Revenge of the Spellmans (22 page)

S
aturday morning at ten
A
.
M
., I had to make a dangerous escape from David’s house. My brother, like clockwork, goes for a nine
A
.
M
. Saturday run (five miles). I had just assumed he had departed when at approximately nine forty-five I exited our residence
1
and circled the perimeter, just as David was leaving through the front door. I quickly backed into some shrubbery and managed to go unnoticed, but it was an extremely close call, which sent my adrenaline surging.

On the way to my parents’ house, I theorized about David’s new un-clockwork-like schedule. Then it occurred to me that David might have actually quit his job. Or, even worse, gotten fired. Then I began theorizing about why he got fired. I had some interesting theories, but they seemed a bit too sensational to entertain.
2
Fortunately, hard labor quieted my mind.

After arriving at 1799 Clay Street, I filled a bucket with water and dish soap and began scrubbing my father’s midnight blue Audi. Halfway through my lathering-up of the vehicle, Rae exited the house looking both curious and suspicious.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I replied.

“Washing Dad’s car with the window still open. He’s gonna kill you.”

“Shit. Where are the keys?”

Rae pulled the keys from her pocket and tossed them at me. I opened the door, cleaned up the mess as best I could, turned on the engine so I could start the heater to dry the seat, closed the window, and continued my assigned task.

My sister studied me suspiciously.

“How much is he paying you?” she asked, as if no amount of money could get her to do the same.

I almost replied
Nine hundred dollars a month
but remembered my rule of silence.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“It was dirty,” I replied. The tone of my sister’s inquiry indicated to me with almost complete certainty that she was not my blackmailer. The next logical choice was Dad. Therefore, when my father exited the house and questioned my activity, I played it like the knowing victim.

“Isabel, what are you doing?”

“Washing your car,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Why?”

“You know.”

Dad pretended like he didn’t and said, “We got your note.”

“I got
your
note,” I said.

“What note?”

“Fine. If that’s how you want to play it…”

“Excuse me?” said Dad.

“Can I assume you’re speaking to me now?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m speaking to you.”

“When I’m done with the car, I need to talk to you about something.”

“I’ll take you to lunch.”

“What is it with you and lunch?” I asked.

“Don’t forget the hubcaps,” Dad said. “I like to see them sparkle.”

My mom insisted that Dad and I have lunch alone, so we decided to go to a crepe place on Polk Street where she once claimed to have gotten food poisoning. My father made a big show of ordering the Greek salad. While my dad searched for all the nonvegetable items in his lunch, I told him about my discovery at Harkey’s office. This was serious information: I caught his mortal enemy breaking the law. I half expected my dad to hoot and holler when I passed on this groundbreaking news.

Instead, Dad sat in contemplative silence, deconstructing cubes of feta cheese.

“This case you’re working on,” Dad said. “Are you going to be able to let it go?”

“Once I figure out what’s going on,” I said.

“Curiosity is a good characteristic for this job, but you need to strike a balance. Maybe you should get a hobby.”

“Like what?”

“I have an idea. Why don’t you come with me to one of my yoga classes? I find it very relaxing.”

“Change the subject now, before I lose my entire lunch,” I said.

“Sheesh. It was just a suggestion.”

“Say something quickly to clear that image from my head.”

My father rolled his eyes and consulted the ceiling: “Have you gotten everything you need from Harkey?”

Come to think of it, I had. I think. As far as I could tell.

“Yes, I think so,” I replied.

“Give notice Tuesday,” my dad said. He wasn’t asking, he was telling. “But stay on good terms with Harkey.”

“Why?” I asked, only hours into my plan of creating havoc with his files.

“I have my reasons,” Dad replied cagily.

“Would you like to share?” I asked.

“No.”

What followed was more awkward silence, which I’m sure I handled
better than my father because A) I’ve been getting a lot of experience lately, and B) Dad was stabbing his salad with a little too much enthusiasm during the extended lull in conversation. Since I had a few more things to iron out, I spoke first.

“Are you going to stop blackmailing me now?” I asked.

“Whatever are you talking about, Isabel?”

Me:
sigh.

“Really, is it going to be like that?” I asked.

Dad looked me dead in the eye.

“Listen to me carefully. I’m not blackmailing you in any way. If you are being blackmailed, however, that leads me to believe that you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing. I would really like to know what it is.”

“You’re really not blackmailing me?”

“No!”

“No need to shout,” I said. “But if you ask me to wash your car again, I’ll know it was you.”

My dad then started chuckling to himself.

“What’s so funny?”

“I bet it’s your mother. She’s been nagging me to get the car washed for weeks.”

With my blackmailer mystery solved and my brief, soon-to-be-ending employment with Rick Harkey out in the open, I began to feel my spirits lift. I even was able to picture myself getting a full night’s rest. As I watched Dad try to catch a cube of feta with his fork, I made a short list of my current goals:

• Keep new home secret from David.
  
• Make sure Mom doesn’t talk.
  
