Revenge of the Spellmans (13 page)

M
y days of unsupervised visits in David’s home would soon be coming to a close. I destroyed much of that evening and the following day pretty much ransacking my brother’s house trying to figure out exactly what kind of trouble he was in. There were no more visits from men with pinky rings and no more weapons. In fact, I never even found bullets for the gun.

To refresh your memory (and mine), I’ve jotted down a list of the incriminating evidence I have against my brother.

• A gun
  
• A ledger
  
• A visit from strange men
  

The obvious conclusion: David had a gambling problem. But if he had a real problem, it would follow that he was having financial problems. The goons wouldn’t visit him unless David wasn’t paying his debt. The glitches in that theory were that A) David wasn’t exactly the compulsive-gambling type, and B) David has a lot of money; it would take a long time for him to go broke.

I couldn’t locate where David kept his credit card bills, so I had to settle for hunting through the mail that had piled up on the kitchen table and selected a credit card bill that already had a crack in the envelope. I hap
pened to hold it over a pot of boiling water, and then the bill accidentally dropped out of the envelope, and when I was retrieving it to put it back in the envelope, I happened to read it.

There was a charge for a meal at the Last Supper Club, a few gas station charges, and some clothing purchases, but he had paid the previous month’s balance in full. There was no evidence of debt. I was missing something. But in 2,500 square feet of residence, I wasn’t sure where else to look. I called the person who knew the house almost as well as David. And no, that person was not Petra.

“What?”

“That’s not how you answer a phone,” I said.

“Can I help you with something?” Rae said rudely.

“Yes.”

“Then speak.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” I said, feeling my blood start to boil.

“Chillax, will ya?”

“I don’t like word hybrids. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Let’s recap this conversation,” Rae said. “
You
called
me.
”

“The next time I see you, I plan to toss you out the window,” I replied.

“I’ll make sure to be on the first floor.”

There was a brief pause while I tried to get my anger under control.

“I have a question,” I said. “Ten bucks in it for you if you answer it correctly.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“What do you want?”

“I want Henry to start speaking to me again.”

“He’s not speaking to you at all?”

“He says things like ‘Get your feet off the table,’ ‘Shut the door,’ ‘Please leave,’ that sort of thing. But nothing friendly.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I replied.

“Speak,” she said.

“That is so obnoxious.”

“I’m waiting for your question,” Rae said impatiently.

“In your many hours of hunting for snack food in David’s house, do you recall an unusual hiding place, something that would be slightly out of the ordinary?”

“What exactly are you looking for?” Rae asked suspiciously.

“I’m dying for some Milk Duds,” I said sarcastically.

“Then don’t look in the heating vent in the guest room,” Rae said. “He stopped putting things there after the M&M fiasco…”

I’m sure Rae’s story was fascinating, but I hadn’t checked the heating vent in any room, so I ended the call, grabbed a screwdriver, and raced upstairs.

This was too easy. At least that’s what I was thinking when I pried the vent off the wall and found a metal box inside with a latch, but no security beyond that.

I placed the box on the floor, unhooked the latch, and lifted the lid. I probably gasped when I saw what the box contained. I stared at the items at first, not totally believing what I was seeing. A syringe and a vial, a bag of white powder, another baggy filled with weed. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I simply sat there on the floor staring at this box in utter disbelief. Perfect David could not possibly be a drug addict.

He couldn’t. When my eyes stopped working, my nose kicked in. There was a familiar smell emanating from the box, but not the right kind of familiar. I know what marijuana smells like. This was something else. I picked up the bag of weed and brought it to my nose.

Oregano, that was it. I opened the bag of white powder, touched a bit to my pinky, and tasted it. Sugar. I picked up the vial and realized that the contents were carefully marked as saline. With the items removed from the box I could see the letters written on its base.

GOTCHA!

I had to give David credit. Thanks to his little game, I was no closer to solving the real mystery—his current whereabouts—than I was when I first moved into his place. You’ll be happy to know, however, that I not only solved the mystery (eventually), but I also got my revenge. I should mention, however, that my revenge came at a cost. That night when I fell asleep in David’s bed,
1
it would be the last full night of sleep I would get for the next month.

I
spent the next afternoon working the Ernie Black case pro bono, which made the day just a waste of time, not money.

I surveilled Linda Black for four hours on her day off and learned that the redhead probably colors her hair, likes coffee, apparently frequents libraries, and bargain-shops. There was no shoplifting, nor were there any clandestine meetings. It was a perfectly dull day.

I returned to David’s house in the evening. My plan was to spend the night restoring his home to its pre-Isabel state and doing some Internet research to catch him in a lie on his return the following day.

As usual, my plans were foiled by my family. I arrived at David’s house only to find my dad in the hot tub, my mom invading the kitchen, and Rae roasting s’mores in front of the fireplace.

I promptly demanded that all parties evacuate the premises. Then I threatened to call the cops. My aggressive orders were met with the following responses:

RAE: Chillax. Can I interest you in a s’more?

MOM: Are you hungry, sweetie? I’m making grilled salmon.

DAD: [when he finally surfaced from the hot tub] I needed that.

Once I gave up my futile quest for a peaceful night at “home,” I used the time to uncover the latest goings-on in the family.

“So, Rae, how are you handling the cheating situation?”

“I’m handling it,” Rae replied.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“She won’t confirm or deny,” my mother said plainly. Yet no one seemed concerned.

Dad jumped in to defend my sister. “She’s agreed to take the test again under close supervision. And then she will be vindicated.”

“Why don’t you defend yourself like a normal person?” I asked my sister.

