Trail of the Spellmans (4 page)

Not much else to report: I’m alive, my clothes are relatively clean, I’m getting enough sleep, and all the golf carts of the world are where they should be. And if they’re not, it was not my doing.

Give Prof. Fuzzy a kiss for me. Remember, that’s a two-person job. If I were you, I’d wear gloves.

Love, your law-abiding daughter,
Vivien

It took me about an hour to scrutinize the Blake file. The story is simple enough. Vivien’s parents were concerned about their daughter, a straight-A student and class president who’d been accepted at a number of Ivy League schools but decided on the equally impressive and yet less expensive Berkeley. She was also a bit of a rebel, with a bent for getting into the kind of trouble that occasionally resulted in mild police intervention. Her parents wanted her tailed to make sure that the trouble she was currently getting into would not interfere with her education or future prospects.

To put it bluntly, they were scared of and for their daughter. They collected her e-mails as evidence rather than keepsakes. She was a different
sort than they were. Harvey Blake was a life insurance salesman, always calculating risk. His wife was a homemaker of the old-school variety, the kind that ironed her husband’s shirts and had dinner on the table at six forty-five on the dot. But their daughter was someone else. For years they had shared their house with a polite, friendly, free-spirited alien.
²

Still, as far as I was concerned, Vivien Blake was simply a strong-willed young woman figuring out her place in the world. Since I had spent decades stirring up trouble, why would I investigate someone who was no worse than I at her age and yet managing to excel at the same time?

After I’d reviewed the file and the “evidence” within it, which included letters from sleepaway camp, text-message transcripts, a month of e-mails, and a photo of Vivien wearing a homemade prom dress constructed out of tinfoil and duct tape, I took a stand. I waited until my mom and Demetrius returned from their client meeting, so I had a full audience.

I dropped the file back on my mom’s desk. “I vote no.”

“I wasn’t aware of any vote taking place,” Mom replied. “I’ll need some more time to campaign.”

“Mom, it’s a clear invasion of privacy.”

“Sweetie, if you haven’t noticed, invading privacy
is
our business.”

“This crosses a line,” I said. “I thought the whole point of college was to get away from your parents.”

“Then how come you never went?” Dad said, consulting the ceiling as if it were a grand philosophical question.

“We’re talking about Vivien now.”

“They’re concerned parents,” Mom said.

“They’re paranoid parents.”

“She’s been in trouble in the past.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“In one night, she stole half a dozen golf carts from Sharp Park,” Mom said.

“She relocated them,” I replied. “They were discovered the next day.”

“In a cow pasture!” Mom replied.

“Still, they were returned, unscathed, to the golf course and no one could prove that she did it. She’s a genius, if you ask me.”

“Technically she has a genius IQ,” Dad piped in, and quickly turned back to his work.

“Isabel, she has a rather extensive juvenile rap sheet,” my mother said.

“Fifty percent of the people in this room have a juvie record,” I replied, speaking for myself and Demetrius.

I looked to D for some support, but he refused to meet my gaze, sifting through papers on his desk for the sole purpose of avoiding the debate being waged around him.

“D, do you have anything to say?” I asked.

“I think the muffins are ready,” he said, taking a brisk walk into the kitchen.

Dad, too, remained mum, not wanting any part of this conflict.

“Al, what’s your opinion?” my mother said.

“Who cares?” I replied. “You guys only get one combined vote anyway.”
³

“That’s my opinion,” Dad said.

“Coward,” I said.

“I have to live with her,” he said.

“You tried to slip this case by me,” I said. “We agreed to vote whenever there was a dissenting opinion.”

And so we voted. The outcome was one-one, as expected. We needed a tiebreaker. I entered the kitchen as Demetrius was plating the muffins. He set three aside on a separate platter.

“I think he’s catching on,” D said.

“Then we ride this wave as long as we can.”

“I don’t feel good about the deception,” Demetrius replied.

“Let it go. We have other matters to discuss.”

“I don’t want to be the tiebreaker,” D said.

