Trail of the Spellmans (26 page)

I waited a moment to see whether D was going to offer an explanation. I didn’t see one coming, and like most things, I couldn’t just let it slide.

“Those pills are mostly . . . are you depressed?” I asked.

“I was in prison for fifteen years.”

“But now you’re out.”

“Isabel, don’t get me wrong, being out is . . . great. I thank the Lord every day.

“He had nothing to do with it.”

“We will agree to disagree.”

“Whatever,” I replied. “Go on.”

“Did you think when I got sprung I was going to be as good as new?”

“I figured you’d have a few convict habits to break, like guarding your food and eating super fast—you don’t really do that, do you . . . but . . . yeah. I guess that’s what I thought.”

“Even freedom takes some getting used to.”

D woke his computer and returned to work. I waited an awkward moment before I spoke.

“Um, D—”

“Isabel, I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“I understand. But, um, I’m still out of staples.”

BERNIEGATE

T
had labored for hours amassing evidence against Bernie. And, if I do say so myself, my work on this case was well above par. As I painted the finishing touches of what I came to call Berniegate, I began to think of it as a parting gift to Henry.

Unfortunately it was a gift he would never see.

The next afternoon I waited until Bernie was at the bar and then phoned Gerty to see if she would meet me for lunch.

After we were seated at a corner table, we had to dispense with the elephant in the restaurant.

“Henry told me,” she said.

“I figured,” I replied.

“You were good for him. I worry sometimes. He’s so much like his father. Everything has to be just so.”

“It was my fault,” I said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—I don’t know why.”

“That’s not the kind of thing you apologize for. Only you know what’s going on in that head of yours. No one else can tell you what to want.”

“It goes against nature, doesn’t it? Not wanting to procreate?”

“The unfortunate tattoo I have on my ass goes against nature,” Gerty
said. “Modern medicine, electricity, cars, cell phones, four-inch heels, fake tits, Botox, hair color, all go against nature. And there are a lot of natural things that I wouldn’t abide. Like an overgrowth of nose hairs or foot fungus. We have an infinite number of choices in front of us. All you can do is make the choice that’s right for you. Of course, I wouldn’t give this same speech to a serial killer, but I think you get my drift.”

I did. I got her drift. And midspeech, I realized she wasn’t just talking about me and Henry. She was also explaining—not justifying—her relationship with Bernie. That inch-thick file folder I had been carrying around with me for a week? I shoved it back in my bag and decided then and there that Gerty would never see it. Only she could know what was going on in that head of hers.

We finished lunch and stepped out into your typical foggy San Francisco day. She gave me a warm embrace and said, “You would have been a great daughter-in-law.” Gerty caught a cab and told me that she was spending the afternoon at MOMA. I took my file and drove to the Philosopher’s Club. While Gerty would never see my investigative masterpiece, I couldn’t let all that hard work go to waste.

When Bernie saw me enter the bar, he turned to his collection of clean pint glasses and started shining them again as if they were champagne flutes in a swanky hotel. He refused to make eye contact, but when I sat down at the bar and ordered a beer, he obliged.

He served me a pint in the cleanest glass. I tried to pay him, but Bernie slid my money away.

“On the house.”

“Why?”

“We used to be friends,” Bernie said. “Remember those days?”

“I don’t remember them the same way you do.”

That statement could not have been truer.

“What happened to us?” Bernie asked.

“You know what happened,” I replied.

“Let it be, Izzy. Gerty and I are just two old ships who collided in the night. It’s romantic, if you think about it,” he said.

“Your phrasing isn’t,” I replied.

“How long are you going to hold this grudge against me?”

“I’m done. You can stop looking over your shoulder.”

“You’re giving us your blessing?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But be good to her, Bernie. I know that woman very well. You get up to any of your old tricks and she’ll leave you in a flash.”

“She makes me want to be a better man,” Bernie said.

“Lame movie quotes won’t get you anywhere with her,” I said.

