The Spellman Files Read online

  The mere mention of Uncle Ray’s lucky shirt jarred him out of whatever soporific fog still remained. The shirt had been out of his possession nearing two weeks at this point and its absence was felt around the house. Uncle Ray stubbed his toe and it was because he wasn’t wearing the shirt. Uncle Ray got a parking ticket, spilled a glass of water, gained two pounds, had his latest poker game broken up by the cops, and it was because his lucky shirt had been hijacked.

  “I’m gonna tell your dad,” threatened Uncle Ray.

  “And you’ll never see your shirt again. Is that what you want?”

  Ray was cornered and he knew it. “Tell me your demands,” he mumbled reluctantly.

  “Take the bus to the Wells Fargo Bank on Montgomery and Market and withdraw one hundred dollars.”

  “This is extortion, you know.”

  “You have forty-five minutes.”

  Forty-five Minutes Later

  Per the voice’s instructions, Ray entered the Wells Fargo Bank on Montgomery and Market streets and withdrew exactly one hundred dollars. As he exited the bank, a young male, approximately fourteen years of age, riding a skateboard, approached the older man.

  “Uncle Ray?” asked the young male.

  Ray spun around in a circle, trying to find his niece, but she was nowhere in sight. He turned back to the skateboarder and eyed him cruelly. “What?”

  The young male handed Ray a disposable cell phone. “You have a phone call.”

  Ray took the phone and the young male skated off.

  “Hello?”

  “Be at the pay phone in front of the Wax Museum on Fisherman’s Wharf at eight-fifteen on the dot.”

  “When will I get my shirt?”

  “You have twenty-five minutes. Lose the phone.”

  Uncle Ray tossed the phone in the trash, genuinely believing that he was being watched. He hailed a cab and arrived in front of the Wax Museum with time to spare. He waited outside the phone booth until he saw a young woman approach, fishing through her purse, presumably for coins. He entered the booth, picked up the phone, and slyly held down the receiver while he pretended to talk. Had anyone been in the booth with him, they would have heard a random series of curse words, which served no narrative function. Eventually the phone rang.

  “Yeah,” Ray answered in his best tough-guy voice.

  “Buy a ticket and enjoy the show,” the slightly less disguised voice said.

  “That’s thirteen bucks a pop!” said my uncle, who wouldn’t have stepped foot in a wax museum if it was free and served booze.

  “I think you qualify for the senior discount. So it’s only ten-fifty.”

  “And what if I don’t do it?”

  “I’ll throw the shirt in the bay right now.”

  “What did I ever do to you?”

  “You want a list?”

  “I’m going.”

  THE SNOW CASE

  CHAPTER 1

  As Uncle Ray bit his tongue and entered the Wax Museum, I knocked on the door of Joseph and Abigail Snow’s house on Myrtle Avenue in Marin County. When Mrs. Snow opened the door, I was blasted by an overwhelming fragrance that emanated from the home. I would later learn that the scent was potpourri, but there were too many other effects offending my sensibilities at that moment for me to investigate the odor.

  Abigail Snow, now in her early sixties, was wearing an outdated floral dress that looked like it came from the wardrobe of a 1950s sitcom star. Her hair, as well, was trapped in the past and in half a can of hair spray. She was probably about five foot six, but her stocky build, which was more sturdy than plump, made her seem taller and oddly intimidating. While her attire was (in my estimation) unflattering, it was kept in immaculate condition. When I entered the house, I would discover that this was a theme for Mrs. Snow—tasteless, but immaculate.

  I walked across plastic runners into the Snows’ living room, which was, coincidentally, a vision in white. Other than the cherrywood furniture and collection of collectible plates, that is. And, I should add, I had never seen so many doilies in my entire life. I scanned the walls for photographs of her sons, but there were only two eight-by-ten photographs above the fireplace. The boys, in their preteen perfection—bow ties, unblemished skin, forced smiles—could tell me nothing about the men they would become. I got the feeling Mrs. Snow wanted to keep them frozen in time, just like everything else in her house.