“Too bad,” I replied. “It’s part of your job.”

The deciding vote used to be Rae’s until we discovered she could be bought and ousted her from any interoffice conflict resolution.

“Don’t try to sway his vote,” Mom said, entering the kitchen. She took one muffin off the main tray and another from the trio of outcasts. “Al’s?” she asked.

Demetrius nodded his head and reentered the office. Mom and I followed on his heels, each adding a layer to our own dissenting opinion. Mom briefly switched her attention to the muffins, trying to remember which one was the contraband and which the whole-grain doorstop. She weighed them in her hands and figured it out. She passed Dad the muffin from her left hand and dug into the one in her right.

“A freshman in college should not be under surveillance,” I said.

“They’re concerned for her future, Isabel.”

Demetrius sat behind his desk and, like my dad, tried to pretend we weren’t talking to him.

“Demetrius,” I said, demanding a reply. “Remember who freed you.”

“Stop playing the ‘I got you out of jail’ card,” Mom said.

“I’m Switzerland,” Demetrius said, as usual.

“There’s no Switzerland in Spellman Investigations. Everybody picks a side,” I intoned.

Dad took a bite of his muffin and made a face. Not a good one. Then he said, sounding as dry as the muffin most likely was, “Once again, D, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“Thanks, Al,” D replied, knowing that the compliment was a bald-faced lie.

“Just break the tie so I don’t have to listen to them arguing for the rest of the day,” Dad said.

Demetrius was clearly in conflict over this decision. Having had no privacy of his own for fifteen years, he wanted to respect it in others, but he
couldn’t help but feel concern for the young coed. But one might suppose that there is a rather profound distinction between not being able to use a toilet in private and being watched from afar by a pack of harmless PIs.

“Take the case,” Demetrius said. “She’s legal now. If she crosses the line, she could have a record for the rest of her life.”

And that is how we caught the case of Vivien Blake.

Even I’ll admit that there was something bizarrely symmetrical about our recent caseload—surveilling a husband, a sister, and a daughter all at one time. I know what you’re thinking. Surely all three cases will become ensnared and converge at the end. But don’t get ahead of yourself. That kind of shit only happens in detective novels. How about you quit guessing and let the story unfold as it may? Even I don’t know how all the pieces will fall.

FILLING IN THE BLANKS

I
suppose it’s time to take a crayon to this primitive drawing and color between, on, and outside the lines. If you are in the mood for a more complex portrait, you can read the previous four documents. It’s up to you. Remember, I can’t
make
you do anything. So don’t get peeved at me because I’ve merely made a suggestion. To simplify matters, however, I will refer you to the appendix, where you’ll find a detailed summary of all the key players in the saga. As it turns out, I am the most key player.

My name, if I haven’t mentioned it already, is Isabel Spellman. I am the thirty-four-year-old middle child of Albert and Olivia Spellman. I have a history of delinquency and minor arrests, but I like to think most of that is behind me. Unfortunately, others do not concur. I have a much younger sister, Rae, who is currently a sophomore at UC Berkeley and carrying on my torch of rebellion, although her take on it is far less aimless and booze soaked. Rae lives in our brother’s basement apartment and remains a part-time Spellman Investigations employee. PI work is in our blood. Rae began working for the family business at age six, trying desperately to follow in my footsteps. I started at twelve, not being quite so eager to follow the footsteps in front of me. The family business eventually became my profession because I had knack for it and I didn’t have a knack for too many other
things—especially legal activities. I used to think that one day I would find my real talent and move on. Turns out, this is my real talent. It might sound as if I’ve reluctantly accepted my fate, but that’s not it. I’m fine with my fate, but with it comes responsibility and sometimes the self-doubt eats away at me. The problem with being a private investigator is that you end up making ethical decisions every single day, and I’ve come to accept that I’m not always right and when I’m wrong, I can’t always see it. That said, I’m right most of the time.

