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

  On Thursday evening, after a three-hour search of David’s home, just when I was about to call it a night, Ernie phoned to inform me that his wife had made plans the following day with Sharon. He said the woman’s name as if she were an imaginary friend. We would soon find out. I agreed to be in front of his residence the following morning at 10:30 A.M.2

  I’ve said this before: Surveillance is boring. Don’t let the movies fool you. Watching an ordinary person live his or her life in real time is usually uneventful. They don’t do things all that differently from you or me.

  Linda Black exited her home at 11:10 A.M. and got into her vehicle—a ten-year-old Honda Civic. Linda was indeed a redhead, although patches of color had begun to fade near her brow. She wore her hair long and wavy, clipping it in back with a single barrette. She was approximately five foot six and slim but not skinny. An even pattern of freckles ran across her entire face. From a distance she appeared to be in her midthirties. Upon closer viewing, her real age (forty-five) was more evident. She had not shied away from the sun; through my binoculars I could see deep wrinkles framing her eyes. You could count the creases in her forehead. Still, the end result was attractive. She seemed comfortable in her skin.

  Linda drove from her home in San Bruno (south of the city) to downtown San Francisco. She parked her car in the Macy’s parking lot and took the elevator to the top floor. She had an hour-and-a-half lunch with the woman Ernie described as Sharon Bancroft (who appeared to be a cinematic stereotype of a congressman’s wife).

  I estimated Sharon’s age to be within a few years of Linda’s, but she’d aged less willingly. She was pale, with the skin tone and facial expressions of a porcelain doll. I concluded that Botox was her drug of choice, maybe along with diet pills, judging by her emaciated frame and the way she picked at her salad at lunch.

  Even if I weren’t investigating the women, I might have noticed that they were mismatched. I saw no evidence of opposites attracting. The women seemed uncomfortable with each other, their conversation strained.

  After lunch, the women shopped. More accurately, Sharon displayed items for Linda, and Linda shook her head. Eventually Sharon wore down Linda’s protests and bought her a scarf. The women exited Macy’s and separated in the parking lot. Once Sharon was out of sight, Linda reentered the department store and returned the scarf for a store credit. Upon later examination of a similar scarf in the store, I learned that it cost close to five hundred dollars.

  Something was amiss between the two women, but I couldn’t say at the time whether it warranted an investigation. I was curious about their relationship, but it was hard to say what an investigation could uncover. There’s only so much you can learn about someone through surveillance.

  To save Ernie some money, I opted against an official report and simply called him to relay the facts of the day.

  “So she was doing what she said she would be doing?” Ernie asked, sounding disappointed—not with his wife, but with himself.

  “So it appears,” I replied. “But I’d like to at least continue the investigation one more day, just to be sure. Call me the next time she plans another outing with Sharon.”

  “Okay,” Ernie said.

  “One more thing, Ernie. Why would Sharon buy your wife a five-hundred-dollar scarf? Is her birthday coming up?”

  “Her birthday isn’t for a while. May eighteenth. A five-hundred-dollar scarf?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “That seemed a bit odd.”

  “Rich people,” Ernie said as if that explained everything.

  “Right,” I replied. “I’ll talk to you later, Ernie.”

  That night I worked a shift at the Philosopher’s Club. My dad walked in early on, ordered a drink, and instead of griping about my current state of apathy, started griping about his back. There was something showy about his delivery that put me on guard.

  “Maybe you should go to a doctor or a chiropractor or something,” I said, trying to be helpful.

  “No, it’s not that bad.”

  “Okay. So get some rest.”

  “I just need a little something to ease the pain. You know what I mean?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Dad. But I don’t have a prescription drug connection anymore, if you’re looking to score some Vicodin.”

  “First of all, Isabel, Mom has a huge stash of emergency pain medication from all the dental work she had last year.3 What I’m getting at is that it would be nice to use David’s hot tub. Hand over the key and I’ll leave it under the frog4 when I leave. You won’t even know I was there.”

  “Don’t you have an extra key to David’s place?”

  “No. He never gave us one. I think he didn’t want you and Rae to have easy access to his house.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want you and Mom to have easy access.”

  Dad ignored my theory. “Hand it over,” he said.

  I pulled the key out of my pocket and was about to relinquish it without securing anything in return, but I caught myself just in time.

  “I’ll give you the key if you lay off the lectures for a month.”

  “Fine. But I’m making a copy of the key so I can use the hot tub until David gets back.”

  “One more thing,” I said, still clinging to my leverage. “You make yourself scarce when I’m around.”

  “Deal.”

  JUDAS

  I returned to David’s home at three A.M., after my shift. I kicked the frog, found the key, and went straight to bed. In the morning I discovered that my father had left several damp towels on the floor in the bathroom and a sinkful of unwashed dishes. Too many dishes for an afternoon snack. I called him at ten A.M., after I got my first sip of coffee.

  “What the hell did you do here, Dad? Have a hot tub party?”

  “It wouldn’t kill you to clean up after us for once in your life,” Dad replied.

  “Who’s us?”

  “Your mother and me. We decided to spend the evening at David’s place.”

  “Why? You have your own house.”

