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 MORNING AFTER

  Saturday, March 18

  1100 hrs

  I entered the kitchen to the smell of pancakes, toast, and eggs (not sizzling, but poaching).

  “Can I have bacon too?” Rae asked Henry. Rae, I should mention, was drinking orange juice, appearing not any shade of green or yellow, and sounding almost chipper.

  “No,” Henry flatly replied.

  “Good morning,” I said, entering the kitchen.

  “I’m really sorry about last night, Isabel,” said Rae.

  “Okay,” I replied, studying her for signs of irrepressible nausea and incapacitating head-throbbing.

  “Why can’t I have bacon?”

  “Because you woke me up in the middle of the night to remove you from a party you got wasted at. That’s why,” Henry replied.

  I slipped over to Henry by the stove and whispered subtly, “Let her have the bacon. It will help her hangover.”

  “She’s not hungover,” Henry said.

  “How is that possible?” I asked, feeling downright hostile.

  “Because,” Henry replied. “She barfed up everything she drank and then I made her consume half a gallon of water, two quarts of Gatorade, and three slices of toast before she went to bed.”

  “Why did you do that?” I asked, annoyed.

  “So she wouldn’t have a hangover.”

  “She’s supposed to have a hangover right now. You,” I said to Rae, “are supposed to feel sicker than you’ve felt in your entire life.”

  “It’s not like I feel one hundred percent,” said Rae.

  “What purpose is a hangover going to serve?” Henry asked.

  “Cause and effect. She’ll realize that drinking too much makes her feel ill and therefore she will hopefully not drink again, or at the very least drink moderately.”

  “Really?” Henry replied, returning his attention to the stove. “How many hangovers did it take you until you learned to moderate?”

  “One hundred and seventy-eight,”1 I replied, graciously losing the argument. I poured myself a cup of Stone-brewed coffee2 and sat down across from Rae. Henry placed two poached eggs and dry whole-grain toast in front of my sister.

  “Are you sure you don’t want any pancakes?” Henry asked.

  “No, thanks,” Rae replied with a little too much conviction. Then she began dousing her eggs with ketchup.

  “Can I have pancakes?” I asked, suspicious that Rae was turning down one of her favorite meals for morning, noon, and night.

  “How many?” Stone asked.

  “Three,” I replied.

  “She’ll have one,” said Rae.

  “No, I’m hungry. I’ll have three.”

  “I tried,” Rae mumbled under her breath.

  While Stone mixed the pancake batter and poured it into the pan, I decided it was time to interrogate my sister regarding her previous night’s activities.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to a party?”

  “Did you always tell Mom and Dad when you were going to a party?”

  My lack of credibility was a problem, I realized. I decided to take a different tack.

  “How much did you have to drink?” I asked.

  “Only five beers,” Rae replied.

  “Only five?”

  “I didn’t think it was that much.”

  This is when Henry turned around, looking disturbed. “How can you not think five beers is a lot?”

  “I saw Isabel drink an entire six-pack during the last Super Bowl.”

  Henry shook his head in disappointment. “First of all,” he said to Rae, “your sister has had a lot of practice.”

  “Hey!”

  “Second of all, she weighs almost forty pounds more than you.”

  “More like thirty,” I snapped back.

  “Do you want to step on a scale?” Stone asked.

  As he predicted, I didn’t follow through with that argument. However, another one had to be made.

  “In my defense, I was drinking Bud Light, and I had like two hundred dollars on that game, and my team was not going to meet the spread.”

  “That’s your defense?” Henry said.

  Rae looked all too pleased to have the attention deflected. She continued eating her eggs and toast as if nothing unusual had transpired.

  But watching Rae scarf down eggs (albeit poached ones) and drink orange juice as if this were just an average morning in the Spellman house, after the dramatic manhunt of the previous night, started to get under my skin. I slipped out of the kitchen, across the hall, and into the Spellman offices, grabbed a digital recorder, and turned it on while dropping it into the pocket of my robe. I wanted to make sure I got her confession on tape.