  My hostess gave me a stern looking-over before she offered me a seat on her plastic-covered white couch. I had recently ceased wearing my schoolteacher get-ups, so I was back in jeans, leather boots, and a frayed wool peacoat from an army surplus store, since it was a fifty-degree day. I thought I looked perfectly presentable, but the expression on my hostess’s face said otherwise.

  “My, my,” Mrs. Snow said, “the girls today dress just like the boys.”

  “I know. Isn’t it great?” I replied, having already decided that I didn’t like Mrs. Snow one bit.

  “Would you like some tea and cookies?” Mrs. Snow asked, not wanting to engage in a discussion of the benefits of menswear.

  Since I had been avoiding my parents’ kitchen (to avoid them) and was therefore starving, I said yes. I stayed put on the squeaky couch since the plastic runners offered little freedom to move in this painstakingly sanitized room. I was afraid if Mrs. Snow caught my boots on exposed carpet, I would be promptly evicted and no interview would transpire. I reminded myself to behave politely, but then I forgot about that a few minutes later.

  My hostess returned with a shiny silver tray that held a teapot, two teacups, cream and sugar, and a plate of vanilla sandwich cookies. She asked how I liked my tea and I told her with cream and sugar (but really, I like my tea to be coffee), and she prepared the weak brew with careful precision.

  “Cookie?” Mrs. Snow asked, holding a set of silver tongs.

  The sandwich cookies were fanned across the plate in a semicircle, like fallen dominoes. I grabbed one from the middle, knowing it would peeve my hostess, but I couldn’t help myself. When faced with a controlling personality, it is in my nature to rebel.

  Mrs. Snow held up the tongs and said, “That’s what these are for, dear.”

  I apologized and split my cookie in two. Then I ate the cream filling out of the middle and dunked the sides into my tea. Mrs. Snow frowned in disgust. As I began the interview, I reminded myself that Mrs. Snow’s brand of truth must be weighed against her pathological need for order.

  “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here,” I said.

  “It crossed my mind. I believe the last time I spoke to your mother was about ten years ago.”

  “On occasion we revisit old cases. Sometimes fresh eyes reveal a new detail.”

  Mrs. Snow realigned the cookies on the plate, filling in the gap from the middle where I had served myself. “Ms. Spellman. Don’t do this for me or my family. My son is gone. I have accepted it.”

  “Sometimes people like answers.”

  “I have all the answers I need. Andrew is in a better place now.”

  I couldn’t help but agree with her. Anyplace was better than this. I took another cookie from the center of the fan, just to test Mrs. Snow’s patience.

  “Dear, you’re supposed to take the cookies from the end and please use the tongs.”

  “I apologize,” I said politely. “I must have missed cookie-eating day in charm school.”

  “I think you missed more than that,” she said. What was odd about the insult was that it came out so naturally, as if it were reasonable to talk to a complete stranger this way. While I would have liked to challenge Mrs. Snow in a wicked debate on the merits of modern-day living, I had work to do.

  “I know this must be hard for you, Mrs. Snow, and I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” I said, summoning my most sympathetic voice. “But I would really appreciate it if I could ask you just a few questions.”

  “You drove all this way. I suppose a few questions would be all right.”

>   “Thank you. Can I ask where Mr. Snow is?”

  “He’s playing golf.”

  “I was hoping to talk to him, as well.”

  “Why would you need to talk to him?” she asked. An air of defensiveness was lending itself to her voice.

  “Different people have different perspectives,” I replied. “Sometimes one person remembers something that another person doesn’t.”

  “I assure you, my husband’s and my perspective are exactly the same.”

  “How convenient,” I said, wanting to bolt. There was something terrifying about this woman. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and yet it was impossible to keep my general suspicion of her at bay.

  “Is that all, Ms. Spellman?” she asked, brushing away the crumbs next to my teacup.

  “What is Martin up to these days?”

  “Martin?”

