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

And my response was, “Oh, right.”

  My mother’s disappointment in our lousy performance manifested itself primarily in hostility toward me after the social worker’s departure.

  “Well, that was Oscar-worthy,” Mom said sarcastically. “What the hell is going on with you and the neighbor?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Men don’t have to return your footwear if nothing is going on.”

  “We were gardening,” I said.

  “I hope that’s not a euphemism,” my mom replied.

  “Eew, Mom.”

  “You’re supposed to be engaged to Henry,” said Mom. “And yet the social worker sees some random male returning your footwear. I’m sure she thinks you’re a slut now.”

  “He could be a cobbler for all she knows,” I replied.

  Rae raced down the stairs (I’m sure the moment she saw Mrs. Schroeder’s car pull out of the driveway) and then she quickly slowed her pace at the bottom of the landing, as if she was trying to appear casual.

  She sat down across from Henry and smiled politely.

  “Hi, Henry.”

  “Hi, Rae.” Henry smiled back at her. It was an open and warm smile. A smile that seemed absolutely foreign to the man I knew. It occurred to me that whatever coldness I sensed from him was not a generic anti-Spellman hostility, it was anti-Isabel. Or so it seemed.

  “Have you had enough space?” Rae asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Isabel told me I had to leave you alone because you needed your space and if I didn’t give you your space, you would hate me.”

  Henry then shot me the meanest look I’ve ever seen.

  “I’m not ever going to hate you, Rae. I just needed some time to clear my head. That’s all.”

  My mother looked like she was falling in love.

  “So I’ve been giving you space for forty-six days when I didn’t have to?” Rae said, and then turned to me with an expression of loathing I had seen only a handful of times.

  “You’re not recording this, are you, Olivia?” Henry asked.

  “Oh, I forgot. Dammit.”

  “No,” Henry said. “I don’t want to be recorded. Do you mind if Rae and I go for a walk? I want to have a little chat with her about space and stuff,” he said, and then shot me a glare.

  Henry and Rae exited the house. My mother studied the inspector from the living room window.

  “Something is wrong with him,” my mother said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. He looks depressed.”

  “He looks the same as he always does.”

  “No. Something is different,” insisted my mother.

  Whatever conversation occurred between Rae and Henry on their walk put a spring in my sister’s step.

  When she returned she announced, “I’m not giving Henry any more space. Although when he asks me to go home I’m going to heed his request.” She said the last line as if it were pulled from a script.

  “Mom, I’m going to go over to Ashley’s house and do some homework. Is that okay?” she then asked.

  “Just leave her phone number on the counter and have a good time. Call me if you need a ride home.”

  Rae grabbed her belongings and shot out of the house.

  “I just can’t get used to Rae having friends,” I said.

  “And none of them are delinquents,” Mom said, making a jab at the backstory of most of my adolescent acquaintances.

  Dad returned home shortly after Rae’s departure, his hair wet from recent showering and his face flushed from recent physical activity.

  “Hi, honey,” Mom said casually to Dad, as he aimed for the stairs.

  “Were you at the gym?” I asked.

  “Uh—yes,” Dad said dismissively, and quickly headed upstairs.

  When Dad was out of earshot, Mom said, “Your father’s definitely having a MILFO, although he seems to be trying to keep it on the down low. Doesn’t make any sense. In the past every time he went to the gym or ate broccoli he sent out a press release. Either way, this is one MILFO I can get behind.”

  “Mom, they’re called REAFOs now, not MILFOs,” I said.

  “What’s a REAFO?”

  “Retirement-age freak-out. Dad was getting too old for a MILFO.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “We changed it about four years ago. Didn’t you get the memo?”3

  As I was heading back to the attic, my cell phone rang. I picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Izzy, it’s your roomie calling.”

  “Who?”

  “Bernie.”

  “We’re not roomies.”

  “Sure we are.”

  “Why are you calling, Bernie?”

  “I got a message for you. Petra returned your call.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. She just said to tell you she was returning your call.”

  “If she calls again, tell her I’m not staying there and give her my cell number.”

  “Give me that number again,” Bernie said.

  “You just dialed it,” I said, and hung up.

  I phoned Petra again and left a message, reminding her that I had moved out of Bernie’s place. I asked her to return my call yet again.

  MY ALMOST FAKE MUGGING

  1630 hrs

  In preparation for my date that night, I decided to visit my actor friends Len and Christopher. I met them for coffee in between rehearsals at the Academy of Dramatic Arts. Both men were enrolled in the graduate program. Len and Christopher are handsome thirty-something black men, with keen senses of fashion. Len’s sartorial style leans toward urban chic, in direct contrast to Christopher’s nod to Old England. Christopher had recently taken to wearing ascots with his starched white shirts and well-tailored pants. He manages to pull off his pretentious garb by possessing the accent to accompany it. He is, in fact, British.

