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

  A detail that had been nagging at me from the start was the history professor. He claimed to have seen two brothers searching for Andrew the morning of his disappearance. I tossed it into the back of my head because there was a logical explanation: Memories are generally unreliable. In the absence of any other leads, I decided to check it out. I took the train back to West Portal, found my car three blocks from the bar, removed the parking ticket, and drove home and picked up the Snow file, which was still locked in my desk drawer. I skimmed the file for the name, which was not unforgettable.

  As it conveniently turned out, Horace Greenleaf was a tenured prof at UC Berkeley. I phoned the history department, ascertained the professor’s office hours, and made my way across the Bay Bridge. By midmorning the traffic was at a standstill and I couldn’t help but wish that more people had day jobs.

  I located Professor Greenleaf’s office with just ten minutes to spare. I offered the professor an abbreviated explanation for my visit and he kindly offered me a seat.

  “According to the police report, you claim to have seen two young males the morning after Andrew Snow’s alleged disappearance.”

  “That is correct.”

  “You remember making that statement?”

  “Yes. And I remember seeing the young men.”

  “Around what time was this?”

  “Maybe six thirty A.M. Sunrise.”

  “Why were you up so early?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. I know camping is supposed to be peaceful, but I’d take the sound of traffic over crickets any day.”

  “Do you remember what the men were doing?”

  “Not much. They got into their car and drove off.”

  “Can you describe them for me?” I asked.

  “Both men looked to be between eighteen and twenty. The one who I believe was Andrew’s brother, from the pictures I saw in the paper, was maybe five foot ten, one hundred and seventy pounds, fit-looking, broad shoulders.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “I have an extremely good memory,” the professor said, correcting me.

  “How about the other young male? What did he look like?”

  “Taller, lanky, sandy-haired.”

  “Do you remember anything else about him?” I asked.

  “I think he was chewing on a toothpick.”

  I controlled my urge to jolt out of the office and asked a few more questions to solidify my case.

  “Do you remember the car they were driving?”

  “A Datsun, I think. A hatchback. Late-eighties model.”

  “Did either of these men see you?”

  “I don’t think so. I had just unzipped my tent and was putting on my shoes.”

  “And you told this to the police?”

  “Yeah, about a week or two later when they tracked me down. I guess they figured I had the dates wrong. But I don’t think so. Because the day he disappeared was the day we went home.”

  I returned to the city and then made my way across the Golden Gate Bridge into Sausalito. I pulled my car over right in front of Martin Snow’s house on Spring Street. There was no stealth in this stakeout. Twenty minutes later, Martin peered through his window and spotted me. I could see his fingers part the slats in the blinds every fifteen minutes or so. While I still couldn’t tell you what he had done, I was making him nervous, and that confirmed his guilt in my mind. The problem was, I wasn’t sure where his guilt ended. Was it possible that he was connected to my sister’s disappearance? I had to know for sure.

  I got out of the car and knocked on his door. He didn’t answer, but I kept knocking. Finally he opened it.

  “If you don’t leave,” he said, “I’m going to call the police.”

  “You don’t want to involve the police.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Do you have my sister?”

  “What?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She disappeared four days ago.”

  Martin’s face registered confusion. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I leaned in close. “If you’re holding back on me, if you know anything that might help me find her and you keep it from me—that would be a mistake.”

  Martin nodded his head and indicated that he understood I was making a threat.

  “You need to get off my property. I’ve already called the police. They’re on their way.”

  I got into my car and left.

  Car Chase #4

  A few blocks from Martin’s home, I spotted a sheriff’s vehicle closing in on my car. The lights flashed and I was about to pull over, when I checked my rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of what I believed to be Sheriff Larson’s silhouette. My guess was that Martin called him when I left the house. My guess was the sheriff wasn’t pulling me over for a burned-out taillight, even though I probably had one of those.

  I put my foot to the floor and tried to piece together what I knew. I knew that Martin cheated his parents out of over a hundred thousand dollars. I knew that the sheriff bought a car twelve years ago that no one could account for. I knew he was there when Andrew disappeared. I knew he didn’t blink as often as most people.

  The sheriff sounded his siren again and motioned for me to pull over. Instead of pulling over, I drove faster, thinking that if I made it into the city, into the jurisdiction of the SFPD, I would be on safe ground. Then I could have the sheriff arrested for, well, whatever it was he’d done wrong.

  I wound through the unfamiliar Marin roads in the fading light of dusk. Like my father and uncle, Larson had an edge over me. He was both trained in automobile pursuits and familiar with those roads. The last line of sun disappeared from the horizon. Larson closed the gap to no more than ten yards. I turned onto a mountain road to avoid any streetlights. Larson moved his vehicle alongside my car, shouted for me to pull over, but I didn’t. The pounding of my heartbeat was audible. Fear I thought I understood, but this fear—the fear that I might not make it home that night—was an altogether different monster.

  I made a right turn onto a side street, which ended up being a dead end. Larson blocked my return path by parking his car at an angle. He quickly got out of his vehicle, pulling his gun.

  “Keep your hands on the steering wheel,” he said, as if I were a common criminal. Without giving me a chance to react, Larson opened the driver’s-side door and pulled me out of the car.