• Find out what’s really going on with Linda Truesdale.
  
• Discover who’s moving my car (and why).
  

If you’ve read either of the first two documents, for me, this is nothing. In fact, I almost felt like I had not a care in the world.

But then my dad threw his napkin on his plate and said, “One more thing.”

“What?”

“You have one month to decide if you want to come back to work or not. If not, your mother and I are going to look into selling the business.”

“What?” I asked.

“One month,” my father replied. And that was the end of the conversation.

[Partial transcript reads as follows:]

ISABEL:
How can somebody make a decision like that in one month?

DR. RUSH:
Presumably, your parents figure you’ve had most of your life to make that decision.

ISABEL:
Whose side are you on?

DR. RUSH:
I don’t take sides.

ISABEL:
For this kind of money, you should.

DR. RUSH:
That’s not how it works.

ISABEL:
Are you sure?

DR. RUSH:
Why don’t we talk about the decision itself rather than the timing of it?

ISABEL:
I’d rather not.

DR. RUSH:
Need I remind you that you have less than a month?

ISABEL:
Are you sure you’re not in on this with my parents?

DR. RUSH:
Do you want me to give you the doctor-patient confidentiality speech again?

ISABEL:
[sigh] I think three times is enough. [Long pause.]

DR. RUSH:
Let’s move on to a topic you’re willing to discuss.

ISABEL:
Like what?

DR. RUSH:
You’ve got a warehouse of material to pull from. You’re telling me you can’t think of anything?

ISABEL:
Nothing off the top of my head.

DR. RUSH:
Okay, then, I’ll pick a subject.

ISABEL:
Wait, wait. I’ve got something.

DR. RUSH:
I thought so. [Long pause while I think of a subject.]

DR. RUSH:
I’ve got a least five topics, so start talking.

ISABEL:
I’m being blackmailed!

DR. RUSH:
Excuse me?

ISABEL:
Wait, maybe I don’t want to go with that topic.

DR. RUSH:
Too late.

ISABEL:
[sigh] So, I’m being blackmailed.

DR. RUSH:
Really? I don’t want to sound too excited, but this is a first for me.

ISABEL:
Maybe I’m just the first patient to admit to being blackmailed.

DR. RUSH:
I don’t think so. My patients usually don’t keep things from me. It sort of defeats the purpose. So, who’s blackmailing you?

ISABEL:
First I thought it was my sister, then my dad, and then my mom. Now I’m not so sure.

DR. RUSH:
How do you not know who’s blackmailing you?

ISABEL:
Because I got an anonymous note.

DR. RUSH:
Handwritten?

ISABEL:
Of course not. Cut and glued from newspapers and magazines.

DR. RUSH:
Seriously?

ISABEL:
Yes.

DR. RUSH:
What did the note say?

ISABEL:
I think our time is up.

DR. RUSH:
We have a few minutes.

ISABEL:
We never have a few minutes when
you
say “Our time is up.”

DR. RUSH:
Because when I say it, it’s true. Five minutes. Keep talking.

[Long pause, but not a five-minute pause.]

ISABEL:
Okay, but I don’t want to talk about the blackmail anymore. There’s a more pressing matter on my mind.

DR. RUSH:
More pressing than blackmail?

ISABEL:
Yes.

DR. RUSH:
Go on.

ISABEL:
There’s something strange going on with my brother. I have some theories; I’d like to run them by you.

DR. RUSH:
[sigh] I think our time is up.

T
he following day, per my father’s instructions, I gave notice at Rick Harkey’s office. Our conversation went like this:

ISABEL:
Dude, I have to give notice.

HARKEY:
Can I ask why?

ISABEL:
Well, mostly it’s because you’re a creep who has no personal or ethical boundaries. But it’s also because of your crazy dress code and the fact that you made a pass at my mom ten years ago.

HARKEY:
I’m sorry to see you go.

Sorry, that was my fantasy conversation. This was the real one:

ISABEL:
Mr. Harkey, I apologize for the short notice, but today has to be my last day on the job.

HARKEY:
Can I ask why?

ISABEL:
Because my father says he’ll never speak to me again unless I quit.

HARKEY:
Is that all?

Dad had told me to use family as an excuse and it worked perfectly. I walked out of Harkey’s office five minutes later. No hard feelings. Not yet, at least.

My undercover work with RH Investigations was done, but I continued working the Truesdale/Bancroft case. Ernie phoned me later that evening with something on his mind, although it took him a while to get to it.

“I’ve been helping around the house more, like we talked about,” Ernie said.

“I’m glad to hear it,” I replied.

“I even did my own laundry the other day.”

“Excellent.”

“Linda made pork chops the other night,” Ernie said.

“I see,” I said, not seeing anything at all.

“Pork chops are my favorite,” he said.

“Well, that must have been nice,” I replied.

“Do you see my point?” Ernie asked.

“Actually, I don’t.”