“Who is to say what normal is?” Rae asked in response.

“When did you start talking like this?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” was Rae’s only reply.

“Relax, Isabel. It will all work out,” said my father.

“Where does all this trust come from?” I asked my parents.

“What has she done that’s so wrong?” said Mom.

“You can’t be serious,” I replied, and launched into a litany of Rae’s crimes over the last few years. I’ll spare you the wordy diatribe and provide you with the bullet points:

• Harassed her uncle. Stole his property.
  1
  
• Staged her own kidnapping.
  
• Drove without a license. Ran a man over.
  
• Tried to buy booze and porn from local liquor stores.
  2
  
• Got wasted at a party.
  
• Masterminded a vandalism plot against the neighbor’s front yard.
  
• Changed the locks on Henry’s apartment.
  
• Played mind games with Henry’s girlfriend.
  

“But she’s never been incarcerated, has she?” Mom replied.

After dinner, Mom and Dad cleared the table and tried to make a run for it, leaving me with all the dirty dishes. I blocked the front door, locking the deadbolt for dramatic effect, and refused to back down. Mom cooked, so it fell on Dad to do the washing up.

Once the plates were loaded into the dishwasher, my dad decided to have a nightcap before their departure. My father was spending far too much time perusing David’s liquor supply. I poured him a shot of my Jack Daniel’s and told him to drink up and be on his way.

“Why does this taste different?” Dad asked.

“Not sure.”

True answer: “Because it’s eighteen-year-old Glenlivet” (approx. $80). A discriminating houseguest can do a lot with a funnel and some free time. In case you’re wondering what happened to the JD, it’s in the Glenlivet bottle.

Just when I thought I was within minutes of ridding David’s house of the family, the doorbell rang.

My sister rushed to answer. Surely anyone on the other side of the door was more exciting than her own kin.

“What are you doing here?” she asked upon seeing Gabe.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in the same suspicious tone.

“I was making s’mores,” my sister replied, as if that were the perfect justification for her presence. It was one thing for Gabe to accompany his grandfather to a party but another entirely for him to show up unannounced at the door of the home where he knew I’d be. I knew for sure this would raise all four of my parents’ eyebrows.

Since I was in no mood to watch my parents interrogate a friend of mine, I tried to keep the reintroductions brief.

“Mom, Dad, you remember Gabe Schilling, Morty’s grandson. My parents were just leaving.”

“We were?” my dad asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“So nice to see you again,” my mother said, holding out her hand. “How is your grandfather doing?”

“He’s expected to leave the hospital in a few days. My grandmother just flew back to town, so his spirits have improved.”

Mom and Gabe shook hands and then my father shook his hand and I tried to use body language to move everyone toward the door.

“Well, it was great of you to come by,” I said.

Sadly, the only person taking my hint was Gabe. He returned to the foyer and said, “Oh yeah. Nice seeing you all again—”

“Not you,” I said. “I’m trying to get rid of the rest of them. They’ve been here all night.”

You might find this hard to believe, but even
that
line didn’t get my family anywhere in the vicinity of the front door.

“In case you were wondering, Gabe, we raised her with better manners than that,” said my mom.

“No, you didn’t,” I said.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” my dad asked.

Gabe turned to me for instruction.

“He’ll have a Jack Daniel’s,” I said.

My mother sat down on the couch and patted the seat next to her for Gabe. Then Rae sat down on the coffee table across from Gabe and stared at him for a second too long.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Twenty-seven.”

“Can I see some ID?”

“Rae!” I shouted.

“Isabel, why does the bottle of Jack have your name on it?” asked Dad.

“Why are you still here?” I replied. Okay, so I didn’t totally give up.

“Tell me about yourself, Gabe,” said my mother.

While Gabe provided a brief bio that included his rise to fame as a
skateboard star and ended with the responsible-small-business-owner part, my dad made a close and suspicious study of all the amber-hued liquors in David’s bar. Dad tasted the Jack Daniel’s, followed by the Glenlivet, and then he had a thimbleful of the Johnnie Walker Black Label.

“Isabel, how many of these bottles have you tampered with?” Dad asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied impatiently. “I lost track.”

“God, Isabel. That’s just so…what’s the word for it?”

“Ingenious?” I offered.

“Rude,” said my mother.

“Funny,” said Rae.

“Unethical,” said my dad.

That’s when I flipped a switch. “Unethical. Really. Is it more unethical than, say,
cheating on the SATs
?” I asked rather loudly.

“Psssats,” Rae corrected me.

“Innocent people defend themselves against unjust accusations. They don’t evade all direct questioning.”

“She’s retaking the test next week,” Dad calmly interjected. “Then everything will become clear.”

Rae seemed decidedly uninterested in this part of the conversation. “Are you Izzy’s boyfriend?” she asked.

“Get out. All of you. Before I call the cops!”

You might be surprised to learn that they actually left shortly after my final outburst.

The door shut and I breathed in a moment of completely divine silence. Gabe broke it.

“So, you’re heading home tonight?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Where do you live?”

“In the Tenderloin.”

“Where exactly in the Tenderloin?”

“On the corner of Eddy and Hyde.”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven thirty
P
.
M
.”

“I’m working tomorrow.”

“I’ll pick you up the day after that. Same time.”

“For what?”

“Dinner and a movie. No coin-toss this time. You can choose.”

“Is this a date?” I asked.

“Always a pleasure, Izzele,” Gabe said, stretching out his arm for what appeared to be a handshake.

“Nice seeing you again,” I said.

Gabe took my hand and kissed the back of it. The move was so casual and swift someone else might not have even noticed.