Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again

by Lutz, Lisa

  Just to cover all bases, I asked, “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Of course not,” she replied, casually wiping down the phone with a rag.

  I had only a few more questions for her and then I could make my escape. The smell of the potpourri was starting to give me a headache.

  “This may sound like an odd question,” I said, “but do you recall what kind of car Greg Larson used to drive?”

  “Yes. It was a red Camaro. Late-seventies model.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mean Camry?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Mrs. Snow replied sharply.

  “And it was definitely red, not white?”

  “Dear, I know the difference between red and white.”

  “I can’t argue with you there,” I said, and quickly made my way to the door. “So you don’t remember Greg ever having a white Camry?”

  “No,” she replied flatly.

  “According to my parents’ file, Martin and Andrew shared a 1985 Datsun hatchback in blue. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “They didn’t have any other cars, did they?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Snow. You’ve been very helpful.”

  After I exited the Snow home, I knocked on several doors in the neighborhood. Of the four people who were home, two were living in their current residence twelve years ago. Both of them remembered Greg Larson and his red Camaro. Neither of them recalled ever seeing a white Camry.

  When I returned home, I spotted my mother’s car parked in the driveway. I smashed the headlight to make it easier to spot her if she was following me. Traditionally I would have planned a more sophisticated counterstrike against my mother for making the counterfeit phone call, but my family’s collision course was becoming a traffic jam and I opted for a simpler response. I ran down to the office and ratted her out to my dad.

  “Sweetheart, your mother wouldn’t do such a thing,” responded my father before I even completed my tattle.

  “Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think.”

  “We’ve been married thirty-three years.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Isabel, your mother didn’t make that phone call. But let me reiterate: You are off the case. We don’t want a lawsuit on our hands.”

  I might have pursued the conversation, but Uncle Ray interrupted, swinging open the door and shouting, “Al, you have to help me. I can’t take it anymore!”

  ONE TRUCE

  (AND A FEW MORE BATTLES)

  With all the covert surveillance, room tapping, and generic spying going on, I forgot to mention the kind of peace that Rae and Uncle Ray had cultivated. Now that they were friends, Rae took it upon herself to single-handedly cure Uncle Ray of each and every one of his vices. This meant slipping greeting cards with photographs of diseased livers under his door, “Thinking of you. Love, Rae” scrawled on the inside.

  Over dinner she would offer random facts about the evils of alcohol consumption and occasionally throw in dietary advice (which I often reminded her was somewhat hypocritical considering her sugar addiction). She researched drug and alcohol abuse religiously and even consulted an herbalist, who provided an elixir that Rae began slipping into Uncle Ray’s food and sometimes his beer. She tried to attend a Gamblers Anonymous meeting, but was tossed out at the door. Dejected, she turned to Al-Anon and routinely shared the saga of Uncle Ray’s journey into debauchery. Each retelling was loaded with yet another dramatic flourish, until it barely resembled Uncle Ray at all.

  For the most part, my parents overlooked this new obsession of Rae’s, since it kept her off the street. She was too busy researching and reporting facts on liver function to randomly surveil strangers. This sort of thing is considered progress in our house, although they maintained no misguided notions that Rae’s endeavors would result in any alteration of Uncle Ray’s habits. We had tried to fix him years before. Like a porcelain doll, if you drop it once, there is no amount of glue that will restore it to its previous glory.

  Uncle Ray plopped down on a swivel chair and dropped his head on the desk. My sister entered right on his tail, carrying an enormous medical book called Liver Function and Dysfunction.

  “Wait,” Rae said. “You haven’t looked at the liver after ten years of cirrhosis.”

  Uncle Ray turned to my father for assistance.

  “Pumpkin, give me the book,” said my dad.

  Rae handed our father the textbook.

  “You told me to spend more time at the library,” she said.

  “I did, didn’t I? Meet me in the kitchen. We need to have a talk.”

  Rae rolled her eyes, offered an exaggerated sigh, and stomped out of the room. My dad turned to Uncle Ray.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said as he headed after his younger daughter.

  I leaned against my desk, trying to figure out my next move. Uncle Ray lifted his head, turned to me, and said, “All I want to do is drink some beer and eat some peanuts in peace. Is that too much to ask?”

  I had decided after I found the listening device in my apartment that it was time to move out of my parents’ house. However, between fake drug deals and the Snow case, I found it hard to look for a new place. But then I remembered that I had a place to stay and began packing. A few hours later, Rae knocked on my door and asked if she could keep me company. I let her inside, where she began secretly unpacking. Until I caught her, that is, and literally picked her up and tossed her out, carefully securing the deadbolt after her.

  Once I got bored with my packing, I decided to pick up the key to my new place. A moment after I was out the door, my mother was strolling down the steps in her bathrobe and slippers.

  “Where are we going, sweetie?” she asked.

  “Nowhere,” I cleverly replied.

