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

  The tape ended, but the conversation didn’t.

  “I wish you all would stop doing that.”

  “We can’t help ourselves. Besides, Mom gets really mad at me if I forget.”

  “Look at me, Isabel.”

  I was feeling a little dizzy and had some trouble focusing. Henry steadied my chin in his hand and held up a finger that floated from side to side.

  “Follow my finger,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” I said, trying to focus.

  “No. You’re not. You can’t drive like this.”

  “Henry, don’t be such a cop.”

  “Let’s go. I’ll take you and Rae home. You can get your car tomorrow.”

  Rae called shotgun, so I fell asleep in the backseat. When we got to my parents’ house, Henry briefly reprimanded my mom for letting me drive. It occurred to me that I had never seen anyone reprimand my mother and get away with it, including my father. But there was something about Henry that my mother could not resist. Before he left, Henry tried to have another discussion with Rae about giving him some space, but it didn’t take. My mom sent me up to my old attic apartment/her current guest room and told me to get some rest. I woke up in the morning, thirteen hours later.

  SUBJECT IS OBSERVED DIGGING A HOLE…

  Friday, January 13

  0830 hrs

  Whenever one wakes up in a different place than usual, the obvious question arises: How did I get here? Thirteen hours of sleep provided me with much-needed rest, but I woke up in a panic, seriously unable to place myself. You see, while I had lived in this attic apartment for close to nine years, it was fully redecorated into an uncluttered, hotel-like guest room once I had vacated. Having spent so few (if any) hours in there since, I truly had no idea where I was.

  I got out of bed, my heart thumping in confusion. The drapes were drawn and the room was unusually dark. Darker than Bernie’s—no! my—place. I ran to the window, opened the curtains, and looked outside. As my slow-moving brain and newly revived senses were putting the puzzle together, I noticed Subject in the backyard of the adjacent residence digging a hole in the ground.

  I climbed halfway out the window and straddled the sill to get a better view. Subject spotted me and looked up.

  “Good morning. I didn’t know you lived there.”

  “I don’t,” I said, now that I knew where I was.

  “Oh,” he replied, not sure what to say.

  “Someone is staying in my apartment,” I said, thinking an explanation was required.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. Clearly, I was confusing him even more.

  “Someone who snores,” I added.

  “I see,” Subject said, with a bit more inflection. But I got the feeling he was still confused.

  “And cries,” I added, because, frankly, I hadn’t had any caffeine yet.

  “Is this person all right?” Subject asked.

  “He caught his wife with another man.”

  Then Subject simply stared at me, as if he were thinking of what to say next.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Gardening,” Subject replied.

  “That explains the digging,” I said.

  Subject seemed to think the previous statement was a joke and laughed. It was not a joke.

  “Do you want to come over for breakfast?” Subject asked.

  “Now?”

  “In about fifteen minutes,” Subject said. “I’m almost done here.”

  “Uh, okay,” I said as I noticed I was wearing my father’s XXL pajamas.1

  “I just have to find my clothes.”

  My clothes were washed and folded and left in a laundry basket outside my (no longer my) door. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and dressed in under five minutes. When I looked out the window the second time, I spotted Subject in his kitchen making coffee.

  Instead of taking the stairs and going out the front door, and perhaps being required to explain my destination to a family member, I crawled out the window and took the fire escape2 to the ground level. Subject observed my unusual method of exit and shouted, “What are you doing?”

  “Shhh,” I replied, and then motioned that I was going to use the back entrance to his apartment.

  As Subject beat eggs and prepped the skillet for omelets,3 I very briefly explained that I didn’t quite understand the big deal about doors. I casually mentioned my habit of window entry and exit as a throwback to my rebellious youth, but also as a rejection of the absoluteness of doors being the only socially acceptable mode of entry and exit.

  I’m not sure I convinced Subject to give windows a try himself. He stared at me a second too long and said, “Well, that’s another way to look at it.”

