by Lutz, Lisa
“What state was the driver’s license from?” I asked.
“Hold your horses. I wrote it down.”
“You don’t even remember that?” I asked.
“Is this how you talk to someone who is doing you a favor?”
“All I’m saying is that maybe you should see a doctor.”
“I don’t need to see a friggin’ doctor. Okay, I found it. It was a Washington state license.”
“What was the name on it?”
“John Brown.”
“How about the birthday?”
“March 7, 1971.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
“Positive?”
“I’m gonna hang up now,” Milo said.
“No, don’t. Sorry. Do you have any other info?”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t write down his address?”
“I think it would have been suspicious if I took out a pen and paper and started copying down everything on his license, don’t you?”
“Do you remember what city?”
“I’m pretty sure it was Olympia.”
“How sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Is that like ninety percent or sixty?”
“Good-bye, Izzy,” Milo said, and hung up the phone.
Subject was neither a rat nor a snake, according to the license issued by Washington state. He was a Pisces pig, which made him older than he appeared. Also, Subject claimed to have been born and raised in St. Louis. At no point did he mention having lived in Washington. It occurred to me that the St. Louis backstory was used purely to throw me off the scent. I ran a DOB database search for Washington state and came upon two John Browns born on March 7, 1971. One was currently a CPA in Seattle and the other died five years ago. Who was I kidding? I didn’t need Subject’s driver’s license, I needed his whole wallet. I was banking on the fact that he might keep his social security card in there. With a common name and no verifiable birth date, I needed a social security number. I leaned back in my office chair and tried to come up with another plan.
THE VALENTINE’S DAY MASSACRE
Tuesday, February 14
Over the next two weeks I remained at my parents’ house, making the occasional phone call to Bernie, praying that reconciliation with Daisy was imminent. Bernie repeatedly invited me to move back in with him and explained that he was already back on the market. Reconciliation was out of the question.
I continued to garden with Subject, always hoping that I’d catch him with his guard down and he’d reveal at least one piece of identifying information about himself. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get my hands on his wallet. I was growing more impatient and suspicious with each flower bed and tomato plant I watered.
In the early1 morning of February 14, Subject and I were returning from one of his community garden projects when his cell phone rang. He picked up on the first ring.
“Hello? Oh, hi. Yes, I got your message. Are you sure? Okay. I can’t talk right now; I’m driving. Meet me Thursday, ten A.M., at the Ashby Community Garden in Berkeley. I’ll see you then.”
“Who was that?” I asked Subject, hoping the question sounded more casual than it was.
“I’m meeting a potential client,” Subject replied, and then changed the subject. “I think I’d like to swing by Mrs. Chandler’s residence and see how her grass is doing.”
Five minutes later, Subject and I were at the scene of the crime. Had these been real cherubs and real knives, Mrs. Chandler would have been the prime suspect, since she was standing over the bodies, her hands covered in “blood,” although it was obvious to me that she was simply cleaning up the mess. When Subject and I approached, Chandler gazed at me with a look of genuine bafflement. She knew it was me back then and chose not to punish me. The fact that the crime was an exact replica of the original seemed to make me the guilty party once again, but I’m sure she could find no logical explanation why a thirty-year-old woman would be repeating the crimes of her adolescence. I couldn’t help but feel sympathy this time around. I was indirectly responsible; I just couldn’t figure out how. I believed the tableaux were tasteless monstrosities; I still believe that. But they were her monstrosities, and she took pride in them. Subject and I helped her clean up the debris and then quickly parted ways.
ASHBY COMMUNITY GARDEN
Thursday, February 16
0900 hrs
I departed from the Spellman residence at nine A.M. Thursday morning and crossed the bridge. I parked approximately five blocks away from the garden, found a spot under an oak tree that provided a perfect visual of the grounds, sipped coffee, and waited, binoculars in hand, for Subject to arrive at his rendezvous point.
Shortly before the hour, Subject parked his truck next to the fenced-in patch and entered the gardens. Five minutes later, a woman, approximately thirty years of age, with long brown hair, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, approached Subject hesitantly. Subject and female spoke for about five minutes. Then female handed Subject an envelope and Subject handed female a brown paper bag. They spoke for a few more minutes. Based purely on their body language, there was nothing light and friendly about the conversation. Both parties shook hands and left the grounds separately. Neither did any gardening.1
THE CHANDLER JOB
CHAPTER-1
Saturday, February 18
A few days later, as I sat at my desk and contemplated different methods of acquiring Subject’s true identity, my mother interrupted me with a new job.
“We have a new case I’m going to put you on. Mostly surveillance. It’ll get you out of the office.”
“What’s the job?” I asked.
“Mrs. Chandler. Her yard is getting vandalized again. She says she’s tired of just sitting back and taking it. She’s willing to pay to make it stop.”
“Mrs. Chandler?” I repeated.
“Yes,” my mother replied. “I thought it was poetic justice that her first vandal should investigate the next generation.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied, per my usual script.