  “Yes. Your other son.”

  “Martin is an attorney for one of those environmental organizations,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “You must be proud of him,” I said, just to stick the knife in deeper.

  “After all the money we spent on his education, he gets a job at a nonprofit. If I’d known that our hundred thousand dollars would go to saving trees, I would have let him take out student loans.”

  “Can I have his address and phone number?”

  “You want to talk to him?”

  “If that’s all right with you.”

  “It’s not up to me,” she replied. “Martin is a grown man.”

  Mrs. Snow’s fake smile was losing some of its conviction. She would draw this interview to a close shortly, so I had to scramble for any last bits of information. I picked up the tongs and grabbed one more cookie from the center of the fan.

  “Oops,” I said, shoving it back in. “I forgot.” Then I grabbed a cookie from the side. The fan was now a squiggle and I passed the tongs to Mrs. Snow.

  “You probably want to fix that.”

  “You must have been a handful as a child,” Mrs. Snow said coldly.

  “You have no idea,” I replied. I’m not sure if it was the cookies on an empty stomach mixed with the overwhelming smell of potpourri or my unsettling hostess, but I was growing nauseous and knew that it was time to finish the interview.

  “Did your sons go camping together often?” I asked.

  “Not that often, but on occasion.”

  “Did they always go alone, or with friends?”

  “They usually went with Greg,” she replied.

  “Greg Larson. I remember his name from the file. But there was no indication that he was camping with your sons at the time of Andrew’s disappearance.”

  “He didn’t go with them that weekend.”

  “But he went with them almost every other time?”

  “I think so, but I wasn’t keeping track.”

  “Do you know how I could get in touch with Mr. Larson?”

  “I don’t have his number, but he’s with the Marin County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “He’s a sheriff?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Snow said as she got to her feet. “Now if that will be all, I have quite a bit of cleaning to do today.”

  I scanned the room and decided that any dirt Mrs. Snow found would be imaginary, but I was anxious for some fresh air and followed my hostess to the door.

  The Ransom—Continued

  As I was driving back across the bridge into the city, Uncle Ray sat on a bench seat in the center of the Wax Museum next to the Last Supper exhibit. Never having been a religious man, he found nothing in the colorful, nonsecular display to hold his interest. He took deep, quasimeditative breaths, read the sports page, and reminded himself that eventually he would get his shirt back and this whole nightmare would come to a close. Another unidentified young male approached Uncle Ray and handed him a piece of paper.

  PAY PHONE AT BEACH AND HYDE. TEN MINUTES.

  Uncle Ray huffed and puffed his way the three blocks to the ringing pay phone.

  “I have a cell phone, you know,” he shouted breathlessly into the receiver.

  “I like to mix it up. Hail a cab—”

  “I’m hungry! I didn’t have breakfast. My blood sugar is getting low,” Uncle Ray said, truly at his wit’s end.

  “What do you feel like?” said the voice.

  “I wouldn’t say no to one of those clam chowders in a bread bowl.”

  “You can get the clam chowder, but be at the Sutro Baths by one o’clock sharp,” said the voice that was sounding more and more like a fourteen-year-old girl.

  “Make it one-thirty. I don’t like to rush my digestion.”

  The voice hesitated before responding. One must not give too much in a standoff or one risks losing power and respect. The pause was just long enough to make clear that any further demands would be met with a stony resolve.

  “One-fifteen. Don’t be late.”

  Uncle Ray ate his creamy clam chowder in a sourdough bowl and wondered why he didn’t do this sort of thing more often—the eating of clam chowder in a sourdough bowl, not the running from pay phone to pay phone at the mercy of a teenage girl. Then several loud tourists passed by, families arguing, flashbulbs piercing the gray sky, music blasting, rampant break-dancing, and he remembered why he consistently avoided this tourist trap, even though it served one of his top five meals of all time.

