed a client was using our services to deceive her husband. The fact that her brother had her under surveillance only confirmed my suspicion. My father thought his firewalls would warn me away from pursuing the matter any further, but we had a tangled web of morally ambiguous clients on our hands. By providing information to one, we might have been playing into the hands of someone who had plans far more dangerous than a breach of trust. My problem was that I didn’t know what Edward Slayter, Adam Cooper, and Meg/Margaret were capable of.

  I couldn’t be sure any of them could be trusted.

  I have a burner cell phone that I use on rare occasions when I need to make an anonymous call. I slipped my hand into my desk drawer and dialed the number of my cell phone. I picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello?” I said. “Yes. I think I can make it,” I said. “I’ll be there in twenty,” I said to a dead line.

  I grabbed my coat and bag and said good-bye to my dad.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked.

  “Chinese wall,” I replied.

  I drove home and worked off of Henry’s computer. I still needed access to a public records database, so I used Maggie’s account since I still had her user name and password from our work on Demetrius’s case. This was a necessary precaution since my parents would be able to view my search history on the database bill.

  Since Mrs. Slayter was on my side of the Chinese wall, I could have gone to her directly and asked if she wa
s using our services to hide an affair, but it’s always best to have answers to questions before you ask them. First, I got a glimpse into the Slayters’ virtual lives.

  Edward Slayter was clearly a wealthy man; he was also a man without any known heirs besides his wife. As I researched his finances, I found property records that estimated his worth to be at least fourteen million. There was bound to be a prenup with an adultery clause, but if Slayter died, it was quite possible that his wife would inherit it all.

  That’s a motive for all sorts of things.

  Since Margaret and Edward had wed only ten years ago, I guessed that Mr. Slayter had at least one previous marriage, since he was fifty-five years old. Marriage and divorce records are extremely difficult to access because a couple can get married anywhere and the records only exist in the city where they were married. First, I pulled up Mr. Slayter’s credit report and verified the cities in which he had lived. I searched marriage and divorce records in those cities and came up empty. Slayter worked at a law firm in New York City from 1977 to 1982. I phoned one of the partners—the oldest one on the company’s website—and explained that I was doing a very sensitive background check on Mr. Slayter for a company that was about to embark on an extremely important business deal.

  Pretext calls used to be a staple of our business, but in the days of complete disclosure on public networking sites with status reports on one’s every move, there can be a counterbalance of extra paranoia among the older generations. Then again, Bernie recently reported what he ate for breakfast on Facebook,3 so the dividing line is aging considerably.

  I placed the call to Clayton Burroughs, prepared for defeat. Burroughs, a senior partner at an old-school law firm, would be loath to provide personal information on a previous employee. Unless, of course, that employee screwed his wife and then screwed him over.

  Turns out, Edward Slayter’s first wife, Claudia, was also Clayton Burroughs’s first wife, which made Edward Claudia Burroughs’s second husband. The illicit couple met at a company Christmas party; the affair began a few months later. Burroughs said as delicately as he could that he caught his wife and Mr. Slayter in bed together. He filed for divorce the next day. Clayton (at some point during a conversation where a man tells you about his tragic romantic past, you get to be on a first-name basis) and Claudia did not have a prenup. In those days, he explained, it wasn’t as common. Claudia got half the estate. She then married Edward Slayter, and ten years later, when she caught him cheating with Meg Cooper, she filed for divorce. At that point they were living in California and, once again, the assets were split. Edward Slayter was able to use the money from the divorce settlement to invest in a series of extremely lucrative real estate deals, becoming a remarkably wealthy man in the past fifteen years.