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

  “Names,” Mrs. Chandler repeated.

  “I’d be happy to wash your windows…”

  Mrs. Chandler took out a pen and pad of paper from her writing desk and placed them on the dining room table.

  “Names,” she repeated more assertively. It occurred to me that if Mrs. Chandler had grown up in a different time she might have done quite well in law enforcement.

  “I’d be happy to walk your dog,” said Rae.

  “I don’t think so, dear.”

  “It would be no problem.”

  “Names,” Mrs. Chandler repeated yet again. But Rae wouldn’t crack.

  I, however, did. “I’ll give you the name,” I said. “I only have one of them, but I’m sure he’ll crack and give you the rest.”

  “No!” Rae shouted at me.

  “Quiet,” I snapped, and wrote down Jason Rivers’s address and telephone number. I had kept it handy, knowing that Mrs. Chandler would want not only the mastermind but also the pawns in this particular crime.

  We departed with the understanding that Mrs. Chandler had time to consider reparative measures and she would get back to us.

  Rae was brutally silent during the brief car ride home. Her hostility could not be subdued, so I ignored her and let her seethe. We returned to the Spellman house, where Henry and my brother appeared to be having a heart-to-heart. I tried to eavesdrop, hoping to learn something about appropriate sympathetic behavior, but David heard my footsteps outside the living room door and silenced the conversation.

  On the car ride back to Stone’s house, I grilled Henry for further information about my brother and advice on how I should deal with my own conflicting interests.

  “Just be a human being,” Henry said, after he began tiring of my questions.

  “Can you elaborate on that?”

  I was arraigned Monday morning at the San Francisco county criminal court building. My preliminary hearing was scheduled for the following week. Morty and I took the rest of the morning to discuss my defense.

  THE “LAW OFFICES” OF MORT SCHILLING

  Monday, April 24

  1335 hrs

  “Which brings us to today,” Morty said.

  Over our usual deli fare, Morty reminded me what was at stake.

  “Your job, your reputation.”

  “Women are missing because of this man.”

  “You have no evidence.”

  “I have a little bit of evidence.”

  Morty spooned ice cubes out of his water and dropped them in his coffee.

  “You got lucky until now, Izz. The first three arrests went away. But now, it could go to trial. If they offer a plea, you’ll take it.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Listen to me carefully, Izz. You’ll take the deal or you’ll find a new attorney.”

  THE PHILOSOPHER’S CLUB

  Sunday, April 30

  1730 hrs

  Almost a week had passed since my parents returned from their disappearance. Under normal circumstances, Mom would have phoned me within hours of her return to give me the inside scoop, but I suspect she was giving me the silent treatment because of Arrest #4. Just as I was about to break down and call her myself, my cell phone rang. It was Milo.

  “Your sister’s off the wagon again,” he said, and quickly hung up the phone.

  It had been three months since Rae’s previous slip. Usually her bar etiquette is somber and introspective. This time, there was an undercurrent of anger. I entered my bar as Rae swigged another shot of ginger ale and slammed the cup on the counter.

  “I’ll have another,” she said, trying to conjure the toughness of a dive-bar regular.

  “What’s the magic word?” Milo replied, refusing to play along.

  Rae rolled her eyes and said, “Pleeeease.”

  Milo poured another shot of ginger ale and made eye contact with me as I moseyed on up to the bar.

  “Well, if it ain’t the long-lost Olympian,” Milo commented sarcastically.

  “Are you never going to let that one die out?” I snapped.

  I sat down on the barstool next to Rae and scanned the emptier-than-usual room.

  Rae took a tiny sip of her whiskey-colored beverage and said point-blank, “I’m not going anywhere until I finish my drink.”

  The bar was empty, I needed a beer, and it looked like the newly rude Milo could use the business. I waited for his approval.

  “You get out of here as soon as another customer shows. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I replied.

  “What’ll you have?” Milo asked.

  “Guinness,” I replied, and then I decided not to test his patience. “Red Hook.”

  While Milo poured my beer I returned my attention to Rae. She was staring into her drink as if there might be something interesting at the bottom of the glass.

  “What’s a nice underage girl like you doing in a place like this?” I asked her.

  “Why do you do that?” Rae asked somberly.

  “Do what?”

  “Use cheap humor to deflect all real human interaction.”

  “What adult fed you that line?”

  “Forget it.”

  “I want a name. Now.”

  “It’s not all about you,” Rae said.

  Milo served me my beer and chimed in, “She’s right, you know.”

  “If I knew there was going to be this kind of abuse, I would have gotten drunk before I got here.”

  Dead silence.

  “What’s going on?” I asked my forlorn sibling and my rude bartender.

  “Nothing,” Rae said, still studying the depths of her alcohol-free beverage.

  Milo refreshed Rae’s drink and said, “Talk to her. You need to get it off your chest.” Then Milo turned to me and said, “Why don’t you try a more subtle approach.”

  “I demand you tell me your troubles,” I said to my sister.

  “You’re not as funny as you think you are,” Rae replied.

  “Now that’s the ginger ale talking.”

