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

  I’m not a surveillance equipment connoisseur; I’ve always found that type decidedly geeky. I purchased the same spy-cam that my parents own, albeit the latest model and the accompanying digital video recorder. The latter purchase maxed out my credit card (but hey, free rent).

  I returned to David’s house and spent the next hour setting up the system.

  At 11:45 A.M. I turned on my computer and watched the surveillance feed on the screen. Fortunately, David’s wireless Internet worked in the basement.

  12:25 P.M.: A red Jeep with a plastic top, covered in grime, pulled up in front of David’s residence. David exited the vehicle in extremely casual wear (not the comfortable-casual one might wear on a long flight, but more hike or picnic or safari casual). His clothing, however, was secondary: There was a sling on his arm. The man in the Jeep, also in safari casual, grabbed David’s luggage and walked him to the door.

  The evidence on David had been firing in so many different directions that I couldn’t even begin to make sense of this new development. I waited forty-five minutes and called my brother.

  “Are you back?” I asked when he answered the phone.

  “Yes. I’m back,” David replied. “The house looks almost tidy.”

  “I did my best. So, how was La Notte Bianca?”3 I asked. I had to launch into the inquiries before David had time to rest and prepare.

  “I just missed it,” David replied.

  “Did you have to deal with any strikes?”4

  “Nothing that interrupted my travels,” David replied.

  “How was Juliet’s Birthday?”5 I asked. “You were there for that, right?”

  “I didn’t go to Verona,” David replied.

  “I see,” I said, losing steam. I’d studied for this interrogation, but apparently not enough. I was running out of material.

  “Isabel?”

  “Yes, David?”

  “I have jet lag.6 Can we do this later?”

  “Okay. Welcome home.”

  CASE #001

  CHAPTER 5

  For the next two days, I lived in fear of getting caught. David stayed home to nurse his injury or his jet lag or whatever else required nursing, and I tiptoed around my new apartment, trying to find quiet activities that would keep me busy. You’d think this would have been a good time to catch up on some sleep, but my body couldn’t adjust to the quiet of David’s neighborhood, and no matter how tired I felt, how blurry my vision became, I could not sleep.

  Ernie phoned me on day three of insomnia.1 I slipped into the closet, where I was sure the sound wouldn’t carry, and sat down on the floor.

  “You got any news for me?” Ernie asked.

  “I still have to look into a few matters,” I replied, trying to remember what those matters were.

  “Are you in a tunnel?” Ernie asked.

  “No,” I answered. I should have come up with some plausible explanation for the sound quality, but I didn’t have it in me.

  “So, Izzy, I need you to give it to me straight. Okay?”

  “Absolutely, Ernie.”

  “Do you think Linda has got some other husband somewhere?”

  Sleep deprivation is just like being drunk, if you ask me. Suffice it to say, I found Ernie’s last remark utterly hilarious. I put the phone on mute and tried to expel all the laughter out of my system.

  When I was done, I calmly replied, “What would make you ask that?”

  “You were looking at our marriage certificate, so I thought it had to be something about us being married.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Ernie. Let me do that.”

  “So, you don’t think she’s got another husband somewhere?”

  “I doubt it,” I replied.

  “How sure are you?” he asked.

  I proceeded to ask Ernie a few questions along the lines of how often he and his wife had been apart in the last five years, which led to me stating the obvious:

  “Ernie, you and Linda haven’t been apart more than, say, eight to ten hours at a time in the last five years. How on earth could she have another husband?”

  “Good point,” Ernie said.

  “Has anything transpired in the last few days that you need to tell me about?” I asked.

  It sounded for a moment like the phone had gone dead, but then Ernie spoke.

  “Me and Linda got in a fight the other night,” he said reluctantly.

  “What about?” I asked.

  “Socks and dishes and stuff.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She thinks I don’t clean up enough after myself.”

  “Well, do you?”

  “Probably not,” he replied.

  “Well, maybe you should just pick up your socks and do a few more dishes and then you won’t fight about it anymore.”

  “It’s something to consider,” Ernie said. “Just let me know when you have any more details. I’m getting a little anxious.”

  I decided to put Ernie at ease. His fears were not the topic of this investigation, although I still didn’t know what that topic was.

  “Ernie, I’m almost positive it’s not another man.”

  “Well, that’s a load off my mind,” Ernie said. “Call me when you know something.”

  “I will,” I replied. But, as you know, it was a lie. I already knew something and I kept it from Ernie.

  NEW DAVID

  A few days after my brother’s return, my mother demanded a family dinner—at David’s house, now that she’d discovered its superiority to her own home. I bowed out with the fortunate excuse of having a shift at the Philosopher’s Club (my very last shift). My mother said a pleasant good-bye and uttered something like “Maybe next time.” Fifteen minutes later, Milo phoned and informed me that he would not need my services that evening. When pressed on whether my mother was behind his decision, Milo pled the fifth.

