Trail of the Spellmans (23 page)

“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 Investigations,” 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

D
avid, 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.”

“A bag of Bavarian pretzels is hardly an appropriate gift for an eighteen-month-old child.”

“Why not? Everything you give her she sticks in her mouth anyway. It might as well be edible.”

“Leave the pretzels at home. Your presence will be gift enough.”

“I think it’s time to find a new babysitter. Do you really want a dropout with a compromised immune system watching your child?”

“Isabel, I will see you at five o’clock tonight,” David replied.

“Why so early? Word on the street
¹
is that the opera doesn’t start until eight.”

“We have dinner reservations beforehand, at six fifteen.”

“And how long will it take you to get to the restaurant?”

“Fifteen minutes. But it will be at least forty-five to give you babysitting instructions.”

Yes, I did point out that I had already babysat with marginal success, but David felt the need to provide a full debriefing on Sydney protocol should this sort of thing happen regularly. I pointed out that I had no intention of this thing happening regularly, but David disregarded my comment.

I arrived at five o’ five on the dot to find my brother striking a remarkable
resemblance to Old David. His tux was pressed and creased and fit him like a glove. A little more like a glove than it used to, but the elegant cut concealed the baby weight he was still carrying. His hair was neatly combed back with one of those products Old David used religiously and he was clean-shaven and cologned.

“Where’s David?” I asked.

“Hilarious,” David replied.

“Doesn’t he look wonderful,” Maggie said, descending the stairs.

She didn’t look so shabby herself in a simple black cocktail gown. Although I could tell she was having some trouble with the four-inch heels.

“You two make a striking pair. Are you sure about those shoes, Maggie?”

“Nope. But I’ve committed.”

“Down to business,” David said, interrupting the niceties.

The instructions took only forty minutes, if I’m looking on the bright side. The diaper-change discourse was the most time-consuming—not because of the basic instructions (which I probably could have figured out on my own with a good Internet connection) but because of my insistence that the diaper change could wait until the fat lady sang.

David had apparently anticipated the ensuing debate and figured it into his timeline. The baby monitor explanation was thankfully brief. I’m a PI; listening devices are hardly new to me. We did, however, have to go over emergency protocol, which involved car seat instructions just in case I had to take her to the emergency room or she wouldn’t stop crying.

The last part was an off-the-cuff remark by David, but I pressed for an explanation.

“What do you mean, ‘won’t stop crying’?”