  More contemplative silence followed. I decided not to push her. “I’m here if you want to talk,” I said.

  “I’m not blind,” Rae replied.

  Ten minutes later Rae mumbled under her breath. “He’s a rat.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “He’s a rat.”

  “Who?”

  “Jason Rivers.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “Ex-boyfriend.”

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  “He let me take the fall on the Chandler job. He told his mom it was all my idea—”

  “It was all your idea.”

  “Actually, it was your idea.”

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

  “Whatever,” Rae responded. “My point is he let me take the fall. He refused to share any of the blame. Sure, I drafted the plans, but he was my wingman. We were in it together and then he starts talking like a fish.”

  “Your metaphors need to make a doctor’s appointment.”

  “He ratted me out to his mom. I could understand maybe if we were in a prison camp and he was being tortured, but his mom…I need another drink.”

  Rae downed another ginger ale like a shot of whiskey. The quick slug down and the grimace that followed were pure Old West. I began to wonder what kind of late-night television she was consuming.

  I threw a couple bills on the bar. “Thanks, Milo,” I said. Milo nodded a somber and silent good-bye.

  “Let’s go,” I said to my sister. “I think I know something that will make you feel better.”

  An hour later I watched as my sister unloaded six dozen eggs on Jason’s newly purchased used four-door Datsun. Rae topped off our car casserole with half a bag of Cheetos, which she said was her “calling card.” On the car ride home, I briefly regretted my lapse into my juvenile response system. But then I turned to Rae and
the expression on her face was one of complete peace.

  “You feel better?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, smiling and staring off into the distance.

  I pulled the car in front of 1799 Clay Street.

  “So did Mom and Dad enjoy their disappearance?”

  Rae turned to me with a satisfied smile. “They said it was the best one they ever had. They’re going on another getaway over summer for at least a week.”

  “Well played,” I responded.

  “Do you want to come in and say hello?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll see them tomorrow in court.”

  “Later, Isabel,” Rae said as she got out of the car. “Oh, and you might want to go back to the Philosopher’s Club and check on Milo.”

  “What do you mean ‘check on’ him?” I asked.

  “He’s depressed.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m assuming he’s depressed.”

  “Why are you assuming he’s depressed?”

  “Because he lost his house.”

  “How did he lose it?”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Isabel. He knows exactly where it is. He just no longer owns it.”

  “I get the reference. How did he lose his house, figuratively speaking?”

  “He couldn’t pay the mortgage, I guess.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because business is bad.”

  “How do you know his business is bad?” I asked.

  “Well, for one thing,” Rae said, “look around. And another thing, I asked him how his business was and he told me it was lousy.”

  “How do you know he lost his house?”

  “Because he’s been sleeping on a cot in his office.”

  “I go there way more than you do. How did you notice this and I didn’t?”

  “I’m observant,” Rae said.

  “So am I,” I snapped.

  “You don’t always see the big picture,” Rae replied. “At least that’s what Henry says.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I entered the Philosopher’s Club, stormed straight through the almost-empty bar, and went right into Milo’s office in the back. The surprise was that there was no surprise. Rae was dead-on. Clothes were strewn about the office. His record collection and turntable were stuffed in the corner. Luggage lined the walls, along with cardboard boxes stacked in a lopsided pyramid. Milo chased after me, trying to prevent my discovery of his not-so-secret secret.

  “Can’t you read?” Milo said, pointing at the DO NOT ENTER sign on his door.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I said, finding myself feeling more hurt than I first imagined.

  “You never asked,” he replied.

  I drank at the bar for the rest of the night, partly to give Milo some business, but mostly to dull my nerves about my impending day in court. My preliminary hearing was scheduled for 9 A.M. After three beers, I suggested to Milo that he and I find a place together. He stared at me for a full three seconds and said, “You’re taking a cab home.” I drank another beer and asked him if he would visit me in jail, if it came to that. Then he called Henry without my knowledge. Apparently Henry had given him his card. Another beer later, Henry came to pick me up.

  “Don’t you have court tomorrow?” Henry asked, even though he knew the answer.

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s why I’m drinking.”

  “You don’t want to be hungover when you talk to the judge, Isabel.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Let’s go. I’m tired.”

  On the car ride back to Henry’s house I began thinking about all the life lessons, educational hours, and etiquette tutorials that Henry had bestowed upon my sister, and it occurred to me that there was a clear purpose to all of it.

  “I just figured it out,” I said.

  “The meaning of life?” Henry replied.

  “No,” I said, slurring my words a bit. “What you’re teaching Rae.”

  “I’m imparting some very basic life lessons.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “What is it, then?” Henry said, as if he were simply humoring me.

  “You’re teaching her how to not be like me.”

  Dead silence. I gathered Henry never looked at it like that. But he had to reconsider.

  “Do you want her to be like you?”

  “No,” I replied. “But I’d rather it weren’t such an obvious negative.”

