Authors: Lisa Lutz
PART-I
Thursday, March 23
0800 hrs
My parents couldn’t hide their joy at landing upon Spellman soil. I suspect they mistook each other’s enthusiasm as that very simple happy-to-be-home feeling. A feeling I had not experienced in quite some time, what with me not having my own home and all.
My mother threw the suitcases inside the door and began her inspection. Rae
1
tailed her every move, asking innocent questions about the cruise, but covertly trying to make sure we hadn’t missed anything in our clean-up. I, on the other hand, kept careful watch on Dad. We would have to talk about his secret soon enough. But I decided to give him time to settle.
When the doorbell rang, it was my father who answered it. I heard the initial exchange from the kitchen.
“Is Isabel Spellman here?”
“Can I ask what this is regarding?”
“Is she home?”
“Isabel!”
I walked to the foyer, unaware that I had just missed my last chance to escape. Not that escaping would have been advised.
“I’m Isabel. What’s going on?” I said as I noticed two uniformed police officers standing in the doorway.
“We have a warrant for your arrest,” the first officer said.
“Huh?” was my numb response.
My father reviewed the warrant. “B and E?”
Dad turned to me with a dazed look on his face. I shrugged my shoulders, playing innocent for the time being.
“What kind of evidence do you have for this charge?”
“Foolproof evidence,” the second officer said. “Mr. Brown had a hidden camera trained on his west-facing window and has a very clear recording of Ms. Spellman climbing through that window and searching the premises.”
My mother entered the room while the officer was outlining my guilt. It had been over twelve years since I committed an actual felony—rephrase, been
caught
committing an actual felony. My mother, unlike during my adolescent years, was unprepared for this moment. She simply gawked in disbelief.
“Is this true?” she asked.
“I can explain,” I replied.
“Stop talking,” my dad said.
Rae heard the commotion from her bedroom and ran downstairs. She watched as the first officer handcuffed me.
“Oh, no,”
was all she said.
“Isabel Spellman,” the officer spoke in a monotone, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”
PART-II
Thursday, March 23
0900 hrs
The last time I was in a holding cell was two years ago, when I “assaulted” my sister after I found out that she had disappeared herself. Since Rae was unharmed and my motivations were of the sympathetic variety, all pending charges were dropped. I had no record. But if the B&E charges stuck, then I would have a record and I could lose my PI license.
I was arraigned four hours after my arrest and bail was set at five thousand dollars. Mom took another eight hours before arriving at the precinct and posting bail. I used that time to affect an unapproachable but nonconfrontational demeanor toward my parade of cell mates. In that half day’s time, without any reading material to occupy my thoughts, I dwelled on the collection of suspicious behavior reports that I had amassed in the previous months and determined that three were worthy of an upgrade to Mystery status. To refresh your memory, the list follows:
The Mystery of Mom
Evidence:
Motorbike vandalism, unmet dental appointments, hostility toward oldest son, unexplained absences.
The Mystery of David
Evidence:
Drinking before noon, grooming standards declining, wife has skipped town, constantly agitated, appears guilty of something, disappearing to a yoga retreat.
The Mystery of “John Brown”
Evidence:
First and last names are conveniently common. Cannot establish a true identity under that name; Subject has offered conflicting dates and places of birth; Subject has responded suspiciously to almost all identifying questions; Subject keeps a secure room in his home for no apparent reason; Subject has been observed having contact with two women who later disappeared. Subject deliberately set me up for a B&E arrest. Why?
The case of my father was solved, although it still needed to be revealed to my mom. On the mostly silent drive “home” with Mom, I contemplated whether I should tell her. I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice Mom was not driving to 1799 Clay Street, but instead pulling up in front of my old apartment in the Avenues.
“Your suitcase is in the trunk,” Mom said. As I was trying to understand her intentions, she clarified. “You can’t stay at our house anymore. Please don’t make me change the locks.”
“Mom, you’re not serious.”
“You just lost the last twelve hours of your life in jail—”
“Technically it’s called a holding cell—”
“—for breaking and entering. I don’t know what to say to you.”
“Don’t you want to know why?”
“I don’t care. You could lose your license. He could file a civil suit against us. We’d be ruined.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. But I
know
he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing. I just want to find out what it is. Maybe help some people.”
Mom unlocked the car door. “Please let the police handle it. Listen, it’s late. I’m tired. The disappearance took a lot out of me,” she said. “Call if you need anything. But you cannot come by the house for at least the next few weeks, until we sort things out with Mr. Brown.”
“What about work?” I asked.
“Your only case is the Chandler job. Try to channel all your investigative energy into finding the thugs who admire your work so much.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied without my usual conviction.
Mom shot me a hard look and popped the trunk. I hoisted my suitcase out of the car and left it on the curb. I walked back to the passenger window and leaned inside. I tried to think of something to say that might justify my actions, but Mom got in the last words.
“You’re thirty years old,” she said, rolling up the window. I stepped back onto the curb and watched her drive away. Her exit line stung more than you might imagine.
I lumbered up the stairs to my old apartment and knocked on the door just to be safe. A deep, male voice grumbled, “It’s open.”