  “I love you,” she said with an awkward, deadpan delivery. She said it as if she thought I might have forgotten. The truth was, I never doubted for a moment that my parents loved me. But love in my family has a bite to it and sometimes you get tired of icing all those tooth marks.

  My mother sat patiently in her car, waiting for me to make my next move. I didn’t bother trying to lose her. I had nothing to hide with this trip.

  I pulled into David’s driveway and left my mom sitting, double parked, in the middle of the street.

  I knocked on David’s door. He answered.

  “Isabel. What are you doing here?”

  “Hello. How are you?” I corrected him.

  “Hi. Sorry. What’s up?”

  “Tell me the truth, David. Have you had Botox injections?”

  “No.”

  “Is Petra here?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you look nervous.”

  “She’s in the back. Are you looking for her?”

  “I’m actually looking for the key to her apartment. She’s living here, isn’t she?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “About three months.”

  “How did it start?”

  “I ran into her at the gym.”

  “She goes to a gym?” I said in utter disbelief.

  “Yes. A lot of people do.”

  “So you ran into her at the gym and then what happened?”

  “Isabel, can we have a conversation instead of an inquest?”

  “Sure. As soon as you stop giving Rae hush money.”

  “Touché.”

  “So then what happened?”

  “I told him he needed a haircut,” Petra said as she entered the foyer. “Two days later, he called me for one.”

  “David,” I said, “do you like drinking beer on rooftops?”

  “Not particularly,” my brother replied.

  “See,” I said to Petra.

  “Anything else you’d like to know?” Petra asked.

  “When did you start going t
o the gym?”

  David pushed me aside and stepped onto his porch. “Is that Mom parked out front?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I snorted cocaine.”

  “What?!”

  “Fake cocaine, David,” I said and then turned to Petra. “Can I stay in your apartment?”

  She handed me her keys and explained that the apartment was empty except for a bed and a case of bottled water. I responded that that was all I required. She further explained that her lease was up in a week and I had to clear out of there by then.

  “David, try to stall Mom while I make my escape.”

  “What is going on, Isabel?” David said as I was halfway out the door.

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  I knocked on the window of my mother’s car. “Please tell me the truth, Mom. Did you call me pretending to be Abigail Snow?”

  “No,” she said, with concern edging over her face.

  I knew in that moment that she hadn’t made the call and I also knew that I wouldn’t stop until I found out who did.

  Instead of going directly to Petra’s, I decided to swing by Daniel’s place and see whether he had recovered yet from the fake drug deal.

  I rang his buzzer, since he had made it clear that window entry was no longer acceptable.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I said as I entered Daniel’s apartment.

  “Doing what?” Daniel asked.

  “Just driving around.”

  “You were driving around my neighborhood?”

  “I was driving around all sorts of neighborhoods trying to lose my mom.”

  “Lose your mom? I don’t understand.”

  “She’s following me.”

  “Your mother is following you, is that what you said?”

  “Yes. Do you mind if I turn off your lights?”

  I didn’t wait for a response; I switched them off and walked over to the window. Peering through the blinds, I could see my mother sitting in her car, reading by a book light. Daniel leaned in next to me; he had to see it for himself.

  “How long has she been following you?”

  “Only like an hour. But she has a really small bladder, so she can never last that long. Do you have any coffee? Maybe we can speed this up.”

  “This is not normal, Isabel.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  As I continued watching my mother, Daniel poured himself a drink and sat down on the couch.

  “Isabel, where do you see this relationship going?”

  It had been a long day and I was in no mood for the kind of talk Daniel had in mind. I had to get out of his apartment before the conversation progressed further. I peered out of the window again, just for show.

  “My mom just nodded off. I have to make a run for it.”

  I kissed Daniel on the forehead and raced out of the apartment. My mother, of course, had not fallen asleep. I walked up to her car and knocked on the window.

  “Go home, Mom,” I said. “I’m not doing anything interesting tonight.”

  “I hope you didn’t tell Daniel that.”

  She didn’t go home. She followed me to Petra’s and called Jake Hand on his way home after a long night of partying. She suggested he could sober up while making fifteen dollars an hour, and because Jake is still not-so-secretly in love with my mother, he agreed. Jake took a cab from his party and my mother handed him her car keys, explaining that he wasn’t allowed to drive it until morning, when he could pass a sobriety test. My mother then took the cab home herself.

  Inside Petra’s apartment, I phoned Andrew Snow one more time. Once again, the call turned over to voice mail. I pleaded with him to call me back and politely suggested that it might be the only way to get me off his back. I didn’t mention the unexplained phone call or Greg Larson’s extra car or any other aspect of the case. But that was a card I was willing to play.

  My mother’s fifteen dollars an hour was a waste of cash. The only thing Jake Hand saw through the lit window of Petra’s apartment was me, sitting on her bed and reviewing the case file over and over again. At 3:00 A.M., I looked out the window and saw Jake passed out in the front seat of the car. I wished I had somewhere to go, some lead to follow, because it would have been so easy to lose him at that moment. Instead I went to bed. Jake slept through half the morning amidst the traffic on the street. He was still out cold as I made my getaway.