  I felt the cuffs unite my hands behind my back. Then a warm hand on the back of my neck guided me toward the squad car. Larson opened the front passenger door, put his hand on my head, and shoved me into the front seat. He slammed the door shut, circled the car, and sat down next to me.

  “You won’t get away with this,” I said.

  “Get away with what?” he replied in his annoyingly calm manner.

  “You know,” I said, not really knowing myself.

  “We need to go for a drive, Isabel,” he said, pulling his cruiser back onto the road.

  “Are you planning on killing me?” I asked, hoping to ease my tension.

  “No,” he replied flatly.

  “Well, of course you’re going to say no. That way I won’t put up a struggle.”

  “You’re handcuffed. I’m not worried about that.”

  He had a point. There wasn’t much I could do. However, had he frisked me before he put me in the car, he would have found my cell phone. I pulled it out of my pocket and pressed the first number in my speed dial: Albert Spellman. I couldn’t bring the phone to my ear or even hear over the sound of traffic whether anyone had answered. So I waited thirty seconds and then spoke as loudly as I could.

  “Hi Dad, it’s me. If I disappear or something happens to me, a Sheriff Greg Larson, that’s L-A-R-S-O-N, is responsible. I’m in his car right now—”

  “Who are you talking to?” Larson asked, looking at me as if I were the craziest person he�
��d ever met.

  “My dad,” I said smugly. “I just speed-dialed him on my cell phone.”

  Larson pulled over to the side of the road and grabbed the phone from my hands. He then placed it next to my ear. I could hear my dad shouting into the receiver.

  “Izzy, Izzy? Where are you?”

  “Hi Dad. I’m in Sheriff Larson’s squad car.”

  “Are you safe?” he asked. I could hear the panic in his voice.

  “A minute ago I would have said no, but I think I’m okay. Just in case, his badge number is seven-eight-six-two-two…”

  Larson leaned in so I could read the last digit.

  “Seven,” I said.

  “What is going on, Isabel?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine. Don’t worry, Dad,” I said, and then Larson spoke into the receiver.

  “Mr. Spellman, your daughter is perfectly safe. Martin Snow called the police when she refused to leave his property. That’s all, sir. No, we won’t be pressing charges today. Thank you, sir.”

  Larson disconnected the call and got back on the road. He drove onto Highway 101 South and remained silent for the next fifteen minutes. Since I was no longer concerned for my physical safety, I waited for him to speak. But he didn’t, so I broke the silence.

  “I know you were at the campsite the night of Andrew’s disappearance.”

  “You’ve managed to figure out a lot of things. In fact, you have most of the pieces to the puzzle, but you still can’t put it together. Am I right?”

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Andrew was an extremely unhappy person. He attempted suicide at least three times before his disappearance.”

  “Shouldn’t that have been in the report?”

  “Doctor-patient privilege. Unless the parents provided the information to the police it would not have been known. No one knew it besides the immediate family and me. Even his high school had no idea. Any recovery time was passed off as the flu or strep throat. Mrs. Snow made sure that no one found out.”

  “Are you telling me you know what happened to him?” I asked.

  “I know exactly what happened to him. He escaped from that house, from that woman, from that life that he hated. And Martin and I helped him do it.

  “We planned it months in advance. Andrew and Martin drove to Lake Tahoe as planned. I went to my uncle’s house and left in the evening for a concert. I knew he’d be out cold by ten P.M. and wouldn’t notice my absence until the following morning. I took his car, since the DUI was preventing him from driving. Even if he went looking for it, it wouldn’t have raised any suspicion. He could never remember where he parked the thing anyway. I drove to Lake Tahoe that night and gave Andrew the car. He left soon after. Early the next morning, Martin drove me to the Greyhound station so I could get a bus back to the city. There was no reason to be suspicious of us, so the police never really questioned Martin’s story.”

  Larson pulled his car in front of a Tudor-style brick home with a white picket fence. In the yard two preschool-age children were playing with their mother, a tall, dark-haired woman with strong but attractive features.

  “Is he still alive? Where did he go?”

  Larson pointed at the young mother playing in the yard. “She’s right there,” he said.

  At first I couldn’t even register what Larson was saying, but the longer I stared at the woman, the closer I came to understanding the truth.

  “Her name is now Andrea Meadows. She is happily married with two adopted children,” Larson said.

  “That was so not one of my theories.”

  “If you have any more questions, get them off your chest now.”

  “So where did Andrew run to?”

  “Trinidad, Colorado. There was a doctor there he wanted to talk to.”

  “So Martin’s college money…?”

  “Paid for the sex change. Yes.”

  “Do you know what it would do to Mrs. Snow if she found out?”

  Larson couldn’t stop the smile from forming on his face. “Yes.”

  “What about all the phone calls?” I ask.

  “That was Andrea. Her brother told her what was going on. Thought she could stop you. Plus, she does a mean imitation of her mother.”

  “I knew somebody was hiding something,” I say.

  “I got news for you: Somebody is always hiding something.”

