The Spellmans Strike Again (28 page)

“You’re horrible at this,” Henry replied.

“You are too. Going around asking lame questions and then insulting the person you ask when they answer.”

Henry finished his drink in one delightful gulp.

“Now that’s how it’s done. I’ll get you another,” I said, returning to the bar and ordering for both of us.

Back at small-talk central, Henry attempted a different line of inquiry.

“Do you have any plans for tonight?”

“Yes,” I replied, because I did.

“Care to elaborate?”

“No,” I said, because I didn’t.

Two hours later, I hit a liquor store for provisions. Then I swung by the Philosopher’s Club and found Connor’s truck parked on a residential street around the corner. I posed the glossy snapshots (courtesy of Harkey) on the windshield. I searched the area for witnesses, gave myself pitching distance from the truck, opened the carton of eggs, aimed, and then suddenly I lost interest.

Over the years, I’d often found the egging of a car to be the perfect ritual to mark the end of a relationship. But this time around I couldn’t muster the energy. There was no point. I simply left the carton of eggs on top of his car—a reminder of what could have been—and left. If that’s not evolution, I don’t know what is.

SPAWN OF
SUNDAY-NIGHT DINNER

After ten days of Rae being in solitary confinement, my parents agreed to let her join the general population, just for dinner. However, leaving the confines of the Spellman home was still out of the question. The prisoner was even allowed a visitor, Fred. But I suspect the Fred invitation was more for my parents’ benefit than Rae’s. As I soon discovered, Fred was universally adored. I noticed, when he arrived, that he ate a few pistachios and then pocketed the shells. That did not go unnoticed by Mom, even though the pistachio cam was long gone.

I decided that this particular dinner was the perfect time to share my new pro bono case with the family. I had shirts made up and everyone donned theirs while Rae was still held captive in her cell.

Justice 4
Merri-
weather

No matter how hard I tried, I had to hyphenate.

Mom asked me to fetch Rae from her bedroom and to make sure she wasn’t wearing pajamas, which she had been for most of her parental internment. I knocked on Rae’s door. She opened it within seconds. That’s what solitary confinement does to people. It makes them crave the company of those they often try to avoid.

Rae studied my shirt.

“Justice for Mary?” she said mockingly.

“Merriweather,” I corrected, pulling my shirt down to make sure she got a full view.

“Oh, I see it now. Merriweather? I think I saw that file. Refresh my memory.”

“Demetrius Merriweather. Thief, not murderer.”

“Maybe you should put that on a T-shirt,” Rae smugly replied.

“Maybe I will.”

“Funny how you don’t mind people staring at your boobs for Merriweather, but Schmidt was another story. FYI, they’re going to stare a lot longer with a name like that.”

“My body. I get to decide what I advertise on it.”

My mother shouted up the stairs, “Girls, time for dinner.”

I shouted back: “I’m thirty-two. Don’t lump me in the same category as the prisoner.”

As Rae and I descended the stairs, she even had the nerve to say, “I’m going to free my guy
way
before you free your guy.”

“That’s because you picked an easy guy.”

“He’s not easy,” Rae snapped back.

“You’re swimming with flippers,” I said. “I’m swimming with dead weights attached to my ankles. These are entirely different situations.”

When we reached the dinner table, Rae turned to Fred and smiled.

“You have no idea what’s it like in there,” she said, nodding her head in the direction of her bedroom. “Now I know exactly how Schmidt feels.”

My father sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, you don’t, Rae. You are in a comfortable bedroom with clean sheets and allowed to use the toilet without people watching you. Okay? I’d rather you didn’t equate being grounded with prison time.”

“Yes, but I know what it’s like to not have anyone to talk to for a week. It’s not easy.”

“That’s why we let you out,” Mom said. “I got tired of listening to you talk to yourself.”

Mom and Dad began loading the serving dishes onto the table.

“You were talking to yourself?” Fred asked.

“I was thinking out loud,” Rae replied defensively.

“About what?” Fred asked.

“Random stuff.”

“He’s looking for examples, Rae,” I said.

