Trail of the Spellmans: Document #5

by Lisa Lutz

  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 Demetrius1 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

  Generally 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 (vblake99@gmail.com)

  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.

  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.