  “David’s is nicer and Mom likes cooking in his kitchen. Besides, she wanted to use the hot tub, too.”

  My call-waiting beeped, and frankly, this conversation was over.

  “Next time, clean up after yourselves. I’ve got to go.”

  Morty was on the other line. “Hello,” I said.

  “You rat!” Morty shouted.

  “Hi, Morty.”

  “You tattletale. You snitch. You Judas.”

  “No need to waste the entire thesaurus.”

  “How could you tell my grandson to steal my car?”

  “He took your whole car? I just told him to take your keys.”

  “But why?”

  “You’re a menace to society, Morty. You could kill yourself or someone else.”

  “Izzele, I’ve been driving for eighty-four years.”

  “Check your math,” I replied, since Morty is exactly eighty-four years old.

  “I’ve been driving seventy-two years, and other than a fender bender or two, and that one time I totaled the car on a light post during a windstorm in the late eighties, I haven’t been in an accident.”

  “Then what’s with all the new scrapes and dents on your Caddy?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business for once? This conversation is over.”

  Morty hung up before I could get in another word. Five minutes later he called back.

  “Where are we having lunch today?” he asked.

  “You still want to have lunch with me?”

  “I have to eat, don’t I?”

  Morty had arranged for his own transportation to Moishe’s Pippic.1 He figured my recent betrayal of trust earned him the restaurant pick for that week. When I arrived, he and his grandson, Gabe, were already seated at a back table.

  “You’re late,” he said to me, not removing his eyes from the menu. A menu he has memorized, I might add.r />
  I checked my watch. “Only five minutes.”

  “Being on time is a courtesy. It shows respect.”

  I sat down opposite the two men and waited for Morty to simmer down. He didn’t.

  “I’m not sure if formal introductions are in order since you’ve already met, but I’ll keep my manners. Isabel the Snitch, meet my grandson, Gabe the Car Thief.” Morty then turned to Gabe and in the friendliest tone suggested, “The pastrami here is out of this world.”

  “Why are you being nice to him?” I asked. “He’s the one who stole your car.”

  “Because he’s family. You expect family to disappoint you.”

  While Gabe delivered our orders at the counter, Morty stared at his menu, pretending to ignore me.

  “Stop looking at the menu. You already ordered.”

  Morty slapped the menu onto the table. “How am I supposed to get around now?”

  “San Francisco has a fine public transportation system.”

  “You want me to take the bus?!” Morty shouted. “I’m extremely old; by the time I get to the bus stop, I might be dead.”

  “Well, if you keep driving…” I stopped myself short. “Look, Morty, if you need a ride someplace, call me. I’ll help out when I can. I’m sure Gabe will help you out. You can always call a cab, too.”

  Morty’s fast boil was slowing to a simmer. It was time to learn whether any progress had been made on his wife’s return from Florida.

  “When’s Ruthy coming home?” I asked.

  “Only god and Ruthy have that answer. And neither is talking to me.”

  “Have you called her?”

  “Of course I’ve called her. What do you take me for? She won’t speak to me. She says if I want to talk I can get on a plane and talk to her in Miami.”

  “Then maybe you need to go.”

  Out of the corner of his Coke-bottle glasses, Morty caught Gabe returning to the table with our drinks. My old friend shot me a threatening glance and changed the subject.

  “Are you crazy, Izzele? I’m not taking up bingo. I’ve better things to do with my time,” Morty said, louder than necessary.

  Over lunch I learned that Gabe was none the wiser about his grandmother’s extended vacation. Morty lightened up on the verbal attacks. By the end of his pastrami sandwich he was in relatively decent spirits. We parted on almost-friendly terms and I reminded Morty that he should call me should he need my services as a chauffeur.

  RAE’S WAR

  Late afternoon on Thursday, a storm rolled in. Rain blanketed the city and violent winds snapped tree branches and knocked down power lines. The conditions were ideal for a quiet night in my brother’s luxurious home, hunting for more murder weapons or evidence of his current whereabouts. That was my plan, at least, until my sister showed up. Rae had apparently walked the full mile and a half from 1799 Clay Street to my brother’s house. Her hair was soaking wet, her yellow raincoat was beaded with water, and her sneakers made a sloshing sound as if she’d been wading in a swimming pool.

  “It’s brutal out there,” Rae said, pushing past me.

  Since my sister has a driver’s license and qualified car privileges, I asked the obvious question: “Why didn’t you drive here? It would make it so much easier to ask you to leave.”

  Rae ignored the question and comment and removed all of her wet clothing, including her socks but minus her jeans, which were soaked at the bottom. She looked over at David’s fireplace and said, “We need flames.” She then began loading kindling into the fireplace. She balled up some newspaper, lit a match, and tossed it on the heap. Then, without checking to see whether any of her flames stuck, she got to her feet, appearing as if she had just discovered the meaning of life.

  “Oh my god, we can make real s’mores,” Rae said, and ran into the kitchen. “If he doesn’t have marshmallows, I’m going to kill myself,” she added.

  I studied Rae’s fire-making project, shouted toward the kitchen, “You have to open the flue, you moron,” and relit the kindling.