Through a fog of cigar smoke, I spotted five older “gentlemen” seated around a kitchen table littered with beer and pretzels, playing poker. Bernie’s face lit up when he saw me.
“Hey, roomie,” he said, getting to his feet. “Why don’t you give your uncle Bernie a kiss?”
Bernie approached with his arms open for an embrace. I zigzagged past him in a move that resembled something a running back might do and grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator. I noticed the pot of chips on the table. This was no friendly game.
“I could call the cops and shut you down,” I said.
“Sweetheart,” said a sixty-something man with the most chips. “We are the cops.”
Bernie sidled up next to me. “What do you need, Izz?”
“I need to sleep,” I replied, almost in tears.
“Take the bed,” Bernie replied. “Me casa is su casa.”
“Su casa used to actually be mi casa,” I said. “How long is this game going on?”
“Who knows? As long as we can stay awake and no one’s got all our dough.”
“Good-bye,” I said. After a night in a holding cell, I could not face a night with Bernie and four other drunken ex-cops.
My parents, while I was on the inside, had parked my car at Bernie’s legal residence. I decided to stay at a motel that night to clear my head. Apart from solving three mysteries, I had to find a place to live in a city where the percentage of vacant apartments hovers around four percent.
I spent the night at a Days Inn in the Avenues. Mom packed my luggage with the care she might show a cheating husband whom she’s tossing from the house in a fit of anger. I threw on some flannel pajamas and crawled into bed.
My mental landscape made sleep almost impossible. There was something about my mother’s disappointment that flattened me. Putting everything in perspective, John Brown’s secrets were not worth the cost of my family or my career. At least, I understood that intellectually. Sleep only came in the early hours of the morning, when my mind could process no more information.
Friday, March 24
1600 hrs
Rae phoned my cell the next afternoon to suggest I meet her at Daniel’s office for a tête-à-tête
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about the recent goings-on in the Spellman household. Since all I was doing was camping out in a café, drinking far too much coffee and continuing my fruitless background check on Subject, I agreed to meet her.
The debriefing began in the examination room before Daniel entered.
“Has Dad said anything to Mom about his meds?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” Rae replied. “How sick is he?”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s fine. He just has to take care of himself. I’m going to give him a little more time to tell her.”
Daniel entered the examination room. He performed a double-take when he saw me leaning against the corner wall.
“Isabel. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Hi, Daniel,” I said, and then I kissed him on the cheek. “I needed to discuss some matters with Rae and I’m forbidden in the Spellman home, so we thought we’d meet here.”
“Why are you forbidden…scratch that question,” Daniel said wisely. He’d had enough Spellman drama to last a lifetime and would not seek out any more. Daniel put the bib on Rae while I dug for more details.
“Have you witnessed anything unusual from Subject’s residence?” I asked.
“Dad went to talk to him this morning,” Rae said.
“Open your mouth, Rae,” Daniel said, the buzz of the handpiece whirring in the background.
“What was he doing?” I asked.
“Ooing ings oer,” Rae said.
“What?”
“Smoothing things over,” Daniel translated.
“Did it work?”
“Ahh on oohh.”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” Daniel translated. “Rae, are you flossing?”
“Every day,” Rae replied.
“Liar!”
“So, how angry are Mom and Dad?” I asked.
“Rinse,” Daniel said to Rae.
Rae spit a couple times in the sink and started talking before Daniel could get the scaler and mirror back in her mouth.
“Mom’s pretty mad, but I’ve noticed that she’s looking at John Brown differently. Sometimes I catch her watching him from the living room window.”
“Is she still keeping odd hours?”
“Last night I heard her leave at like two
A.M
.”
“Ahem,” Daniel said, clearing his throat. “Is this dental exam interfering with your conversation?”
“No,” I replied pleasantly. “Rae, open your mouth.”
Daniel spoke before I could continue my Q&A.
“Rae, you are aware that you get only one set of adult teeth, right?”
After he removed the handpiece from her mouth and Rae spit, she said, “Is that a rhetorical question?”
The exam ended with X-rays that revealed four new cavities. In a kind of dental
Scared Straight!
Daniel sat Rae down in his office and showed her photographs of what happens to people who never brush their teeth. Rae then reminded Daniel that these were photographs of people who never actually went to the dentist. Then Rae asked a probing question.
“So, like, whenever I get a filling, that’s another place on my tooth where I can no longer get a cavity, right?”
Daniel concurred, but he didn’t like where her argument was taking them.
“So, like, the odds of me getting a cavity decrease every time I get a filling because it reduces the overall area that a cavity could strike?”
Daniel said good-bye to Rae and told her to schedule an appointment the following week to have her cavities filled. While Rae talked with Mrs. Sanchez, the receptionist, Daniel pulled me aside.
“Did you get your invitation?” he asked.
“To what?”
“My wedding. I mailed it over a week ago.”
“I had my mail forwarded and I haven’t checked it in a while.”
“It’s Friday, June twenty-third. Think you can make it?”
“Sure,” I said. “As long as I’m not in jail.”
That was intended as a joke at the time.