  I have a dubious history with Len: In high school I had the means to destroy his reputation and didn’t. Ever since, Len has thought he owes me. Almost two years ago, I cashed in on that debt and had Len and his lover, Christopher, help me stage a fake drug deal as a retaliatory measure against my parents’ room-bugging. They had always been uneasy about their participation in the ruse, but actors can rarely turn down a job. That’s why there’s always someone out there who will do a hemorrhoid commercial.

  I sprang for Len and Christopher’s nonfat lattes, which immediately put Len on guard. I decided small talk was required to butter up my actors for their next roles, and so I talked about what actors like to talk about most: themselves.

  “Len is playing Othello this fall,” said Christopher.

  “Congratulations,” I replied. “That’s fantastic.”

  “And Christopher won the part of Walter Lee in A Raisin in the Sun,” said Len.

  “The accents are killing us,” moaned Len.

  “Murder,” echoed Christopher.

  I almost suggested that they should swap parts, what with Len being an American and Christopher a Brit, but you have to watch what you say around actors, so I remained mum.

  I wondered how my friends would take to a more avant-garde production.

  “I have a job for you guys, if you’re interested.”

  “What?” they both chimed suspiciously.

  “Street thugs. I want you to fake-rob my date. Just get his wallet and run. You can use an unloaded gun. Or a knife. Maybe you can borrow something from the prop department. I’m sure those are totally safe.”

  “Will your date be in on this performance?”

  “No. What would be the point of that?”

  “What if he decides to fight us instead of just handing over his wallet?”

  “He won’t. At least I don’t think he will. Are you in?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Christopher.

  “Why not?” I asked, although I knew
why.

  “Because it’s the most insane idea you’ve ever had, Isabel.”

  “Probably not the most insane,” I replied, and then tried to come up with another plan. “I have a better idea,” I said.

  “Can’t wait to hear it,” said Christopher.

  “Okay. This is good. I take my date to a crowded bar and you guys perform one of those two-person pickpocket scams. Christopher, you spill your drink, and while you’re drying him off, Len gets his wallet. You’ve done it before, Len. Don’t pretend like you haven’t.”

  “It seems to me,” said Christopher, “that if you’re dating the chap you ought to be able to get his wallet yourself.”

  “Nah, he’s onto me,” I said. “I’ve tried. There’s just no way.”

  “I’m going to say no,” said Len.

  “Me too,” replied Christopher. “It’s just too risky.”

  Without Len and Christopher to aid me in a more subtle investigation, I had to resort to a direct inquest.

  SUBJECT LOSES HIS PATIENCE…

  It was not my plan to end my relationship with Subject that night. But weeks had gone by without any solid answers to my questions and my patience was coming to an end. I decided it was time to get to the truth, no matter what the outcome.

  Unfortunately, Subject decided to turn my interrogation back on me. I recorded the conversation, just in case the wine clouded my memory.

  The transcript reads as follows:

  ISABEL: So, how long did you live in St. Louis?

  SUBJECT: Fourteen years. Have you always lived in San Francisco?

  ISABEL: Yes. Was that your first fourteen years?

  SUBJECT: Yes. Tell me about your parents.

  ISABEL: Average. They’re totally average parents. Too boring to discuss.

  SUBJECT: Your mother keeps odd hours.

  ISABEL: She has insomnia. Sometimes driving relaxes her.

  SUBJECT: So that’s why she’s always wearing her pajamas when she goes out in the middle of the night. I found that very curious.

  ISABEL: Mystery solved. So, after St. Louis, where did you go?

  SUBJECT: Iowa.

  ISABEL: Why?

  SUBJECT: Because that’s where my father got a teaching job.

  ISABEL: So he’s a professor?

  SUBJECT: Was. He died four years ago.

  ISABEL: Sorry about that. So, what did he teach?

  SUBJECT: Mathematics. One night, when I couldn’t sleep, I saw your mother go out for one of her midnight drives and then shortly thereafter I saw you leave as well. Was that a coincidence or were you following her?

  ISABEL: How often do you have insomnia?

  SUBJECT: Often.

  ISABEL: Why is that?

  SUBJECT: I’ve got a lot on my mind.

  ISABEL: What exactly?

  SUBJECT: Why were you following your mother?

  ISABEL: I wanted to know what she was up to.

  SUBJECT: Why didn’t you just ask her?

  ISABEL: Because she would have lied.

  SUBJECT: Your folks just don’t seem all that boring anymore.

  ISABEL: I find them dull. So how long were you in Iowa?

  SUBJECT: Three or four years.

  ISABEL: Which one, three or four?

  SUBJECT: I don’t remember.

  ISABEL: Are you hiding from someone?

  SUBJECT: Where’d you get that idea?

  ISABEL: I don’t think John Brown is your real name.

  SUBJECT: Are you always this suspicious?

  ISABEL: Yes. Don’t take it personally.

  SUBJECT: Is there any chance you’re going to get off this subject?

  ISABEL: Unlikely.

  SUBJECT: Why is that?

  ISABEL: Because I can come up with very few good reasons why someone would be using an alias.

  SUBJECT: My name is John Brown.

