"Something is wrong."

"Please don't ask me for a ride. I'm busy."

"I'm home."

"Then what's wrong?"

"I went downstairs to grab a snack and I caught Mom in the pantry crying."

"Mom was crying?"

"Like really hard."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I went back to my room. Should I have done something? What do you do?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think she was crying about the salsa dancing? I know I would."

"I think that probably wasn't it," I replied.

"Is something bad happening?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know, the usual bad stuff. Somebody is sick. She and Dad are getting a divorce."

"They're not getting a divorce."

"How do you know?" Rae replied.

"Who else would have them?"

"Good point. But she was crying really hard, Izzy."

"Sometimes people cry, Rae."

"Yeah, I know."

"Don't worry about it."

"Okay."

"Do you want me to come over there?" I asked.

"No. It's late. But I'm still hungry and I think Mom's still in the kitchen."

"Don't you have anything stashed in your room?"

"No. Wait. Oh yeah. I have those leftover Doritos from the camping trip in my desk."

"You really shouldn't keep open bags of food in your bedroom, Rae. You're going to get ants and then you'll never get rid of them."

"Okay, good-bye."

Most of my conversations with Rae end with that simple cutoff. When she decides a conversation is over, it's over. Was I worried about my mother's flood of tears? Yes. But everyone cries sometimes. I've been known to cry when I can't find coffee. Every once in a while a thought hits you and you're unprepared for it and suddenly it seems like your world is coming to an end. Most of the time it isn't. That's not to say I didn't register this episode as another clue in a vague mystery, but I wasn't too worried. At least, not yet.

Shortly after my conversation with Rae, I got another call that set off sirens in my head.

"Izzeee," Bernie1 said. That's how he says my name, as if I'm the star member of his favorite football team.

"Hi, Bernie," I said dully. He's not even a benchwarmer on any of my imaginary teams.

"What are you doing?" Bernie asked.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Been there, done that."

"How's everything with Daisy2?" I asked, because when things aren't good with Daisy, they're also not good with my living situation.

"Everything's great. We're coming to the city next week."

"What hotel are you staying in?" I inquired nervously.

"The Travelodge on Lombard."

"Excellent choice!" I said with a little too much enthusiasm.

"I'm taking Daisy to see Beach Blanket Babylon. Can you believe she's never seen it?"

"Yes, I can."3 "Maybe we can meet up for some clam chowder," Bernie said.

"Maybe," I replied. Translation: only under the threat of imminent death.

"Catch you later, Izzee."

"I hope not."

Phone calls with Bernie always drain my energy. I like it when Bernie stays in Vegas, because when he does, other things seem to stay there as well. Like trouble, for instance. I couldn't tell you how I knew it--just a feeling in my gut--but nothing good was going to come from Bernie's visit.

RULE #40--.

LEARN SOME MANNERS.

I spotted Rule #40 on the board as I entered the Spellman offices. No one vetoed it, because really, how can you veto manners? My father pretended it was a general reminder, Rae curtsied on her way out the door, and I later inquired as to the specifics.

First you must know something about the Spellmans. We like nuts--cashews, almonds, macadamia nuts, mixed nuts, but especially pistachios. My mother had recently taken to leaving a bowl of pistachio nuts on the bar that separates the kitchen from the living room. This was the first time other than a holiday party that the nuts were just sitting there for the taking. Someone was leaving the shells inside the bowl with the uncorrupted nuts, which really got under my mother's skin. She was so determined to nail the culprit, I found her setting up a hidden camera to capture the evidence. My mother's a private investigator. This is what she does. And, sure, there have been many occasions on which she's used such tactics to uncover benign infractions, like who's left the porch light on or the garage door open, drunk the last of the milk, etc. Our work instincts cannot be left in the office, especially when the office is inside the family home. However, something about Mom was off these days and I wanted to get to the bottom of it.

Later that afternoon, after completing a few hours of work, I tried to launch into a casual conversation. I'm sure you will admire my subtlety.

"You feeling all right, Mom?"

"Why do you ask?"

"How about answering the question?"

"Maybe I would if it weren't presented with that attitude."

"Mom, you're not yourself, and that concerns me because even your normal self is a tad on the unpredictable side."

"What are you getting at?"

"Well, there was that 'literature'1 and the DVD."

"What your father and I do on our own time is none of your business," Mom replied.

"Okay, what about bringing up sex therapy at dinner the other night?" I said as a reminder.

"I don't want David to screw this up."

"I'd rephrase that if I were you."

"I'm his mother and I have the right to meddle, just as I meddle with you and just as I meddle with Rae. One day I won't be here to meddle and you'll miss me."

"And then the three of us will unite as a band of traveling bank robbers and all hell will break loose."

"Something like that," Mom replied.

After a long pause, enough time for a topic change to not be too jarring, I asked, "Is everything all right with you and Dad?" I asked.

"Of course. We're fine. I have no complaints. Well, I'd like him to drop another ten pounds, but with the holidays coming up, I don't see that happening. And I wish you'd break up with that thug. And I wish that Rae would get a haircut. Well, I have some complaints. But none is all that severe."

"You should take down the pistachio cam, Mom. In this house we don't need any more invasions of privacy."

"Fine," said Mom, "but that's the end of the pistachios."

"I understand," I replied.2 My next order of business was to subtly and sensitively inquire into the matter of my mother crying in the kitchen late at night. I assume you've gathered by now that subtle and sensitive are not in my regular playbook. How about an A for effort?

"I heard you were crying in the kitchen the other night."

"How'd you hear that?"

"It was caught on your pistachio cam."

My mother didn't think that was funny at all.

"Sorry," I said. "Rae saw you. It upset her. Then she told me. If it were Aunt Martie 3 I wouldn't think twice. But you're not a crier. So is everything okay?"

"Yes, yes," my mother said, stopping short of saying more. The thing is, people don't always say more with me, for obvious reasons. I had to push harder and yet with more sensitivity. Not an easy feat.

"If you wanted to elaborate, I would respond in an appropriate manner."

My mother stared at her computer screen, but there were only floating fish to hold her attention.

"A friend from high school died. I got an e-mail about it."

"Who?"

"Martha Givens."

"I'm sorry. Were you close?"4 "No. I hadn't seen her in years. But she was in my class and she died of natural causes. A heart attack while she was sleeping. It made me sad, that's all. Got me thinking about my own mortality, which I rarely consider. You were always a perennial teenager. I was always middle-aged. I keep forgetting you're thirty-two. Oh my god, you're thirty-two. Speaking of your shortening lifespan and unmarried status--"

"We weren't actually speaking of that."

"Have you found your next lawyer?"

"Would you look at the time?"

"Wait, don't go. I'll change the subject."

"What?" I said.

"I need you to do me a favor. I have a seven o'clock meeting with the new Zylor HR person. Somebody needs to pick up Rae from Maggie's office tonight."

"How about a bus driver?" I suggested.

"Please, Isabel. Also, I don't know if it would hurt matters if you could maybe say something to Maggie to smooth things over. You know, with Sunday-night dinner and all."

"I wouldn't worry about it," I replied.

"Really?" Mom said, looking for reassurance.

"There's no way those giant beavers are coming back."

I agreed to pick up Rae from Maggie's office but grew suspicious when I learned that Rae had already arranged for a ride there from school. I decided to swing by Garfield High School to make sure Rae Spellman was no longer using the Logan Engle Car Service.

It was easier to keep watch on the BMW, so I found a post that gave me a clear view of Logan's car. When he got in and drove off alone, my work was done.