  MY DAY IN COURT

  Monday, May 1

  0845 hrs

  Morty and I met in the foyer of the Bryant Street criminal court building. My ancient attorney reminded me that he would be doing all the talking. I reminded Morty to wear his hearing aid. Morty then gave my outfit—a tweed skirt and blazer with a white shirt buttoned almost to the top (a relic from days impersonating a schoolteacher1)—a nod of approval.

  “Why can’t you dress like that all the time? You look like such a lady.”

  “Are you implying that I look like a man the rest of the time?”

  “Maybe you should save all your smart talk for prison life.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “You’re right. It isn’t.”

  My mother and father showed up a few minutes later. Their presence there was purely for show. We thought my ex-cop dad and law-abiding/surprisingly attractive mother might unduly influence the judge in my favor.

  “I heard you had a nice disappearance,” I said, hoping that small-talk would take their minds off the fact that I was facing criminal charges.

  “We’ll tell you all about it later,” Mom said dismissively. She then adjusted my collar and said, “This is the kind of day a mother dreams of, watching her daughter face charges of violating a temporary restraining order. We’re just so proud,” Mom said, gushing sarcastically.

  “You should consider a career in comedy,” I replied.

  “Just keep your mouth shut in there,” Dad said, not finding any humor in the situation.

  Fortune was smiling on me that day—at least that’s what my father said. Morty knew the prosecuting attorney. In fact, Morty gave the prosecuting attorney his first job thirty years ago.

  Morty, my own personal shark in a twenty-year-old suit, conferred with opposing counsel and laid out the evidence that we were planning on showing in court. Morty presented an affidavit from my brother explaining the B&E arrest, another affidavit, under oath, from my father explaining that the call to 911 regarding my “borrowing” of the car was a misguided attempt to teach me simple etiquette. Dad then further justified my erratic behavior with the explanation that I was only thirty years old, but I had been working for the family business over half my life. I was bred to be suspicious, he explained; it was not my fault. Morty, without my consultation, suggested I needed clinical help, not probation or jail time.

  My lawyer returned to the corner where my parents and I were waiting and explained the plea: court-ordered counseling for three months. If I didn’t violate the restraining order again, the conviction would be expunged from my record. If I came in contact with Subject or failed to meet my counseling obligations, two months in prison.

  “You mean I need to see a shrink?” I asked.

  “She’ll take the deal,” my dad said.

  “Wait a second,” I interrupted, wanting to fully comprehend what I was getting myself into.

  “Twelve sessions,” Morty said.

  “She’ll take the deal,” my mom said.

  “Isn’t it my decision?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Morty replied, “but you’re taking the deal.”

  My lawyer patted me on the cheek and crept back to the opposing counsel to finalize the offer.

  The most unfortunate part of the morning was that I barely noticed my narrow escape from doing real time. All I could think about was Subject and where his dot was at that very moment.

  MY LAST LINE OF DEFENSE

>   Friday, May 5

  As if reading my thoughts, my parents suggested I take a break from all fieldwork. They assigned any job that could be accomplished from my laptop computer inside Henry Stone’s apartment. They further gave me the assignment of finding myself a new apartment, citing the fact that my welcome had long since been overstayed.

  Before I fully committed to an all-out apartment hunt, I had one more trick up my sleeve to facilitate Bernie’s removal. I printed out a flier for a party and then made five hundred copies at Kinko’s. I picked up Rae after school and paid her thirty bucks to help me staple the fliers around the San Francisco State, UC Berkeley, and University of San Francisco campuses. We also left stacks of the fliers in an assortment of Mission district cafes.

  Friday evening I dropped by Bernie’s place to witness the outcome of my handiwork. Bernie, drinking a beer and holding court with at least forty twenty-somethings, waved at me cheerily when I entered the party zone.

  “What’s going on, Bernie?” I asked, although the edge in my voice was hard to conceal.

  “Some crazy kid made up fliers for his party, but he got the address wrong.”

  Then Bernie guided me over to the refrigerator. “Would you look at all this beer?” he said. “I’m in heaven.”

  It was then I realized that my fatal flaw was putting the BYOB1 acronym on the flier. That night I accepted defeat. Bernie’s place was mine no more. The next day, I trolled the streets of San Francisco, meeting with landlords and scoping out FOR RENT signs.

  MY CLOSET

  Other than Bernie Peterson’s place and a brief stint in a dorm before I failed out of college, I had always lived in the attic apartment of my parents’ home. What became unmistakably clear was that, because of my limited earning potential,1 I would soon be required to move into a closet. The closet I found was in a five-story walk-up on Larkin Street in the Tenderloin. Three hundred and fifty square feet with a shag rug once a shade of cream, I presume, but now an uneven gray from years of foot traffic and cigarette dust.

  I bought a bed and a secondhand dresser and desk (which would double as a kitchen table). My mother invited herself over to help me “unpack” and “decorate.” She took one look at the place and said, “I hope you’ve had all your vaccinations.”

  My mother’s version of decorating involved scrubbing the apartment from top to bottom. Sometime between the delousing (her word) of the shower and decontamination of the refrigerator, my mother got off her hands and knees and helped me reposition the bed, to find a setup that would allow the front door to open completely.