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

  Mom quickly got up from the table. “If you know what’s good for you, Isabel, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

  Some people threaten without any force behind their words. My mother is not one of those people. If I wanted to learn the truth about her increasingly erratic behavior, I would have to be extremely careful. In the meantime, I had another kind of vandal to worry about.

  THE CHANDLER JOB

  CHAPTER-2

  Wednesday, February 22

  0900 hrs

  The next morning I began working the case by interviewing all those who witnessed the original vandalisms almost thirteen years ago.

  Interview #1—Spellman, Albert

  The transcript reads as follows:

  ISABEL: Dad, do you recall the string of adjustments to Mrs. Chandler’s life-size tableaux during the 1992–1993 school year?

  ALBERT: Adjustments. Nice word choice.

  ISABEL: Please answer the question.

  ALBERT: Yes, I do recall the adjustments.

  ISABEL: Do you recall them in great detail?

  ALBERT: I do.

  ISABEL: Do you recall telling anyone about them?

  ALBERT: I do.

  ISABEL: Approximately how many people?

  ALBERT: Has to be at least forty or fifty.

  ISABEL: Are you out of your mind? Didn’t you have anything else to talk about?

  ALBERT: Excuse me, Isabel, but I was getting tired of listening to my colleagues rave about their daughters’ straight A’s or swim team victories, science fair ribbons and Ivy League educations. These were the only bragging rights I had on you and I enjoyed it. I didn’t relish you being a vandal, but the “adjustments,” as you call them, were downright brilliant. If only you had channeled that energy into something useful.

  ISABEL: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  ALBERT: Give me a break.

  ISABEL: Of the fifty or so people that you told about this, did you tell any of them in great detail? What I’m trying to determine is who would know the details. I mean all the details. If you’ve noticed, the scenes to date in Mrs. Chandler’s yard are exact replicas of the ’92–’93 season.

  ALBERT: A good twenty or so had enough info to duplicate the…adjustments if they really wanted. But then you’re forgetting about your Uncle Ray. He used to take pictures. I think he even made a photo album—and would take it to the bars with him and stuff. Was a big hit there, he told me. Your suspect pool, Izzy, it’s huge. Huge. The only way you’re going to solve this case is by good old-fashioned surveillance.

  ISABEL: That’s what I was afraid of. [End of tape.]

  Notes on Surveillance

  Because it often takes hours and sometimes days or weeks to catch a person in an illegal/suspicious/immoral act, and because surveillance costs at least $50 (and up to $75) an hour per investigator,1 surveillance can be the bread and butter of the business. But surveillance isn’t fun. It used to be fun when I was an adolescent protected by child labor laws. It used to be fun when I first got my license and never worked a job solo. However, the very first time I spent eight hours in my car2 alone, listening to late-night radio, I was cured of any affection I had for shadowing folk.

  Rae, until very recently, had a serious recreational surveillance habit. We had been unable to cure her of this vice until Henry Stone pointed out that surveillance is in fact very dull and we were encouraging Rae by giving her jobs that were far more compelling than your average surveillance. Over a two-month period, my parents had Rae clock in over forty hours of traditional, boring surveillance, forty hours of Rae sitting in a car with an adult ignoring her,3 sans snack food, with limited bathroom breaks. This simple behavior modification trimmed Rae’s unfortunate hobby by 80 percent. We would never wipe it out completely, but now that Rae had Henry Stone, school chums, and Mr. Peabody’s mucous mystery, there really wasn’t much time left on her schedule.

  THE “LAW OFFICES” OF MORT SCHILLING

  Monday, April 24

  1205 hrs

  Morty was distracted—no, fascinated—by my mysterious case of the Copycat Vandals.

  “It has to be an inside job,” he said, forming his fingers into a pyramid and looking at me askance as if he were a detective in a drawing-room mystery.

  “Inside what?” I asked.

  “Inside your family.”