“Already did,” Bernie replied with a lewd wink.

“My business is done here. I just wanted to leave you with this,” I said as I tossed the file folder on top of the bar.

“Oh yeah? What is it?” Bernie asked.

“Evidence,” I replied. “Think of it as a reminder of the kind of man you can be.”

I left Bernie and his background report behind. I thought a paper trail of Bernie’s misspent middle age might convince Gerty that their relationship was doomed. But it was my plan that was doomed. Gerty chose Bernie because of his flaws—I suspect in part because he was so different from the man she had married. By highlighting them, I doubt I could have persuaded her to make a run for it. Although I’m fairly certain I could have planted a few doubts in her mind. The report contained photographic evidence of his previous homes and the state of debauchery into which he could sink; it included compromising photos from strip clubs and poker parlors that I found in my uncle Ray’s old photo albums and affidavits
¹
from every Bernie paramour I could track down in the
California/Nevada region, documenting years of dishonesty and vulgarity. Of the seven deadly sins, Bernie was a regular with six. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t pin wrath on him. To his credit, he never had much of a temper.

After lunch I returned to the house and found only my father in the office.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“I ask myself that all the time,” Dad replied.

“And you still didn’t answer my question.”

“Your mother’s at the library, picking up her latest book club tome. She’s hosting tonight. Then she’s off to the store to buy frozen appetizers and white wine.”

“Sounds like a fun evening. I’m surprised D didn’t offer to cook. Where is he, by the way?”

“He offered to take your grandmother to a matinee.”

“What?”

“A movie. In the afternoon.”

“I’m aware of the term. But what are
they
doing going to a movie together?”

“A Morgan Freeman film is playing.”

“Whose idea?”

“I don’t know. He just asked for the afternoon off because my mother won’t go to films after six
P.M.
”

“Why not?”

“She thinks that’s when the more unsavory types show up.”

“Who cares? Isn’t it weird that they’re hanging out?”

“Yes, Isabel. But so many things in my world are that I’m starting to pay less attention.”

With the cat away, my father then foraged in the kitchen for something to eat. Rae or my mother must have inadvertently left a stash of the Crack
Mix outside of the safe. Dad picked it up and brought it into the office. Since he thought it was his regular Chex Mix, he didn’t indulge immediately. He opened a diet soda, leaned back in his chair, and gave me one of those sympathetic glances. “You okay, Izzy?”

“Yep.”

“You want to talk about anything?”

“I’d love to talk about the Slayter case.”

“I think we should talk about your feelings instead.”

“I feel sad that you don’t trust me with work-related information.”

“I meant we should talk about Henry.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You sure? Because I think you should be talking to somebody.”

“I’m positive.”

“If you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

“But, if you do . . .”

Dad kept staring at me, as if he were attempting to mind-read. Not that I thought he was capable of it, but I found it unnerving nonetheless. Besides, I knew that he’d pick up the topic again in five minutes or so, hoping to wear me down. So I found an opportunity and took it.

I approached his desk and scooped out a handful of Crack Mix. I left the lion’s share behind.

“Be careful with this stuff,” I said. “There’s no turning back.”

Dad reached into the bag and took his first bite of the manna from heaven. “What is this?” he said.

“It’s the Crack Mix we’ve been talking about all the time.”

Dad held the bag up to the light, gobsmacked, and said, “It’s the best snack food in the history of snack food.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty great,” I said.

“What the hell have I been eating all this time?” Dad asked.

I think he might have actually been tearing up.

“Just plain cereal with some unsalted nuts.”

My mother would kill me if she knew I’d opened the door of this finger-food Pandora’s box, but I’m the master of deflection. And I succeeded in steering my father away from having a heart-to-heart conversation with me. No good can come of that.

EDWARD SLAYTER VS. CHARLIE BLACK

S
unday evenings were Edward Slayter’s poker night.

