Authors: Lisa Lutz
(THE WINE COUNTRY)
F
riday afternoon, just after Rae got home from school, my parents packed their car and began the two-hour drive north from San Francisco to Napa Valley.
My mother asked me to keep an eye on Rae during the afternoon while David was still at work. I used this time to make contact with the Detroit PI—Gus Nordvent—to see what information he could come up with on Linda Truesdale. An hour later, Gus phoned me back.
“Your girl has got a record,” Gus said optimistically as soon as I got him on the line. The truth is, PIs love finding dirt. For us, it’s good news. Plus, it makes you feel more justified in getting paid.
“What did she do?” I asked.
“Wrote some bad checks when she was nineteen. A forgery charge when she was twenty. Looks like she was siphoning money from a restaurant where she worked. She’s also got a juvie record, but, you know, that’s sealed.”
“Did she do time?”
“Four months in a minimum security.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“It looks like she’s been a good girl since.”
I hung up the phone and entered the kitchen. Rae sat at the Formica table eating a snack of pretzels and M&M’s, studying a math test she’d gotten back with a score of 68 percent.
“So now you’re throwing all your tests?” I asked.
“No,” Rae replied, staring down at the exam. “I studied for this.”
My sister then excused herself and said she needed a nap. I waited five minutes and circled the perimeter of the house, waiting for her to escape through the window. After ten minutes, I went back inside and tiptoed up the steps, opened her door, and saw her fast asleep. It occurred to me that if I was going to maintain an overnight surveillance on my sister this weekend I, too, needed my rest. I went downstairs and slept on the couch.
A few hours later, I awoke to the jarring sounds of pots and pans clanking in the kitchen. I got off the couch and found Rae ransacking the pantry.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“Something to make for dinner.”
“Why don’t you order in?”
“I feel like cooking,” Rae replied.
David unlocked the front door just as I was about to take my leave.
“Warning,” I said, “she’s planning on cooking you dinner.”
“I just ate!” David shouted at the top of his lungs.
Rae exited the kitchen.
“You can go now, Isabel,” Rae said.
“Why are you trying to get rid of me?”
“I don’t need two prison guards,” she replied. Then she turned to David, staring at his un-lawyer-like ensemble, and said, “What are you wearing?”
“I just went to the gym,” David answered, tossing his bag on the couch.
“Are you going to take a shower?” Rae asked.
“What’s it to you?”
“I have a friend coming over for dinner,” she said.
“What friend?” I asked.
“I thought you were leaving,” Rae replied.
And so I left. I returned to my new home without any concern for David’s schedule, had a snack, read the paper, dropped by the bar to borrow Milo’s car, and returned two hours later to begin my stakeout outside the Spellman residence.
2000 hrs
I missed the arrival of Rae’s unfortunate dinner guest. I should have known that the victim of Rae’s cooking would be a surprise, since the usual suspects would never willingly consume a meal prepared by her.
1
The lights and shadows in the foyer and dining area indicated that Rae’s company had not yet departed. However, the identity of the dinner guest was a shock, to say the least. Shortly after nine
P
.
M
., one Maggie Mason exited the Spellman home.
I had not seen or spoken to Maggie since our awkward dinner at Henry’s house. I had considered calling her after I realized my mother was behind her “investigation,” but when Henry told me of their breakup, I couldn’t bring myself to make contact, as if I had to choose sides. I wondered if Rae’s dinner invitation to Maggie was simply her way of retaliating against Henry’s hostile stance. The problem with that theory is that it didn’t explain why David was there.
I maintained my post for two more hours after Maggie’s departure, but all I could see were the shadows of David and my sister watching television in the family room. They were in for the night, so I left. I returned to David’s house, hunted long and hard for parking, and went to bed. Strangely, with David out of the house, I managed to sleep almost five hours straight. When I woke up, I told myself that this was caused by simple exhaustion—I’d been so tired that my body finally relented. I didn’t acknowledge that I slept because my subconscious knew that at least that night I wouldn’t be caught.
Saturday I picked up my surveillance once again, only to spend another night observing my brother and sister watching television together in the family room. I phoned David to see what they had planned for the evening. I felt vaguely pathetic making this call from the cold discomfort of Milo’s overly pine-scented Toyota Camry.
