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

  He couldn’t. When my eyes stopped working, my nose kicked in. There was a familiar smell emanating from the box, but not the right kind of familiar. I know what marijuana smells like. This was something else. I picked up the bag of weed and brought it to my nose.

  Oregano, that was it. I opened the bag of white powder, touched a bit to my pinky, and tasted it. Sugar. I picked up the vial and realized that the contents were carefully marked as saline. With the items removed from the box I could see the letters written on its base.

  GOTCHA!

  I had to give David credit. Thanks to his little game, I was no closer to solving the real mystery—his current whereabouts—than I was when I first moved into his place. You’ll be happy to know, however, that I not only solved the mystery (eventually), but I also got my revenge. I should mention, however, that my revenge came at a cost. That night when I fell asleep in David’s bed,1 it would be the last full night of sleep I would get for the next month.

  THE PSAT PROBLEM

  I spent the next afternoon working the Ernie Black case pro bono, which made the day just a waste of time, not money.

  I surveilled Linda Black for four hours on her day off and learned that the redhead probably colors her hair, likes coffee, apparently frequents libraries, and bargain-shops. There was no shoplifting, nor were there any clandestine meetings. It was a perfectly dull day.

  I returned to David’s house in the evening. My plan was to spend the night restoring his home to its pre-Isabel state and doing some Internet research to catch him in a lie on his return the following day.

  As usual, my plans were foiled by my family. I arrived at David’s house only to find my dad in the hot tub, my mom invading the kitchen, and Rae roasting s’mores in front of the fireplace.

  I promptly demanded that all parties evacuate the premises. Then I threatened to call the cops. My aggressive orders were met with the following responses:

  RAE: Chillax. Can I interest you in a s’more?

  MOM: Are you hungry, sweetie? I’m making grilled salmon.

  DAD: [when he finally surfaced from the hot tub] I needed that.

  Once I gave up my futile quest for a peaceful night at “home,” I used the time to uncover the latest goings-on in the family.

  “So, Rae, how are you handling the cheating situation?”

  “I’m handling it,” Rae replied.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “She won’t confirm or deny,” my mother said plainly. Yet no one seemed concerned.

  Dad jumped in to defend my sister. “She’s agreed to take the test again under close supervision. And then she will be vindicated.”

  “Why don’t you defend yourself like a normal person?” I asked my sister.

  “Who is to say what normal is?” Rae asked in response.

  “When did you start talking like this?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” was Rae’s only reply.

  “Relax, Isabel. It will all work out,” said my father.

  “Where does all this trust come from?” I asked my parents.

  “What has she done that’s so wrong?” said Mom.

  “You can’t be serious,” I replied, and launched into a litany of Rae’s crimes over the last few years. I’ll spare you the wordy diatribe and provide you with the bullet points:

  Harassed her uncle. Stole his property.1

  Staged her own kidnapping.

  Drove without a license. Ran a man over.

  Tried to buy booze and porn from local liquor stores.2

  Got wasted at a party.

  Masterminded a vandalism plot against the neighbor’s front yard.

  Changed the locks on Henry’s apartment.

  Played mind games with Henry’s girlfriend.

  “But she’s never been incarcerated, has she?” Mom replied.

  After dinner, Mom and Dad cleared the table and tried to make a run for it, leaving me with all the dirty dishes. I blocked the front door, locking the deadbolt for dramatic effect, and refused to back down. Mom cooked, so it fell on Dad to do the washing up.

  Once the plates were loaded into the dishwasher, my dad decided to have a nightcap before their departure. My father was spending far too much time perusing David’s liquor supply. I poured him a shot of my Jack Daniel’s and told him to drink up and be on his way.

  “Why does this taste different?” Dad asked.

  “Not sure.”

  True answer: “Because it’s eighteen-year-old Glenlivet” (approx. $80). A discriminating houseguest can do a lot with a funnel and some free time. In case you’re wondering what happened to the JD, it’s in the Glenlivet bottle.