  If only I could have made the most of my escape. Instead I went home to finish packing. Jake phoned my mother while I was in transit. I heard her finishing the call as I entered the house.

  “Forget it, Jake. She’s here. Haven’t you heard of coffee? Good-bye.”

  I went up to my apartment and discovered that all the boxes I had previously packed were now unpacked and the lion’s share of my belongings were restored to the wrong place. My parents’ tactics are more covert than this blatant attempt to derail my move; Rae was behind this. The loose lock from an amateur pick, the cookie crumbs on the floor, and the way she’d Krazy Glued down a number of items pointed in only one direction.

  I spent most of the day repacking what Rae had unpacked and ungluing what Rae had glued down. By the afternoon, I was as packed as I was the night before and hungry for revenge. I drove by Rae’s school and waited out front for her. She saw my car first and then saw my father’s car on my tail and pretended that she didn’t know which car was intended for her.

  I rolled down the window and told her not to play dumb. Rae got inside and I drove her home. Then I made her come up to my apartment and forced her to spend the entire night helping me finish packing for real. Her attempts at sabotage were met with empty threats and benign bullying. My packing didn’t benefit from her presence, but at least Uncle Ray had a free night and I reminded her that what follows from breaking and entering and gluing is some form of punishment. When I finally told her she could go, Rae said, “You’ll come back. I know you will.” It sounded less a prediction and more a threat.

  LOST WEEKEND #25

  Five days later, I woke up in Petra’s apartment for the last time. I walked down the street to a local café and ordered a large coffee in a foreign language. As I reached for my wallet, my father appeared from the shadows and threw some bills on the counter.

  “It’s on me,” he said.

  I grabbed the coffee and strode out of the shop, still startled by his magic act. My father stayed on my heels and matched my clipped pace.

  “What are you doing today?” he asked.

  “You don’t really think I’m going to answer that question, do you?”

  “I meant, are you free? Uncle Ray has gone AWOL again. I could use your help.”

  I didn’t tell him that I had no plans—for the day or the rest of my life. I didn’t tell him I was glad to have the distraction of another Lost Weekend.

  “Sure. I’ll meet you at the house” was all I said.

  Uncle Ray had been missing only fourteen hours when Rae began organizing a search party. The day after the first night he didn’t return home, she telephoned all of his known acquaintances, told them there was a death in the family, and said that should they come in contact with her uncle, they should drive him home immediately. Uncle Ray was still a no-show, but my parents did receive a number of condolence calls. On day two, Rae took a bus after school to the location of his first poker game, and through interviews and “a Budweiser trail,” she discovered that he’d spent the next night at yet another illegal poker game at a Motel 6 in the South Bay.

  Typically my father began tracking his brother after a forty-eight-hour absence, the same rule the police apply to missing persons. My sister refused to respond to Uncle Ray’s sudden departures and routine debauchery with the same unruffled acceptance adopted by the rest of the family. Fighting Rae on anything always made me question the cost-benefit ratio, But when it came to Uncle Ra
y, I let her win on all fronts.

  A cease-fire was enacted while I helped look for my uncle. I picked my sister up after school and we began an exhaustive search of all the rundown motels in a fifty-mile radius. The poker games, which were illegal in and of themselves, often included illegal substances, prostitution, and a fair amount of cigar smoke damage. Ray and his friends discovered that the individually run economy motels were the most likely to look the other way. The men would pool their money and add an extra two hundred dollars for “cleaning costs” to the bill and were welcome to return at a later, randomly selected, date.

  My contribution to the search was acting as Rae’s chauffeur. She used study hour at school to map motels on the Internet and planned a three-hour road trip, connecting the dots to twelve different establishments in the Bay Area. Generally, Uncle Ray’s poker buddies stuck to motels off Highway 1 or 280, usually staying between Marin County and San Mateo. I’d pull the car into the parking lot, Rae would jump out, go to the front office, show them a photograph of Uncle Ray—keeping a twenty-dollar bill in sight—and ask whether they had seen this man recently.

  The first five stops on the motel connect-the-dots were dead ends, but the desk clerk at the sixth motel said that Ray had just checked out. He was with a woman, but the clerk could not offer a description or comment on their future travel plans. We spent the rest of the afternoon hitting the next six motels, to no avail. Instead of doing her math homework that night, my sister rephoned all of Ray’s gambling buddies, asking whether hookers were at the last poker game. It goes without saying that a fourteen-year-old girl querying sixty-something men about illegal prostitution is unlikely to result in a forthright response.

  “Kid, your uncle’s a grown man. What he does, who he does, is none of my business” was the standard response.

  When the phone interviews proved futile, Rae turned to mapping more motel stops for the next day. She tried to convince my parents to let her skip school to continue the “manhunt,” but thankfully, they refused. There had been twenty-four Lost Weekends before the twenty-fifth. Each one dulled the impact of the next.