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

  My parents had recently acquired two GPS tracking devices. You’re probably wondering why I hadn’t used these sooner. While it might be fun and all to know where Subject is going, what I really want is to know what he does when he gets there. GPS systems are great for tracking individuals, but not for monitoring their activities.

  THE PHILOSOPHER’S CLUB

  Later that night, after Henry and I got Rae home safely, I insisted we drop by the Philosopher’s Club. Henry and I sat down at the bar. Milo nodded pleasantly at Henry.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Club soda,” Henry replied.

  “Whiskey for me. Isn’t this great? I’ve always wanted a designated driver.”

  Milo poured the club soda and whiskey and served the drinks. Then he leaned over the bar in front of me and made bored but direct eye contact.

  “Izzy, tell me something,” Milo said. “What does the sign outside say?”

  “‘We reserve the right to refuse service—’”

  “The other sign.”

  “‘Use other door.’”

  “No, Izzy, the big fat neon sign out front.”

  I stared at Milo quizzically, unsure what sign he was referring to.

  “You mean the sign that says ‘The Philosopher’s Club’?”

  “That one,” Milo said, pointing at me like I was a contestant on a game show.

  “It actually says ‘he hilosop er’s Clu,’” I corrected, having many a time mentioned the fading neon to my friend.

  “But it does not say ‘The United States Postal Service,’ does it, Izz?”

  “Not since I last checked,” I replied, finally following Milo’s conversational thread.

  Milo collected a pile of mail from behind the bar and dropped the stack in front of me.

  “You had your mail forwarded here?” Milo asked, even though the answer was plain as day.

  “Thank you,” I said, looking through the collection. “Sorry, I forgot to mention it.”

  “What would possess you to have your mail forwarded to a bar?” Milo asked.

  “I didn’t want to go back to Bernie’s and wasn’t sure where I’d be staying. I usually drop by every few days. It was the logical choice.”

  I separated the junk mail while Milo approached Henry for a chat.

  “You seem like a nice guy,” Milo said. “This one’s trouble. You know that, right?”

  “I do,” Henry replied nonchalantly.

  “What is with you, Milo?” I asked, just as I spotted the unmistakable peach shade of a wedding invitation.

  “Nothing,” Milo replied. “Just making small talk. That’s what we bartenders do. Oh, and deliver mail.”

  Milo’s bad mood prompted an early departure. On the car ride “home” I played with the invitation, wondering how conveniently it could get “lost” in the mail.

  “Is your bartender always so hostile?” Henry asked.

  “No,” I replied distractedly. When I thought about it, Milo had not been himself for weeks. I made a mental note to myself to ask him about that one of these days.

  THE “LAW OFFICES” OF MORT SCHILLING

  Monday, April 24 1305 hrs

  “My blood sugar is getting low,” Morty said, scanning the garage for something to eat.

  Twenty minutes later, we were seated in a diner in the Sunset district. Morty wanted to skip the shop talk to aid his digestion, so his comments leaned in a more personal direction.

  “You know who is a mensch?” Morty asked.

  “You are,” I replied, thinking he was fishing.

  “No, that cop fellow, the one that let you stay with him. He’s a mensch.”

  “I suppose he is.”

  “You should give him your phone number.”

  “He has my phone number.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yes, but I’m pretending I don’t. Can we move on?”

  “You’re not so young anymore. And not all the fellas are comfortable with a woman with a record. Snatch that one up while you have the chance.”

  “Morty, change the subject.”

  Morty spooned ice cubes into his hot cocoa.

  “That’s enough,” I said, anticipating the upcoming act.

  Morty looked like he was churning around some idea in his head.

  “Why was your bartender angry at you?”

  “He’s not angry at me; he’s just been cranky lately.”

  “For how long?”

  “Like a month or two.”

  “Has he gone through a cranky phase before?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Then why would he go through one now?”

  “I don’t know. He’s getting older. He’s tired.”

  “You think we go along all happy and everything and then overnight we become rude because we’re old?” Morty asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t really think about it.”

  “Remember, Izz, the world keeps spinning even when you’re not around to witness it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  EIGHT BALL EASTER

  Henry’s and my Lost Weekend ended on Monday morning when he shaved off two days of stubble; washed, dried, and carefully replaced every dish in its correct cabinet; and left the house, well-coiffed and tucked in, reminding me not to get arrested that day.

  Another week passed in Henry’s house without event. In fact, we fell into a routine that served me quite well. Henry would leave in the morning, while I perused the newspaper, pretending to be looking for apartment rentals. I would kill the day with various leisure activities—a trip to the coffee shop, a stroll in Golden Gate park, a few hours on the computer investigating John Brown, and even finishing that book I had started a week or so earlier.1 In the evening, when Henry returned home, he would cook me dinner and then clean up after me. I performed some token dish-drying, but he didn’t like my method and firmly suggested I stop trying to help. At no point did Henry suggest that I was overstaying my welcome. So I stayed.