“We get along. I love her. For us, it’s not that complicated. So my wife has a secret. Big deal. Shouldn’t I just let her keep it?”

Ernie was asking the wrong person that question. I didn’t know what to say. The case might have been over for him, but it wasn’t for me.

“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop.
1
But I’d like to continue the investigation just a little longer.”

“Is there some new angle you’re looking at?” Ernie asked.

“Sharon Bancroft. Something about her isn’t right.”

“You’re not charging me to investigate the congressman’s wife, are you?”

“Of course not. The rest of this is free of charge. It’s just to satisfy my own curiosity.”

“Do what you want,” Ernie said. “Just let me know if you find out something that really matters.”

“Thanks, Ernie. Do me a favor. The next time it seems like your wife is planning on meeting with Sharon, let me know.”

“Sure,” Ernie replied. “I’ve always had a funny feeling about that one.”

“Don’t forget,” I said, and hung up.

I spent that evening at Morty and Ruth’s house helping them pack. Gabe and Petra had arrived hours earlier and had already packed up all the books, tchotchkes, and family photos from the living room. The new couple was in the inseparable stage. While in normal relationship terms it was too soon for Petra to meet the grandparents, because Morty and Ruth would be en route to Florida within the week, Gabe couldn’t resist an introduction.

I found Morty and Ruth in their bedroom, downsizing his winter wardrobe. Ruth put a black cashmere/wool blend overcoat in a donation pile by the door.

“That’s my favorite coat,” Morty said.

“It never dips below sixty degrees there,” said Ruth. “You won’t need it.”

“So I’m going to spend the rest of my life in a sauna. We’ll never even vacation someplace cool?”

Morty picked the coat off the pile and put it back on the bed. I watched them from the doorway.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Isabel,” she said. “Thank god you’re here. I need a cup of tea. Listen, Morty has to cut out all the winter clothes from his wardrobe. We’ve been fighting all day. Talk some sense into him, okay?”

Ruth didn’t wait for a reply; she simply exited the room. Morty rolled his eyes and gave me a look that I read as
This is all your fault.

Morty opened his sweater drawer and said, “If I run the air conditioner really high, I can probably make use of some of these.”

I wasn’t willing to push Morty to the brink, so I agreed. I told him to lose half the drawer and then he was done. While Morty picked through and sorted his favorite sweaters, I scanned his ties and told him which ones had to go (for aesthetic reasons, not atmospheric ones). We’d been
working in somber silence for about fifteen minutes when Morty stopped what he was doing and made what I hoped would be his final complaint to me before his departure.

“Oh, and thanks a lot for the shiksa with the tattoos,” he said, rather annoyed.

“I’ve known her for years, Morty. I can vouch for her.”
2

“What’s that crazy-looking thing above her eye?”

“It’s just like an earring, but it’s in her eyebrow instead,” I replied, trying to make it sound as ordinary as possible.

Morty shook his head in sad disappointment. “I don’t get you kids today. I just don’t.”

A few more minutes of silence passed. My friend’s distaste for the task at hand was becoming toxic.

“Morty, there’s no way around this. You know that, right?”

The old man looked up at me, lost. “Yes,” he said, and then quickly looked away.

“Find a way to be okay with it.”

A few hours later, we all went to eat at a local Chinese restaurant. Morty ordered all the foods that Ruthy usually forbids and she said not one word.

“How’s the kung pao?” I asked.

“Deadly,” Gabe replied.

“Pass the kung pao,” said Morty.

I guess Morty still hadn’t found a way.

Petra offered to give me a ride home as we were leaving the restaurant, but I turned her down. Since we were both, in theory, heading in the same direction, this raised some suspicion.

“Why don’t you want to take a ride from me?” Petra asked.

“I feel like walking,” I replied. I’m not known for the taking of exercise, but walking was as good an excuse as any.

“Really?” Petra replied skeptically.

“Yes,” I said, fully committing to my act. “I need some fresh air.” Then I committed even further and began walking.

After about ten minutes—when I was certain that all relevant parties had returned to their cars and evacuated the near premises—I hopped on the bus. It wasn’t air I needed but a nice, long bus nap. I rode the Geary bus to the financial district and waited for the bus driver to wake me at the end of the line. Then I grabbed a cab to go home. No, this was hardly an economical form of travel, but at least I got some rest.

The cab dropped me on the corner of Jackson and Leavenworth, where my notes indicated my car was last seen. I roamed the streets looking for its new location. I found it on Clay and Jones, jotted down the location on my notepad, pulled the tape from the hidden camera (under a blanket in the trunk), and walked the five blocks back to David’s and my home.

As I approached our street, I turned right around, since he was standing on his front porch, chatting with a male I recognized as a neighbor. Based on the noise level coming from David’s place, he was having a barbecue or a party or something (and I wasn’t invited!). As far as I could tell, at least a dozen people were loitering in the vicinity of the house. I had two choices: A) pretend I was in the neighborhood and crash the party, or B) go somewhere else.