  Over breakfast Subject and I attempted to get each other’s vital statistics.

  “So what do you do?” I asked.

  “I run a landscaping business.”

  “Oh, that explains the gardening.”

  “Does gardening need explaining?”

  “I think so.”

  “And you?”

  “I haven’t gardened in years. Thirty, to be exact.”

  “You should try it sometime. Some people find it relaxing.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “I’m changing the subject,” Subject said.

  “Good omelets.”

  “So what do you do?” he asked.

  “And good coffee.”

  “For a living.”

  I’ve run into this problem before. I don’t want to tip my hand too soon, since my job makes some people uncomfortable. But if I lie and claim to be, say, a schoolteacher, then for the next few months I’ve got to run around in pencil skirts and sweater sets pretending to be a teacher. Then what usually happens4 is the person I’ve lied to becomes very angry and doesn’t want to see me again. On this occasion I went with a new approach.

  “I’m an information technologist.”

  “So you work with computers?”

  “Yes. And people, and the occasional dog or cat.”

  “You’re being vague.”

  “I talk about work every day. Sometimes I need a break.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Subject then suggested that perhaps gardening was what I needed to get my mind off of information technology. After breakfast we retired to the backyard and transplanted potted hydrangeas into the ground. Subject explained that the plants survive better through winter5 in the soil, and so we prepped the soil with compost and laid the perennials into the ground. Surprisingly, I was enjoying myself, until my father spotted me through his bedroom window.

  “Izzy, I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Congratulations. You found me.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Gardening.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Wait there. I need to talk to you,” my dad said, and then disappeared from his window.

  I got to my feet and dusted off the wet soil from my hands.

  “You stall my dad,” I said to Subject. “I’m going to make a run for it.”

  This time I was joking. My dad showed up a minute later. Dad shook Subject’s hand and made some form of genuine pleasantry. Subject explained to Dad our morning activity and my dad replied with “I’m just glad to see Izzy spend her leisure time doing something other than drinking.”

  Subject laughed. I glared. Dad quickly changed the subject.

  “Have you been by Mrs. Chandler’s place?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. This was a knee-jerk reaction to any mention of Mrs. Chandler. I will explain shortly, but suffice it to say, I really had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Have you seen her dog?”

  “No,” I said, growing suspicious.

  “I’d like you to go by her place before she has a chance to give her dog a bath.”

&
nbsp; Subject was confused, but I chose not to enlighten him. I held out my soiled hand and said, “Thanks, it’s been fun. See you later.”

  CRIMES AGAINST MRS. CHANDLER

  I drove by the Chandler residence and parked in front. Upon exiting the car, I caught sight of her miniature poodle, barking by the fence to the backyard. It was kind of hard to miss since its coat was dyed hot pink. The second I saw her dog, I rushed back into my car and drove away to avoid being spotted. You see, ten years ago, my first crime against the twenty-year widow was dying her miniature poodle cobalt blue. But that was only the first of many crimes against the woman.

  Constance “Connie”1 Chandler has lived three blocks away on Pacific Avenue as long as I can remember anything. She was a high school art teacher by trade, a hippie by all appearances, and a millionaire by her checkbook. At the age of forty she was widowed by her financier husband. Their marriage was the most striking example of opposites attract that I have ever seen. Some years after her husband’s death, budget cuts in the San Francisco school district (and, I suspect, knowledge of her flush financial situation) led to her early retirement. Soon after that Mrs. Chandler’s holiday enthusiasm took a turn for the worse (or better, depending on whom you ask).

  “Art” or “eyesore” was how most of the neighborhood split on their reactions to Mrs. Chandler’s holiday decorations. Shortly after retirement, the widow began channeling all her “artistic” energy into seasonal installations in front of her house. Her attempts to cover every major and minor event, from Christmas nativity scenes to Valentine’s Day cupid landscapes, simply screamed “Vandalize me!” At least Petra and I heard the scream.