  I entered the kitchen to find Rae searching David’s pantry with crime-scene meticulousness. No shelf, no corner, no crevice, no unlabeled jar went unchecked. A solo package of graham crackers was stashed behind a can of emergency coffee.1 From David’s freezer she retrieved a half-eaten tube of dark chocolate pastilles. Rae hopped down from the stepladder she was using and said, “I know he’s got marshmallows around here somewhere.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because he’s got graham crackers and chocolate.”

  “You had to search long and hard for those items.”

  “That’s only because he hides the stuff.”

  “From you?” I asked, amused that David was Rae-proofing his house.

  “No,” Rae replied, rolling her eyes. “From himself.”

  “Explanation required.”

  “He buys candy or other junk food and then he comes home and puts it in some random place—sometimes not even the kitchen. Something that’s well sealed he might put in the hall closet or behind the dishes, or—I don’t know. I haven’t found all of his hiding places. Then he tries to forget where he put it.”

  “But why?”

  “So he won’t eat it,” Rae said, as if it was the most obvious of answers.

  “Then why does he buy it in the first place?”

  “He likes candy. If he really needs a fix, he wants it around. But he doesn’t want it out in the open where he’ll eat it all the time.”

  “That is so weird,” I said.

  “He’s weirder than you think,” Rae replied, and then shouted into the air. “I know where the marshmallows are! Open the garage door.”

  I pressed the button in the foyer and Rae quickly threw on her raincoat and stepped halfway into her sneakers. She ran into the garage and came back a few minutes later holding a bag of marshmallows sealed inside another airtight bag.

  “Near his camping supplies. I knew it,” Rae said.

  Since Rae had already catalogued the hiding places in my brother’s home, I decided to consult her on the sly.

  “During your s’mores hunt, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Can you be more specific?” Rae asked.

  “Anything out of place?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “I’ll put that fire out right now.”

  Sometimes a threat is the only thing that gets my sister talking.

  “He’s missing some camping supplies. That’s all I noticed,” Rae said.

  While I contemplated David’s missing camping equipment, Rae began toasting her marshmallows in the fire. The phone interrupted our respective activities.

  “I’m not here!” Rae said.

  “Where are you?” I replied as I headed for the phone.

  “Not here,” Rae replied with more conviction.

  “I’m not lying to Mom and Dad for you.”

  “Just let me have my s’more and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Hello,” I said, picking up the receiver.

  “Is Rae there?” Mom asked.

  “She just left.”

  “I know you’re lying. Listen to me carefully, Isabel. I don’t care how you do it, but don’t allow Rae to leave. She’s outdone herself this time,” Mom said without a hint of humor.

  “I think she went to a friend’s house,” I replied, quickly switching my allegiance. I wanted Rae to stick around so I could uncover her crime. “No, no. I don’t know which friend,” I said into the receiver.

  “We’ll be right there,” Mom said, and hung up the phone.

  “Sure, I’ll call you if I hear from her, but that seems unlikely. Okay, bye,” I said to the already dead line.

  “They bought it?” Rae asked, not quite believing my act.

  “I think so,” I replied, not wanting to oversell it. “What did you do this time, Rae?”

  Headlights flashed through the f
ront window and a car engine roared in the driveway.

  “Did Mom call from the cell or from the house?” Rae asked.

  I double-checked David’s caller ID. “From the house.”

  “They couldn’t have gotten here that fast,” she said, stuffing the s’more and a few extra graham crackers in her pocket. Rae crept toward the window and peered out beneath the blind. She promptly jumped to her feet and grabbed her sneakers and raincoat by the front door. “No matter what, Isabel, just stall him for ten minutes, okay?” Rae raced through the kitchen.

  “Stall who?”

  “Henry!” she shouted, and then I heard the back door open and slam shut.

  The doorbell rang. It was indeed Henry Stone.

  “Hey, Henry. Nice to see you,” I said pleasantly, hoping he was not as angry as he appeared.

  Henry pushed past me and said, “Where is she?”

  “She’s not here,” I replied, and then suddenly realized the better response would have been “Where’s who?”

  “I can smell the burnt marshmallows. Don’t lie to me.”

  “Okay. Sorry. She was here and then she left,” I said, and then deposited Rae’s leftover in the trash can. “You look like you could use a drink, Henry.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” he replied.

  I served Henry the good stuff without hesitation. Then I poured myself a shot from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s that had my name on it.2

  “Your sister is ruining my life,” Henry said as he sank into David’s couch.

  “Please continue,” I said, suddenly realizing I was borrowing a phrase from Dr. Ira.

  “You won’t believe what she did this time.”

  As it turns out, I did believe it. But you can decide for yourself. Here’s the story:

  After the lock-changing incident was followed up by Maggie helping herself to some of Rae’s candy stash and my sister swapping soy milk for Maggie’s regular milk, Maggie decided to handle the “Rae situation” on her own. Without discussing her plans with Henry, the assistant district attorney used her office’s resources to acquire my sister’s cell phone number. She left a brief message on Rae’s voice mail, having noted my sister’s habit of zoning out when speeches get too long. “Meet me at the Dessertery on Polk Street at four P.M. sharp. This is Maggie.”