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

  Sometime after my second slice of pizza and third glass of wine, but before Rae served the Rice Krispies Treats dessert, I made eye contact with my sister and pointed to my watch, which was simple code for “It’s time.”

  “What’s your sign?” Rae asked Subject.3

  “Excuse me?” Subject responded, choking on his wine. I guess it came out kind of weird.

  “You seem like a Pisces,” Rae said.

  “He’s sooo not a Pisces,” I interjected. “More like a Gemini.”

  “Are you on crack?” Rae asked me.4

  “No. But I think you are. A Pisces?”

  “He’s totally a Pisces. Or maybe…uh…the one with the scales or the…um…the one that looks like a bull?”5

  “You mean a Taurus?” I said.

  “Right,” Rae replied. “Slipped my mind. I had an Alzheimer’s moment.”

  “Rae, only old people should say that. It sounds stupid when you do.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t say,” Rae replied. “My point is: He’s definitely not a Pisces. Definitely not.”

  “Thanks for your input, Rain Man. This debate can be solved easily enough,” I said, finally cutting to the chase. “What’s your birth date?”

  “December twenty-sixth,” Subject replied.

  “So that makes you what?” Rae asked.6

  “A Capricorn,” Subject replied suspiciously.

  “A Capricorn,” I said. “I never would have guessed that. Huh.”

  “December twenty-sixth?” Rae repeated, just to make sure it was lodged in her memory. “That must suck having a birthday so close to Christmas. I think I’d kill myself.”

  Subject wasn’t sure if he should laugh or be concerned with Rae’s hyperbolic response.

  “Hey, Izzy, where’s that Chinese New Year book?”

  Subject, after cross-checking his year of birth against the twelve-year Chinese zodiac, informed us that he was a Rat.

  Mission Accomplished: John Brown, DOB 12/26/72.

  THE “LAW OFFICES” OF MORT SCHILLING

  Monday, April 24

  1135 hrs

  “After John left that night, Rae and I spent two hours in the office trying to run a background check on him,” I explained to Morty.

  “Do you always do this, Izz?”

  “What?”

  “Investigate your dates.”

  “I’ve been trying to cut back.”

  “Unsuccessfully, I see.”

  “Don’t judge me, Morty.”

  “You know I have a son. Well, two sons. But one is about to get divorced.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “He’s a doctor. A surgeon.”

  “I don’t need surgery.”

  “I can vouch for him. No criminal record. Nothing. You could skip the investigation and everything.”

  “He’s your son?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fifty-two.”

  “I’m thirty, Morty. He’s too old for me.”

  “I’ve got a grandson for you. Only twenty-five.”

  “Too young, Morty.”

  “Ah, I guess you’re right. When you get to be my age, everyone’s a kid.”

  “Let’s get back to my case. Okay?”

  “Whatever you say. But when you’re on the market again, let me know. I have many acquaintances.”

  “Where was I?” I asked, hoping to finally get Morty off the subject.

  “You and your sister had just gotten a DOB on John Brown.”

  “We started with the DOB database. As you know, it goes by state. Subject told me he was from Missouri. So, I guessed that he was born there. Well, there were two John Browns born on that date in Missouri. One of them is dead and the other one still lives there and runs an Audi dealership.”

  “So he was raised in Missouri, but was born in a different state.”

  “I asked him and he confirmed that he was born and raised in Missouri.”

  “Are you sure all your questions weren’t making him suspicious?”

  “At the time, they weren’t.”

  “He still didn’t know your occupation?”

  “I didn’t lie about what I did. I just didn’t give him that information.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I didn’t see Subject for the rest of the week, then my parents returned from their disappearance and blew my cover.”

  SUBJECT HELPS DAD WITH LUGGAGE…

  Saturday, January 28

  1700 hrs

  Rae and I saw our parents pull up in the driveway a full two hours before their ETA. There was still some evidence that we needed to dispose of—pizza boxes, a bag of licorice, and the dirty dishes from the previous night—before their entrance. As Rae and I scrambled to return the house to Mom’s idea of order, Subject was exiting his residence and offered to help my dad with the bags. Dad once read a study that explained that when you allow a person to do a favor for you, that person (doing the favor) will later feel more indebted to you. Therefore, Dad almost never turned down an offer of help.

  Rae and I were unprepared for our parents’ arrival because Mom deliberately fudged their ETA. She’s a huge fan of the element of surprise. She called the house when they were one hour away and said to expect them by dinnertime (approximately five hours from phone call). She planned it so well that she had mapped out the town they would approximately have been in if they did have five hours left on the road. Mom entered the house to the clanging of dishes, the rustling of garbage, and the double-checking of closets.1 I grabbed the bag of trash and passed my mother on her way into the kitchen.

  “Mom! You’re four hours early. Did your car learn to fly?” I kissed her on the cheek and headed for the door. “I was just taking out the trash. You’ll have to tell me all about your trip.”