In the past five years, he’d skipped it only once, when he had the flu. So when Margaret overheard a phone call with one of his poker buddies in which he begged off for the night, she promptly phoned me and asked if I was available for last-minute surveillance. My schedule was wide open and since that Sunday was Halloween I was happy to have something to occupy my time. While I’ve never minded the glut of leftover candy, All Hallows’ Eve has always gotten under my skin. For one thing, it always catches me unawares. I’m walking to the bus or work or a job and suddenly a skeleton appears or Charlie Chaplin or a weak imitation of Britney Spears.
¹
But what gets to me most is the sheer volume of women who use the holiday as an excuse to dress up like a hooker or a sexy cat.
²
Ladies, what’s wrong with Fidel Castro? Get some military fatigues, a green cap, a mustache, a lit cigar, and you’re out the door.

Mr. Slayter left his home at six
P.M.
and had his driver take him to the Mechanics’ Institute on Post Street, where there’s a chess club with open play. I had been surveilling Slayter for two months at this point. This was the first time I ever saw him attend a chess club.

He immediately found a partner for a match. Considering my recent breakup, this arena seemed cosmically brutal, but I figured I could blend. Well, not exactly. Many of the patrons were in subtle costume, Bobby Fischer suits, maybe, and I gathered a few other sartorial homages were going on, but not being an expert on chess, I can only comment that there were a few unusual ensembles in the mix, but that’s always the case in San Francisco. But no hookers or sexy cats, thank you very much. There were a number of officious individuals who wished to make me feel welcome. I asked if I could just watch, and then I lurked in a corner. One of those officious individuals questioned whether I could see anything from the corner and I pulled my binoculars from my bag.

“We offer lessons,” the officious man said.

“I’ll think about it,” I replied.

I watched Slayter through my binoculars. He had changed into a cardigan and corduroy trousers after his day in a suit. It made him look more regular, as if he’d made an effort to appear unassuming. He ran his fingers through his hair and squinted, staring intently at the chessboard, as if there was something there that was just out of his vision.

“Jane?” a male voice said. Then he said it again. I didn’t respond because my name isn’t Jane. Then I could sense a male presence standing next to me.

“Jane, is that you?” the voice said louder, as if maybe I had earplugs in.

I turned around to find Charlie Black.

I’m not sure why I was surprised—chess is his game—but it’s always disconcerting seeing someone out of context. Once I saw my ex-shrink at a hardware store and I had to leave immediately.

“Hello?” I said.

It had only been a few days since we last met, but something was different about Charlie.

“You look nice,” I said.

“My sister visited. She made me get a haircut and a new sweater.”

“I like both.”

“Thank you,” Charlie said. “I thought maybe you swore off chess after our game.”

“No, I swore off it later.”

“Then what are you doing here, Jane?”

“I have a confession to make.”

“It’s good to confess.”

“My name isn’t Jane.”

“Do you feel better now?”

“I do.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Isabel.”

“I like it. Why did you lie?”

“I don’t tell strangers my name,” I said.

“I can understand that policy,” Charlie replied. “So does that mean we’re not strangers anymore?”

“I guess not.”

“So what are you doing here, if you’re not playing chess?”

“I’m just hanging out, watching a few games. I have binoculars.”

“I don’t believe you, Isabel,” Charlie said, but he said it in a friendly way, so I didn’t mind.

“I’m not being a hundred percent honest.”

“That’s okay. We don’t know each other very well.”

As if to punctuate this point, we spent the next few minutes in complete silence.

“You come here often, Charlie?” I asked.

I thought Charlie might think my question was funny, but he didn’t.

“Once or twice a week,” he said.

“You see the man at the third table to the right?”

“With the gray hair?” Charlie asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s your friend, isn’t it? The one who doesn’t wave.”

“You have a good memory.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Have you seen him here before?” I asked.

“No.”

“Do you need money, Charlie?”

“I’m not interested in breaking the law.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”