  “You think my mom and dad have time to ransack an old lady’s front yard?”

  “If your mother is finding the time to sabotage a random kid’s motorbike, I’m not sure where that line would be drawn.”

  “Look, I’ve checked into everyone in my family. Mrs. Chandler had very specific dates for when her lawn was hit. Mom, Dad, and Rae all have direct alibis for most of those dates. Besides, it’s not their MO. It’s not even my MO, anymore. The person or persons who are doing this are connected to me somehow, but they’re not related to me.”

  “If I were you, I’d spend more time thinking about those lawn hits than that neighbor of yours.”

  “Thanks. But I’m more in the market for legal advice.”

  “Let’s get back to the TRO,” Morty said. “As far as your story goes, Mr. Brown had not yet filed it.”

  “Correct,” I replied.

  “After he broke up with you, when was the next time you had contact with Mr. Brown?”

  “I don’t think he broke up with me. It was mutual, I think.”

  “Izzele, just answer the question.”

  “About two weeks after our final date.”

  DISAPPEARANCE #2

  SHIP-AHOY!

  Wednesday, March 8

  Since I still had a few plots brewing to drive Bernie out of my apartment, I remained steadfast in my refusal to look for another place to live. My parents decided to yet again make the best of my unforeseen arrival and make another departure. Dad found a two-week Caribbean cruise discounted by 60 percent online for a last-minute booking. Apparently, this particular ship (Princess Leia—christened by Carrie Fisher herself) had been involved in a recent hijacking (yes, hijacking a boat is quite impressive) and reservations had dipped to a ten-year low. Dad jumped at the bargain and started packing.

  Mom later explained that she and my father shared their own reservations about leaving Rae home alone, even though they both agreed she knew precisely what to do in an emergency. Dad says I jaded them; I took away their trust forever. In my opinion, Rae was the baby and it was impossible for either of my parents to imagine her old enough to be left alone.

  My mother left the following list of new rules and instructions on the refrigerator the night before their second disappearance.

  Things To Do and Not Do During our Disappearance

  DO take out the trash

  DO brush your teeth and maintain adequate grooming standards

  DO make sure Rae goes to school

  DO NOT leave flames unattended

  DO NOT order pizza more than 1x per week (or there will be a $200 fine)

  After I saw the list I reminded my mother that I was not twelve, Oscar Madison, or mildly retarded, and she responded with “I know that, sweetie, but you’ve always had an undercurrent of laziness and destruction in you, and I just wanted to make sure that it doesn’t rub off on Rae during what I hope will be another wonderful bonding time for my two daughters.”

  “There’s no way you can enforce the pizza fine,” I said, looking at my mother like she was crazy.

  Mom returned the incredulous stare and said, “I’ll just dock your pay. How hard is that? Have a good time, and if you guys run into any trouble, call Henry.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense to call David, what with him being our brother and, well, a lawyer?”

  “If you want to call David, call David. But I personally think Henry’s more reliable,” Mom coldly replied, apparently still holding a grudge against my brother.

  Mom, Dad, Rae, and I said our farewells. I watched their cab disappe
ar in the distance. Rae departed for school, after which I called David’s office. His secretary said he had been out sick for the last three days. I phoned his house. He didn’t answer, as I predicted, so I decided to drive to his house and gather more evidence.

  SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR REPORT #12

  “David Spellman”

  David’s car was parked in his driveway, but there was no answer at the door. I could tell by the papers piled up by his doorstep that he probably hadn’t even opened the front door in the last four days. It was a Wednesday.

  David lives in a renovated Victorian not unlike the Spellman home, just fancier. Through the back staircase, I had access to the window of his pantry. I grabbed a flathead screwdriver out of my car. I keep it there for emergencies and when I have to smash in taillights. I quietly jimmied open the window and ungracefully heaved myself through the narrow opening. I rested on the top of the clothes dryer and then crawled, head-first, to the floor. I landed with a thump on my side and slowly got to my feet.