The only other Spellman spawn is David Spellman, my older brother. David was at once the raven-haired golden boy and the black sheep of the family—a freakishly handsome, high-achieving lawyer with a closet full of fancy suits and a jaw-dropping collection of male skin-care products. I am, however, referring to Old David. New David is now a stay-at-home dad to eighteen-month-old Sydney. The contrast between the two Davids is not quite Jekyll and Hyde, but close. Old David was a shark, the kind of handsomely perfect man whom some people find unsettling. Being his sister, I found him more obnoxious. He had an enormous capacity for vanity but managed to come off as down-to-earth. People were drawn to him because he made them feel special. He remembered their names, asked questions, recalled insignificant details of their lives like a politician. I don’t tend to remember data unless I can use it against you at a later date. But I suppose there’s no point in talking about Old David anymore. He’s gone and I don’t think he’s coming back. I can’t say that I miss him. He always made me feel less than, even though that rarely was his agenda. But New David has taken some getting used to. New David has lost all concern for personal vanity or ambition. All of the energy previously expended on himself is now devoted to his daughter, Sydney. He’s kind of like Old David’s sloppy doppelgänger, with an eighteen-month-old girl permanently attached to his hip. While my family has had trouble adjusting to this new incarnation, I can’t imagine what it’s been like for David’s wife.

David is married to Maggie Mason, a defense attorney who once dated
Henry Stone, my Ex-boyfriend #13, although we’re still together.
¹
That might sound confusing. (I’ve always referred to boyfriends, current and former, in the past tense. It just seems easier to anticipate the worst up front.) I’m pretty good at finding fault in people, but I haven’t had much success with Maggie. I suppose since she refuses to hide her flaws, you stop looking for them.

Now let me tell you about the newest member of the Spellman clan. At least the newest member who doesn’t use a sippy cup. Demetrius Merriweather, employee of the month for six months running, has a history that could fill a book in itself.
²
Eighteen years ago Demetrius was wrongly convicted for the murder of his neighbor Elsie Collins. D, as I like to call him because I’m prone to laziness, spent fifteen years in jail for a crime he did not commit. Maggie
³
and I worked his case pro bono until his release six months ago. Demetrius’s remaining family resides in Detroit. He was welcome home any time he wanted, but after a Christmas visit, D decided he’d grown too accustomed to the California climate, despite the fact that he experienced most of that climate for a mere one hour a day. Immediately upon his release, my parents offered him the attic apartment (where I lived for many years) and a job. D is a God-fearing man capable of profound forgiveness. His integration back into the outside world appears seamless. But nothing is as it seems. Like everyone I know, he’s hiding something.

Almost two years have passed since I’ve found the need to document my family’s activities. A lot can happen in two years, as you’ll see. As much as one might like to believe that I’ve eased into adulthood without a fight, let there be no mistake. I’m still fighting.

THE DEMETRIUS EFFECT

W
hile there have been many unwelcome changes to my work life, the presence of Demetrius Merriweather cannot be added to that list. He works harder, more efficiently, and less erratically than any other employee on the Spellman Investigations payroll—including myself. He’s also a talented cook, an excellent conversationalist, and at times the only voice of reason in the household. That said, every silver lining has its cloud.

Sometime after Demetrius Merriweather moved into the Spellman household, my mother began putting on airs. I suspect the trouble began shortly after she attended church with D and found there were more than a few people in this crazy town of ours who believe in respect, forgiveness, and waking up early on a Sunday morning wearing bright colors in freshly pressed ensembles unmistakable for sleepwear. My mother also noticed that many of Demetrius’s new church friends were well mannered and managed to speak in complete sentences without using four-letter words as emphatic adjectives. It was only then that my mother picked up on the fact that Demetrius himself was well mannered. This had slipped her notice even after three months of working in the same office.

Even though he lived under the same roof as my parents, D always said
good morning and good-bye (only when he was leaving, of course) instead of my usual form of greeting
¹
and adieu.
²
When asked a ridiculous question, Demetrius would reply diplomatically: “I’m afraid I don’t know” or “I’ll Google it later,” or “That’s certainly something to ponder.”