  Uncle Ray hopped into a cab and arrived at the Sutro Baths fifteen minutes early—the time originally marked by the voice. He sat on a bench and enjoyed the view and the calm, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. He even thought about packing it in. Could this twenty-year-old, one-hundred-percent-cotton-weave shirt really hold the powers of good fortune that he believed? Was it not the grown man’s equivalent of a security blanket? Was it not time to accept that he was alive and maybe going to stay alive for a while? He remembered Sophie Lee at that very moment and recalled the time she told him to throw the shirt away. The time she said that she couldn’t be with a man who felt such attachment to a piece of fabric. She gave him a fabled ultimatum—either the shirt goes or she goes. He had done everything for her and would have sacrificed anything for her, but not the shirt. He didn’t dispose of it then. He couldn’t. He had simply packed it away and didn’t look at it for two years. When those two years ended and both Sophie and the cancer were gone, Ray swore he would never part with the shirt again. It didn’t matter that it defied logic. Ray simply loved that shirt.

  A young female tourist approached Uncle Ray and handed him an envelope.

  GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE. ONE HOUR.

  Ray decided he could use the exercise and took a leisurely walk to the bridge. He was late. Rae was on her bicycle at the entrance to the walkway, impatiently riding in circles. She had to be home by four o’clock or risk another grounding and shortening of curfew.

  Uncle Ray approached her with a slow, lumbering swagger. His years as a cop made him no stranger to negotiation. He, too, was aware that giving in too quickly destroys whatever edge you might have. He waited for his niece to speak first.

  “Did you bring the money?”

  “Yes. Did you bring my shirt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hand it over, kid. It’s been a long day.”

  Rae and Uncle Ray swapped packages. Ray removed the shirt and immediately put it on over his hooded sweatshirt. He brushed out the wrinkles and straightened the collar. He exhaled a sigh of deep, overwhelming relief.

  Rae counted the money in the envelope. “Sixty-three bucks? I said one hundred.”

  “Two bus rides. The Wax Museum. Cab fare. Clam chowder. It adds up.”

  “I’m gonna let it slide,” my sister generously offered, figuring that fighting Ray for the shirt was a winless prospect.

  “Are we done here?” he asked.

  “We’re done.”

  Uncle Ray turned around and walked off the bridge. But Rae wasn’t done. She had to ask him the question that had been on her mind for months.

  “Why?” she sai
d. “Why’d you come back?”

  Uncle Ray turned around and carefully considered how to answer the question. He didn’t believe she deserved his honesty, but he gave it to her anyway.

  “I was lonely.”

  It seemed odd to me, the ease with which Rae and Uncle Ray resolved their conflict. My sister had never experienced loneliness, yet she understood how powerful that feeling could be. Her own cruelty stung her with regret and she ended her war that very moment. Uncle Ray would later tell me that being enemies with Rae was easier than being friends with her. I don’t think he ever said anything so completely on the nose.

  That same afternoon, I returned home and reviewed the Snow file yet again. I studied the photographs of Andrew and Martin that I found slipped in an envelope inside the file. Unlike the framed portraits in Mrs. Snow’s home, these pictures must have been taken not long before Andrew’s disappearance when he was seventeen. The brothers shared certain common features and coloring. Both were brown-haired and -eyed. But Martin’s square-jawed handsomeness made him appear older than the one year he had on his brother. Andrew was leaner than Martin, with softer features. I wondered what Andrew might look like twelve years later; as for Martin, I would eventually find out.

  When my mother entered the Spellman offices, she sniffed the air and said, “Isabel, are you wearing perfume?”

  “No,” I snapped at her, knowing the potpourri was still lingering on my clothes.

  “What is that smell?” my mother asked, enjoying her fun.

  “Don’t play dumb, Mom.”

  “Oh, right,” my mom said as if a lightbulb had flashed on over her head. “Abigail Snow does like the smell of dead flowers, doesn’t she?”

  “Now I know why you gave me this case.”

  “Because Andrew Snow has been missing for twelve years?”

  “No, because Mrs. Snow is the most annoying woman on the entire planet.”