Trail of the Spellmans (34 page)

As for the rest of us, all I can say is that we survived. Demetrius and my mother slaved over the stove for two days straight, with Grammy Spellman keeping a close vigil and an almost sportscaster-like commentary. The only difference being that her comments would end with the upturned tone of a question.

You’re putting the pie crust in now?

Do you need an entire stick of butter for the mashed potatoes?

Are you sure you want to cook the turkey at one hundred and sixty degrees?

Oh, so you’re making pecan pie?
²

What’s in the bottle?

D’s gift to Mom that day was politely answering all of Grammy’s questions, while Mom remained serene and mute, like a Buddhist monk.

I like to make the crusts the day before. You don’t sacrifice taste and it saves time.

One day a year, you can splurge.

Any higher and you risk a dry turkey.
³

Yes. That’s what the pecans are for.

Aspirin.

Dad, as usual, sat on his ass and watched one football game after another, carrying on interactively with the TV; Maggie did the same, determined to set a proper example for her daughter. Between the two of them, they went through a six-pack of beer by two o’clock, at which point they started making not-so-friendly wagers on the game. Four beers after that, Dad and Maggie had actually started putting up their cars as collateral until I confiscated the beer and took them for a sobering-up stroll.

David, usually one to sit on the fence of gender roles—one eye on the kitchen, two on the game—this year had all three eyes on Sydney. He killed all of Thursday morning regaling my distracted niece with stories of the early settlers and lies about their friendly cohabitation with the Native Americans.

“Don’t forget to tell her about the blankets with the smallpox,” I said.

“She’s too young for that, Izzy,” David said, annoyed.

“She’s too young for American History 101,” I replied. “And yet you continue. What happened to counting and simple nouns? For instance, a yellow fruit that you peel from the top?”

“It’s three o’clock, Izzy,” David replied. “Aren’t you usually drunk and passed out on the couch by now?”

“I’m evolving,” I replied.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” David replied.

Previous holiday dinners—all of them, really—would eventually devolve into a series of one-on-one bouts, words flung like fists until one individual became the unspoken victor. Tonight, however, began peacefully enough—this being the first T-day with D playing dual roles as guest of honor and chef. The turkey was moist, the stuffing impeccable, the mashed potatoes every bit as good as Crack Mix, and, well, you get my drift. Food-wise it was one for the record books. So we ate ravenously and indulgently and when people are chewing, even the low-mannered Spellman variety, they don’t talk that much, which is a blessing. But at some point you need a breather and conversations begin. And that’s when the trouble started.

Grammy seemed to be taking notes on everyone’s food consumption during the meal and commented accordingly. That’s when most of the family began announcing their weight gain during the meal. The only individuals who refused to play were D, Maggie, and Grammy.

My father could feel the temperature dropping at the table, like a typical San Francisco afternoon. He tried to navigate the conversation into the holiday spirit by suggesting that we go around the table and mention something that we were grateful for that year. He tries this every year and always bombs.

DAD:
I am grateful to be alive and have all of the most important people in my life at this table. Mom?

GRAMMY:
I am grateful for good health and this food we are about to eat and my new companion, Perdita.

DAD:
FourPete.

GRAMMY:
That’s no name for a dog.

DEMETRIUS:
[interrupting to fend off argument] I am grateful for this fine food and the health of my new friends and family, and I am mostly grateful for being a free man.

ME:
No one can follow that.

MOM:
It’s not a competition, Isabel.

ME:
I’m just saying, maybe we should leave it at that.

Then Sydney pointed at the mashed potatoes and said “banana.” Maggie suddenly caught Rae’s eye and gave her a look as sharp as a blade.

“I
know,
” Maggie said. “I know what you did.”

Black Friday was an aptly named day for Rae, who was required to pay not only her debt to society but also her debt to Sydney or Maggie and David. Once my sister-in-law got the lowdown on her sister-in-law’s vile experiments, she wanted her own payback. She also wanted a garden, which was now Rae’s domain. Maggie’s food hangover was spent in front of the computer with my sister as they worked on an interactive landscape design program. If there’s anything Rae hates more than vegetables, it’s vegetation. But the punishment did indeed fit the crime.

