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

  “What makes you think that?” Christopher asked.

  “For one thing,” I replied, “I’ve seen him swap packages at least twice. Once in the middle of the night. Another thing, he’s really into gardening, if you know what I mean.”

  The look on Christopher’s face suggested he did not.

  “Well, if he’s a drug dealer,” said Len, “then he probably has his own supply.”

  “Okay, then. Try to buy drugs from him.”

  Len, having once been a drug dealer himself, still had some loyalty to his former occupation. “Isabel, that’s called entrapment.”

  “No,” I said. “I think it’s called acting.”

  “I’m going to say no,” said Christopher.

  I sighed, trying to come up with another plan.

  “I also think we should mention that we don’t like being typecast,” he continued.

  “Ditto,” said Len.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “We’ve already played drug dealers for you; the other day you asked us to be armed robbers, then pickpockets. Today you’re back to the drug dealers. What’s next? Pimps?”

  “Sorry, guys. But in my line of work, I don’t have much use for dukes and earls. I’m trying to catch people doing bad things, and generally you need someone living in the world of vice to draw them into it. Forgive me.”

  “She has a point,” conceded Christopher.

  “So, there’s no way I can convince you?” I asked.

  “Sorry, luv,” said Christopher. “We’re just more Denzel than Tupac. Now would you like some more tea?”

  EX-BOYFRIEND #10

  Name: Greg Larson

  Age: 36

  Occupation: Sheriff with the Marin County Sheriff’s Department

  Hobbies: Target practice and beer drinking

  Duration: 6 weeks

  Last Words: “Nope.”

  I met Sheriff Larson during the Spellman Wars I mentioned earlier. He was a person of interest in my “unsolvable” missing person case. I found Larson suspicious the moment I met him. He rarely spoke in complete sentences, preferring simple one- or two-word responses to almost all inquiries. However, when the case was complete and I realized how mistaken I had been about the man—keep in mind, I was fairly certain he was guilty of covering up a murder or was a murderer himself—he grew on me.

  After I discovered the truth—which I won’t get into here1—and the sheriff was exonerated of any foul play,2 I thought I owed Greg an apology. Somehow that apology turned into a very brief relationship, one that can best be reduced to our final exchange of words, which, interestingly enough, was the most verbose the sheriff had ever been:

  SHERIFF: Enough with the questions.

  ISABEL: Enough with the ignoring of the questions.

  SHERIFF: Do you ever stop?

  ISABEL: Eventually.

  SHERIFF: When? And I’d like an exact date.

  ISABEL: When I have all the information I need.

  SHERIFF: Your brain might be in this, but your heart isn’t.

  ISABEL: No, my heart simply requires more facts than other hearts.

  SHERIFF: Is this working for you?

  ISABEL: Not really. You?

  SHERIFF: Nope.

  It had been a year since I had seen the sheriff. I figured it was ample time to cash in on whatever indebtedness a mediocre six-week relationship entitled me to. Larson gave me a friendly smile and kicked his boots onto his desk when I entered his office.

  “Spellman,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I sat down on the edge of his desk and said, “I need a favor.”

  “I knew it,” he said. “You had that look in your eye.”

  “I left you alone for a whole year. Give me some credit.”

  “I wouldn’t have minded seeing you now and again, but then you start in with all those questions.”

  “I’ll keep this brief,” I said, handing Larson a slip of paper with every scrap of information I had on Subject.

  “I’m not sure if this is his name,” I continued, “but assuming it is, I can’t find a record of him in St. Louis, Washington, Iowa—all states he’s claimed to have lived in. What you can get, that I can’t, is whether there’s a police file on him. Like, maybe a complaint. Some record that wouldn’t be in any database. Can you do that for me?”

  Larson picked up the piece of paper. “Who is this guy?”

  “He lives next door to my parents. Something about him isn’t right.”3

  Larson pocketed the paper and said, “I’ll look into it.”