  I followed the sound of the television and found my brother in the “entertainment room,” equipped with a fifty-six-inch plasma TV, leather couch, bar, and state-of-the-art stereo system. The room was dark, the shades were drawn, and David was lying on the couch in his pajamas. I sat down next to my brother, who barely turned his head to acknowledge my presence.

  “Don’t break into my house anymore,” David said, still staring at that offensive TV.

  “Wow,” I said. “You must have really fucked up to wallow on this level.”

  “You don’t know anything, Isabel.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you’ve done and maybe I can help you fix it. You might be able to get her back.”

  “Go away.”

  “I’ve been calling Petra for three weeks now. I can’t even get her on the phone. She’s my best friend, David. I want her back, even if you don’t. Tell me what happened.”

  “I’m not talking about this anymore.”

  “Were we ever talking about it?”

  “Have your drink and leave. And don’t come back here again until I invite you. Got it?”

  “David, I just broke into your home. Clearly I don’t respect boundaries. Do you really think a verbal request is going to put a dent in any of my plans?”

  David grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the chair. He’s bigger than me, so if he feels like being a bully, he can.1 After guiding me to his front door and shoving me outside, he gave me as pointed a glare as his drunken eyes could muster.

  “I’m not joking, Isabel…just…”

  David didn’t complete the thought. He simply slammed the door in my face.

  As I strode back to my car, I racked my brain for hints of trouble in David and Petra’s relationship. I had nothing. For two years everything is fine, then Petra gets a tattoo and skips town, David stops bathing and leaving his house, and no one will tell me what’s going on.

  HOME ALONE

  CHAPTER-2

  That afternoon, when I returned to the Spellman house, Rae was on the telephone. My sister watched me carefully as she was listening to whoever was on the other end of the line. Her responses suddenly became vague and self-conscious.

  “Yeah, it’s going all right…I’m not sure about that…I’ll let you know when I know…Uh-huh…I heard you the first time…Yeah…We need that. I’ll buy it. Yeah…Isabel’s home so, you know.”

  “Who was that?” I asked when Rae hung up the phone.

  “A friend.”

  “Same friend or a different friend?”

  “Different.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jason.”

  “Funny name for a girl.”

  “Not a girl.”

  “I picked up on that.”

  “Any more questions?”

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “You are so prehistoric,” Rae said as she jumped off the counter.

  “There’s a message for you on the office line,” she continued, and then went to her room.

  I found the saved message after entering the security code.

  “Hi, Izzy, it’s Petra. I’m in Arizona visiting my mom. I’ll be back in a few weeks. Talk to you then.”

  I phoned her cell the second I heard the message and it went directly to voice mail.

  “Hi, Petra. Izzy here. I’m having some trouble understanding your recent behavior. I have a cell phone. The number is programmed into your cell phone. I know that because I programmed it. Now if you dropped your cell phone into a river I might understand why you called me on the office line, but since we have caller ID and I can see what number you dialed from, you have no excuse. Call me back on my cell phone. I want to know what is going on. Please.”

  Ding and Ditch

  My plan for the evening was a night-long stakeout in front of the Chandler home. The widow had installed her decorations early, hoping to catch the vandals before the holiday actually arrived. This was my suggestion, in the hopes that I could catch the culprits sooner rather than later and be done with this case for good. Perhaps it was the reminder of my youthful indiscretion that prompted my repeat of another youthful indiscretion. But at 11:59 P.M., I parked my car down the block from my old apartment, rang the doorbell, and then slipped into the foyer of the adjacent building as I waited for Bernie to press the buzzer. Ten minutes later, I rang my doorbell again and once again slipped into the foyer of the adjacent building. Ten minutes after that I rang the doorbell, returned to my car, and parked in front of Mrs. Chandler’s house.

