The Spellmans Strike Again (14 page)

When David and Rae departed, I removed my wig and decided to gloat about my newfound information. Since I couldn’t tell the unit (and it was still Wednesday) I dropped by the police station.

“You know
nothing,
” I said to Henry once I closed his office door.

“What a charming way to begin a conversation,” he replied.

“I have some information you might find intriguing.”

“How nice of you to drop by.”

“Logan Engle is
so
not Rae’s boyfriend.”

“It’s nice to get some good news for once. Make yourself comfortable.”

My trench coat was warm, so I took it off and threw it over the chair.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.

“You serve bourbon here?”

Henry ignored me and left his office, returning a short while later with two mugs. Mine had stale instant hot chocolate in it; his contained herbal tea.

“So if he’s not her boyfriend, who is he?” Henry asked, leading back to the opening of the conversation.

“He’s her victim. She’s blackmailing him. He plays
Driving Miss Daisy
and she keeps his secret.”

“What’s his secret?” Henry asked.

“Sorry,” I replied. “I’m no snitch.”

“Is it illegal?”

“She has a real boyfriend, you know.”

“So why doesn’t she make him drive her places?”

“He has a bicycle.”

“I like him already,” Henry said. “Now tell me Logan’s secret.”

“No,” I replied. “What happened to Rae on the bus?”

Henry leaned back in his chair. He had leverage now and would only squander it on an exchange of information.

“Tell me what she’s got on Logan and I’ll spill all the dirt I know.”

I eyed the inspector carefully. Judging from the expression on his face, the slightly evil eye twinkle, whatever happened to Rae on the bus was worth knowing, but it was not a deep, dark secret. I could get the information elsewhere. I didn’t need to bring a cop into Rae’s troubles. The last thing she needed in her senior year of high school was to be dragged into a drug bust. I wasn’t sure what Henry’s legal obligations would be if I told him the truth, so I made an executive decision not to tell him the truth.

“No deal,” I replied. “Thanks for the cocoa, Henry. I’ll see you around.”

I pulled my coat off the chair and made a prompt departure.

REEFER MADNESS

I couldn’t finish any busy work at the office, my family investigations were done (for the day), the city was cold and wet, and I didn’t feel like sitting in my car outside Harkey’s office, so I decided to drop by the Philosopher’s Club and spend some quality time with Ex #12.

“Is-a-bel,” Connor said, “wat er ya doin’ here in the middle of the afternoon?”

“Slumming,” I replied.

“You’re such a sweetheart, you are,” he said, pouring me a pint of Guinness without asking whether that was the drink I had in mind. “Can I interest you in stocking the bar for me? You can work off some of your tab.”

“It would be my pleasure,” I replied, thinking that I ought to do something nice for Connor after betting against his team in last Sunday’s game and winning handsomely. Once I’d restocked the bar, which I had done on numerous occasions as an official employee, I used the bar as a desk and got back to work. First I checked my e-mail.

Christopher informed me that he’d dropped by the Winslow residence, and while Len was occupying the man of the house with a new landscaper
¹
meeting, Christopher logged on to Winslow’s computer, and forwarded Mason Graves’s e-mail headers to me. I, in turn, forwarded them to Robbie, glad for the opportunity to avoid direct communication with the social misfit.

A half hour of peace and silence was broken by Connor’s cold announcement.

“Izzy, ya haf a visitor, I think.”

I turned to the doorway and saw Henry Stone, blocking the now dim light from outside. I couldn’t read his expression until he took a few steps in and the shadow previously cast over his face slid away, revealing the severity of his expression. I hadn’t seen Henry this angry in months.

He approached the bar.

Trying to keep things light, I said, “Should I make a run for it?”

“I need to speak to you in private,” Henry coldly replied.

“She can talk to you right here,” Connor said. “We don’ have any secrets.”

“Yes, we do,” I interrupted. “We have many.”

“Nothing is funny about this,” Henry said.

Letting up just a touch on my smartass act, I said, “Please step into my office,” and guided Henry over to a booth in the back room.