“Of course not,” said my mother nonchalantly.
“Mom, I’d rather not take this job.”
“Too bad,” Mom replied. “She asked for you specifically, Isabel. And she’s paying very well. I told her you’d be by this morning at eleven A.M. Sharp. Do not be late. She’s a very prompt woman.”
“It’s a labor of love,” Mrs. Chandler said of her holiday tableaux. “I know it’s not for everyone, but it makes me happy and I think it brightens up the neighborhood. Don’t you agree?”
Yes, eyesores often brighten things up, I thought to myself. Then I said, “I admire your dedication.”
“Each installment can take from ten to thirty hours of labor. I do it all myself. I hang every streamer, I dye every egg and sew every item of clothing. As you know, I’ve been doing this for fifteen years.”
“I have a vague recollection of when you began.”
Mrs. Chandler’s calm expression shifted slightly. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Isabel. I let your little pranks slide all those years ago because clearly you had to get something out of your system. You needed to express yourself just as I did. But this time it’s different. There’s no expression in copying a piece of work. What is happening now is a base prank and I want it to end. You know, it was Groundhog Day that always got under my skin. There is nothing creative about it; it’s just an excuse for vandalism.”
As awkward as this situation was, I was glad to be on the job. Someone out there was copying Petra’s and my pranks down to a T. This was a case I had to solve.
“Mrs. Chandler, I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience this has caused you. I assure you I will give this job top priority and find out exactly who is behind it.”
Mrs. Chandler followed me to the door.
“I forgive you, Isabel,” she said as I turned around to shake her hand.
“I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied.
Mrs. Chandler and I shook hands and I drove directly to Petra and David’s house to confer with my ex-partner in crime.
SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR REPORT #9
“David Spellman”
It was Saturday and David’s car was parked in the driveway, so I assumed he was home. However, by my fifth ring of the doorbell, there was still no answer. David really frowns upon unannounced visits,1 so I thought he might be trying to ignore me in the hopes that I’d go away. But that never works. I began banging my fist on the door and shouting his name like Marlon Brando screamed “Stella” in Streetcar.
The door swung open soon after. David was wearing pajama bottoms, a stained white T-shirt (a first), mismatched socks, and a bathrobe.
“Hi, is David home?” I asked.
“Very funny.”
David left the door ajar and walked back into his house. I followed after him, hoping for some form of explanation.
“Rough night?” I queried.
“Unggh,” or something that sounded like it was his only response.
“English, please.”
“What do you want, Isabel?” David suddenly snapped.
“I need to see Petra about something.”
“She’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s visiting her mother in Arizona.”
“She hates Arizona…and her mother.”
“Then she’s having an awful time.”
“Why is she visiting her mother?”
“You never stop with the goddamn questions.”
“Just tell me what’s going on and I’ll get out of here.”
David stumbled over to his liquor cabinet, grabbed a bottle of scotch, and poured himself a drink.
“David, it’s only noon.”
“You want a drink?” he asked me.
“Is that single-malt scotch?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay.”
Three hours and four drinks later, after I had shared all the details of my recent dates with Subject, chronicled the Henry Stone Saga, and mentioned Mom’s inexplicable vandalism habit and Dad’s shrinking waistline, I knew it was time to get David to do the talking.
“David, did Petra leave you?”
David stared down at his drink. “Not exactly.”
“Then be more precise.”
“Don’t tell Mom.”
“Give me something not to tell her.”
“I’m begging you, Isabel. Just leave this alone.”
“You slept with somebody else, didn’t you?”
David wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“You did, didn’t you?”
“No. This is none of your business. And don’t tell Mom anything. If you do, I will give up every piece of evidence I have ever amassed against you.”
“Why didn’t Petra call me? She used to always call me.”
“It’s not what you think, Isabel. It’s better if you stay out of this.”
“You are an asshole. Just so you know, she gets custody of me in the divorce,” I said as I got up to leave. I could hear David pouring himself another drink as I exited his home.
I was too drunk to drive, so I took the bus back to the house. Mom saw me stumbling up the walk and asked where I had been. She then forced me to reenact my visit with David at least a dozen times. Her police-level interview rendered no revelatory information beyond his three-day-old beard, his stained T-shirt, and Petra’s mysterious vacation.2 By the sixth time I mentioned that David served me single-malt scotch, my mother barked, “Yes, Izzy, I got that already.” It was only when I started asking for a pack of cigarettes and a lawyer that my mom brought the interrogation to a halt.
“You’re useless,” she said, and I went to my old apartment to nap off my afternoon booze.
1700 hrs
I phoned Petra on her cell phone when I woke up and left a message.
“I know,” I said. “He told me. I’m sorry. Please call me back.”
STONE AND SPELLMAN…
TOGETHER AGAIN
Tuesday, February 21
1610 hrs
I could hear my mother talking to an unrecognizable voice in the living room, so I went downstairs to check it out.