  The favor phase of the conversation was now at an end and we moved on to the small-talk phase. One of the things I did really like about Larson was that he had little use for small-talk, so I knew our meeting would end shortly.

  “So how have you been?” I asked.

  “Can’t complain. You?”

  “I actually can complain, but I know how you hate that, so I won’t.”

  Then I made the mistake of noticing a framed picture of a woman on his desk.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “My fiancée,” he replied, and even though jealousy was the farthest thing from my mind, I still felt something vague and unpleasant. I got up to leave.

  “Is she a neurosurgeon?” I asked.

  “No,” Larson replied, chuckling.

  “Was she in the Olympics?”

  He gave me an incredulous stare. “How did you know that?”

  THE PHILOSOPHER’S CLUB

  Milo continued with his unsympathetic stance.

  “You know, it’s never too late to train for the Olympics. I mean, you’re too old for track and field, gymnastics, figure skating, volleyball, basketball, all the good sports, but some of those other ‘sports’”—he used the generally frowned-upon finger quotes—“you might have a shot at if you start now and train really, really hard. Like hurling. You’ve heard of it, right? It’s like shuffleboard on ice, using stones. There are those people who crouch down and sweep the ice before the stone passes. You could be one of those sweepers. I got a broom in back if you want to practice. I’d be happy to chip in for hurling outfits. They’d of course have to say ‘The Philosopher’s Club’ on them. We could use the advertising.”

  “Milo, the sport you’re thinking of is called ‘curling.’”

  “I could’ve sworn there was a sport called ‘hurling.’”

  “There is,” I replied. “It’s played mostly in Ireland. It’s like field hockey, only much faster.”1

  “Sounds like you have to be in shape for that sport. So, curling it is,” Milo said. “Even better, if you ask me. I was beginning to worry about a bar sponsoring an event called ‘hurling.’ I’m not sure if that’s the kind of advertisement I need.”

  “What happened to you, Milo? You used to be nicer.”

  “I’m old, my feet hurt me more, I got a prostate problem, and I’m just getting plain cranky. Listening to you complain about your mediocrity because you were not in the Olympics is stupid. The only sport you ever practiced was amateur vandalism.”

  “I’m sorry about your prostate,” I said to Milo. “I’m sure having to pee all the time cannot be pleasant.”

  From the look Milo gave me, I knew he regretted his brief moment of honesty.

  You see, knowledge is power.

  THE CHANDLER JOB

  CHAPTER-3

  Friday, March 10

  1030 hrs

  Since the next day was Saturday, I invited Rae to accompany me on the Chandler residence stakeout. At first Rae said no, but when I told her she had free reign on the snack food, she acquiesced. In the middle of the night, in a blacked-out car with nothing to do, it’s hard to resist Pringles, Milk Duds, and Hot Tamales.

  Typically my sister will strike up a conversation on an assortment of topics in a five hour time span, but this night was different. She simply could not get past Mr. Peabody, her
schoolteacher.

  “Why? Why would you save your own snot?”

  Four hours later the snot mystery and the Copycat Vandal mystery remained unsolved.

  Rae and I slept through morning. We awoke, after noon, with a sugar hangover. I forced Rae to make a teeth-cleaning appointment with Daniel and then we made omelets for breakfast.

  While I drank coffee and Rae downed two glasses of chocolate milk, we checked our e-mail and found the first set of correspondences from Mom and Dad on their cruise.

  From: Albert Spellman

  Sent: March 10

  To: Isabel Spellman, Rae Spellman

  Subject: Cruise Ship Dispatch #1

  This is like a floating prison. Sometimes I just want to throw myself overboard so I can have some more space. I don’t see the appeal. Plus, your mom’s sick as a dog, so I have to roam the deck alone. Everyone on board has been drugged with some awful substance that makes them smile constantly. Crew members are always asking me if they can help me with anything. I’m walking down a hallway and they ask if I need assistance. With what?

  I hope you both are behaving yourselves. I’ll know if you’re not.