  As I exited the house, Dad and Subject were on their way in. I caught a short clip from their small-talk.

  “It’s good to be back,” said my dad, “even if it means back to work.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you…” Subject said.

  This is where I tried to make eye contact with my dad indicating that he should not divulge any information. But Dad merely patted me on the head as we crossed paths. Subject said hello and continued his sentence.

  “…what do you do for a living?”

  “We’re private investigators. I would have thought Izzy might have mentioned this.”

  Damn!

  “Isabel, what’s up with the mailboxes?”

  After a diplomatic debriefing by my parents regarding their road trip, which they gushed about in each other’s presence, I noticed something different about my father.

  “Dad, you look like you lost more weight.”

  “Maybe a few pounds,” Dad replied dismissively.

  “More like ten,” I said. “Although it’s hard to tell on a frame as large as yours.”

  “At what age are your manners going to kick in?” Dad responded.

  My mother looked at my father suspiciously. “Now that you mention it, he does look thinner. It’s hard to tell when you’re with someone every day. How odd,” she continued, “since you always claimed to be running off to the buffets.”

  But then Dad distracted Mom by mentioning how much he enjoyed their daily hikes.

  Later that night, I had the opportunity to compile Suspicious Behavior Report #7: Rae Spellman.

  My mother was in the office, checking her e-mail, when I entered.

  “Mom, were you aware of the fact that Rae appears to have friends now?”

  “Yes, dear,” my mother replied without looking up.

  “Friends her own age,” I clarified.

  “I know,” Mom said, without a hint of genuine shock.

  “I even have a name on one. First and last.”

  “I know all about Rae’s friends, dear.”

  “How
long has this been going on?” I asked.

  “At least six months.”

  “How did I miss it?”

  “You miss a lot of things, Izzy. Always obsessing with one angle, you often fail to see the big picture.”

  “Whatever, Mom. Next question: Why does she have friends now?”

  “Henry told her she couldn’t hang out with him anymore unless she started making friends her own age.”

  “And that worked?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. He is, like, raising your child for you,” I said.

  “It takes a village,” my mom said.

  “I’m not sure she meant have your local police inspector co-parent.”

  “Let me tell you something about teenagers,” Mom said. “Even the best ones turn on their parents, and then they turn to someone else. Well, if the person Rae turns to is Henry Stone, then I’ve got nothing to worry about. And, frankly, you did me in with worry. I don’t want to go through that again.”

  SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR REPORT #8

  “Olivia Spellman”

  At two-thirty A.M. the morning after my parents returned from their disappearance, I heard a noise downstairs. I awoke and exited the attic apartment. I tiptoed down the stairs and saw my mother, wearing pajamas and an overcoat, exit the house.

  I ran up to my apartment, slipped on a pair of sneakers, and grabbed my jacket and keys. I climbed out the fire escape and circled the house to my car. Mom had just pulled out of the driveway and was heading down the block. I got into my car and followed her.

  She had approximately a four-block lead. However, at that time of night, she was practically the only car on the road. I could see her left-turn signal as she approached Gough Street and I felt fairly confident that she was returning to the same Noe Valley location where I had previously discovered her. Trusting my gut,1 I used a different route to the residence to avoid detection. I parked a block away and stealthily moved along the shrubbery until I had a visual on my mother. She was kneeling in front of the same motorbike, but this time, she had a hose and a pump and was siphoning gas out of the tank. Huh? I could have approached my mother in that very moment and asked her what the hell she was doing, but I didn’t. She was clearly being covert for a reason and I wanted her to think she had this secret a little longer.

  I went directly home, hoping to return my car to the same parking space, in case my mother had noticed it when she left. I decided that I should probably get some more sleep during the day so I could keep up with my mother at night.

  However, my mother was not the only unpaid case I was working. There was also Subject, and he still did not have an identity.

  GROUNDHOG DAY

  Thursday, February 2

  On the morning of February 2, I happened to be driving by Mrs. Chandler’s home and saw that her lawn had about half a dozen holes resembling the tunnels dug by groundhogs—almost an exact replica of my long-lost caper. Fearing that Mrs. Chandler would assume I was back to my old ways, I took a proactive measure, in part out of guilt, but also to prevent any accusations.

  I returned to Subject’s residence and asked him if he could repair her lawn. I opted against relaying my interest in the crime. I played it off as a neighborly good deed, which Subject bought without question.

  Later that afternoon, I drove by the Chandler residence to find her lawn restored to some semblance of decency. I returned to the Spellman home and decided to drop by Subject’s residence to thank him.

  Just as I was about to ring the buzzer, Subject exited his building carrying two large bags of shredded recycling. For a gardener, he sure shreds a lot of paper, I thought to myself.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I just drove by Mrs. Chandler’s place.”

  “It was a Groundhog Day prank,” Subject said, as if it weren’t obvious to the naked eye.

  “I know,” I replied, trailing Subject as he placed the pillows of paper into the green receptacle.