  While I had observed my brother through a camera the last few days, I hadn’t yet seen him in person. I waited for all the Spellmans to arrive before I made my exit and entrance. I figured their presence would provide enough distraction to keep any suspicious eyes off of me.

  Through my hidden camera, I spotted my parents pulling up the driveway. I gave them ten minutes to get settled and then I slipped out of my new home, stealthily walked along the side of David’s house, scanned the periphery for nosy neighbors, and then casually walked up the steps to David’s house. I’d toyed earlier in the day with bringing a bottle of wine from David’s own wine closet, but I decided that if this new living arrangement of mine was going to work, I would have to show some restraint.

  My father opened the door. His forehead was creased a bit more than usual. The result was an expression of concern, but not with me. I entered and heard my mother in the kitchen interrogating my brother.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” Mom asked.

  “Yes, when it happened,” David insisted.

  “Have you seen an American doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon.”

  That was most definitely a lie; David had been home all day long.

  “How much weight did you lose?” my mom then asked, continuing her investigation.

  “Mom, calm down. I’m not dying,” David replied.

  “Sit down and start eating right away.”

  I followed my father into the kitchen and saw Rae seated in a chair staring at my brother as if he were a stranger. And it was then that I finally saw up close what was worrying my family.

  Old David, the one of four weeks ago, had an almost blinding glow of health. He was the cover shot on a men’s magazine. His skin was flawless, his posture perfect; his clothes often appeared as if they’d just been released from the dry-cleaning wrapper. But this man, slumped in a chair in his kitchen, looked like my brother if he had been living on the streets for the past four weeks. Not to mention the blue cast on his left arm in th
e canvas sling.

  New David, approximately twenty pounds lighter, wore his clothes like a stranger. His Levi’s hung off his hips; his T-shirt and sweater crinkled with the extra space. David’s hair had grown longer and unkempt; he sported a beard, I suspect to hide his sallow cheeks—or because shaving is difficult when one’s dominant arm isn’t working. Bluntly, David looked unwell. My mother’s concern, regardless of whether it was stronger than necessary, was certainly warranted.

  After I took in the spectacle of my new and unimproved brother, it was time for me to comment.

  “Some vacation.”

  “What happened to ‘hello’?” David asked, commenting on my manners.

  “Sorry,” I replied. “Welcome back. It’s so nice to have you home.”

  “Liar,” David replied.

  “How’d you break your arm?” I asked.

  “He fell on the steps of the Vatican,” said my mom. “Can you believe that?”

  “No,” I replied. “How much weight did you lose?”

  “About fifteen pounds.”

  “In four weeks? That’s so unfair.”

  “I had food poisoning,” David clarified.

  “Eating what?”

  Pause. “Fish.”

  “What kind of fish?”

  “Ceviche.”

  “Excellent answer. A dish famous for its food-poisoning potential.”

  “Speaking of food poisoning, I’m starving,” said Dad.

  “Me, too. I could eat an entire one-pound bag of M&M’s,” Rae chimed in.

  While Mom cooked in the kitchen, Rae and my dad foraged through the refrigerator, looking for something to quiet their appetites. Finally David and I were alone and able to speak freely.

  “Bravo,” I said after a pregnant pause.

  David smiled. He liked having his handiwork acknowledged. “I have to know: In what order did you find my evidence?”

  “The gun, the ledger, the drugs. Nice touch with the basil.”

  “You didn’t try to smoke it, did you?”

  “You do something once when you’re thirteen and nobody lets you forget it.”

  “I couldn’t resist,” David replied. “So, when did you decide I had a gambling problem?”

  “After your goons dropped by. I’m guessing golf buddies?”

  “Basketball.”

  “So, where were you? Because I know you weren’t in Italy.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go another round of Italian Internet trivia? I’d be happy to give you a few days to study.”

  “Seriously, David. You’d never go to Italy without your Hugo Boss suit. Word on the street is that you’re madly in love with it.”

  “Whose word?”

  “First, I’d like credit for not commenting on your bizarre relationship with clothing.”

  Rae returned to the living room with a bowl of pretzels and sat down on the sofa in between me and David. I wasn’t interested in bringing Rae into my investigation, so I let the subject drop and pretended to be fascinated by David’s phony vacation.

  “There’s only one person who had enough information about my wardrobe to know when a piece is missing. Was Petra here?”

  “She came to the party,” Rae said with a mouth full of pretzel mush.

  “Rat!” I shouted.

  Rae at least finished chewing before landing her retort: “Unemployed!”

  “Cheater!”

  Apparently sound travels farther in David’s house than I thought. My dad promptly exited the kitchen and said, “Nothing has been proven yet!”

  David turned to his bar for comfort and pulled a bottle of whiskey for a drink. After careful scrutiny of the liquor cabinet, which I had apparently restored too closely to its appearance at the point of David’s departure, my brother grew suspicious and then certain.