  ISABEL: Let’s say you were in the witness protection program. That’s possible, I suppose, but I was always under the impression that the Feds were good at creating legitimate backstories for individuals in their custody. I mean, if a lowly PI can prove someone’s not legit, what chance do they have?

  SUBJECT: My patience is nearing its end.

  ISABEL: So is mine. Who are you?

  SUBJECT: I’ve already told you my name.

  ISABEL: How about your real name?

  SUBJECT: John Brown is my real name.

  ISABEL: Who was that woman you met at the community garden the other day?

  SUBJECT: How did you know I met with a woman? [Silence.]

  SUBJECT: Check, please. [End of date.]

  My date and I drove back to our respective residences in almost complete silence. He pulled his car into his driveway and unlocked the door.

  “Good-bye,” Subject said, and it was the most final farewell I had ever heard.

  “I’m onto you,” was my only reply.

  Those were the last polite words we said to each other.

  THE “LAW OFFICES” OF MORT SCHILLING

  Monday, April 24

  1155 hrs

  Morty continued jotting notes down on his legal pad.

  “You look worried,” I said.

  “You’re going to look like a stalker, Isabel. You begin harassing him after he rejects you.”

  “I was harassing him long before he rejected me.”

  “Why were you so suspicious?” Morty asked.

  “Would you like to see the complete list?” I asked.

  “One thing at a time,” Morty replied.1 “Just tell me what you knew at this point in the game.”

  “I knew that Subject gave me a phony DOB and maybe a fake name. He swapped packages with a woman at a community garden. Who knows what was in those paper bags. And then all that gardening. Something about it wasn’t right.”

  “When was the next time you had contact with Mr. Brown?”

  “A few weeks later.”

  “Why so long?”

  “I wasn’t sure how to proceed. It’s hard to investigate someone when you can’t even figure out who he really is. Besides, there were other matters occupying my immediate attention.”

  SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR REPORT #10

  “Albert Spellman” Tuesday, February 21

  I returned home that night to find my mother “out on a job” and my father on the internet planning their next disappearance.

  “What are you doing, Dad?”

  “Your mom and I are thinking of taking a cruise,” Dad said coldly, “because that’s what people do when they get old.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Dad replied abruptly, having decided I was not the kind of person with whom one could have a serious conversation.

  “Would you like to talk to me about anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “Because the other day I was off my game.”

  “No, you were just being yourself.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that you were doing what comes naturally to you.”

  “I think that was an insult, Dad. But in the spirit of self-improvement, I’d like to try that conversation over again.”

  Dead silence.

  “Please,” I said.

  “Forget it.”

  “I’d really like a do-over.”

  Dad cleared his throat, deciding whether to give me a second chance, which he did.

  “I asked you if you were happy doing what you’re doing. Are you?” he asked.

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Why can’t you just answer the question?”

  “Why can’t you tell me why you’re asking the question?”

  My dad sighed and put his feet on his desk, I’m sure regretting the above-mentioned decision.

  “Your mother and I are redoing our wills.”

  “W
hy?”

  “Because we haven’t changed them in ten years, I’m over sixty, and we’re planning another disappearance or two. We need to have our affairs in order.”

  “I see,” I replied.

  “Is this what you want from your life?” my dad asked, letting his hand sweep over the office. He’d picked an unfortunate day to draw my attention to our cramped work environment. The Spellman office is one large room with four desks and mismatched office furniture. The carpet needed vacuuming, the file cabinets needed dusting, and the paper-shredder needed emptying.

  “I’d prefer it in a brighter color,” I replied.

  “Isabel, just answer the fucking1 question. I’m losing my patience with you.”

  “Spell it out, Dad.”

  “Do you want me to leave you the business in our will? We can give part-ownership to David and Rae, but since we’re hoping Rae goes to college, you’d have to run the business by yourself in case something happens to me or Mom.”

  “Oh,” I said, my head starting to throb. I wasn’t expecting the conversation to be quite so serious. “I don’t know,” I replied.

  “Is this what you want out of life?”

  “I don’t know. Do I have to answer this question right now?”

  “No,” Dad replied. “But you need to start thinking about it.”

  “I need a drink,” I said, and made a beeline for the refrigerator.

  SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR REPORT #11

  “Olivia Spellman”

  Mom entered the kitchen after I uncapped a bottle of beer.

  “How’s the Chandler case going?” she asked.

  “Huh?” I replied, my head still in the other room with Dad.

  “Have you made any progress, or do we have drunken leprechauns in our not-too-distant future?”

  “I’m still working on my game plan.”

  My mother silently turned on the teakettle and sat down across from me.

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  “Nowhere.”

  “Really? Could you give me directions? Because sometimes I’d like to go there.”

  “I apologize. I was being vague,” Mom said. “The appropriate response would be ‘Nowhere of interest to you.’”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m positive,” my mother replied, making the kind of direct eye contact she only makes when she’s trying to stare me down.

  “So you weren’t vandalizing some poor sap’s motorbike?” I asked, and I could tell from her expression that that was exactly where she was.