  Dad

  From: Olivia Spellman

  Sent: March 10

  To: Isabel Spellman, Rae Spellman

  Subject: Greetings from hell

  After two days of eating saltines, I finally made it out of the cabin, which is about the size of our Audi. In defense of my cabin, however, no one inside of it wears a thong. And your father is up to something. Every time he says he’s going to the buffet, he comes back with wet hair, like he’s just taken a shower. When I ask him about it, he says he took a dip in the pool, but he smells like shampoo.

  On another note, there’s no phone service here. Isabel, I need you to follow up with Ron Howell on something for me. His memory sucks. Call him up and say, “Ron, don’t forget to take care of that thing I told you to take care of.” That’s it.

  Love,

  Mom.

  Rae sent the following replies:

  From: Rae Spellman

  Sent: March 11

  To: Olivia Spellman

  Subject: Re: Greetings from hell

  Mom, maybe your next vacation shouldn’t be on a boat. Dad really likes “getting away from it all,” so just suck it up and pretend like you’re enjoying yourself. I’ll look online for a more suitable escape. Boats just aren’t your thing. Onward. Everything’s cool here. Don’t worry.

  Love,

  Rae

  From: Rae Spellman

  Sent: March 11

  To: Albert Spellman

  Subject: Re: Cruise Dispatch #1

  Dad, Mom feels really bad that she’s so sick. She was really looking forward to spending quality time with you. Your next vacation should be on land, but you guys definitely need to try this again. I hear the buffets are great on board. Go nuts. Treat yourself.

  As Rae composed her diabolical e-mail replies, I followed up on my mother’s request to contact Ron, one of our regular surveillance guys. Ron picked up on the third ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Ron, it’s Isabel Spellman.”

  “What can I do you for,1 Izzy?”

  “I hate that.”

  “I know. That’s why I say it.”

  “Mom wanted me to tell you don’t forget to take care of that thing she told you to take care of.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ring any bells, Ron?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t forget. I was gonna take care of it tonight.”

  “Oh, good,” I said, trying to figure out the best way to approach this.

  “That all, Spell?”

  “Need any help?” I asked.

  “Nope. Got it covered.”

  “Because I’d be more than happy to help.”

  “Izz, this is between me and your mom.”

  “Whatever,” I said, and hung up the phone.

  That evening, after force-feeding Rae a salad and a broiled chicken breast, insisting that she remain home to complete her homework, and further insisting that my evening plans consisted entirely of keeping watch over Mrs. Chandler’s ode to leprechauns, I drove to Ron Foster’s apartment in Daly City and parked down the block. Two hours and half a CD of Spanish for Beginners later, Ron exited his home and drove directly to Noe Valley. Ron, checking his near vicinity, but not, say, twenty yards behind him, decided that the coast was clear and then slashed the tires on that poor sap’s motorbike.

  After witnessing my mother’s patsy at work, I drove to Mrs. Chandler’s and parked out front. The leprechauns were untouched and remained so the rest of the night. But the evening was not a total waste. Sheriff Larson called with some very interesting news.

  “What have you got for me?” I asked.

  “That was one thing I always liked about you, Spellman. You have no need for pleasantries.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I didn’t realize you could actually string two sentences together. Bravo,” I replied.

  “Be nice,” Larson warned. “I got something.”

  “What?” I said, pulling out paper and a pen.

  “I got a friend on the job in Tacoma, Washington. Gave him the details on your guy and he asked around. A missing persons detective that he knows remembered the name. No charges were ever filed against him, but your John Brown was questioned in a missing persons case.”

  “Who went missing?”

  “Her name was Elizabeth Bartell. I’ll fax you all her details. Basically, the husband accused your guy of being involved in his wife’s disappearance. The husband said his wife had been seeing Mr. Brown quite a bit in the weeks before she vanished. But they couldn’t pin anything on him, so the case went cold.”

  “You’re sure it’s the same John Brown?” I asked.