  Just when I thought I was within minutes of ridding David’s house of the family, the doorbell rang.

  My sister rushed to answer. Surely anyone on the other side of the door was more exciting than her own kin.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked upon seeing Gabe.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked in the same suspicious tone.

  “I was making s’mores,” my sister replied, as if that were the perfect justification for her presence. It was one thing for Gabe to accompany his grandfather to a party but another entirely for him to show up unannounced at the door of the home where he knew I’d be. I knew for sure this would raise all four of my parents’ eyebrows.

  Since I was in no mood to watch my parents interrogate a friend of mine, I tried to keep the reintroductions brief.

  “Mom, Dad, you remember Gabe Schilling, Morty’s grandson. My parents were just leaving.”

  “We were?” my dad asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “So nice to see you again,” my mother said, holding out her hand. “How is your grandfather doing?”

  “He’s expected to leave the hospital in a few days. My grandmother just flew back to town, so his spirits have improved.”

  Mom and Gabe shook hands and then my father shook his hand and I tried to use body language to move everyone toward the door.

  “Well, it was great of you to come by,” I said.

  Sadly, the only person taking my hint was Gabe. He returned to the foyer and said, “Oh yeah. Nice seeing you all again—”

  “Not you,” I said. “I’m trying to get rid of the rest of them. They’ve been here all night.”

  You might find this hard to believe, but even that line didn’t get my family anywhere in the vicinity of the front door.

  “In case you were wondering, Gabe, we raised her with better manners than that,” said my mom.

  “No, you didn’t,” I said.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” my dad asked.

  Gabe turned to me for instruction.

  “He’ll have a Jack Daniel’s,” I said.

  My mother sat down on the couch and patted the seat next to her for Gabe. Then Rae sat down on the coffee table across from Gabe and stared at him for a second too long.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Can I see some ID?”

  “Rae!” I shouted.

  “Isabel, why does the bottle of Jack have your name on it?” asked Dad.

  “Why are you still here?” I replied. Okay, so I didn’t totally give up.

  “Tell me about yourself, Gabe,” said my mother.

  While Gabe provided a brief bio that included his rise to fame as a skateboard star and ended with the responsible-small-business-owner part, my dad made a close and suspicious study of all the amber-hued liquors in David’s bar. Dad tasted the Jack Daniel’s, followed by the Glenlivet, and then he had a thimbleful of the Johnnie Walker Black Label.

  “Isabel, how many of these bottles have you tampered with?” Dad asked.

  “I don’t know,” I replied impatiently. “I lost track.”

  “God, Isabel. That’s just so…what’s the word for it?”

  “
Ingenious?” I offered.

  “Rude,” said my mother.

  “Funny,” said Rae.

  “Unethical,” said my dad.

  That’s when I flipped a switch. “Unethical. Really. Is it more unethical than, say, cheating on the SATs?” I asked rather loudly.

  “Psssats,” Rae corrected me.

  “Innocent people defend themselves against unjust accusations. They don’t evade all direct questioning.”

  “She’s retaking the test next week,” Dad calmly interjected. “Then everything will become clear.”

  Rae seemed decidedly uninterested in this part of the conversation. “Are you Izzy’s boyfriend?” she asked.

  “Get out. All of you. Before I call the cops!”

  You might be surprised to learn that they actually left shortly after my final outburst.

  The door shut and I breathed in a moment of completely divine silence. Gabe broke it.

  “So, you’re heading home tonight?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In the Tenderloin.”

  “Where exactly in the Tenderloin?”

  “On the corner of Eddy and Hyde.”

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven thirty P.M.”

  “I’m working tomorrow.”

  “I’ll pick you up the day after that. Same time.”

  “For what?”

  “Dinner and a movie. No coin-toss this time. You can choose.”

  “Is this a date?” I asked.

  “Always a pleasure, Izzele,” Gabe said, stretching out his arm for what appeared to be a handshake.

