Trail of the Spellmans (16 page)

“But why? Just as a joke? Even for her, that seems sick.”

David combed his fingers through his matted hair. “She said it was a linguistics experiment. She was taking a class—”

“Rae was doing experiments on your daughter and there’s no payback?”

“I kicked her out, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but your response was not in proportion with your previous MO.”

“Of course it is,” David replied.

“When I was thirteen you took me to small-claims court after I borrowed your electric razor.”

“Even now you won’t admit you stole it?”

“I’m changing the subject. Don’t you want some blood?” I asked.

“It’s not my style, Isabel.”

“Maybe you should give it a try. You might find you have a taste for it.”

THE MORNING AFTER

T
he night before, shortly after I tumbled through David’s window, I’d left a message on Henry’s cell phone telling him that I was working an all-night surveillance and would see him in the morning. He never phoned back. When I arrived home, I immediately hopped into the shower and then bed, trying unsuccessfully not to wake Henry.

“Your hair is still wet,” Henry said.

“You cops never miss a thing,” I mumbled.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked.

“I love you?”

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” he said.

“But that’s my best material,” I replied.

“Isabel, you obviously have something you want to say to me, otherwise you wouldn’t be so desperate to avoid me.”

There was some truth in his observation, but I was in no condition to be having a serious conversation, so I did some deflecting instead. And, frankly, I’m better at that anyway. “I’m sure there are many things I have to say to you, but now I’d just like to go to sleep.”

“Where were you last night?”

“Where were
you
last night?”

“I was at home.”

“Do you have an alibi?” I asked. I probably shouldn’t have.

“No, but neither do you,” Henry said. “I phoned your mother. There was no job.”

“It was off the books,” I replied. “And I don’t appreciate you checking up on me.”

“We need to talk.”

“Not that again.”

“We need to have a serious conversation.”

“Well, since it’s serious, I’ll need to prepare. How about the first Tuesday in December, seven
P.M.
?”

“You need two months to prepare?”

“Sounds about right.”

“I’m not waiting two months.”

“There will be a PowerPoint presentation. And, currently, I don’t know how to use PowerPoint. So I’ll have to take a class.”

“I’m not finding any of this funny.”

“I’ll also be working on some better material.”

“One of these days, you’re going to have to be honest with me.”

“I’ll need a clear head for that which requires sleep,” I said, resting my head on the pillow.

Henry kissed me on the forehead and said, “I love you too,” but he didn’t look happy about it. When Henry’s sad, his face loses all expression. His eyes go dead. It doesn’t happen often. I prefer every other version of Henry over this one—even grumpy Henry, angry Henry, and making-me-clean-the-house Henry. In fact, all three of those rolled up into one, I prefer to sad Henry.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“That’s not enough,” he said, closing the bedroom door as he departed.

Six hours later . . .

I woke again, checked the clock: 2:24
P.M.
If I got out of bed and Henry was home, I couldn’t continue with my Avoidance Method™. I phoned
Demetrius from my cell phone to do a reconnaissance mission. “I need you to do me a favor and call Henry’s cell phone.”

“I see,” D replied. “And after I call Henry, what do I say to him?”

“Find out where he is,” I whispered.

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I asked nicely,” I said, nicely, to compensate for the previous absence of niceness.

“There’s some faulty logic in your plan,” D said.

“Is there?”

“Why would I call Henry and ask for his coordinates?”

“I don’t know. Can’t you come up with something?”

“Maybe. But I don’t see why I should.”

“Scratch Plan A. Just call his cell and ask if I’m home.”

“Why would I call Henry’s cell phone if I wanted to talk to you?” D wisely asked.

“Good point. Call the home line. If he doesn’t pick up, call his cell phone. Then say you’re looking for me, but my phone is turned off.”

“The plan is improving. But you could just ask him where he is yourself.”

“Why can’t you just do what I ask without asking all these questions?” I whispered, but as loudly as one can whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”

“So Henry can’t hear me.”

“Then you know where he is.”