  Tuesday, April 11

  Based on anecdotal evidence, the Copycat Vandals would strike any time between the night that Mrs. Chandler installed her tableaux and the date of the holiday for which they were intended.

  Mrs. Chandler called me Tuesday afternoon to inform me that she had completed her latest installation, and that the surveillance should begin that evening.

  Rae arrived at Henry’s house later that afternoon.

  “Is he here?” Rae asked conspiratorially.

  “No,” I replied.

  “I haven’t had a chance to take care of that thing you wanted me to take care of.”

  “He’s not here, Rae. You can speak plainly.”

  “Mom and Dad are using both of the GPSs on jobs. One will be available tomorrow. So I’ll get the device on Subject’s car as soon as I can,” Rae said.

  “The sooner the better,” I replied.

  “I have to tell you something and it’s a secret.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’ve been checking his trash,” Rae said.

  “For how long?”

  “Since that first night we took his recycling. I’ve been grabbing it any chance I could get, thinking he might not always stay on top of it.”

  “Do Mom and Dad know?”

  “No; I sort through it, just to be sure, and then I put most of it out with our garbage the next day. He’s usually pretty careful, but last night I found this.”

  Rae removed a plastic bag from her backpack. Inside it was a woman’s blouse. Size medium. Blue with a ruffled collar. One of the buttons was missing.

  “This is unusual,” I said, although what I was thinking was that it was unusual that Subject was careful for months and then slipped up like this.

  My sister’s discovery was intriguing, indeed, but so was her timing. I had to consider that I was being played.

  “Y
ou found this last night in his regular trash?”

  “Yes. Last night,” Rae replied, studying her shoes. “I think you should probably resume your tail on him,” she continued.

  Catching my sister in a lie is satisfying, but this lie would lead me to other lies, and I had to tread carefully so as not to alert her.

  “I want you to keep an eye on Subject this evening. If he heads out, give me a call.”

  “Where will you be?” Rae asked.

  “Just a few blocks away at Mrs. Chandler’s, so I should be able to catch him if he moves.”

  My next question would solve one of the many mysteries that had plagued me in recent weeks.

  “Rae, does your boyfriend have a motorbike?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “So, he has one?”

  “Well, sort of. He has one, but someone’s always messing with it, so it never works.”

  I left Henry’s place after eleven P.M., drove to Mrs. Chandler’s and waited an hour and a half until Rae called as expected.

  “He’s on the move,” she said.

  “Which direction?”

  “He made a left on Polk Street.”

  “I’m leaving,” I replied, although I didn’t move an inch and I would have bet serious money on the fact that neither did Subject.

  Ten minutes later, several young males drove up in a late-eighties-model Oldsmobile. They scanned the area for signs of witnesses and then proceeded to swap out Mrs. Chandler’s basket of Easter eggs for eight-balls they had lugged in an old pillowcase.

  The eight-ball swap was the simplest and least time-consuming of all the pranks on my résumé. The boys were done in five minutes, and I followed their vehicle as two members of the three-person gang were dropped at their respective residences. The final member, Jason Rivers (Rae’s mystery boyfriend), drove to his home in Noe Valley. Rivers stared longingly at the motorbike that would never work and entered his home.

  MYSTERY!

  Wednesday, April 12

  1830 hrs

  I chose to reveal my conclusions as they are unveiled in traditional drawing-room mysteries. I gathered the key players at Henry Stone’s house the following evening, sat them all down on the couch, and allowed a pregnant pause to fill the room as I paced back and forth.

  “Isabel, what’s going on?” my father asked impatiently.

  “I’ve solved the copycat vandalism case,” I said.

  “Who did it?” Mom asked in anticipation.

  “That’s not how it’s done,” I replied. “Let me begin with the evidence. On Groundhog Day of this year, a series of adjustments to Mrs. Chandler’s holiday tableaux began. The adjustments followed the same MO as a series of vandalisms that occurred during the nineteen-ninety-two-through-ninety-three season.

  “While many individuals were aware of these capers, only members of this family and possibly Henry were privy to the details, which means there are only seven true suspects. Since I know I didn’t do it, and let’s face it, we know Henry didn’t do it, that leaves only five suspects. Petra has been out of town for weeks now, which can be verified, so I know she didn’t do it. That leaves me with four suspects: Mom, Dad, David, and Rae. Let’s start with Dad…”

  “Isabel, this is ridiculous. I was out of town over St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “That is precisely the point I was going to make, although I was going to take my time doing it.”

  “Can we move on?” my mother asked.

  “No,” I said sternly. “We’re going to do this my way.” I continued.

  “Since Dad was out of town on St. Patrick’s Day and Mom was out of town as well, I had to rule both of them out. Of course, David knew about the original vandalisms as well as anyone. But David was too depressed to have the follow-through required to commit these crimes. It’s true he had no alibi, but I had to consider him innocent. The only suspect left was Rae.”

  “I have an alibi,” Rae said.

  “It’s true,” I replied. “I am your alibi. You were in the Spellman home the night of the leprechaun attack. But you’re more clever than that, aren’t you, Rae?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rae casually replied.

