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

  “There’s got to be an angle.”

  “Forget it. Have a nice evening, Izzy.”

  Dad left. An hour later Rae arrived. I served her a ginger ale and tried to get to the bottom of the situation.

  “Did you cheat on the SATs?”

  “The PSATs,”1 she corrected me.

  “Answer the question.”

  “Where are you getting your information?”

  “Dad.”

  “Interesting,” Rae replied.

  “So?” I asked, leading once again back to the original question.

  “I’m sorry. Where were we?”

  “Why have you been accused of cheating?”

  “Why is anyone ever accused of anything?”

  “Why are you talking like this?”

  “Like what?” she replied.

  Out of frustration, I resorted to an ultimatum. “If you don’t answer my question, I’m going to ask you to leave.”

  Rae finished her drink in a single gulp and left a dollar on the bar.

  “Don’t expect a tip,” she said as she made her exit.

  An hour later my mother called on her cell phone. In the most venomous tone, she said, “The next time your father asks you to lunch, you say yes.” Then she hung up on me.

  The rest of the day I had only one thought in my mind: Is this really my life?

  CASE #001

  CHAPTER 4

  To the naked eye, Linda Black wasn’t doing anything wrong. But she must have been doing something to have two private investigators following her. I decided against telling Ernie about my latest information. I kept an eye on the blue Nissan’s whereabouts over the next few days. If Bob’s car was idling outside of Ernie’s muffler shop or home, I wouldn’t bother leaving the house, but on the rare occasion Linda (followed by Bob) ventured somewhere else, I’d pick up the tail. Other than the bank, lunch with a local female friend (not Sharon), and a trip to the library (where Linda used the computer but did not check out any books), the only location Mrs. Black visited was a mailbox center to check her mail.

  I called Ernie that evening to ask about the rented mailbox.

  “What rented mailbox?”

  So Ernie didn’t know about the mailbox. Ernie also couldn’t come up with a plausible explanation for why his wife might require the mailbox. It occurred to me that his wife might have some financial issues that she was hiding from him. I asked Ernie who handled their finances. Linda, of course. He didn’t know how his business would have survived without her. Ernie was floored by the mailbox discovery. But his mind was still on Linda having an affair, so he molded this new information to fit his fears.

  “Maybe she’s using the PO box to communicate with her lover,” Ernie said.

  “Probably not.”

  I tried to get Ernie interested in the money situation, but he wasn’t. Since I wasn’t ready to inform Ernie about the second investigation on his wife, I asked for Linda’s Social Security number and date of birth and offered to do a quick check on her finances. He didn’t see what that had to do with anything, but I pushed and he agreed.

  And that’s how I learned that Ernie and Linda were not legally married. This took a few days to confirm. Linda Black’s credit reports bore the name Linda Truesdale—according to Ernie, his wife’s maiden name. Also according to Ernie, this was Linda’s first marriage. But since Ernie wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, or at least not the most suspicious, I decided to check their marriage license, which should contain each party’s birth name, location of birth, and previous marital history.

  I phoned Ernie to verify the location of his wedding. They traveled a short distance up the coast, stayed at a beach hotel in Marin County, and were married by one of Linda’s friends, who just happened to be a minister of the Universal Life Church.1 The wedding took place in Marin County, but there was no record in Marin. The couple lived in San Mateo County. There was no record in San Mateo County. In between San Mateo and Marin you will find San Francisco County. No record there.

  I phoned Ernie again to see if maybe I had misunderstood him.

  “Ernie, when you say that you’re married, do you mean you’re married in the legal sense, or that in your heart you’re married, or that you’re married in the common law sense of the word?”

  “I mean I’m legally married with a marriage license and all that stuff.”

  “Could you get me a copy of your marriage license, Ernie?”

  “I’m sure it’s around somewhere.”

  “How about your tax returns?”

  “Linda handles all that.”

  “But you should still have access to them, right?”

  “I’m sure I could get that stuff for you, but why?”

  “It’s important, Ernie. I’ll explain later. Just bring whatever you can by the bar sometime this week, okay?”

  Two days later, Ernie dropped by in the afternoon. I served him club soda with a splash of whiskey. He’s not an afternoon drinker, he informed me, as if I would consider that a credit to his character.

  Ernie had never been a fan of paperwork, filing, government documents, or proofs of existence. Ernie liked working on cars, buying suits, and taking short vacations in which relaxation—not education or experience—was the key ingredient. Ernie was a simple, likable man. He was probably even a very good husband, or at least was trying to be, based on the ridiculous literature he carried with him. (The latest tome under his arm was How to Make Women Happy Even If It Makes You Miserable: A Guide for Men.) He was also the kind of husband one could easily dupe if one were in the business of duping husbands.