“I don’t know for sure that he’s home. He can be very quiet sometimes.”

“I see.”

“He reads books.”

“Good-bye, Isabel,” Demetrius said.

It was hard to tell whether he was hanging up on me to go about his day or if he was going to enact my plan.

One minute later, the home phone rang and no one picked up.

Five minutes later, D called me back.

“Henry is at the store. He will be back in approximately twenty minutes. Any more ridiculous phone calls you want me to make?” D asked.

“No, thank you,” I replied, hoping he was merely fishing for some gratitude.

I hung up the phone and quickly got dressed. I had the sense that I was on the run. My heart raced as I grabbed all my essentials—car keys, identification, a warm coat, and pepper spray. I got into my car, started the engine, and, without even thinking about it, drove to Bernie’s place. I rang the doorbell twice and knocked until my knuckles were red. Bernie opened the door while I was in midknock. My fist almost made contact with his face.

“Izzeee,” he said with a sheepish grin. He didn’t try to pull me into a bear hug. I was pretty sure my expression warned against all physical contact.

“Are you alone?” I asked.

“Aren’t we all?” Bernie replied, trying to sound philosophical. It didn’t suit him.

“Bernie, is the apartment empty other than you and your spent beer cans?”

“I’m here all by my lonesome.”

“Invite me in,” I said. I never thought I’d say that to Bernie.

“Where are my manners?” Bernie said. “Please come in. Can I get you anything?”

I opened the fridge, took out a beer, and sat down on his couch.

“How long has it been going on?” I asked.

Bernie got himself a drink, shuffled over to his threadbare La-Z-Boy, sat down, and shifted its gears into hospital-bed mode. He rested his beer on his belly. “Not very long.”

“She’s been in town five weeks. I want a number.”

“We just celebrated our three-week anniversary.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“At my age finding love ain’t so easy.”

“Love?” I drank half the beer.

“You’re always so judgmental,” Bernie said.

“End it,” I said.

“What if I don’t want to?”

“She’s married, Bernie. End it.”

“They’re separated,” Bernie replied. “And you can’t make me do anything.”

“Watch me,” I said.

AFTER THE FLOOD

I
t had been five days since the flood and I hadn’t heard a peep out of Walter. I called to check on him. “Are you home?” I asked.

“It’s my day off. Where else would I be?” Walter asked.

“Out,” I replied. “I could give you a list of places that are out, but that seems unnecessary.”

“It’s better if I stay home and keep an eye on things,” Walter said.

“Like what?”

“My apartment.”

“I really think you should go out, Walter.”

“No, thank you. I don’t like it there.”

I imagined Walter roaming his apartment in an endless loop like a night watchman, securing faucets, tapping light fixtures, raking carpets. I decided to pay my favorite client a visit.

I found Walter in a matching pajama set and robe. He looked like an actor from a 1950s comedy. Rock Hudson’s sidekick, maybe. He offered me a cappuccino, which he made with impeccable precision. It was on par with that Blue Bottle place the whole damn city won’t shut up about. He even made some kind of frothy design on top.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“How does it look like I’m doing?” he said. “I’m a complete mess.”

“You actually just look like a normal person having a leisurely Sunday afternoon.”

“Only it’s Thursday evening.”

“I know, Walter.”

Walter and I went over a list of his known associates who had a key at one time or another to his apartment. His wife, his brother, the building super, and four previous housekeepers (all quit of their own free will). I asked him whether he’d changed the locks after their employment ceased and he responded in the negative. I inquired why and he said he didn’t like change and that everyone who left him wanted to leave; they had no interest in coming back. I suggested that we hook up a video camera to a bookshelf in the foyer. Walter refused, saying he couldn’t have equipment plugged in while he was gone. I reminded him that he keeps his refrigerator plugged in, but that did little to sway him. Plus, the equipment would look all wrong and he didn’t want to be staring at a camera every time he walked through his own front door.

I argued for a good twenty minutes on this topic, until I realized it was a hopeless cause. “When’s the last time you went out?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Walter replied.