  “Same DOB on the driver’s license, and according to the file he’s a gardener.”

  “Landscaper,” I corrected.

  “Fancy gardener.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Nope,” said Larson.

  “Thank you,” I replied, and hung up the phone.

  THE “LAW OFFICES” OF MORT SCHILLING

  Monday, April 24

  1235 hrs

  “See,” I said, “that should help my case, right?”

  “Wrong,” Morty replied. “It will be inadmissible. The only thing that matters is that you violated the TRO. Extraneous circumstances wouldn’t matter unless you pulled him from a burning building. Besides, you threatened him.”

  “I didn’t threaten him.”

  “He has you on tape saying, quote-unquote, I am going to make you pay for what you’ve done.”

  “I don’t mean to nitpick, but doesn’t my particular threat rely upon Subject having done something wrong? How can it be a threat if he hasn’t done anything?”

  “Why aren’t you taking this seriously? Your livelihood is at stake. You get that, right?”

  “Yes. But two women are missing and they both had direct contact with Subject before they disappeared. I think that’s more important than my job. Wouldn’t you agree, Morty?”

  But I get ahead of myself once again.

  HOME ALONE

  CHAPTER-3

  Sunday, March 12

  Until I received that phone call from Sheriff Larson on my third night of leprechaun watch, I had tried to keep my mind off of Subject. At least, his suspicious behavior had ceased occupying my everyday thoughts. I had moved on to other topics, like, say, motorbike sabotage, copycat vandalism, an unfaithful brother, and an AWOL best friend.

  But then Subject earned my attention once again, and my other mysteries faded into the periphery.

  I shared my latest dirt on our neighbor with Rae, who helped me keep a ’round-the-clock vigil on Subject. We observed nothing unusual in his routine. He loaded topsoil into his truck and made the rounds to various gardens in the Bay Area, planting, watering, weed
ing, and doing whatever it is that landscapers do. I saw him speak to a woman for approximately five minutes and hand her his card. I saw no further daytime swapping of packages, but he did return to that Excelsior district home and pass that same blonde woman another paper bag. I would have to look into her involvement with Subject more thoroughly.

  GARBOLOGY 101

  Wednedsay, March 15

  0900 hrs

  After three full days of avid Subject-watching, Rae and I were no further along in our investigation. Then we spotted Subject taking out the trash, and Rae and I turned to each other in understanding.1

  “Five dollars,” I said.

  “Twenty,” Rae replied.

  “Ten,” I said.

  “Twenty-five,” my sister replied.

  “Fifteen,” I said.

  “Thirty.”

  “You’re supposed to go down, not up.”

  “There are no rules.”

  “Ten,” I said.

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Okay, fine. Twenty,” I said, and pulled a bill from my wallet.

  Rae took the money and headed for the door. In my family, if one loses a negotiation, we like to pretend that we have won.

  “I would have given you thirty,” I said.

  “I would have done it for five,” Rae replied.

  Ten minutes later, Rae and I were in the basement sorting through two separate bags of trash.

  “Did you get his trash or recycling?” I asked.

  “One of each,” Rae said, breaking into one of the forty-gallon garbage bags.

  “That smells,” I said.

  Rae, wearing yellow dishwashing gloves, dug through the refuse like a champ.

  “There have to be at least four banana peels in here,” said Rae. “Now that’s suspicious.”

  “Some people like bananas, Rae. They call it the perfect snack food, because it comes with its own wrapper.”

  “Suzy Franklin eats at least one banana every day. And she is completely insane.”

  “Don’t judge a person by their produce preference. He sure shreds a lot of paper. Do you have any paper in that bag?”

  “Paper towels, but that’s it. I think this really is just trash,” Rae said, trying not to breathe through her nose.

  “Get rid of it,” I replied.

  Rae placed the opened bag inside of another trash bag and headed outside. I watched her through the window as she returned the garbage to Subject’s can. Then she came back to the house.