“What’s up, Izzy?” David said upon answering the phone.
“Nothing. Just wanted to see how everything was going.”
“Fine,” David replied. “We’re watching
Trail of the Pink Panther.
”
“What would possess you to do that?”
“Because we watched the rest of the series last night and this is the only one left.”
“But it’s awful,”
2
I said.
“I explained that to Rae,” said David, “but she wanted to see the entire oeuvre. And, to answer your next question, yes, she actually used that word.”
“Did she pronounce it correctly?”
“No. But neither could you.”
“Are you going to watch the whole film?”
“It’s not so bad. David Niven is back. I like him.”
“Who doesn’t?” I replied. “How was last night?”
“Rae just baked some frozen hors d’oeuvres,” he replied.
“You dodged a bullet.”
I was expecting Maggie to come up somewhere in this conversation, but no luck. I played my cards close and didn’t inquire.
“Was there a reason you called?” David asked.
“So, you’re in for the evening?”
“Yes,” David said.
“Okay,” I replied, pausing for an invitation.
“Talk to you later,” David said, and hung up the phone.
From the car I phoned Petra to see what she was up to, but the call went straight to voice mail and then I vaguely remembered that she and Gabe were going to a movie or skateboarding, or whatever it is the kids do for fun these days. Len and Christopher were at the moment onstage in a production of
The Vagina Monologues.
3
I decided to return Milo’s car to the bar. It was a Saturday night, which used to mean a dozen customers and maybe a short wait for a game of pool, and sometimes dead silence because no one put any money in the jukebox. This night, it meant there was one empty bar stool amid a sea of students, the requisite San Francisco hipsters, regulars, and Irish people from god knows where. If I put a song on the jukebox, I wouldn’t hear it until hours later.
Connor and Jimmy tended bar. A young male playing the part of a fop—tweed coat, ascot, pink shirt—sidled up next to me.
“Hello there,” he said, all friendly.
Connor then approached, pulled a letter from beneath the bar, and slid it in front of me. He eyed the fop and said, “Keep moving, friend, she’s all wrong for you.”
The fop didn’t move. Connor smiled, but it didn’t look friendly.
“Move along, now,” he said. And suddenly Connor looked terrifying. The fop did some sort of medieval bow, which looked quite silly. Connor rolled his eyes and turned to me.
“A drink?” he asked, not waiting for a thank-you or anything.
“Why not?” I replied, and then I smiled. I love it when people move along.
Connor poured my whiskey and said, “I coulda sworn I’d go ta my grave without seeing Isabel Spellman smile. Thank you, orgeous.”
For once, I could understand him. Sort of. Wisely, Connor didn’t linger. He, too, moved along and served one of the many customers angling for his attention. I broke the seal on the envelope and opened the letter.
I Said Go To the Museum
Not the Zoo
Go 2 Sfmoma This Week Or
Ur Secret Will B Exposed
The next time Connor passed my way, I asked when the letter had arrived. This one was delivered, not mailed. Connor said it came sometime in the afternoon—after four
P
.
M
. My parents were home packing at that time; Rae was either in school or in her room. While it was possible that one of them was still my blackmailer, I had to rethink matters. Was it possible that David knew?
All at once the noise, the people, and the smell of beer became unpleasant. I left the bar without checking on Milo and went to see the one person who always seemed to be on my mind.
I
expected to find Henry home that evening, since he was supposed to be home later that night to be at the ready for our now-derailed sting operation on Rae. I figured he’d be reading a book or something. I didn’t figure that, two weeks after being dumped by Maggie, he’d be in the midst of another date.
It took me by surprise. I’m telling you this to explain my subsequent behavior.
“Isabel, what are you doing here?” Henry said when he opened the door.
“I didn’t feel like going home,” I replied. “Are you going to let me in or what?”
Sometimes I don’t read body language very well. Since there was enough space between Henry and the door frame for me to slip past, I entered his apartment. In retrospect, I entered without invitation. On Henry’s couch sat a woman who had hair and was wearing clothes. I think she must have been drinking something, but everything was a bit of a blur. Her surprise and Henry’s awkwardness upon my entrance clued me in right away that I was interrupting a date.