Henry took in the room and, when he was satisfied that no one was watching, slid a baggy across the table right in front of me. It looked just like the baggy that was in my trench coat pocket. Come to think of it, it was probably no longer in my pocket.

“You left this in my office, my office inside a police precinct, inside a criminal courthouse.”

“Shit,” was all I said at first. I reached for the drugs, but Henry snatched them away.

“What were you thinking?” he said. “What if one of my superiors found it before I did?”

“I’m so sorry. It’s not what you think.”

“Your pot? Or did you just score it for your Irish friend?”

“I have an excellent explanation and if you keep being rude to me, you’re not going to get it.”

“This better be good,” Henry said.

Five minutes later, after I told Henry the whole story, he agreed. It was good. Unfortunately, we still had a problem. Since I remain ardently antisnitch and didn’t want to force Rae into that role and Henry is, well, a cop, we had opposing agendas. Or so I thought.

“What are you going to do with this information?” I asked.

“What information?” Henry replied, sliding the greens back in my direction. “Make it disappear, and not in an incendiary kind of way.”

“Got it. What are you going to do about Rae? Just let it slide?”

“Of course not. Logan Engle is out of her life for good.”

“How will you swing that?”

“Through the same means by which their relationship started,” Henry replied.

“Blackmail?”

“Yes,” Henry replied, “because that’s the kind of person you people have turned me into.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No, you’re not,” he said with all the conviction my apology lacked.

LOST WEDNESDAY #1

So how was yesterday?” I asked the unit the morning after their mysterious twenty-four hours of solitude.

“Fabulous,” Mom replied. “We should have started kicking you all out of the house years ago.”

“Glad to hear it,” I replied.

Then I turned to my father to gauge his reaction. He was oddly focused on his computer screen.

“How about you, Dad? Did you have fun?”

My father looked up at me and smiled evenly. “When your mother has fun, I have fun.”

“That can’t always be the case,” I replied.

“I suppose there are exceptions to every rule,” Dad said.

I was going to suggest a few of those exceptions, but we were rudely interrupted by my sister, who stormed into the office carrying what I would later learn was a book inside a paper bag and dropped it with a thud on Mom’s desk. Without saying a single word, Rae then approached the whiteboard and authored a new rule.

Rule #32—Put reading materials away when you’re finished

Then Rae turned to me and said, “Don’t even
think
about vetoing this rule.”

“What are you going on about?” I asked my sister.

“That’s all I’m going to say,” Rae replied, refusing to make eye contact with anyone else in the room. Then she departed as swiftly as she arrived.

“Should I ask?” I said, eyeing the book with both fear and curiosity.

“She’s such a prude,” Mom said.

“Did you ever have the sex talk with her?” Dad asked, deadpan.

“No. I thought you did that,” Mom replied.

They were having fun and wanted to draw me into their game. My curiosity, as always, got the best of me and I approached my mom’s desk, pulled the book out of its brown bag, and immediately slid it back in its appropriate package.

“I second Rae’s rule. You need to put that stuff away when you’re done with it.”

My glimpse of the “literature” was brief. I saw tangled flesh on the cover and the words “unlocking,” “secret,” and “sex.” I’m pretty sure there were a few other words involved, but I got the gist and averted my gaze, like I might be watching the end of a slasher flick. While leaving this kind of material out in the open seemed dangerous in a household where all the children are fluent in the language of mockery, I suspect none of us wanted to consider the idea long enough to toss out any sarcastic remarks. Besides, I had other family matters on my agenda for that day.

I sent my father an instant message on his computer to keep my mom in the dark:

Me: Dad, you want to go to lunch with me today?

Dad: What’s the hitch?

Me: No hitch. And I’m buying.

Dad: Really? That sounds just wonderful. I’m really looking forward to it. Where will we go? Can we try the new Thai place on Polk?

Me: Yes.

Dad: Fantastic!!

Me: It’s just lunch, Dad. I didn’t buy you a pony.

“Ready to go,” I said to my father at twelve thirty sharp.