  My client had only an hour to visit with me while Linda was running the shop. Ernie ran home and pulled every file from their file cabinet and brought it to the bar. I told him to chat with Milo while I perused the box. The most significant piece of paper that he pulled for me was a marriage license. It looked legitimate enough on the surface; in fact, it was—or had been once. It would be difficult to prove, but what I was holding in my hands was a doctored copy of a marriage license, with the names and dates changed to fit the parties involved. This document surely existed for Ernie’s benefit alone and therefore required minimal effort to create. I didn’t say anything to Ernie at the time. How do you tell a man who thinks he’s been married for five years that he’s not married at all? I’m all for the sport of uncovering bad news, but I’ve never enjoyed being the bearer of it. For the time being I would keep my silence. I searched through the rest of the box to see what else I could find.

  The tax returns were enlightening. Ernie and Linda filed separately. As an employee at Ernie’s muffler shop, Linda received a W-2. A legitimate-looking W-2 sat in the file, but it was under Linda’s maiden name, Truesdale. It seemed safe to question Ernie on the financial matters. I interrupted him and Milo, who were in the midst of griping about Sunday’s game.

  “Ernie, why do you and Linda file separate tax returns?”

  “Linda has had some credit problems in the past and wanted to limit my liability. Something about the IRS coming after my business.”

  “Did Linda legally change her name from Truesdale to Black?”

  “No. I mean, people call her Mrs. Black, but on her driver’s license her name is Truesdale. She said she couldn’t deal with all the paperwork of a name change.”

  A name change is a simple procedure with a legitimate marriage license; this detail I kept to myself. It’s quite possible that Linda wanted to keep her maiden name but didn’t want to offend her more traditional husband.

  “Do you mind if I make a couple copies of things?” I asked Ernie. “I promise I’ll shred everything when I’m done.”

  Ernie looked to Milo for the answer. His first question was unspoken: Can I trust her? Milo nodded and Ernie said, “I guess so.”

  As I headed for Milo’s office, Ernie’s second question was posed.

  “What is it you’re looking for?” he asked.
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br />   Ernie was a nice guy and I’d made mistakes before by assuming the worst about people. I didn’t want to make one again. At least, I didn’t want Ernie unduly suspicious of his wife unless I was positive those suspicions were justified.

  “Maybe nothing,” I replied. “Just being thorough.”

  That evening, I studied the financial data that Ernie provided. Ernie’s tax return, which included his business income, appeared legitimate enough. Only a forensic accountant could prove otherwise. Linda Black-Truesdale’s two-page 1040 required only basic math and probably took her approximately ten minutes to complete. She had one W-2, took the standard “married, filing separately” deduction, and that was that. The odd part to me was that the copy kept in the file was the original. I smudged the signature to be sure.

  It was impossible to point suspicion in any one direction, but the most suspicious part of the story was that Ernie and Linda were not married and it appeared that Linda was going to great lengths to convince Ernie that they were. From a practical standpoint, this didn’t make any sense. In the event of a divorce, Linda would have difficulty proving community property. It only made sense if she had something to lose. I did an asset search and nothing showed up in her name. I ran a credit check, thinking if she had a bankruptcy in her wake, she might want to protect Ernie from her credit problems. But her credit was impeccable. At this point my investigation was stalled. All I knew was that there was more to the story.

  But the investigation got a jump start when Bob Goodman showed up at the headquarters of RH Investigations. This might not sound like a big deal to you, but you’re going to have to take my word for it. It was big. In retrospect, it was the point of no return.

  Part II

  REGRESSION

  WRONG TURNS

  It only takes one bad decision to turn your luck sour. But what if you make several in a row? Then it might seem like you don’t know how to not make the wrong turn. Over the next few weeks I set in motion a series of events that would eventually lead to blackmail, felonies, political intrigue, a trip to the zoo, and family therapy. I could shoulder the blame for all the chaos that ensued, but I’m unconvinced that anyone else—given the same set of circumstances—would have behaved any differently.

  The first event I should mention was my meeting with the deciding judge on my restraining-order case—the case that landed me in therapy. There was this minor issue I wanted to officially clear up. As you may recall from not too long ago, Dr. Ira was convinced he could force me to continue therapy with another therapist. Shortly after my final visit with Dr. Ira, I phoned Morty to see if a therapist could really alter the terms of my plea bargain at his discretion. Morty took Dr. Ira’s claims more seriously than I did and scheduled a time for both of us to meet with the judge.

  At ten A.M. on a Wednesday morning, I showed up at Morty’s house to pick him up for our eleven A.M. meeting (the drive, including parking, is only twenty minutes). As it turned out, Morty and I never made it to the meeting with the judge. I found my old friend suited up, ready to go—and seemingly at death’s door. Twelve hours earlier, when we spoke on the phone, Morty had been grumpy but fine; this morning he was coughing relentlessly, had trouble breathing, and when I finally convinced him to let me take his temperature, it was 103. I phoned Gabe and drove Morty straight to the hospital, where he was promptly admitted. Morty was put on a high dose of Tamiflu and slept the rest of the afternoon. The doctor reminded Gabe and me that the flu in the elderly is life threatening. Morty’s prognosis was positive, but he would need some time to recover. Gabe called his grandmother, who had to concede a temporary defeat in her geographic standoff with her husband. Ruth hopped on the next plane to California.