GOOD-BYE, WALTER

S
oon after Walter’s return from Saint Louis, he called again. “I think I left the water running in the bathtub.”

“Do you take baths, Walter?”

“No. They’re disgusting. Swimming around in your own filth.”

“I didn’t think so. So how could you have left the water running?”

“I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling. Maybe somebody else did it.”

“But we changed the locks.”

“There are windows, and there are locksmiths and people who know how to pick locks. And I did have to give a key to my super.”

What originally motivated Walter to hire Spellman Investigations had morphed into something else. I was stalling, hoping to figure it out on my own and deal with it accordingly, but I had far too many other unsettled matters on my plate. It was time to stick this one in the dishwasher. I was certain Walter was sabotaging himself; what I didn’t know was why.

And I didn’t have time to waste waiting for Walter to slip up and explain himself. Direct confrontation isn’t always the most thrilling option, but it’s reliably the most expedient. “I can be at your apartment in a half hour. When can you be there?”

“My class is over at five. Five thirty?”

I looked at my watch. Only an hour to kill before my reckoning with
Walter. “I’ll see you then,” I replied. I drove to Walter’s apartment and found his bathtub on a slow drip. But there was no stopper in the tub and therefore no flood. The lock on the door had not been tampered with, and no footprints could be found on the pristine shag rug. In fact, I had developed a keen sense of Walter’s carpet-raking pattern (as opposed to mine) and could easily determine that no one had entered his home since he left that morning.

I raked myself a path to Walter’s couch and picked up an art book on the coffee table. I cracked the spine, realized it hadn’t been opened before, and put it back in its place. I phoned Mr. Slayter to be sure he remembered the events of the previous afternoon and the instructions I had given him. He reminded me that his disease had not progressed very far. Although, when we hung up, he said, “Good-bye, Bella.” I didn’t bother correcting him.

Then I telephoned Vivien Blake and called in a favor. With all the hassle she had caused me and the lost hours I couldn’t bill on doctored reports, I figured she owed me one.

“Do you have a decent digital camera?” I asked.

“It takes video, too,” Vivien replied.

“You need a disguise,” I said.

“Oh, I have that,” she confidently replied. “You want a blonde or a redhead?”

“A blonde. Definitely.
¹

“I don’t know the time yet, but it usually happens on Wednesdays.”

“No problem,” Vivien replied.

Then I heard the key in the door.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said.

Walter entered and smiled hesitantly. “Isabel, so nice to see you in the flesh.”

“That’s usually how you see a person.”

“Right.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

“Can I make you a cappuccino first?” he asked.

I thought this might be my last perfect cup of Walter cappuccino, so I agreed. Then I waited for twenty minutes while he brewed the flawless beverage. He even made a little four-leaf-clover design in the froth. I almost regretted what I was about to do. Almost.

Walter took a seat next to mine and managed to ignore the sock treads he’d left behind. “Drink it while it’s hot,” he said.

I took a sip.

“How is it?”

“Excellent, as always,” I replied.

“You look like you have something on your mind, although I’m not sure what you’d look like if you had nothing on your mind.”

I took another sip of coffee and put it on the coffee table. Walter picked up the coffee and slid a coaster underneath. It was a glass table. They don’t need coasters, I hear, but I didn’t say anything.

“Why have you been lying to me, Walter?”

“Excuse me?”

“When I first started working for you, I was checking on nothing. You thought something was on fire, but it wasn’t; you thought you’d left a faucet dripping, but you hadn’t; maybe an electrical cord was plugged in, but it was unplugged, or the window was ajar, but you only open your windows twice a week to clear the air—and you only do that in the morning when the air is freshest. For two months I entered your home to check if anything was amiss, and nothing was ever amiss. Then, suddenly, things start to go wrong. Bathtubs overflow, footprints are left on the carpet, electrical appliances are mysteriously plugged in, and toast is made. Around that time I got a series of phone calls from your ex-wife.”

