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

  Over a dessert of fresh fruit for my dad and ice cream for the rest, the main point of discussion was whether Rae would be allowed to stay home alone at the Clay Street house during my parents’ disappearances. What followed was a brief discussion of taking Rae along with them on a summer cruise, but when Rae said she’d take a vacation3 to get out of the disappearance, my parents backed down.

  The final suspicious behavior of the night was when Rae’s cell phone rang. She picked up on the first ring and said hello. She then turned to Mom and asked to be excused.

  After she left the table, my dad said, “We might need to implement some telephone etiquette with her. She’s becoming a regular phone hound.”

  “Who’s she talking to?” I asked.

  “She has some friends* now,” my mother replied. [To date, my sister has had only a few acquaintances, who she would see on rare occasions for study and even rarer occasions for a birthday party or movie. But actual friends with whom she might enjoy a casual conversation over the phone were an extremely rare occurrence.]

  The evening ended with Rae on the phone, ignoring the family; my father sipping herbal tea; my mother sending David off with a cool “good night”; and Petra bidding an uncomfortable adieu after being oddly silent during dinner.* [I made a note to ask her about this at a later date.]

  A BROKEN PROMISE

  Monday, January 9

  0930 hrs

  I’m a late sleeper. Unless the alarm clock wakes me for an early job, I can usually crash until late morning. In fact, to feel rested, I need to crash until mid-morning. But at 9:30 A.M. the following morning, I was awakened by the phone ringing.

  “Hello,” I said, which sounded more like “nahlow.”

  “You promised,” said the sad voice on the other end of the line.

  I had no idea whom I was speaking to, but I often have to apologize for something or other, so I just did.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Get her out of here.”

  “Who?” I said, although if I had been more awake, I would have figured it out right away.

  “Rae!” Henry Stone shouted into the receiver, which had the stimulating effect of at least one cup of coffee.

  Then it all came back to me. The promise to keep my sister away from him for two weeks. I’m not sure why I made the promise to begin with—probably because he was gripping my wrist really hard and it hurt. I shouldn’t have made the promise. It was an impossible one to keep. But I was not unsympathetic. Henry had been put through more than any non-family member had the right to be put through. I could hear it in his voice. And I knew the feeling.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said.

  San Francisco General Hospital

  1030 hrs

  I flashed my quarter-carat engagement ring at the desk nurse and entered Henry’s room. He was reading the San Francisco Chronicle. Rae was nowhere in sight.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Henry replied. “But she’ll be back, so you’re going to wait here until she returns and then you’re going to take her away for good.”

  “I’m sorry about this, Henry. But you know that unless we lock her up in her room, which I think Child Protective Services would really frown upon, we can’t stop her from visiting you.”

  “Why isn’t she grounded?” he asked.

  “She is. She’s grounded for five years, which—yes—I know doesn’t make any sense since she’s almost sixteen, but it doesn’t matter to her.”

  A new nurse opened the door to his room and stared at me.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m Henry’s fiancée,” I replied, circling the bedside and taking his hand.

  “Oh,” she said, looking me up and down with a decided scowl. “I’ll be back later to check your vitals,” she said to Henry.

  “Why does she hate me?” I asked.

  “Because you’re a lousy fiancée.”

  “What did I do?”

  “She’s been here since last night and this is the first time she’s seen you. Plus, you didn’t bring me anything.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What happened to your hair?” Henry asked after staring at me a second too long.

  “I got a haircut.”

  “Oh. I liked it better before.”

  “You prefer it sloppy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s more you.”

  I realized I was still holding Henry’s hand. His warm fingers loosely gripped mine. I let go just as Rae entered the room, carrying a motley assortment of bags. I reached into my pocket and turned on my digital recorder. Mom later dubbed the following episode a classic.

  THE STONE AND SPELLMAN SHOW—EPISODE 27

  “GET-WELL-SOON”

  The transcript reads as follows:

  [Rae enters the room and places her new purchases on Henry’s stomach.]