“Well, at first I was just practicing what I’d say to the judge so I wouldn’t have to do time. It was compelling. I’m pretty sure he’ll understand. Then I was thinking about escaping through the window and then I got distracted by the glass and wondered who first found glass. Where does it come from? What was it first used for? You took my computer away, so I couldn’t look it up. It was driving me crazy. Then as I was getting ready for bed and I was flossing my teeth, I thought about how weird it was that there’s this universal rule to floss every day, but that seemed so strange because the cavemen didn’t floss. They also didn’t have toothpaste or shampoo. If I don’t wash my hair for three days, it’s unbelievably itchy and disgusting. So, how could the cave people not be totally grossing themselves out? Sure, you can swim in a lake, but that doesn’t solve the greasy-hair problem. Oh, and then I was thinking about other disgusting things. Like, have you noticed that whenever a woman takes a pregnancy test on TV, she waves that wand around like it’s a lollipop? She just peed on the thing and then passes it off to the maybe-father and then when she’s done with the whole thing she never washes her hands. I have never seen an actor accurately portray touching a stick that you just peed on.”

It had become clear that Rae’s rambling was just the beginning of the deluge that would follow. My father was distracted by the flood of words; my mother was in the kitchen when Rae’s little speech began. But something happened at the table when Rae touched on her pregnancy-test issue. Even though no one else was speaking, it was like a hush came over the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at a silent exchange between David and Maggie. Fred, intriguingly, spotted it himself. Sometimes my instincts fail me. For instance, I missed every warning signal before my file room incarceration. But this time, in a flash, I knew that Maggie was pregnant. I also knew that Fred knew that Maggie was pregnant, and I needed to make sure that Fred knew that this information should not be shared with Rae.

“Mrs. Spellman, will you please pass the potatoes and the spinach?” Fred asked.

“Of course, Fred,” my mother replied, and then she gave him eyes like she wished she could adopt him or something. “Rae, did you notice that Fred took a second serving of spinach?” Mom said.

“No,” Rae replied distractedly. “I’m still adjusting to being on the outside. So much has changed since I went in.”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Eat more spinach,” Fred suggested. “I’ve heard fresh produce is hard to come by in lockup.”

“Actually, it’s very easy to come by,” Rae replied.

“So, Fred,” Dad said, “what do you do for fun?”

“Dad, leave Fred alone,” David said.

Wow. Even David loved Fred.

“I was asking an innocent question,” Dad replied.

“You sound like you’re on a blind date with him,” David said.

Mom said, “Speaking of blind dates—”

“Not another word,” I interrupted.

“I don’t mind,” Fred said.

Then the table went silent.

“Fred, if you want to answer the question, go ahead. But if you don’t want to, you have the right to refuse to answer the question. We do it all the time,” Rae advised him.

To the delight of the entire table, Fred answered the question.

“I like to go mountain biking and to the movies, listen to music, read books, worship Satan. You know, the usual stuff.”

“Don’t you just want to clone him?” Mom asked no one in particular.

When the meal ended and “dessert” was finished, my parents turned to Rae and said, “I think it’s time you went back to your room, Rae.”

Rae gave them a strangely evil expression. If anyone was worshipping Satan, it was her. “Is it?” she said with a sneer. “I thought maybe we all might drink some Sanka and have a chat about a few things.”

When I turned to my parents for a reaction, they appeared almost, well, intimidated.

Then my father hardened his gaze at Rae and said, “Say good night, Fred.”

Then he actually said, “Good night, Fred.”

“Let me walk you out, Fred,” I said, walking Fred out.

While the delightful Fred unlocked his bike, put on his helmet, and turned on the light, I decided to see if I could gain his confidence for a little while.

“You might have noticed something earlier at the table, while Rae was talking about pee and pregnancy tests.”

Fred looked me in the eye. “I might have noticed something.”

“Can you not notice it anymore?” I asked.

“Don’t see why not,” Fred replied.

“Especially don’t notice it with Rae.”

“I think I hear what you’re saying,” Fred said.

“Do you need a bribe?” I asked, because Rae always needs a bribe and by virtue of association, I thought Fred might be the same.

“No. But thanks for the offer,” Fred said.