  1992 was the year Petra and I began editing Mrs. Chandler’s elaborate decorations. Having cased the widow’s residence for two years, we were able to predict her decorating style and plan our capers accordingly. The following is a complete list of the crimes Petra and I committed against Mrs. Chandler during the 1992–93 season. We began with Thanksgiving.

  Adjustments to Mrs. Chandler’s Holiday Tableaux

  Thanksgiving

  Mrs. Chandler presented a peaceful banquet scene between the Native Americans and the recently landed British.2 Mrs. Chandler, an incorrigible optimist, presented a world that she wished existed. In her world, the white devils and the Native Americans joined hands in unity and each partook of the other’s delicacies. The “authentic” menu on Mrs. Chandler’s table included wild turkey, fish, maize, nuts, squash, beans, and dried fruit (since none was actually in season). To make the picture more realistic, Petra and I threw US Army blankets around the Native Americans, painted pox marks on their faces, and placed empty whiskey bottles by their sides.3

  Christmas

  Christmas was, of course, Mrs. Chandler’s raison d’etre. Her nativity scene was as fine a piece of amateur secular art as there ever was. Portraying Jesus as a sixties-era hippie (in Birkenstocks and hemp clothing, and wearing a hard-to-miss peace sign around his neck) was Chandler’s personal touch in the exhibit. Plus, she burned patchouli incense instead of myrrh. Petra and I wanted to respect her efforts but provide a more universal4 appeal. Using stage makeup, we painted all the mannequins chocolate brown. Then we smoked some pot and came up with an addendum to that idea. We returned a few hours later with Afro wigs and NBA headbands and placed them on the three kings.

  New Year’s Day

  Mrs. Chandler, I suspect, could find no political message in New Year’s, so she did nothing. Petra and I, in turn, left her alone—mostly because we were just too hungover to bother.

  Groundhog Day

  When this half-holiday rolled around and Mrs. Chandler’s lawn remained untouched, Petra and I decided (partly based on our love of the recently released Bill Murray film) that we had to honor this day on our own. Grass of any legal variety is in short supply in San Francisco. Sometimes you’ll find a small patch of wild lawn behind a Victorian row house, but in front it’s extremely rare. Mrs. Chandler’s residence is one of those exceptions. Years ago, she dug out the cement driveway in front of her home, replaced it with a plot of lawn approximately six feet by eight feet, and wrapped a picket fence around it. It looks completely ridiculous but provides for her the main stage for her outrageous decorations.

  Petra’s and my ode to Groundhog Day was a no-brainer. We simply dug up “rodent holes” in her grass.

  Valentine’s Day

  It was hard to explain an old hippie’s fondness for a Hallmark holiday, but we later learned that Mr. Chandler was a traditional romantic sort who pulled out all the stops on February fourteenth—flowers, candy, candlelit dinners, violins, etc. Mrs. Chandler resorted to mythology and styled her yard with winged and diapered cherubs, along with hearts and arrows suspended in midair. According to Petra’s and my research, she was mixing genres, so we added another genre to her mix: horror film.

  We toppled Mrs. Chandler’s cherubs on their sides. We dismembered some and split the cloth guts of the others. We sprayed red food dye in a crime-scene pattern and left the murder weapons—plastic knives from the costume shop—at the scene. We wiped all smooth items for prints and discarded our tainted clothes at the dump. We called it the “Valentine’s Day Massacre.”

  St. Patrick’s Day

  Mrs. Chandler’s husband was Irish and so the widow could not neglect this “holiday.” We transformed a lively green scene of leprechauns, pots of gold, and a rainbow into the aftermath of a drunken wake. We kicked over the leprechauns and strew at least fifty empty cans of Guinness5 on the lawn. We titled it “The Morning After.”