  Thursday, March 9

  0100 hrs

  The leprechauns were sober and upright when I arrived. The pots of gold and crepe-paper rainbows were not yet sullied by a sea of Guinness cans and vegetable-soup vomit. The Copycat Vandals would strike sometime between now and St. Patrick’s Day, according to my calculations, which were based exclusively on anecdotal evidence.1

  Unless they struck early, I was looking forward to a long night and then perhaps another long night and then another. But then I had a change of plans.

  I made the decision in an instant, the choice between the mystery assigned to me and the mystery I preferred solving. It was just a lucky (or unlucky, depending on who’s looking at it) coincidence that I saw Subject’s VW Jetta drive past my surveillance vehicle in the early hours of Thursday morning. I didn’t immediately recognize it by the license number, but his car has a sharp dent on the driver’s-side door, with a stretch of stripped-off paint.

  I turned on the ignition and followed him. I could only hope that the leprechauns would abstain from imbibing in my absence.

  Subject’s vehicle veered left on Van Ness Avenue and continued past Market Street. The problem with late-night pursuits is that empty roads make a close tail obvious, especially if you’re prone to looking in your rearview mirror. My guess is that a man who keeps a room locked at all times and adopts fake identities is probably that kind of guy. The only thing I had going for me was that the glare of his taillights was uneven. Often this happens when one is replaced before or after the other.

  I hung back as far as I could, trying to keep at least one car between us at all times. Subject drove south on Mission Street for another ten or fifteen minutes, past Cesar Chavez and the highway, and into the Excelsior district. He made a left turn onto a residential street, the name of which I did not catch. It was lined with single-family stucco homes, in various states of repair and disrepair. My pursuit was getting dangerously close and I couldn’t risk detection, so I turned off my headlights2 and continued weaving along the side streets in Subject’s wake.

  Subject parked in front of a dilapidated house with a collection of garage sale rejects on the front lawn. The paint job had to have been at least twenty years old, judging by what was left of it. Not a single light shone from inside. But that is all irrelevant. I was looking at the wrong house. Three doors down, a blonde woman in pajamas and a ratty San Francisco
Giants sweatshirt exited another stucco single-family home, this one in fine condition other than its less-urgent need for a paint job. This residence was also completely unlit.

  The blonde woman opened the door and sat in the passenger side of Subject’s vehicle for approximately ten minutes. The lights were out and I couldn’t risk moving any closer, so it was impossible to see what they were doing. The woman then exited the vehicle, holding something in her hands that was not previously there—it might have been a paper bag, but it was impossible to tell.

  Subject started his engine and took off. I followed him a short distance until it became obvious that he was going home. I then took a different route back to Mrs. Chandler’s home and parked, once again, out front. In my absence the leprechauns had remained sober.

  Three hours later, as dawn broke, I returned home to sleep.

  MY ALMOST FAKE DRUG DEAL (#2)

  I awoke in the afternoon with a plan. A plan that arose out of my nagging suspicion that the secret Subject was hiding was that he was a drug dealer. It would explain the cagey behavior, the locked door, and the post-midnight exchange of goods that I witnessed.

  After I dressed and downed two cups of coffee, I searched for Rae to make sure she was accounted for and discovered her in the Spellman office Googling variations on the phrase “Why would you save your own snot?” The question, as of recent days, had become a constant refrain in our house, like the chorus of a song, always spoken with a powerful, almost emotional delivery. “Why? Why would you save your own snot?”

  I answered, as I always did, “I have no idea.”

  I got into my car and drove across the bridge, arriving at the familiar Oakland warehouse shortly thereafter.

  Len and Christopher were on guard from the start. They knew I didn’t drop by just for tea and cookies (although that was a perk).

  Len cut to the chase. “Spill it, Spellman.”

  “I have another acting job for you.”

  “What?” said Christopher, nonplussed.

  “I’d like you to resurrect your roles as drug dealers.”

  “Who is the target?”

  “That guy I was seeing. He lives next door. I think he might be a drug dealer.”