  RAE: [to me] What are you doing here?

  ISABEL: I’ve come to take you home. [Rae ignores me and begins unloading her goods.]

  RAE: I got you some gifts to take your mind off of the incident.

  HENRY: Stop calling it “the incident.” You ran me over. Call it what it is.

  RAE: Okay. Here are some gifts to say I’m sorry I ran you over. [Rae rifles through the bag.]

  RAE: I got you some candy. I know you don’t eat candy, but I figured that you might make an exception when you’re in the hospital. M&M’s, Skittles, and Raisinettes. There are actual raisins in there, so you get some fruit. Anyway, it’s mostly non-messy candy, because I know you don’t like the messy stuff.

  HENRY: Thank you, but I don’t want the candy. [Rae opens the bag of Skittles for herself.]

  RAE: I could use a snack.

  ISABEL: Pass the M&M’s. I didn’t have breakfast.

  HENRY: Ladies, there’s a cafeteria downstairs.

  RAE: Wait, there’s more stuff. I got you magazines. The New Yorker—I’ve seen it at your house, so I know you read it—The Atlantic Monthly, which looks boring, so I figured you’d like it, and Playboy, because men like Playboy, right? Also, I wanted to see if the store on the corner of Twenty-first and Potrero would sell me porn. I wrote down their address for you, in case you want to bust them. Oh, and I went to the corner store on Fifteenth and Market the other day and I tried to buy beer, but they wouldn’t sell it to me. So you can mark them off your list.

  HENRY: Would you please stop trying to buy beer and porn? I don’t work vice. I don’t care who’s selling it. I’ll read the other magazines. You take the Playboy. I don’t need the nurses thinking I’m a perv.

  ISABEL: I don’t think reading Playboy qualifies someone as a perv. They’ve got some good interviews.

  HENRY: I’m really very tired now and could use some rest.

  ISABEL: It’s time to go, Rae.

  RAE: I’m not done. I also bought a deck of cards. I thought you could teach me how to play poker.

  HENRY: You can’t play poker with two people.

  RAE: Isabel’s here and I saw a bunch of nurses outside who look bored.

  HENRY: Isabel!

  ISABEL: Rae, if I have to, I will pick you up and carry you out of here. [Rae gathers the candy and Playboy magazine.]

  RAE: Okay, okay. I can take a hint. [No, actually, she cannot.]

  RAE: I’ll see you tomorrow, Henry. [End of tape.]

  SUBJECT IS OBSERVED TAKING OUT THE TRASH…

  Monday, January 9

  1120 hrs

  When Rae and I returned home from the hospital, we spotted Subject—John Brown—putting four pillow-sized clear plastic bags into the recycling bin in front of his building. The contents of the bags were light and fluffy. Bags of shredded paper are mostly bags of air, a waste of space in the recycling bins, which is why my parents keep two extra green receptacles around at all times. We need the space, since we sh
red everything. And I mean everything. At the time I noted the bags, but it wasn’t until a month later that I put that detail into my suspicious behavior report on Subject.

  As Rae and I exited the car, our new neighbor waved and approached us. This time I noticed he bore a vague resemblance to Joseph Cotten, my all-time favorite classic film actor. According to my calculations, I’ve watched Shadow of a Doubt at least twelve times and I will always argue its superiority over Vertigo and Rear Window.

  Subject smiled at Rae and said, “How’s your friend?”

  Rae, refusing to keep the conversation light and neighborly, responded with “He might have permanent brain damage.”

  I pinched Rae really hard on her arm, which lately is code for “Whatever you’re doing, stop doing it.”

  “He’s fine,” I replied. “Just a concussion.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Subject said, tipping back and forth on his heels and toes. I got the feeling there was something he wanted to say. Then Rae ruined the moment.

  “If you were in the hospital, what would be the one thing you would want the most?” my sister asked.