When I returned to the dining room, I heard my father say to Rae in his sternest tone, “Go upstairs and practice your please-forgive-me face in the mirror for an hour. You have court tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Not another word out of you,
young lady.
”

Rae stomped up the stairs but followed her instructions—not a single word leaked from her lips.

The rest of the family, drained by the run-of-the-mill family dinner, dispersed in silence.

WOULD THE REAL
MASON GRAVES
PLEASE STAND UP?

The address on Mason Graves’s employee file was a one-bedroom apartment in the Tenderloin, which I had assumed was Mason’s cheap getaway from the Winslow home. I rang the buzzer and a man answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I’m looking for Mason Graves. I have some information for him.”

I was buzzed up without any further communication. Apartment 606 was inconveniently located on the sixth floor of a walk-up. A large man in his midforties met me at the door.

“Are you Mason Graves?” I asked.

“Yes. Did I win something?”

“No.”

“Oh,” he said, appearing unduly saddened by the lack of good news.

“I’m sorry,” I said because it seemed like the right thing to do.

Before I met the real Mason Graves, I imagined a crafty man in collusion with an even more crafty man currently serving time. This Mason Graves brought to mind Lennie in
Of Mice and Men.
¹

“Were you expecting to win something?” I asked.

“There’s always a chance. I play the lottery every week.”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t bring you good news.”

“That’s okay. No one ever does.”

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked redundantly.

“Sure.”

“Do you know a Harvey Grunderman?”

“Yeah. He’s my cousin Harvey. He helps take care of me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He pays my bills and makes sure they bring me food every week.”

“Harvey pays your bills?”

“I’m not good with money.”

“Does he take care of your taxes and stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a job?”

“I clean the building for less rent. I vacuum and change lightbulbs and take out the trash and stuff.”

“If you need money, where do you get it?”

“My mom cooks for me once a week and always makes sure I have sandwich money, and Harvey pays my rent.”

“What’s your mother’s name?”

“Libby Graves.”

There went one theory. I was really hoping he’d say Mrs. Enright.

“Do you know where Harvey is?”

“He took a vacation. He needed to go away,” he said.

“Yes. He did. Where did he tell you he was going?”

“My memory isn’t very good.”

“Mason, do you have any other relatives in the area?”

“No. Just my mom and Harvey. My dad died a long time ago.”

“I see. When’s the last time you heard from Harvey?”

“Maybe a week ago,” Mason replied. “He’ll be home in a few months and then we can go back to our weekly card game.”

I took out my card and handed it to the real Mason. “In the meantime, if you need something, give me a call.”

Mason read the card. “Izzy Ellmanspay?”

“Oops. Sorry. That’s the wrong card.”

I handed him the one with my real name on it and said my good-bye.

Sometimes you just want a bad guy to be a bad guy. Someone you can take down alone. Harvey Grunderman came with an extra two hundred and fifty pounds of responsibility. I couldn’t close the case the way I planned—with a police report. Something else had to be done.

I drove directly to the Winslow home after my Tenderloin visit. In any metropolitan demographic, the sharp contrast between the social strata can be alarming, but in San Francisco, within five minutes you’re in a whole new world. My brief meeting with Mason Graves shot me with a strong dose of sadness. I wanted to sneak one of Mr. Winslow’s pricy rugs out of his home, hock it on eBay, and leave the cash on Graves’s doorstep. One fancy rug could buy a whole lot of sandwiches.

Len greeted me at the door.

“Ms. Spellman, why the long face?” he asked, shaking me into an entirely different world.

“Long day. That’s all.”

“But it’s only just begun. Do you have news?” Len asked. And if you’re wondering, no, he still hadn’t lost his ridiculous accent.

“Case closed,” I said.

“Did you find Mason?”

“Yes. His real name is Harvey Grunderman and he’s currently doing time for neglecting to pay child support. I suspect his employment here was a long con on Mr. Winslow. Please have your employer contact his attorneys and make sure that if there are any stipulations in his will for Mason Graves that they be retracted. That’s all I want you to tell Mr. Winslow. I will deal with Grunderman myself.”