  “Nice seeing you again,” I said.

  Gabe took my hand and kissed the back of it. The move was so casual and swift someone else might not have even noticed.

  THE DISCOVERY

  2005 hrs

  Once I had removed all the witnesses, it was time to re-create the scene of David’s bar before I got my paws all over it. I had drawn a line in chalk at the level where each beverage had once been, and refilled each bottle to said line, even if the beverage it contained did not correspond to the label.

  After performing a treasure hunt for all my clothes scattered about David’s home, I tossed them in a laundry basket and tossed the laundry basket in the trunk of my car. Dad did a decent job cleaning up the kitchen, so I didn’t bother touching up his work. Besides, if David complained about the condition I left the kitchen in, I could always blame Mom and Dad. Same went for the bathroom. I left a brief note on the sink chronicling Dad’s use of the hot tub.

  2255 hrs

  I ventured back to my Tenderloin closet, hunted for parking for twenty-five minutes, and, in three trips, managed to unload everything from my car. In my neighborhood, you don’t leave a ball-point pen in your vehicle.

  After the third time I walked up three flights of stairs carrying at least sixty pounds of stuff (I really don’t know what it was that I needed so badly at David’s house), I launched myself onto my bed (which doubles as a couch and a desk and a coffee table) and closed my eyes, hoping for a moment of rest before I began to unpack. As I lay there deciding that I could unpack in the morning, my cell phone rang.

  “Isabel?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Christopher. Am I calling too late?”

  “No, not at all.” It was only 11:15. I like to think of myself as a night owl.

  “Interesting party, by the way,” Christopher said.

  “Thanks. Next time I won’t invite my parents.”

  “Be quiet,” Christopher responded. “I love your mother. She’s such a devil.”

  “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

  “Darling, I need my beauty sleep, so I’ll cut to the chase. I have a friend moving to the Bay Area and I wanted to know if your brother might consider renting out his in-law unit—if he doesn’t already have a tenant.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “I want to know if your brother is renting out his in-law apartment. Frankly I don’t know why you’re not living there instead of the dump you call home.”

  “You saw David’s house. He doesn’t have an extra apartment and he’d never rent out a room to a complete stranger—or his sister.”

  “Isabel. Listen carefully. Your brother has a basement apartment. I don’t know what condition it’s in, but based on how he keeps the rest of the house, I’m sure it’s habitable.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Christopher, you’ve gone mad.”

  “Izzy, darling. I know a few things. Take my word for it.”

  “Let me get back to you on this,” I said, and quickly hung up the phone.

  I slid into my sneakers, threw on a coat, and grabbed my car keys. In ten minutes I was back at David’s place.

  2330 hrs

  There was only one door on David’s entire property that I had not passed through. In his backyard, right next to his garage, was an entrance that I had always assumed led down to a musty unfinished basement filled with leaky pipes, cobwebs, and moldy wood. The door itself was in better condition than I recalled. There were two deadbolts, but I suspected both used the same key. Had I noticed it before, I would have considered it high security for an unfinished basement, but still, I gave David the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he kept financial records down there; maybe the basement offered another entry into the house. Legitimate reasons existed for extra security, but in ten minutes I’d learn the true reason.

  I entered David’s place and pulled a collection of keys he kept in the pantry. I tried each one on the basement door until I was successful. Before crossing the threshold, I pulled the key from the key ring, first noting its sequence in the mix.1

  What I discovered behind that wooden door with paint chipping off the edges was a carefully refinished one-bedroom apartment, minimally furnished. It housed a bed, a dresser, a plush brown love seat, a small work desk, and a chair. The kitchen contained a modest amount of dishes and cookware, a vintage Formica table, and diner-style chairs. The wood floors were perfectly refinished, covered with a blue and gray patterned throw rug. This place was nice enough to live in.