  I stared at my mother pointedly. “Everyone in this room has something to hide,” I said shrewdly. “I think it’s time we reveal some of these secrets and then maybe we can all get on with our lives.”

  “What are you talking about, Isabel?” Dad asked nervously.

  “In good time,” I said, savoring the moment. “You see, I had to solve another mystery to solve the case of the Copycat Vandals.”

  “This is stupid,” Rae said. “Can I watch TV?”

  “No,” I said. “Let’s see, where should I begin? I guess I’ll start with the evidence…

  “Some time ago, I noticed that Mom was keeping unusual hours. One night I decided to follow her, and when I did I found Mom doing the oddest thing. She was driving to Noe Valley and vandalizing a motorbike.”

  Rae gawked in sudden comprehension. “Oh my god!” she shouted.

  My father turned to my mother in confusion, and Henry Stone put his head in his hands and sighed.

  “Dad, since you’re the only person in the room who doesn’t understand what’s going on, let me clue you in. Rae has a boyfriend—”

  “What?” my father said in disbelief.

  “Let me finish. Rae has a boyfriend named Jason Rivers. She told Henry about this boyfriend four months ago when they started hanging out. As you know, she tells Henry everything. Henry didn’t like having key information like this all to himself, so Henry told Mom, because he felt it was the kind of information a mother should have. But he also emphasized to Mom that he didn’t want his broken confidence revealed.

  “Mom, equipped with the boyfriend’s name, got an address from the school directory and began an informal tail on the young man. Discovering that this young male had a motorbike, and not being able to discuss young male with daughter and tell daughter in no uncertain terms that she was not to ride on said motorbike, Mother let air out of the tires, siphoned gas, put gum in the ignition, and did anything she could think of so that motorbike would not work.

  “I solved the Copycat Vandal mystery perhaps a week or two ago. But then yesterday, it was confirmed. The person responsible for the copycat vandalism is Rae Spellman.”

  I paused for dramatic effect and then pointed at my sister.

  “But you’re my alibi,” Rae said in desperation.

  “I’m not saying you committed the act, but you were the mastermind behind it.”

  I turned to my mother and father and laid out all the facts that made my conclusion obvious.

  “I caught three boys in the act last night, one of whom was Rae’s boyfriend. Rae had heard about these pranks for years. It’s safe to say she had the details memorized. The only problem was, when I got the job, Rae had to find a window of time when I wasn’t on the case for her pawns to strike.

  “On St. Patrick’s Day, she waited until I was laid up in bed with a rib fracture. Then there was last night. I won’t go into the details, but Rae tried to distract me with another job. I didn’t bite. I stayed on the Chandler residence and that’s when I found the boys in the act.

  “Case closed,” I said, as my family and Henry stared at me in disbelief.

  Rae stood up and held out her hand. “Well done,” she conceded.

  My mother turned to my sister and asked the obvious question: “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Jason was talking about toilet-papering her yard after he saw her Christmas decorations and I thought that was so lame and boring. And then I told him about Isabel’s pranks—”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Would you stop that?” my dad snapped.

  “The more I told them, the cooler the idea seemed,” Rae continued. “It was kind of like an homage.”

  “Good wor
d,” Henry said, “although I do not approve.”

  Dad turned to Rae. “Pumpkin, this crime will not go unpunished.”

  “I wouldn’t expect otherwise,” Rae stoically replied.

  “Are we done here?” my mother asked.

  “No,” I answered flatly. “There is one more thing I need to get off my chest.

  “Mom and Dad. You both hate the vacations. If you’re doing them for each other, stop. I have the e-mails to prove that neither of you had a good time on either of those trips.”

  Rae groaned like she was the victim of a stabbing, knowing that her parent-free weekends might never come again.

  My stunned family filed out of Henry’s apartment in almost silence.

  As Rae brushed past me, I whispered, “Did you really find that shirt in Subject’s trash?”

  Rae shook her head in the negative and stared at her feet. “Sorry,” she said. “You gave me no choice.”

  Dad was the last to leave, so I pulled him aside.

  “You have twenty-four hours to tell Mom what I found in the glove compartment of your car. After that, I tell her.”

  I presented the above episode of Mystery! in Technicolor because it was a case or a series of cases that I actually solved. I use the above episode to illustrate that I do have some skills of deduction that are perhaps better than average. Sometimes the evidence comes too quickly or one believes they’ve solved the mystery before all of the evidence is in. In those cases one might—meaning I might—take those new pieces of information and fit them into a theory that I’ve already imagined in my mind. This doesn’t mean I’m lousy at my job, it simply means that even when I gather all the relevant facts, I might force them into a puzzle that looks right on the surface, but has a few pieces left in the box.

  THE DAY AFTER

  Thursday, April 13

  1610 hrs

  Rae knocked on the door to Henry Stone’s apartment. When I unlocked the deadbolt, Rae pushed past me, grabbed the second-season DVD from beneath Stone’s television console, and popped it into the player. Before she pressed the Play button on the remote, she said, “I took care of that thing you wanted me to take care of.”