  “To be out of the hospital,” Subject quickly replied.

  “Thanks, that was helpful,” Rae responded rudely. She was looking for real info—a list of items to bring Henry Stone. This was not helping her.

  “I’m going inside,” Rae said, darting for the front door.

  “I should probably go,” I said slowly, turning around and following after Rae.

  “I like your hair,” Subject said.

  “Thanks,” I replied, and it was then that I thought for real, Could this be Ex-boyfriend #11?

  THE “LAW OFFICES” OF MORT SCHILLING

  Monday, April 24

  1035 hrs

  “So far, he sounds like a mensch1,” said Morty.

  “But I’ve just started,” I replied.

  “He makes conversation with the girl who ran him over, he compliments your hair, he’s well groomed. I’m not getting ‘evil’ from your description so far, Izzelle.”

  “Give me time. The story has just begun.”

  “I hope you didn’t date this man.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you dated him and then he filed a TRO…that does not look good.”

  “I see.”

  “You dated him, didn’t you?”

  “Briefly,” I said.

  “So what happened?”

  “All the pieces came together and I realized he was evil.”

  “What is he doing that is so evil?”

  “I haven’t worked that out yet, but I will.”

  “As your lawyer, Izz, I must caution you against any further investigations.”

  Morty’s wife, Ruth, entered the office, carrying a cardigan sweater. I should mention that Morty’s “office” is in his garage. Please note that I did not write “converted garage.”

  “I thought you might be chilly,” Ruth said.

  “If I’m chilly I can get my own sweater.”

  “The last thing we need right now is for you to catch pneumonia.”

  “Ruthy, I’m conducting business in here.”

  “Hello, Izzy, how are you doing? Can I get you something to eat?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Coffee? Tea?”

  “No, I’m fine,” I said.

  Then Morty continued with the beverage list. “Hot cocoa, orange juice, tomato juice, prune juice.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  “She’d like a cocoa,” Morty said to Ruth, apparently placing his own secret order.

  “Give me a holler if you need anything,” Ruth said pleasantly. “Good seeing you, Isabel. Morty, put on the sweater.”

  “I’ll put it on if I get cold. Now, please, we have lots of work to do.”

  Ruth returned to the main house. Morty eyed the sweater, but didn’t put it on just yet. He consulted his notes and contemplated his next question.

  Morty and Me

  This might be a good time to explain how Morty and I met. It was approximately a year and a half prior to the date of this meeting. I was on a surveillance job, which brought me to Hayes Valley. The Subject (at the time, not the current one) entered one of the very few Jewish delis in the city, Moishe’s Pippic. I had never been inside the establishment before and would soon discover that it was both quite small and, as an aside, a shrine to the fine city of Chicago. Apart from being small, it was also empty, which made my presence there all the more obvious. Had I left the deli immediately after entrance, I would have been made. If I sat down at one of the fake-wood-topped tables and ordered lunch, I would have been exposed. I suspected Deli Subject was onto me and I had just a moment to make a decision.

  I spotted an elderly man with oversized glasses and wildly unkempt, thinning gray-and-black hair at a table in the corner. I approached casually and sat down across from him.

  “Mind if I join you?” I whispered.

  “What?” he said.

  Deli Subject turned around. He looked directly at me, which meant further surveillance was out of the question. However, he didn’t know I was on his tail. If I could come off as a customer then the surveillance could continue with another investigator.

  I leaned over the table and kissed the strange old man on the cheek.

  “Hi, Grandpa, how are you doing?” I said, rather loudly, and then quickly wrote down on a piece of paper, PLAY ALONG. I’M A PI FOLLOWING MAN IN DELI. PLEASE HELP!

  It took Morty a good thirty seconds to register my request. At first I thought it was my look of desperation that convinced him to play along with my charade, but later I would discover that the boredom of retirement made Morty game for anything. My new friend slid the menu in my direction and said, “You’re late.”