  “Isabel, when are you going to behave like a grown-up?”

  “When you treat me like one.”

  Over dinner David was caught up on the latest goings-on in this ball of deceit we call a family. My mother became briefly suspicious when Rae asked David if he brought her back any Italian candy and David apologized and said it had slipped his mind, a violation of David’s lifelong tradition of bringing Rae candy from all his vacation spots. However, even though I could see my mother’s suspicion beat like a drum throughout the evening, she remained mute on the subject. I found this particularly annoying but true to form. David has always received the full spectrum of respect from my parents, which is totally unfair.

  What sparked the most conversation during dinner was the extension of my forced therapy. David found great joy in this discovery, and whatever exhaustion his mysterious illness and vacation had caused, this particular topic seemed to have a salubrious1 effect on him. Glowing as if he had won some great victory, David decided to add his two cents.

  “You know, Isabel, maybe this time you should actually talk about your troubles.”

  I smiled sheepishly, allowing David his petty pleasure. I was going to inhabit his basement rent free. My victory was much sweeter.

  After dinner, Rae informed David that his secret junk food stashes needed to be replenished. David left the kitchen and returned ten minutes later with an airtight container holding a mixed array of individualsized candy. If David were fifteen years younger, I would have accused him of robbing a trick-or-treater. My sister wanted to know what secret hiding place she’d failed to discover and David refused to answer even when her pleas went beyond what would have been my breaking point.

  Then Dad asked me to lunch. Well, first he asked David, who was really swamped that week, having just returned home. Then he asked Rae, who explained to Dad that during lunch hour she was usually in school, but if he wanted to give her an afternoon reprieve, she’d be happy to join him. Then Dad asked me. I watched Mom shift her head slightly and eye me from the other side of the room, so I didn’t even think of saying no.

  “Sure, Dad. Name the time and the place and I’ll be there.”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm, Isabel.”

  “Huh?”

  “If you don’t have the time or the inclination to have lunch with me, you can just say no.”

  “But I just said yes.”

  “Really?” Dad replied skeptically.

  “Yes, really.”

  “What gives?” he asked, which was actually kind of annoying, and I was ready to change my mind. But then I took another look at Mom and decided against it.

  “Well, Dad, right around lunchtime, I tend to get hungry. So, I figure you’re buying, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Why don’t you pick me up from therapy tomorrow afternoon? I’ll tell you all about it.”

  HELLO, DR. RUSH

  THERAPY SESSION #13

  My new therapist’s office was located in the Avenues off California Street. The level of convenience was comparable, which I suppose my previous doctor considered, but this location made driving a reasonable option if I wasn’t in the mood for public transportation. However, on this day I took the bus, since my father was picking me up.

  I busied myself before, during, and after my session by making up a mental compare-and-contrast sheet between my two therapists. This I did in lieu of any real “work,” which I would later learn was a term used to define the effort one puts into the uncovering and confronting of personal demons. It’s not like I didn’t think I had any demons. I did, but I could name them—and even provide an address and telephone number for each. As far as I was concerned, those demons could go to therapy instead of me.

  Dr. Sophia Rush’s waiting room had better magazines than Dr. Ira’s. She also had a little self-serve coffee/tea station and a relaxing fountain, which I would later realize had less to do with relaxation and more to do with drowning out the sounds of therapy in the other room. She also had a cool key-code system for entering the waiting room, which I found very satisfying.

&nb
sp; I was so preoccupied with noting the differences between Dr. Ira and Dr. Rush that any pre-therapy anxiety didn’t surface until Dr. Rush finally made her entrance.

  While I had no expectations or a preconceived visual concept of her appearance, my first reaction was This can’t be Dr. Rush. I guessed her age to be forty-five based on the diplomas on the wall, but she was one of those really well-preserved forty-fives. Or an imposter. She was dark and Italian-looking and very attractive, yet I got the feeling she went out of her way to hide it, or at least didn’t flaunt it. I doubt she had anything on her face other than moisturizer and her wardrobe was neither bland nor stylish. She wore simple, well-cut trousers, a plain but tailored crewneck T-shirt in a finer fabric than necessary, and a cardigan sweater. The result was something that wouldn’t distract. Her office décor followed a similar code. It didn’t strike me as empty and yet there was nothing in it that I found terribly compelling. By contrast, I could stare at the overloaded bookcase in Dr. Ira’s office for hours, calculating its weak spots, debating whether it was secured to the wall, wondering how it would fall and if Dr. Ira would survive in the inevitable massive earthquake that has been hanging over our heads for years.

  But that’s enough talk about inanimate objects; let me get to the therapy session.

  [Partial transcript reads as follows:]

  DR. RUSH: Isabel?

  ISABEL: Yes.

  DR. RUSH: I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.

  ISABEL: I didn’t think I had a choice.

  DR. RUSH: We always have a choice.

  ISABEL: I don’t think so.