  The next day I phoned the judge and made a solo appointment to discuss my situation. The meeting got off to a bad start. I was twenty minutes late because I couldn’t remember where I’d parked my car again and the judge didn’t take well to my tardiness. But since I was there and he had a few minutes until his next appointment, he agreed to hear me out. I explained my side of things and then the judge asked me a bunch of questions that I must have answered wrong, because he decided in favor of Dr. Ira. I left the judge’s office with an overall sense of doom. Even though it was my night off at the Philosopher’s Club, I decided to go there to drown my sorrows.

  And just when I thought my week couldn’t get any worse, Milo fired me.

  This was his flimsy explanation: One day Milo would like to retire. He would like to leave the bar in the hands of someone reliable, someone who understands that bartending isn’t some passing whim but a contributing element of the social machine. I suppose in an attempt to rule me out as a potential heir to the Milo empire, he decided to go with a family member. His young cousin from Ireland would be flying out next week and starting immediately, full-time. There were a couple points in Milo’s revelation that I had to take issue with.

  “You’re Italian, Milo. What are you doing with an Irish cousin?”

  “My father was from Sicily. One hundred percent Italian. My mother, half Irish, half Italian. Do you want me to make copies of the Ellis Island paperwork for you?”

  “What’s this cousin’s name?”

  “Connor O’Sullivan.”

  “If ever I heard a phony-sounding name—”

  “You be nice to him when he shows up.”

  “Why don’t you fire that other guy?”

  “Jimmy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because Jimmy doesn’t have a job just sitting there waiting for him.”

  “Who says I do?”

  “Your parents come in here every week praying for you to come back to work. They’re good people and you put them through hell.”

  “If I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you were on the take.”

  “I wish I got an extra paycheck for dealing with you. You can work the rest of the week and then you’re done,” Milo said.

  “So not fair,” I said.

  “Izzy, you’ve been killing time here long enough.”

  KILLING TIME

  My days of unsupervised visits in David’s home would soon be coming to a close. I destroyed much of that evening and the following day pretty much ransacking my brother’s house trying to figure out exactly what kind of trouble he was in. There were no more visits from men with pinky rings and no more weapons. In fact, I never even found bullets for the gun.

  To refresh your memory (and mine), I’ve jotted down a list of the incriminating evidence I have against my brother.

  A gun

  A ledger

  A visit from strange men

  The obvious conclusion: David had a gambling problem. But if he had a real problem, it would follow that he was having financial problems. The goons wouldn’t visit him unless David wasn’t paying his debt. The glitches in that theory were that A) David wasn’t exactly the compulsive-gambling type, and B) David has a lot of money; it would take a long time for him to go broke.

  I couldn’t locate where David kept his credit card bills, so I had to settle for hunting through the mail that had piled up on the kitchen table and selected a credit card bill that already had a crack in the envelope. I happened to hold it over a pot of boiling water, and then the bill accidentally dropped out of the envelope, and when I was retrieving it to put it back in the envelope, I happened to read it.

  There was a charge for a meal at the Last Supper Club, a few gas station charges, and some clothing purchases, but he had paid the previous month’s balance in full. There was no evidence of debt. I was missing something. But in 2,500 square feet of residence, I wasn’t sure where else to look. I called the person who knew the house almost as well as David. And no, that person was not Petra.

  “What?”

  “That’s not how you answer a phone,” I said.

  “Can I help you with something?” Rae said rudely.

  “Yes.”

  “Then speak.”
/>   “Don’t talk to me like that,” I said, feeling my blood start to boil.

  “Chillax, will ya?”

  “I don’t like word hybrids. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “Let’s recap this conversation,” Rae said. “You called me.”

  “The next time I see you, I plan to toss you out the window,” I replied.

  “I’ll make sure to be on the first floor.”

  There was a brief pause while I tried to get my anger under control.

  “I have a question,” I said. “Ten bucks in it for you if you answer it correctly.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want Henry to start speaking to me again.”

  “He’s not speaking to you at all?”

  “He says things like ‘Get your feet off the table,’ ‘Shut the door,’ ‘Please leave,’ that sort of thing. But nothing friendly.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I replied.

  “Speak,” she said.

  “That is so obnoxious.”

  “I’m waiting for your question,” Rae said impatiently.

  “In your many hours of hunting for snack food in David’s house, do you recall an unusual hiding place, something that would be slightly out of the ordinary?”

  “What exactly are you looking for?” Rae asked suspiciously.

  “I’m dying for some Milk Duds,” I said sarcastically.

  “Then don’t look in the heating vent in the guest room,” Rae said. “He stopped putting things there after the M&M fiasco…”

  I’m sure Rae’s story was fascinating, but I hadn’t checked the heating vent in any room, so I ended the call, grabbed a screwdriver, and raced upstairs.

  This was too easy. At least that’s what I was thinking when I pried the vent off the wall and found a metal box inside with a latch, but no security beyond that.

  I placed the box on the floor, unhooked the latch, and lifted the lid. I probably gasped when I saw what the box contained. I stared at the items at first, not totally believing what I was seeing. A syringe and a vial, a bag of white powder, another baggy filled with weed. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I simply sat there on the floor staring at this box in utter disbelief. Perfect David could not possibly be a drug addict.