Mrs. Schroeder from Child Protective Services was politely sipping tea as my mother played her a few tracks from Stone and Spellman’s Greatest Hits. It turns out that Rae’s chronic discussion of her almost-murder of Henry Stone prompted yet another teacher to file an anonymous report with Child Protective Services. When Mrs. Schroeder arrived, my mother phoned Henry, requesting his presence. She then went into the kitchen, called my cell phone (even though I was downstairs), and told me to put on my ring and meet them in the living room. I had since stopped wearing the ring on a regular basis, but went back upstairs and found it in Mom’s jewelry box in her bedroom. As I arrived downstairs again, my mother was pulling her collection of tapes to share with her inquisitor.
“This is one of my favorites,” she said.
THE STONE AND SPELLMAN SHOW—EPISODE 18
“SAT-PREP”
Setting: Henry Stone’s apartment. Rae rode her bike over and got a flat tire. Mom has just arrived to pick her up and she stays for a cup of coffee.
The transcript reads as follows:
HENRY: Get your book out, Rae.
RAE: I don’t feel like it.
HENRY: We had a deal. I made you pancakes; now we do some SAT work.
RAE: He made buckwheat pancakes. Mom, have you ever had buckwheat pancakes?
OLIVIA: Not that I recall.
RAE: Well, they’re not the same.
HENRY: Get your book. [Rae goes into the other room to grab the SAT prep book.]
OLIVIA: Why is the SAT book here?
HENRY: It’s an extra one. I found it at a used-book store and thought I should keep it around for these unannounced visits.
OLIVIA: We don’t deserve you, Henry.
HENRY: By the way, how did Rae get my address?
OLIVIA: I don’t know. Every time I ask her about it she’s very cagey. [Rae hands Henry the SAT book and then opens one of the cabinets in the kitchen.]
RAE: What happened to my candy?
HENRY: I got rid of it.
RAE: Why?
HENRY: I think you should abstain from junk food for a while.
RAE: But it’s the weekend.1
HENRY: “Absolution.” Definition first, then use it in a sentence.
RAE: Absolution. Forgiveness. I…uh…give you absolution for throwing out my candy.
HENRY: Good. “Hamper.”
RAE: What you throw dirty clothes in.
HENRY: I’m looking for another definition.
RAE: I don’t know.
HENRY: To hinder or obstruct. Use it in a sentence.
RAE: You’re hampering my fun.
HENRY: You’re hampering my weekend.
RAE: What were you going to do, anyway?
HENRY: Work.
RAE: You’re so abstemious.
OLIVIA: Good word. Not that I think you are abstemious, Henry.
RAE: Me neither. Isabel called you that.
HENRY: I didn’t think Isabel knew words that big.
RAE: She doesn’t. She got it out of the book when she was helping me study.
HENRY: So you have been studying?
RAE: I told you I was.
HENRY: Olivia, you’re not recording this, are you?
OLIVIA: Yes, I am.
HENRY: Please stop. [End of tape.]
The doorbell rang just as the tape was complete. I ran into the foyer and answered it. Subject was standing there holding a pair of boots.
“You
left these at my house,” he said.
“I knew I had forgotten something.”
My mother and presumably Mrs. Schroeder could overhear our conversation. Mom shot me a severe glance that said “Don’t blow our cover.”2 I took my boots and Subject back outside.
“Mom’s having a very important meeting inside.”
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Subject said.
“No problem.”
“Free for dinner tonight?”
“Your place?” I asked.
“Nah, I’d like to keep you away from that door, if you don’t mind.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Henry Stone parking his car across the street. His impossible-to-read expression was as cold as usual.
“Sure. Where?” I said, trying to not appear too distracted.
“Delfino’s.”
“What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“See you then.”
I waited for Stone on the walkway to give him a quick debriefing. “The social worker has been in there about an hour already. She probably just wants to say a quick hello and then she’ll close the case for good.”
“Who’s your friend?” Stone asked, nodding at Subject, who was entering the adjacent residence.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s the problem.”
My mother tried buttering up the social worker with baked goods, but Mrs. Schroeder would not be bought. This visit was less a product of concern over the nature of Henry and Rae’s relationship than an interest in my sister’s reference to the almost-murder. Mom suggested that Mrs. Schroeder speak directly to Henry on this matter and kept Rae out of the room, explaining that my sister’s tendency toward hyperbole might interfere with the facts. Henry, in a calm and straightforward manner, relayed the events of that fateful day and further explained that Rae’s actions did not go unpunished. She would receive no more driving lessons from him.
Mrs. Schroeder appeared satisfied that there was nothing untoward in Henry and Rae’s relationship, although she seemed highly skeptical of Henry’s and my “engagement.” Perhaps it was the eighteen inches of distance we kept between ourselves, the complete absence of eye contact, and then there was that awkward moment when I offered Henry a cookie and he said, “I don’t eat that stuff.”