  “She said it’s happened before,” Subject then said, looking me straight in the eye.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied, according to script. “So, can I buy you a drink later?”

  SUBJECT ARRIVES AT THE PHILOSOPHER’S CLUB…

  Remember,” I said to Milo a moment before Subject sat down in the adjacent bar stool, “you don’t know me.”

  “Whatever,” Milo said, scowling.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked Subject.

  “What have you got on tap?” Subject asked.

  Milo pointed to a board with a list of domestic beers.

  “Anchor Steam,” Subject said.

  “Can I see some ID?” asked Milo.

  “Oh, uh, sure,” Subject replied, reaching for his wallet. In the dim lighting of the bar, I could only make out that his driver’s license was not issued in California.

  Milo checked the license as I instructed him to. He pretended he couldn’t see and moved over to the light.1

  “Thank you,” Milo said, handing back the ID. Then he turned to me.

  “ID, please.”

  “But you already served me.”

  “It slipped my mind. Hand it over, sweetheart.”

  I scowled at Milo’s use of the word “sweetheart” (a first, as far as I can recall) and handed him my ID.

  My bartender studied my driver’s license for a moment and began chuckling to himself.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “A hundred and twenty pounds?” he said, handing me back my card.

  I shot him one final hostile glance and then he served Subject his beer. Milo retired to the end of the bar and Subject asked the question he had refrained from asking for over a week.

  “So you’re a private investigator.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you investigate me?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Because that little performance with you and your sister and the eastern/western zodiac quiz, well, it sure seemed like you were trying to get my date of birth.”

  “We’re just really into astrology.”

  “Is that so,” Subject said, looking me right in the eye. Then he leaned in and whispered in my ear.

  “I’m going to let you in on a secret,” Subject said. “I’m not a rat.”

  “Then what are you?” I asked.

  “A snake,” Subject replied, giving me the chills.

  My mother used to say that if you can’t verify a man’s existence, you probably shouldn’t go home with him.2 However, based on my most recent observations of Mom, she was hardly the spokesperson for sound judgment. Two hours later, I was on my second whiskey in John Brown’s apartment.

  I stayed off the subject of birthdays and employment histories, just to throw Subject off balance. Instead, I let the topic of discussion float over to me for a while, since clearly he did not want to talk about himself. I told Subject about Ex-boyfriends #4 and #9 (because that is the normal thing people do on dates, discuss past relationships) and then we had an hour-long conversation about Bernie and my rent-controlled apartment. Subject seemed to believe that I should fight for the space. Watching Subject speak on this matter, I noted that his interest was purely for show. It was a magician’s sleight of hand. He thought he had redirected my attention from his nonexistence and locked doors to my own upscale homelessness.

  But I am not so easily handled. I excused myself to use the restroom because 1) I had to pee, and 2) I wanted another crack at that door. After 1 was completed, I exited the restroom and reached for the mysterious door. Still locked, but I came prepared. I pulled a picking tool out of my pocket and knelt in front of the keyhole. I knew there wasn’t much time. Even if I got the door open, I’d only have a chance to look inside for a second before I’d have to close it again.

  But Subject was on guard. He knew better than to leave me unaccom
panied in any part of his home. I was still working on the lock as I heard his footsteps turn the corner. There were two ways I could play it: A cover-up, or the direct approach.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Subject asked as I was still working on the lock.

  “If you don’t mind, I could use a minute alone with your door,” I replied.

  “Isabel.” It was said as a warning.

  “Just one more minute,” I said, not budging, “and I’ll be right with you.”

  Subject approached me, looking very stern, and cornered me in front of the door.

  “What is it with you and that door? I’m starting to get a little jealous.”

  “You have to let me inside that room.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.”

  “Let me rephrase,” I said. “It would be in your best interest to let me see what’s in there.”

  Subject slid his arm around my waist and pulled me close. He whispered in my ear, which was both sexy and creepy.

  “It would be in your best interest to forget about the fucking door. Can you do that?”

  I looked Subject in the eye and ignored the half of my brain that was telling me to run.

  “For now,” I said, because the other half really wanted to stay.

  Subject kissed me, or I him (the details are now a blur). What I remember about the kiss was the absence of the internal monologue that often accompanies first kisses. I’m usually preoccupied with what the guy’s hands are doing, concerned that the kiss will ruin everything. Because sometimes you don’t really know how you feel about someone until he actually kisses you. The thing about Subject was that his kiss made me forget everything. My mind went blank. My suspicion went away.

  It came back, however, in the middle of the night. At three A.M., I made one more valiant attempt at cracking the mystery room, but I was caught and reprimanded with “If you can’t behave yourself, maybe you should go home,” and I did. But mostly because I preferred not having my parents know that I spent the night with our new neighbor, even if they did think he was harmless and pleasant.

  The following morning I called Milo for the scoop on the previous night’s intelligence gathering.

  “Hold on a second,” Milo said. “I have that scrap of paper around here somewhere.”