“Hi,” I said.
I think Henry then introduced us, but honestly, I couldn’t tell you her name.
“I’m Henry’s life coach,” I said, because it annoys Henry when I tell people that. Although I must admit, I got no joy from it this time.
The date, who I’ve reduced in my memory to a life-sized smudge, smiled uncomfortably and turned to Henry for an explanation.
“Isabel was in the neighborhood,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not sounding all that sorry. “Have I interrupted something?”
The Smudge smiled or frowned. Who can tell?
Henry said, “Yes, you have. Maybe you could come back tomorrow.”
“But I have some important business to discuss with you now,” I said.
“I’m sure it can wait,” Henry replied.
“What makes you so sure?” I asked.
“It’s getting late,” the Smudge said. “I should go.”
“Isn’t it?” I said, agreeing enthusiastically.
“It’s ten thirty,” Henry interjected.
“She’s got a watch,” I said.
The Smudge stood, confirming her previously stated plans.
“A pleasure meeting you,” she said to me, which I thought was inappropriately friendly.
“Likewise,” I said for the first time in my life.
Another blurry exchange happened in the doorway as the Smudge made her exit. My vision cleared up when Henry returned to the apartment with a high-definition scowl on his face.
“That was incredibly rude,” he said.
“Yes, she shouldn’t have left so abruptly.”
“What is the problem, Isabel?”
“Nothing,” I replied, eyeing a plate of crackers on the coffee table. I had a sudden urge to pick up the crackers and hurl them at Henry, one by one, with a g-force never before experienced by a cracker. Then I had a separate urge to toss them on the floor and crunch them into the carpet with my shoe. Then, you’ll be happy to hear, I had a sudden urge to hang on to whatever dignity I had left.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have interrupted your date.”
I sat down on Henry’s couch and eyed the plate of cheese and crackers with an entirely different urge.
“Are you hungry?” Henry asked.
“Yes.”
“Help yourself.”
I did.
As I was snacking on Henry’s leftover date food, trying not to feel too sorry for myself, it occurred to me that I had for the first time in my life the perfect excuse to invite Henry on a social outing.
“I have to go to the museum sometime,” I said. (Do you see where I’m going with this?)
“Why do you have to go to the museum?” Henry asked.
“I thought I could go to the zoo instead, but apparently I have to go to the museum.”
“Still didn’t answer my question,” Henry replied.
“I know,” I said. “So, do you want to go sometime?”
“Why not?” Henry replied.
It suddenly occurred to me that I should get out of his home as soon as possible. I’m always in danger of ruining things one way or another, so before he could inquire further about the motives behind my sudden interest in culture, I decided to make my exit.
“Thanks for the snack,” I said. “I’ll call you.”
O
n my way to Dr. Rush’s office, Ernie phoned to inform me that Sharon and Linda would be meeting for lunch that day. I’m always looking for a good excuse to skip a therapy session, so I quickly switched directions, heading south on the 101 to Burlingame. I also phoned Dr. Rush to inform her of my change in plans.
ISABEL:
Hi, Dr. Rush, I have to cancel my session today. Something came up with work. Sorry about the late notice.
DR. RUSH:
Do you want to make up the session this week or next?
ISABEL:
You wouldn’t consider letting me slide for just this week?
1
DR. RUSH:
No. I wouldn’t.
ISABEL:
I see.
DR. RUSH:
I have a twelve noon opening on Friday.
[Long pause.]
ISABEL:
I guess I’ll see you Friday, Dr. Rush.
My surveillance on Linda began outside the Black residence. At 12:35
P
.
M
. she exited their home dressed in an outfit with a price tag that might have given her husband a heart attack—an outfit most likely gifted by Sharon Bancroft.
Forty-five minutes later, Linda and Sharon had a window table at Boulevard on Mission Street—one of the many fine San Francisco restaurants where I have not had the pleasure of dining. Since there wasn’t much information I could cull from their lunch orders, I found a metered parking space two blocks away. I searched my car for reading material and found a two-week-old newspaper and a bit of poetry on an old coffee cup. I knew the lunch would last at least an hour, so I exited my car and walked two blocks to the closest newsstand.