“Sasha called you?”

“Yes. She gets your phone bill and saw you dialing this number repeatedly.
She called it and heard a female voice and assumed that you had moved on.”

“I see,” said Walter. “She never told me.”

“Your wife had a key, as you admitted, so I came to the logical conclusion. That is, until I confronted your wife.”

“You spoke to Sasha?”

“I did.”

“You should have mentioned that.”

“Maybe, but I needed to understand what was going on.”

“And what’s going on?” Walter nervously asked.

“Honestly, Walter, I don’t know. All I know is that your ex-wife isn’t doing this to you, and no stranger is, either. I surveilled your house one night when you didn’t know it and nobody came or left—except one elderly neighbor—and when you returned home, you called me because something else was amiss. So there is only one conclusion I can draw: You’re doing this to yourself. The next logical question is, why?”

“Let me explain,” Walter said, inching closer to me on the couch.

“Please do.”

“I worry all the time. Never a day goes by that I don’t think something has gone wrong and I needed your help.”

“And I did what you asked. But then you started sabotaging yourself.”

Walter remained silent.

“You flooded your own bathroom, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Yes,” Walter replied, staring at the raked carpet.

“You made toast?”

“I did.”

“How did you manage the power outage?”

“I phoned PG&E while you were vacuuming your trunk.”

“But why?”

“I started to worry that if nothing ever happened, if nothing was ever out of place, perhaps you’d quit or suggest I hire a student or pass me along to someone else or tell me to get help again.”

“Eventually, I might have suggested you hire a student. They work for cheap and there are probably a few who have a serious case of OCD.”

“But I didn’t want that,” Walter said. “I wanted your help and so I figured I had to keep you engaged in the problem. And then sometimes you would come over when I was here, not at the campus, and I liked that. And I wanted to see you more. And I really liked that date we went on when we followed your sister.”

“It wasn’t a date, Walter.”

“We could go on a date, maybe. Couldn’t we? I know about your boyfriend.”

“How do you know about that?” I said.

“It’s obvious. You’re all wrinkled and buttons are missing and you’re sad and you weren’t like that before.” Walter inched closer to me on the couch. His hand hovered above my knee. “Anyway, that doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t matter, Walter,” I curtly replied. His hand shifted back to his own leg. “I’m sorry. But I need to be firm here. Our relationship is professional and will remain that way. Unfortunately, I don’t think I should be your primary contact anymore.”

“I think you’d be good for me.”

“You can’t even get in my car, Walter.”

“You could get a new car.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t feel the same way.”

“I see. Well, that’s different. I’m sorry to hear that,” Walter calmly replied.

He remained seated on the couch but seemed a bit stunned.

“I understand what it’s like to be lonely,” I said. “And I know that you have challenges that perhaps some other people don’t have. I still believe that you should seek professional help, but in the meantime my mother can check on things while you’re at work. She is a very small, clean woman who will leave things just so. It’s been a pleasure knowing you, Walter.”

I held out my hand. Walter shook it limply.

“I guess this is good-bye,” he said.

“Good-bye, Walter.”

$$ JUSTICE 4 MERRI-WEATHER $$ AND A FEW OTHERS

S
hortly before Thanksgiving, David finally broke the news to Maggie about what Rae had done. He also explained his reluctance to retaliate based on his own youthful exploitation of his baby sister. Since Maggie didn’t have any comparable guilt, she relished the chance to enact punitive measures against Rae and followed her instincts. But still, adjusting to my family had taken its toll at times. Something about the sheer insanity of the banana debacle left Maggie with a slightly queasy feeling in her gut. What other Spellman skeletons would one day come out to haunt her? One evening when David was trying to undo the damage done, giving Sydney a thorough lesson on all the common fruits, Maggie knocked on the door to the in-law unit and said, “Let’s get out of here.”