  When I returned, the pancakes were served with a side of fresh fruit and Rae was doing some screwball comedy act, mouthing words at me when Henry wasn’t looking.

  THE STONE AND SPELLMAN SHOW—EPISODE 33

  “DON’T EAT THE PANCAKES AND BINGE-DRINKING CONFESSION”

  The transcript reads as follows:

  ISABEL: Thank you, Henry.

  HENRY: [grumbles] You’re welcome.

  [Rae shakes her head back and forth and mouths “Don’t eat the pancakes.”]

  ISABEL: I’m hungry.

  HENRY: So eat.

  [Rae performs a pantomime of picking up the pancakes and putting them in her pocket. I would later learn these were instructions for me.]

  ISABEL: Harpo, eat your breakfast.

  [Rae shakes her head in the “I told you so” style. I take my first bite of pancakes, which taste nothing like the pancakes I’m used to.]

  RAE: No matter what you do, don’t spit it out. He really hates it when you spit out food he’s made you.

  [Henry sits down at the table. I finish my bite of pancakes.]

  ISABEL: Do we have any syrup?

  RAE: You’re not allowed to put syrup on the pancakes.

  ISABEL: Have you lost your mind?

  RAE: [to Henry] You never let me put syrup on the pancakes. Why does Isabel get to?

  [I get the bottle of syrup out of the pantry and douse the pancakes with it.]

  HENRY: Rae, your sister is a grown woman—in theory—and she can do as she pleases. The situation you are referring to was very different, if you recall. You demanded I make you pancakes. I made the pancakes, then you spit your half-masticated food back on the plate and asked for syrup to make what I can only assume would be pancake soup.

  RAE: Are you mad at me?

  HENRY: Of course I’m mad at you. What you did last night was 1) illegal, 2) irresponsible, and 3) really dangerous.

  RAE: I’m sorry, Henry. I really am. It’s just that I’ve never gotten drunk before and I thought I should just to see what it’s like.

  [Yes, I have the confession on tape!]

  HENRY: So, it’s not going to happen again?

  RAE: Not until I go to college.1

  HENRY: Right.2

  [Long pause.]

  RAE: Thanks for coming to get me.

  HENRY: You’re welcome.

  RAE: I knew you wouldn’t let me choke on my own vomit.

  ISABEL: Some of us are trying to eat.

  RAE: Sorry.

  [I reach into my pocket to turn off the recorder, since I have all the evidence I need. But Stone catches me out of the corner of his eye.]

  STONE: Are you recording?

  ISABEL: Yes.

  [End of tape.]

  Henry spent the next hour trying to get in touch with David, whom he believed should take full responsibility for his wayward sisters. When Henry finally did make contact, his side of the conversation went like this:

  “David, this is Henry Stone. I’m fine. How are you? I see. I see. Where are you? Really? You’re at a yoga retreat. Hmmm. Yes, flexibility is important. Any chance I can convince you to come home?…No, it’s not exactly an emergency, but I thi
nk Isabel has a cracked or broken rib or something. No, she’s not coughing blood, but still. Uh-huh. Well, I think somebody should be keeping an eye on your sisters…I know Isabel is an adult, but—I see. I understand. Okay. Yes. I’ll tell her that. You’re welcome. Good-bye.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s at a yoga retreat in Northern California. He needs to clear his head.”

  “From what?” I asked.

  “We didn’t get into that. He said you should listen to me and go to the doctor.”

  “No doctors!”

  “Why do you keep saying that?”

  I didn’t respond for fear of incriminating myself. Rae translated my silence: “She doesn’t want to go because Mom gets all the insurance documents and she’ll want to know how Isabel injured herself.”

  “So she knows you fell down a flight of stairs,” Henry said.

  Rae rolled her eyes.