  Easter

  Mrs. Chandler’s motif was the traditional pastel violet landscape of an Easter egg hunt, with baskets of painstakingly decorated hand-painted eggs. The only Chandleresque touch was that the eggs all had peace signs on them. Petra and I brainstormed for hours on how to adjust this particular installation, and then it came to me: we swapped out the pastel-colored eggs in the giant white-painted straw basket for eight-balls. If you think painting Easter eggs is time-consuming, try acquiring two dozen eight-balls6 without actually paying for them.7

  Independence Day

  By the time the Fourth of July rolled around, word on the street was that Petra and I were the saboteurs of these elaborate decorations. And yet, Mrs. Chandler appeared to be taking no measures to stop us. One day, when we were casing her yard for our next attack, trying to figure out how we could violate a collection of peace-loving mannequins in a sit-in, Mrs. Chandler exited her home and approached us.

  “Hello, ladies,” she said. “I think it’s time to make a formal introduction. I’m Constance Chandler; my friends call me Connie. And you are?”

  Petra and I mumbled our names while we tried to figure out a speedy but non-guilty-looking escape.

  “We’re not so different, you and me,” she said, making direct eye contact.

  Petra and I looked askance at each other and waited for her to continue.

  “I’m all for personal expression. That’s why I do my art,” she continued, sweeping her hand over to her latest installation. “And I understand the need for sabotage. But I ask you to consider the statement you’re making. There was a political undercurrent to your Thanksgiving and Christmas designs, although I do think you could have done without the NBA headbands and Afros. Unnecessary, and it diminished the point you were making. But lately, I think you’re slipping,” she said.

  Petra and I were slowly backing away, but Mrs. Chandler, believing us to be a captive audience, didn’t stop.

  “Groundhog Day? A Valentine’s Day murder scene? St. Patrick’s Day? Ladies, that’s just juvenile vandalism. If you’re going to attack my art, I ask you to think about what you’re doing. I ask you to take a position.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “But have a nice evening.”

  Petra and I turned on our heels and made a quick exit. As we briskly headed up the hill, Mrs. Chandler shouted after us, “And I hope
that was all-natural food coloring you put on my dog!”

  A few minutes passed in silence as Petra and I reflected on our recent encounter.

  “We’re done here,” Petra said, marking a definite end to our “adjustments.”

  “You heard her. She’s not going to turn us in. She just wants us to take a more political slant,” I said.

  “First of all, Izzy, it’s no fun if we’re adjusting our adjustments to make our victim happy; second of all, I think the neighborhood watch committee wants to take action. Even if Mrs. Chandler doesn’t mind, they do. Lastly, I’d like to stay on that woman’s good side.”

  “Why?”

  “Couldn’t you tell? She was totally stoned. We’re gonna need another source in case Justin’s8 connection dries up.”

  As it was, we never used Mrs. Chandler as a drug source, but we did end our attacks on her decorations. That night Petra and I made a pact that we would never admit our crimes, to ensure that we could never be punished or turned against each other. When any reference to our previous crimes was made, we both spoke the same exact refrain: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  THE “LAW OFFICES” OF MORT SCHILLING

  Monday, April 24

  1050 hrs

  Mort’s overgrown eyebrow rose about an inch as he jotted down notes on my petty criminal past.

  “Do you have a record,” Morty asked, “besides your current one?”

  “It’s sealed,” I replied.

  “Juvi?”

  “Yes, Morty. It was a long time ago. People make mistakes in their youth.”

  “Izz, you’re thirty years old and you’ve been arrested four times in the last two months.”

  “Two don’t count!”

  “But what about the other two?”

  “I’ll be vindicated as soon as I can get some real dirt on Subject.”

  “My point, Izzy, is you’re getting a reputation, and your line of work is all about the reputation.”

  “No. My line of work is about getting to the truth.”

  ISABEL SPELLMAN, LICENSED PI

  The truth isn’t my primary goal. My job is about discovering answers for specific questions asked of me. For instance, if I am providing a background check on a potential employee for a major corporation, the question they want answered is whether the individual is who he says he is and also whether that individual might become a danger to the already vested employees.