My mother looked up from her desk. “Going somewhere?” she asked.

“Lunch,” I said. “I figured you and Dad could use some quality time apart after yesterday’s marathon of . . . well, whatever it was you were doing.”

“Why don’t you ever invite me to lunch?”

“Next week. Your turn,” I replied, thinking it might be a good idea to split them up to see whether they had their stories straight.

Something about these Lost Wednesdays needed explaining. Although, honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to delve into that terrain.

At lunch, this was the extent of my delving:

“So, should I even ask about yesterday?” I asked.

“Ask at your own risk,” Dad replied.

“Uh . . . everything’s okay between you and Mom?”

“Yes. It’s just a tune-up.”

“And you need that because . . . ?”

“Isabel, marriages require work. We have job stress and two high-maintenance children, and we’ve been married thirty-five years.”

“
Two
high-maintenance children?” I asked.

“No offense, Isabel. We don’t count David.”

“I think Mom would count him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mom is investigating David again and using me as her proxy. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Just say no.”

“I’ve tried that, but she finds another angle to hook me.”

“Not a phenomenon I’m unfamiliar with.”

“I need her off my back and I need her to leave David alone. He’s fine. Maggie’s fine. How do I get myself out of the situation?”

“Can’t you make something up?”

“One look at me and she knows when I’m lying.”

“There are ways around talking,” Dad replied. “That’s what the rule board is for.”

I thought about it and realized that maybe it could work. Then I switched gears. I wanted to see if Dad could do anything to derail my mother’s lawyer-date commandment.

“Don’t you think it’s creepy that Mom is making me go on dates with men I don’t like?”

“I do,” Dad replied, making real eye contact for the first time all lunch, “but it’s even more bizarre that you’re doing it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You could say no,” Dad replied. “That’s not a word you’re unfamiliar with. Sometimes I think it was the only thing that came out of your mouth for fifteen years.”

“You know what happens when you cross Mom,” I replied.

“I do,” said Dad. “But how bad can it be? You live in your own apartment, have your own life, she can’t ground you, take away bar privileges, dock your pay. I promise that. So why are you doing it?”

Dad made an excellent point. A point I wasn’t prepared to answer. I had to play it cool.

“She has her ways,” I answered and then picked up the check and pretended to be calculating the tip, like someone who has never calculated a tip before. I even used my fingers for show.

My dad rolled his eyes and looked at me with concern and a bit of embarrassment, I think.

“Just double the tax, Isabel,” Dad mumbled.

“Really?” I said. “Is that how it’s done?”

After I paid the check, Dad stared at the table for a minute as if he were trying out some words of wisdom in his head.

“Don’t be too hard on your mother with the dating thing.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“She worries it’s her fault.”

“What’s her fault?”

“How do I phrase this?” Dad said, consulting the ceiling.

“Just spit it out.”

“She thinks your trouble with men is her doing. She wanted her girls to be strong. She thinks maybe she took it too far.”

“Oh my god. She just wants to take credit for everything, doesn’t she?” I said, trying to lighten things up.

I’d asked my dad to lunch to pump him for information, not to have a serious conversation. I was hoping the moment would pass.

“Dad, I’m okay. You need to stop worrying.”

The moment didn’t pass. Dad stared down at the table, afraid to make eye contact.

“Isabel, have you ever thought about going back to therapy, just to check in on things and stuff?”

Dead silence. How did I answer this question?

“I’m going to let you in on a secret, Dad. I never quit therapy. I still see Dr. Rush once a week.”
¹

For once, Dad was utterly speechless and didn’t try to fill the void with sentimental aphorisms. He smiled and patted me on the head and said, “That’s my girl.”

As Dad and I strolled back to the Spellman office/homestead, we passed a newsstand. Dad stopped in his tracks and stared at the women’s section of the magazine rack. I figured it was a passing glance, but he stayed put. I slid next to him and tried to follow his eye line.

“Do you want to make him wild in bed or get rid of cellulite for good?” I asked.