“Get dressed,” I said. “We’re getting out of here.”

Walter resisted but eventually caved, though he dragged his feet getting out of the house. He changed his shirt twice, his shoes three times. Something was wrong with his left sock, and even though all his socks are exactly the same, he had to find a new pair that was just right. His shaving took a half hour; he cleaned his glasses twice.

“Jesus, Walter, you’re like a debutante going to the ball,” I shouted from the living room.

When Walter surfaced for the fifth time that afternoon, he looked exactly the same as the other four times, besides the shirt change, which was so subtle I wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t told me. I unplugged all the appliances
and raked the carpet behind Walter’s steps so he would resist the urge to return to his bedroom and make some other sartorial adjustment.

“Walter,” I said with as threatening a tone as I could muster, “open the door. We’re leaving
now
.”

I used the carpet rake as a kind of blockade, backing Walter toward the door. I finished swiping clean lines on the carpet, erasing my final footprint, and left the rake leaning against the foyer wall. We locked the door and left.

Outside, we had to come up with a plan for how to kill time.

I asked Walter what he did for fun and he couldn’t answer the question. When I suggested a movie, Walter described the myriad layers of filth one finds in a place where people eat with their hands and drink and spill syrupy beverages and laugh and cry and cough and blow their noses and use restrooms without washing their hands. So, a movie was out. I’m not known as a museum-goer, but I figured since people aren’t allowed to touch the artwork, it might be a safe haven. Walter told me art gave him a headache, because he always wanted to change it. Then I mentioned a café, since it looked like it was going to rain, and Walter reminded me that in cafés people touch things too.

It was dusk by the time Walter and I left his apartment and made a plan for the evening. Since Walter had no hobbies beyond cleaning and chatting with fellow math geeks about impossible equations, I persuaded him to accompany me on a surveillance, which I considered at the time an incredible step toward recovery for Walter. The only glitch in the plan was my car. I opened the passenger door for Walter; he took one look and said, “No.”

I grabbed a garbage bag from the trunk and cleaned out old newspapers, receipts, coffee cups, water bottles, junk mail, and any other unidentifiable item that didn’t blend with my car’s brown leather seats, and tossed it in the trash. Walter returned to his apartment to fetch a Dustbuster, which he used to vacuum every surface of the interior. Then Walter asked me to pop the trunk.

“Why?” I asked.

“So we can clean it,” he replied.

“But you won’t be sitting in the trunk,” I reminded him.

“It would make me feel better,” Walter said.

I acquiesced but insisted on taking over Dustbuster responsibilities to move along the evening. Walter hovered as I cleaned, making helpful remarks like “You missed a spot,” “Over there,” “Do the corner again,” and such until I told Walter that I was done. The way I said it suggested that any resistance would be met with the emptying of the Dustbuster over his head. Well, it’s likely I verbalized that scenario after I said more severely, “I’m done.”

Clean car, surveillance waiting, once again, I opened the passenger-side door and said, “Shall we?”

To which Walter replied, “No.”

“Walter, please. It’s not dirty anymore.”

“You just can’t see it.”

“Walter, this is no way to live.”

“I thought I could, but I can’t. Much has happened in that car,” Walter said.
¹

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“We could take my car,” Walter replied.

“You might have mentioned that before I spent thirty minutes delousing my entire vehicle for you.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Walter replied.

“No! I won’t.”

Twenty minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of Walter’s Volvo as he drove down Market Street at exactly the speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour.

“You should have let me drive.”

“I’m the only person who has ever driven this car. And it’s going to stay that way.”

“Not true.”

“It is. I bought it brand-new.”

“You don’t think anyone test-drove the car first?” I asked.

“I don’t like to think about that,” Walter replied.

The notion that Walter hadn’t been the only driver of his vehicle stirred some tension in the recycled air.
²
I distracted him by providing directions to our destination. He followed my instructions and every traffic law. When we arrived at the apartment on lower Haight, I had Walter double-park a few doors down. Then I made the phone call.