Trail of the Spellmans (3 page)

Just then my father entered the room and planted himself next to me on the couch. “You have to admire their dedication,” he said.

“I want to know when they use the restroom,” my mother said.

“That’s what the bucket is for,” I said.

The newscaster continued his report. “. . . The tree sitters have managed to maintain a constant vigil by working in shifts. In the middle of the night there was a changing of the guards, when the police were called away by a disturbance in the sculpture garden . . .”

The camera panned over to one of the grand old oaks and closed in on the tree sitter du jour. The reporter continued. “Currently the police are trying to find a safe and peaceful way to end the standoff. We will keep you posted on the latest developments.”

The news cut to an Ivory Soap commercial. My mother picked up her cell phone, pressed number three on her speed dial, and waited until the voice mail kicked in.

“Rae. This is your mother calling. Get the hell out of that tree right now!”

Part I

SURVEILLANCE

(September)

THE MAN IN THE LIBRARY

F
or reasons that will forever remain a mystery, my sister scheduled the client meeting at the main branch of the San Francisco Public Library—specifically, the government section, which is low traffic, offering privacy for a new client intake. The file was left on my desk with all the relevant details, including the time and place of the meeting and a brief description of the client: male, five feet eleven, brown hair, brown eyes, fortyish, average in every way (apparently his own description). The only other detail in the newly minted file was the client’s contact information and his name: Adam Cooper.

I arrived early, sat down at one of the glass-encased study desks, and read the same page of a chess theory book that I had been reading over and over again. When I heard footsteps approach, I immediately stuffed the book in my bag. The last thing I needed was to get ensnared in a long-winded discussion on chess strategy when I don’t know any.

Adam Cooper was indeed average in every way—the kind of guy who could confound a police lineup by virtually blending into the wall. That’s not to say that Mr. Cooper’s face was entirely void of character, but the character surfaced at unsuspected times. The only other thing worth mentioning was that he wore a navy-blue sweater vest. Any time someone
under the age of sixty wears a sweater vest it’s worthy of comment.

“Are you the Gopher?” he asked me with an ironic grin.

“Excuse me?”

“The woman who confirmed the appointment said that I should ask you that question to be sure I was meeting the right individual.”

“You are meeting the right person,” I said.

I’d never been asked that specific question before—“Are you the Gopher?”—but I had a feeling where it originated from. And I can assure you that the originator was going to suffer the consequences.

“Why do they call you the Gopher?” he asked, smiling. And here, a spark of character surfaced, teeth short and crooked in a way that made him seem friendlier. Maybe it was the sweater vest he wore, or the goofy boat shoes, or the way his bangs hung a little too low on his face. If pressed at the time, the one word I would have used to describe Adam was “harmless.”

“Call me Isabel,” I replied.

“Is that your real name?”

“No. It’s ‘the Gopher.’ But I use ‘Isabel’ professionally,” I said.

“That makes sense,” Adam replied, taking a seat. “So, Mr. Cooper.”

“Call me Adam.”

“Adam, how can I help you?”

“I want you to follow my sister.”

THE WOMAN IN THE NAVY-BLUE RAINCOAT

A
scrap of paper rested on the floor next to the trash bin. Sloppy script sliced between the ragged edges. I was about to toss it in the trash when I caught a glimpse of a flurry of borderline-illegible words, followed by a phone number.

Margrt S. (sounds like alligator)
Husband
Not suspicious
Maybe nothing
September 33rd—high noon
415-***-****

I found my mother and Demetrius
¹
in the kitchen reviewing a list of baking classes at the CIA (Culinary Institute of America; there certainly is an unusual cross-section of organizations that also use that acronym—see appendix).

“I’m thinking about taking a pastry-making class. What do you think?” Mom said.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I replied.

“Show your mama some respect,” D said.

“Respectfully, I wish you wouldn’t. Now I am changing the subject.
²

“I found this scrap of paper on the floor,” I said, tossing it on the table. “I want to make sure it’s okay to chuck it.”

Mom pushed her reading glasses down to the bridge of her nose and studied the note. “Rae phoned the client to verify. I think she left the file on your desk.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“I took a call after my root canal. Clearly I was on more drugs than I thought. It’s under the name Slayter.”

“That’s a weak rhyme with ‘alligator,’” I said. “And I can’t remember the last time September had thirty-three days.”

“Since most of the call was a blur, I can’t comment,” Mom replied.

“Maybe you shouldn’t answer calls when you’re on narcotics,” I suggested.

“Sounds like an excellent company policy,” Mom replied.

“You know what else might be an excellent company policy? Getting some work done,” I said. I had noticed in recent weeks my mother growing increasingly slack on the job.

“I’ll get to it later,” Mom said. “Now, if you could excuse me, I have to decide between taking a master class on pies and one on cupcakes.”

“Do they offer Toast-Making 101?” I asked, heading back into the office.

There was indeed a Slayter file on my desk, generated by our seasonal employee, and my sister, Rae. While her notes were more organized, they were almost as baffling as my mother’s.

Client: Mrs. Margaret Slayter

Contact Info: [redacted]

Meeting Time: September 3, noon.

Location: Botanical Gardens, GG Park

Description: White female, midforties, navy-blue suit

Slayter: The rhododendrons are nice this time of year.

Reply: So are the azaleas.

Notes: Client will sketch out details in person. Most likely a domestic case.

I promptly picked up the phone and dialed.

“What?”

“‘The rhododendrons are nice this time of year’?”

“That’s what she says,” Rae replied. “You say the other thing.”

I read off the sheet: “‘So are the azaleas’?”

“Bingo.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Rhododendrons and azaleas are the same flower.”

“I don’t care if they’re man-eating plants.”

“Those are a myth.”