I purchased a
Chronicle
and a pack of gum and grabbed a free
SF Weekly.
As I headed back in the direction of my car, I saw a black Lincoln Town Car with darkened windows pull into a red zone right in front of me. I’d started to walk around the vehicle when the back window rolled down and a grim but well-groomed man in a suit (at least a suit jacket—I couldn’t at the moment vouch for the rest of his outfit) made eye contact.
“Ms. Spellman, we need to have a talk,” he said.
“Do I know you?” I replied. (FYI, I didn’t.)
“Please get in,” he said. And then the driver got out of the car and opened the back passenger-side door.
In case you were wondering, the well-groomed fellow was indeed wearing pants. But his being fully clothed and having a driver didn’t entirely soothe my sense of personal security. Obviously I wasn’t just going to get into the car.
“Hang on a second,” I said as I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and pressed the number three speed dial. I held up my index finger to let the well-groomed and fully clothed man know that I respected his time, but there was some matter I had to attend to first.
“Hi, Dad,” I said into my father’s voice mail. “I’m about to get into a black Lincoln Town Car on Main and Mission Street to have a chat with a
man with a full head of brown hair, approximately forty-five years of age, with an excellent tan. The license plate of the car is XXXYYY.
2
If I don’t call you back in—” I covered the mouthpiece on the phone and said to the man in the back seat, “How long do you think this will take?”
“No more than twenty minutes, I hope.”
“If I don’t call you back in twenty-five minutes, Dad, please call the cops. Okay, bye,” I said, and hung up the phone.
“Where were we?” I asked as I got into the back of the car and sat across from the fully suited gentleman.
“Let me get straight to the point,” he said.
“Do you have a name?”
“Call me Frank,” he replied.
“Is that actually your name or just the name you want me to call you?”
“Frank” ignored my question, pulled a white envelope out of his breast pocket, and handed it to me. Inside was a stack of $100 bills. I counted slowly while “Frank” watched. There were fifty of them. You do the math. I’m sure it’ll be faster than mine.
“I’m flattered, ‘Frank,’
3
but I’m not that kind of girl. But even if I were, I’m not worth this kind of money.”
“Ms. Spellman, I’ve seen your bank account. This money could keep you for a while.”
“What is it that you want from me?” I asked.
“Information.”
“I don’t have any information. Do you?”
“Who hired you?” “Frank” asked.
“Who hired you?”
Long, awkward silence. As previously mentioned, I’m really comfortable with that these days; therapy has been good for me.
“Is there any way I can compel you to cooperate?” Frank asked.
“Under the threat of violence, I’d sing like a canary,” I said, tossing the envelope on the seat next to Frank.
“I’m not that kind of man,” he replied.
“What kind of man are you?” I asked.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Spellman.”
On cue, the driver opened the passenger-side door, hinting not-so-subtly for my exit. I hopped out of the car and turned back to look at “Frank” one last time, to log him into my memory.
“What just happened here?” I asked.
“Watch your step, Isabel,” was the last thing he said. The driver shut the passenger door and quickly pulled onto the road.
As I walked back to my car, I wondered just what kind of mess I had gotten myself into. An hour and fifteen minutes later, after the women had finished their fancy lunch and returned to their cars, I decided to follow Sharon home. While we both crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, my phone rang.
“Isabel! Isabel. Are you alright?” my dad said.
“Oops,” I said. I had left the message but forgot to call him back. “Sorry, Dad. I’m fine.”
“Give me the code phrase,” he said.
“No, that’s not my marijuana,”
4
I said.
“You almost gave me a heart attack. I picked up my voice mail, heard your call, and realized that it happened an hour ago. What’s going on?”
“I’m fine, Dad. I’ll call you later with some kind of explanation, if I can figure out what’s going on. Bye.”
I hung up as my dad was shouting my name. I followed Sharon to her Mill Valley home. The tony neighborhood in Marin didn’t lend itself to long-term stakeouts. I tailed Sharon to see if anyone else was tailing her.
As far as I could tell, no one was. Sharon entered her home and I returned to the city.
On my return across the bridge, Milo phoned me.
“There’s a guy at the bar asking around for you. What do you want me to tell him?”
“Tell him I’ll be right there.”