  0045 hrs

  There’s a locksmith my parents have used for years now who doesn’t mind being woken up in the middle of the night if you throw him an extra fifty bucks. That overpayment also includes not asking any questions. I dropped by his apartment and had him make two copies of the key. Then I returned to David’s house and replaced the original. I drove home, spent twenty-five minutes hunting for a parking space, and went to bed.

  0220 hrs

  I awoke suddenly to the high-pitched sound of Eva (my probably-hooker neighbor) laughing uproariously. Her john must have been a comedian. I banged on her door and the noise quieted down. I tried to fall back asleep but Hal’s snoring, which I hadn’t noticed earlier but now seemed as loud as Eva’s laughter, kept me awake. I got up to get a glass of water and something on the floor seemed to run past me. I can’t tell you what because I didn’t look that carefully. I put my sneakers on and began packing.

  0350 hrs

  It seemed wise to do the bulk of the move in the early hours of the morning. I decided as I packed my clothes and assembled all my necessary electronic equipment that I would keep this move light. The rest of my belongings I could put into storage. After moving three times in the past two years, I’d learned to travel light. Two large suitcases and four boxes I transferred to my car in three loads. I drove to David’s house, double-parked while I unloaded my things as quietly as possible, and then parked my car four blocks away.

  0450 hrs

  I entered the secret apartment, unpacked for two hours, and then got into bed, exhausted. Although I couldn’t pinpoint a moment in my life when I had been more tired, and even though the apartment was quiet and the bed was comfortable, I didn’t fall asleep until 8:00 A
.M.

  0905 hrs

  I awoke unrested but resolved. I phoned the landlord of my Tenderloin closet and gave notice.

  SQUATTING 101

  I know what you’re thinking: This is surely a bad idea. Maybe you’re even judging me as well. So, before I get into the nuts and bolts of my surreptitious new living arrangement, allow me to defend myself.

  If you have read the previous document,1 then you know that last year, I came this close (picture a half-inch space between my thumb and index finger) to becoming homeless. I had moved out of my parents’ attic (which we can all agree was a necessary change) and began subletting from Bernie Peterson (see appendix). Bernie then moved back into his/my! place, forcing me out onto the streets. Without any other options, I returned to my parents’ home for a few days, only to be evicted because of the restraining order filed by their next-door neighbor. At that point, I had no place to live. Henry Stone took pity on me and let me share his two-bedroom apartment for a few weeks. But my own brother, who lives in a three-bedroom (plus den), two-and-a-half-bath house with a separate basement apartment, not once offered to share his home(s) with me.

  To answer your questions: 1) No, I didn’t feel guilty about moving into David’s extra place without telling him. 2) Also no. I had no plans to tell him about it. 3) Indefinitely. I can be very careful when I’m motivated.

  Adjustments had to be made, of course. But for the most part, I considered that the benefits outweighed the disadvantages. For instance, I purchased a camera to monitor my brother’s comings and goings. I installed the hidden camera in his driveway so that I could keep tabs on safe entry and exit times through my computer. I got a post office box and had all of my mail forwarded. Indoors, my lifestyle adjustments were simple: I used headphones instead of speakers; I washed dishes and took showers during the day while David was at work; my cell phone remained permanently on vibrate. The cost difference between living in David’s apartment and my previous low-rent existence was $900 per month. The satisfaction of pulling off this epic-level deceit: priceless. Now tell me you wouldn’t do the exact same thing.

  According to David’s lengthy instructions, I was to vacate the premises by noon the third Monday from his departure. At 10:25 A.M. I made my first surreptitious exit of the secret residence and walked three blocks to the local corner shop for provisions. Of course, once I got to the shop I completely forgot what it was that I needed. Based on my foggy thinking, I decided coffee2 was in order and tried to think of all the items that might come in handy should I have trouble making my exit. Remember, David’s movements would be a variable I could not predict. I had to be prepared to camp out for hours. I picked up canned goods and a can opener and a few cleaning supplies. And then my mind went completely blank, so I purchased the items and headed over to a camera shop on Van Ness.