“Does the case relate to horticulture?”

“You know that word?” Rae replied with mock enthusiasm.

I opened the middle drawer of Rae’s desk, extracted a two-pound bag of M&M’s, and poured the contents of said bag out the window.
³

“Why are we taking client meetings with lunatics?”

“I spoke to her for fifteen minutes. She’s completely sane.”

“Then why are we having a summit in the botanical garden and talking about flowers?”

“I thought you could use the fresh air and the code phrase is so you know you’re meeting the correct individual.”

“How about names and a handshake?” I suggested. “Why the cloak and dagger?”

“Dad’s running an experiment.”

“What kind of experiment?”

“He thinks if we add a layer of cinematic intrigue to our client meetings—code phrases, exotic locales—we could charge more.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. And he might be onto something; it already worked on the Bloomsfield case.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said.

“Maybe,” Rae replied. “But if it works, who cares? Plus, Dad said I can come up with the code phrases, so I’m totally in.”

“I’m totally out,” I replied.

“Take it up with Dad,” Rae said.

“You can count on it.”

“Oh, and I almost forgot. Wear a trench coat and sunglasses to the meeting. Clients go crazy for that crap,” Rae said, and then disconnected the call.

I wish I could tell you that I promptly phoned the client and rescheduled the meeting under more professional circumstances, but after consulting with my father, he insisted that we continue with the experiment. Only so much can be expected from a case that was born under a cloud of anesthesia.

“The rhododendrons are nice this time of year,” said the woman in the navy-blue suit.

“So are the azaleas,” I replied.

The woman in the navy-blue suit swept a nearby bench with a newspaper and took a seat. She was in her midforties, but the preserved kind, like she spent her spare time with her head in a freezer. It wasn’t just her face that she’d spent a small fortune on, to lock in a single expression; her
clothes were all designer from top to bottom. I learned to distinguish the difference between designer and knockoffs from a case a while back—otherwise, I couldn’t give a shit. What I can tell you for certain is that her handbag cost more than my car. While I understand the desire to have the best (single-malt scotch is indeed better than most blends), I still have to wonder what deformity of character makes someone think that a bloated leather handbag that can be ripped off your shoulder by anyone with good leverage is an item to covet. Suffice it to say, I knew the client had money and I was happy to take some of it off her hands. I sat down next to her in my snug trench coat and undid a button for comfort.

Since her face bore no scrutable expression, I stared straight ahead. If the point was for us to blend into the scenery of the botanical gardens, we failed. Other than being Caucasian, we shared no resemblance and looked positively silly next to each other, I’m sure. I even noted that my slouch was in direct contrast to her rigid upright posture, no doubt the result of a personal trainer.

The client’s name was Mrs. Margaret Slayter. That’s exactly how she’d referred to herself when my sister took the call.

“Thank you for meeting me,” she said, fidgeting nervously with the buckle on her purse.

“How can I help you?” I asked.

“I want you to follow my husband.”

THE GIRL WITH THE RAP SHEET

G
enerally when charged with a surveillance assignment, I have some historical ammunition for the job. But with the Cooper and Slayter jobs, I was provided very little information. Adam Cooper simply said that he wanted his sister followed because he was concerned about her well-being. When I asked him to be more specific, he said that he didn’t want to create an investigative bias. (An interesting concept, but a first in my career.) As for Mrs. Margaret Slayter, I asked her if she thought her husband was having an affair and she replied, “I simply want to know how he spends his time. It’s not important for you to know why.”

The thing is, usually we do know why.

A week after we took on the Cooper and Slayter cases, I found the Vivien Blake file. Her name was scrawled on the tab of a file folder sitting open on my mother’s desk. A high school photo with the requisite cloudy blue backdrop mingled with an unusual assortment of other documentation. The girl in the picture was wearing cap and gown and smiling the way you smile when it has just been demanded of you. Other than the reluctant toothy grin, the young brunette had the appeal of a young woman with a bright future ahead of her. Adolescents are not our typical investigative fare. Since we usually discuss active cases in our office, it
was unusual that I hadn’t even heard the name on a file that was already two inches thick.

“Tell me about the Blake case,” I said when my father eventually entered the office.

“We took the meeting last week,” my dad replied defensively. “Okay.”

“You were busy.”

“Okay.”

“I think you were at Walter’s.”
¹

“I’m sure I was. Tell me about Ms. Blake.”

“Her parents hired us.”

“To find her?” I asked.

“No. She’s not missing.”

“Then why did her parents hire us?”

“The Blakes want us to follow their daughter.”

My father settled into his chair and made an effort to appear extraordinarily busy. Before I continued interrogating him, I decided to familiarize myself with the Blake file. It began with an e-mail she wrote after her first month as a freshman at Berkeley.

To: Ma and Pa Blake
From: Vivien Blake
([email protected])
Re: greetings

Mom and Dad,

I hope this e-mail finds you well. Despite your concerns before I left home, I have not become a drug addict, a cult member, or a hippie. Sadly San Francisco isn’t what it used to be. I’ll own up to eating too much pizza and soda, but you must allow me a few vices. I can honestly report that I’m attending all of my classes
except the eight
A.M.
world history seminar. I tried to get into the noon one, but it was overenrolled. I just buy the notes later. You can do that, you know. I think it’s also worth pointing out that I got an A on the first world history exam.

As for church, I haven’t made it there yet, but it’s on my to-do list. I would go if it started at noon. I don’t know why they haven’t implemented late-riser services yet. It’s a niche most religions have failed to tap into.

I do have a favor to ask, aside from more pizza money, if you think of it: If you’re concerned about me, call me. Not my roommates. Sonia found that last phone call a bit . . . how do I put it? Awkward. Most parents don’t do that sort of thing. Just so you know.