  “That’s not what happened?” Henry asked.

  I turned to Rae and glowered. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

  The doorbell rang. Rae opened the door to two uniformed police officers.

  “Is Isabel Spellman home?” Officer Carmichael, who appeared to have a fake tan, asked.

  “Let me check,” Rae replied, and then looked to me for further instruction.

  Henry grabbed my arm and walked me to the door.

  “Hello officers, I’m Inspector Henry Stone and this is Isabel Spellman. Is there a problem?”

  The second officer, Townsend, whose physical blandness was the only notable thing about him, remained silent while his partner did the talking.

  “We received a complaint from your neighbor Mr. John Brown. Apparently someone tried to break into his apartment two nights ago while he was out. Mr. Brown received a call from another neighbor who claims to have seen a woman on a ladder near his office window, and when he checked the office, he found a screwdriver on the floor, which he believes was used to jimmy open the window. Do you know anything about this, Ms. Spellman?”

  “No. I’m sorry, I don’t. Did Mr. Brown suggest that I was the person who tried to break into his home?”

  “Mr. Brown did not suggest that, but he claims the neighbor who notified him believes it was you.”

  “Can you tell me who that neighbor was?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” replied the talking officer.

  “Well, I assure you, I had nothing to do with the attempted break-in, but I will be on the lookout for any prowlers from now on. Thank you for the warning.”

  “Is that all, officers?” Henry said with an air of authority.

  “One more thing. Mr. Brown wanted us to tell you that he would not hesitate to file a restraining order against you if he deems it necessary.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” I replied.

  Henry and I said a polite good-bye to the officers. The moment I shut the front door, he took me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye.

  “You fell off a ladder trying to break into that guy’s house, didn’t you? That’s how you hurt yourself?”

  “No,” I said, almost convincingly.

  “What’s going on between you two?”

  “Nothing, anymore.”

  “So you’re not dating him?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you trying to break into his home?”

  “Because he’s evil.”

  “How is he evil?”

  “I don’t know! That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  Henry tried to humble me with his disappointed gaze.

  “Get your coat, we’re leaving now.”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied.

  Henry walked over to me and gave me an icy stare. “Do you want me to tell your parents about our visit from the cops?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “Good. Then the only choice you have to make is whether you’re going to arrive at the hospital looking like an escaped mental patient or like a civilized human being. You have ten minutes to dress or not dress. Your choice,” he said, and I went upstairs to attire myself with some dignity.

  Four hours later, after a three-hour wait in San Francisco General Hospital’s emergency room, I was X-rayed and found to have a minor rib fracture, prescribed pain pills, and told to take it easy for the next six weeks. Henry was in a crabby mood, so I didn’t reiterate on the drive home that we had just lost one sixth of a day and a five-hundred-dollar insurance deductible that we would never get back. My only revenge was recording the next episode of The Stone and Spellman Show on the drive home. Rae had perused a number of organ-donor brochures at the hospital. It got her thinking.

  THE STONE AND SPELLMAN SHOW—EPISODE 34

  “HENRY’S-CHOICE”

  The transcript reads as follows:

  [Rae, Henry, and Isabel exit San Francisco General Hospital.]

  RAE: Shotgun!

  ISABEL: Whatever.

  [We get into the car and pull out of the parking lot. Rae turns on the radio, flicking through the different stations.]

  RAE: What happened to my radio stations?

  HENRY: What are you talking about?

  RAE: I programmed the bottom three buttons to my stations.

  HENRY: When?

  RAE: A long time ago.

  HENRY: I changed them.

  RAE: But I left the top three channels for you. That was totally fair. Fifty-fifty.

  HENRY: Rae, it’s my car. All the stations are mine to program.

  RAE: You are so prehistoric.

  [Henry always laughs at this. I have no idea why.]

  HENRY: Stop calling me that!

  RAE: I’m going to program the very last station. Try to leave it alone, if you can.