  I called for backup over lunch and Mom got another investigator on Deli Subject’s tail. I ordered a turkey on rye and handed Morty my card.

  “I owe you,” I said, and two weeks later Morty suggested I repay the debt by having lunch with him again. On that second lunch I learned that Morty had a long and lucrative career as a well-respected defense attorney in the city. He had finally retired ten years ago, when his wife of fifty years gave him one final ultimatum. Though eighty-two years old, Morty remained current on the law and was an excellent source whenever we had a criminal-related investigation on our hands.

  By the time of Arrest #4, when I realized that my legal troubles would not go away, I turned to Morty before anyone else, mostly because he knows his business, but also because he works for me pro bono. And he always springs for lunch.

  “Tell me about the next time you had any contact with Mr. Brown,” Morty said. Then he picked up his sweater and put it on. “Chilly in here, isn’t it?”

  My story is stuck in mid-January, a few short days before my first date with Subject. The following event, which on first glance seemed simply annoying, would spur a chain of events that led me back to my parents’ home and into the perfect seat to witness an assortment of odd behavior. I should mention that Subject’s collection of inconsistencies was not my only concern. Inconsistencies abounded.

  But I get ahead of myself. It’s time I talked about Bernie.

  THE DAY BERNIE PETERSON MOVED IN WITH ME

  Wednesday, January 11

  2300 hrs

  Bernie used to work and play with my Uncle Ray. They shared a common love of booze, poker, and loose women. When Bernie decided to get engaged to his ex-Vegas-showgirl sweetheart, Daisy Doolittle,1 Bernie offered his apartment to me as a sublet, which he admitted was because he wasn’t sure the November-December relationship would last. He packed his things and moved to Carson City. I wrote Bernie a check for eight hundred dollars a month and Bernie wrote his landlord a check for seven hundred. Our entire relationship consisted of rare telephone calls during which I would inform him that somethi
ng in the apartment was not working, and then he would pass the information on to the landlord and I would make myself scarce as repairs were made.

  I hadn’t laid eyes on the retired lieutenant for two years. That’s when he’d handed me a set of keys and said, “I hope you get as lucky in here as I did.” It never occurred to me that Bernie had kept a set of those same keys. But he had.

  It was eleven P.M. when I heard someone fumbling outside my door and the sound of a key entering my lock. I looked through the peephole and caught the top of a bald head—not a bald head I immediately recognized. Just as the deadbolt unlocked, I locked it. A moment later the deadbolt was unlocked again and I locked it, this time running for the phone before I landed back by the door to lock it again. I was about to dial 911 when Bernie figured out that someone was on the other side of the lock.

  “Isabel, is that you?” he asked in a sloppy drunk slur.

  “Bernie?” I replied.

  “Open up,” he said, lightly smacking the door with the palm of his hand.

  I looked through the peephole, just to be sure. It was Bernie all right, but an aged, bloated, ruddy-faced version of his former self. Not that his former self was anything to write home about—on the contrary. I reluctantly unlocked the door, knowing for certain that my life (or at least my immediate future) had taken a turn for the worse. I knew, even before Bernie took one step into the apartment, that he was moving in with me. I knew that my one-bedroom, eight-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment2 was no more.

  Bernie stumbled inside, leaving two suitcases in the foyer. See? This did not look good. Then it got worse. He threw his arms around me and pulled me into a tight bear hug.

  “Isabel, am I glad to see you.”

  “Bernie? What are you doing here?” I said, trying to twist out of the embrace. On any normal occasion I would have been unhappy to see Bernie. But on this night I was especially unhappy. You see, I had spent the previous two evenings on a stakeout, clocking in maybe five hours of sleep total. This kind of overtime goes against Spellman Investigations’s policies, but we were low on manpower and, needing the cash, I volunteered. My point is that I needed to sleep in a bad way. I didn’t need to be consoling Bernie Peterson.