  I sat in the squad car feeling foolish. All the crimes I had accused the sheriff of in my head were pure fiction. He was just a guy who chewed on toothpicks and didn’t blink as often as most people. He was just a man trying to be a friend. That’s all.

  “She’s happy now. If you expose her, everything will change. I took a chance in sharing this secret with you. I hope I haven’t made a mistake.”

  “What about Mr. Snow? Does he know?”

  “No.”

  “He should,” I said.

  “You’re probably right. But that’s for the family to decide.”

  He was right. It was no longer any of my business. Larson asked me if I could close the Snow case for good and I said yes. The Andrew Snow file would never surface again, mostly because I shredded it when I got home.

  As for my sister’s case, I had nothing. No leads, no theories, not even a long shot. Rae was missing and there was nothing I could do about it. This was a child whose predictability is stunning (unless she is deliberately trying to mislead), whose homing instinct was supernatural. It was impossible to accept that if she could contact me, she wouldn’t.

  BREAKING AND ENTERING

  It was half past eight when I entered my sister’s room, four days after her disappearance. I turned on the reading light above her bed, hoping that the weak illumination wouldn’t escape through the crack in the door. Only the discovery of two years of blood money from David confirmed for Stone that Rae wasn’t a runaway. Otherwise he still would be following that lead.

  Even though the first six searches turned up nothing, I searched again. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I had to do something. I opened Rae’s closet door and a mass of clothing and junk piled onto the floor. (Oddly, my mother had restored the room to the precise state of disorder in which she found it.) I was too tired to pick anything up, so I left it there and looked under Rae’s bed, through her dresser drawers, and even lifted up her mattress. Then I turned to her desk. I opened every drawer and rifled through Rae’s collection of surveillance reports, completed homework assignments, and stale candy. I’m not sure how we missed it the first time, but I noticed that one of the drawers on Rae’s desk seemed shallow compared to its opposite. I picked up the papers inside and dropped them on the floor. I took out my knife and slid it around the edge, looking for a slot where I could pry up the board. I pulled out the perfectly fitted slab of wood and wondered whether Rae accomplished this project in shop class.

  I put the faux bottom on top of the desk and looked into the shallow compartment that remained. Inside was an unfamiliar red leather book. Its shiny cover and crease-free spine indicated that it was a relatively new acquisition. It appeared to be your basic scrapbook. At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary—just a collection of candid snapshots of the family. It was the second glance that offered a different opinion. The angles were just too high or low, the image too grainy or obscured—by a chain-link fence or a dirty window. At second glance, one could see this was a collection of surveillance pictures doubling as a family photo album.

  The first few pages were dedicated to Uncle Ray—primarily high-angled shots of him stumbling out of a cab followed by a rigorous test of fine motor skills (putting key into lock)—his average post–-2:00 A.M. ritual. Then she moved on to Dad. Hand-in-the-cookie-jar-type photographs—literally. Dad had been claiming to diet for years and secretly snacking late at night. We all knew. I suspect Rae photographed his dietary indiscretions to use as barter at a later date. There were pictures of Mom smoking cigarettes wi
th Jake Hand on the back porch and a long, cloudy shot of David and Petra walking down Market Street, hand in hand. Of course, I wasn’t off the hook. Rae covered the first three dates I had with Daniel and managed one embarrassing shot of me, shirtless, in one of my car-changing episodes. There were similar all-too-candid images of her friends and schoolteachers; I would have been concerned had my concern not been already occupied.

  Nothing compelled me to the end of the book, but I continued turning the pages. It was like everything else I had done in the past month. I did it because it was the only thing I could do. I could have missed the photograph altogether. Nothing stood out. Two men shaking hands, shot through a telephoto lens. I recognized my father’s brown-and-green plaid shirt, the frequency of its circulation hinting at lucky status. There was no reason for me to look at the other man, but I did. Then I looked closer and then I pulled out a magnifying glass and studied his grainy but now familiar features.

  Inspector Henry Stone.

  Inspector Stone shaking hands with my father.

  There was no date on the photograph, but my father’s recent haircut offered a timeline, and clearly it had been taken prior to Rae’s disappearance. There they were together. Inexplicably.

  One could argue that I was jumping to conclusions. One could argue that I was not in any condition to think rationally. But I had a sudden, uncontrollable suspicion that Rae’s disappearance was a setup. Conspiracy theories often arise when logical explanations are unsatisfying. This explanation worked better than the others. In this explanation my sister did not silently slip away, taken so quickly she couldn’t utter a sound. In this explanation my sister was alive and eating Froot Loops, duplicitous in a horrible deceit. In this explanation I had no choice but to expose them all.

  I phoned the precinct and asked when Stone would be off-duty: 8:00 P.M. I parked outside the station and waited. He must have used the gym, as he arrived at his car an hour later, hair wet (all three-quarters of an inch of it) and wearing street clothes. He drove straight home, which didn’t surprise me. This was not a man who struck me as having a full social life. I sat in my car four houses down, watching the lights turn on and off in his house. I remained there for two hours with no plan or purpose. I could have walked up to his door, rung the bell, and asked what he had done. But who asks questions these days? Two hours later, I was about to return home and concoct another plan, but then he moved.