  HENRY: No promises.

  RAE: Did you read any of that organ-donation material in the hospital?

  HENRY: Yes. It’s very sad.

  RAE: More people need to donate their organs.

  HENRY: I agree completely.

  RAE: When I die, I’m donating it all.

  ISABEL: When you die, Rae, your organs will most likely be too old to do anybody any good.

  RAE: That’s the problem. You can’t donate them when you’re alive.

  ISABEL: Except a kidney. You can donate a kidney.

  [Long pause.]

  RAE: Henry, if you ever needed a kidney, you could have one of mine.

  HENRY: Thanks, but I think you’re too young to be donating kidneys.

  RAE: So you wouldn’t take it?

  HENRY: Nope.

  RAE: Even if it meant you might die?

  HENRY: Yes.

  ISABEL: Can I get a kidney?

  RAE: Only if Henry doesn’t need it.

  ISABEL: He just said he wouldn’t take a kidney from you.

  RAE: How about Isabel? Would you take a kidney from her?

  HENRY: No, I suspect Isabel will need both her kidneys.

  ISABEL: You’re hilarious.

  RAE: So who would you rather take a kidney from, me or Isabel?

  ISABEL: Who said I was offering?

  RAE: It’s a hypothetical.

  HENRY: Good word.

  RAE: So?

  HENRY: So, I wouldn’t want to take a kidney from either of you.

  RAE: But you have to pick. That’s the game.

  HENRY: I’m unaware of any such game existing.

  RAE: I just made it up. It’s called Choose Your Organ Donor.

  HENRY: I don’t want to play that game.

  RAE: Please.

  ISABEL: Just answer the question, Henry.

  HENRY: Fine. I’d sooner take Isabel’s kidney than yours.

  RAE: That’s an unwise decision.

  HENRY: Why?

  RAE: Because my kidneys have to be better than Isabel’s.

  ISABEL: How do you know?

  RAE: Becau
se I’m clearly a superior life form to Isabel.

  [Henry catches me checking the batteries on the digital recorder in the rearview mirror.]

  HENRY: Isabel, are you recording this?

  ISABEL: Yep.

  HENRY: Turn it off!

  THE ETERNAL QUESTION

  Why would somebody save their own snot?” Rae asked Henry as she was clearing the dinner dishes. My sister insisted Henry stay for dinner to be sure I didn’t have an allergic reaction to the pain medication.1

  It was the response to that question that finally shed a different light on Rae’s unwavering affection for the man.

  “You’re looking at this too literally, Rae,” Henry said. “I don’t believe he’s found a purpose for his used tissues. I believe the storing of them is simply a symptom of some other psychological urge.”

  “So he’s saving his snot because he’s crazy?”

  “No,” Henry said to Rae’s comment, and then, “No. You need to rinse that dish more,” to her dish-loading skills. “Don’t look at just the result of what he’s doing, a drawer full of used tissues. Look at the act itself.”

  “Blowing his nose?” Rae asked. “So he’s got a sinus condition.”

  “Think, Rae. What is he doing?”

  “He’s saving his snot.”

  “Right. He’s saving something. Now some people collect dolls or stamps or save every postcard they ever got, but haven’t you met a person who collected things that maybe were a little unusual?”

  “That one time I went to camp, I bunked with a girl who used to bite her fingernails off and save them inside an old Altoid container.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Mr. Lubovich, who lives around the corner, he saves his newspapers. He must have at least like a couple years’ worth inside his house. And he won’t recycle them.”

  “Let me show you something,” Henry said, as he strode over to the pantry and opened the door.

  “How many boxes of Froot Loops, Cocoa Puffs, and Cap’n Crunch are stored in here?”

  “Twenty, last time I counted,” said Rae.

  “You’re only supposed to consume these goods on weekends, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we can safely assume that you go through no more than one box a weekend, correct?”

  “I’m trying to cut back,” Rae replied.