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 supposed to meet Morty for lunch on Hopper Street.”

  “Hold on,” David replied.

  This is when I made my safe exit. You see, there is no Hopper Street. It would take David some time to realize this fact. I turned the corner at the end of David’s block and walked up Hyde, closing in on the location of my car.

  “There is no Hopper Street,” David said, much sooner than I anticipated.

  “Really? Hmm,” I replied. “I better call Morty. He must have given me the wrong name. Okay, bye,” I said, and quickly hung up the phone.

  Since I last saw my ancient friend, he had not quit his habit of verbally equating moving with death. All events in the past week were accompanied by constant reminders that these precious moments we had together were coming to a quick and severe close.

  This was my final private lunch with Morty, and I have to admit, I was pleased when my habit-obsessed friend wanted to try someplace new.

  Morty isn’t a fancy man, but when I met him in the foyer of Spork1 he was wearing a suit with a sweater vest and bow tie. I kissed him on the cheek.

  “Would it have killed you to wear a dress?”

  “No,” I replied. “But the mental injury would have been serious.”

  Morty gave his name to the maître d’, who seated us promptly—remember, this is eleven thirty A.M. We were the first customers of the day.

  After Morty and I were seated, I studied his ensemble more closely.

  “How many layers have you got on there, Morty?” I asked. If ever someone was making a statement with his fashion, it was then.

  “Undershirt, shirt, sweater vest, jacket,” he said, counting on his fingers. “Four. Let me wear my clothes while I still have the chance.”

  “People wear clothes in Florida,” I said.

  “Today I’m not talking about Florida.”

  “Fine. What would you like to talk about?” I asked.

  “I need to decide what I’m going to eat first.”

  “Stop it,” I said, referring to that annoying noise Morty makes with his teeth.

  “You’re hearing things,” Morty replied.

  Fifteen minutes later2

  After our orders were placed, Morty took a business-sized envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it to me.

  “My days are numbered, as you know,” he said.

  “Would you please stop saying that? It’s annoying.”

  “Try being old. That’s even more annoying.”

  “You had no problem being old three months ago.”

  “Do you want to know what’s in the envelope or not?” Morty asked, folding his arms defensively.

  “Right now I’m about fifty-fifty,” I replied.

  “Fine, then give it back,” he said.

  I didn’t, of course.

  “Why don’t I just open the envelope, and then you won’t have to tell me what’s in it?” I asked, breaking the seal.

  “Wait. I must say something first. Put the envelope down,” Morty said.

  I lowered the envelope, but I didn’t entirely release my grip.

  “Put it down all the way,” Morty repeated, getting annoyed.

  I followed his instructions because, well, I had no choice.

  “You know what’s inside that envelope?”

  “No. That’s what I’m trying to find out,” I said, attempting to move things along.

  “Eighty-four years of wisdom,” Morty replied, enunciating each word so I wouldn’t miss them.

  I stared down at the flat white envelope addressed to me. “Really?” I said. “Eighty-four years? You’d think eighty-four years would require a large box, or at least a thick manila envelope. Who knew you could fit eighty-four years into a four-by-nine-inch envelope?”

  “Don’t be smart,” Morty said.

  “Excellent advice. Is that in there?” I asked.

  Morty’s Last Words

  Beneath the morbid title was a page-long bulleted list of his carefully chosen words of wisdom. I suggested that I could read the list in the privacy of my home, but Morty insisted that I review the list in his company in case I had any questions. So I did, reading each item out loud.

  If you ever have an unusual ache or pain, go to the doctor.

  Don’t take any chances with your health.

  “It was only a month ago that I found you at home with a temperature of one-oh-three,” I said.

  “I learned from my mistakes. You can, too,” Morty replied. “Keep reading.”

  Same goes for your car. If it’s making a funny noise, go to the mechanic. Also, check the oil at least once every two months.

  Don’t eat anything after the expiration date. Except pretzels. They’re usually okay.

  “Is this a joke?” I asked.

  “A stale pretzel never killed anyone,” Morty replied.

  “Eighty-four years and this is your best material?”

  “I wrote it this morning. Keep reading.”

  When you get married, don’t make any long-term verbal contract that you’re not one hundred percent sure about.

  Make sure you have water on hand for the big quake. Also, know how to turn off the gas in your house. It was fires that killed the most people in the 1906 quake.

  “Right,” I said. “I totally forgot you were there.”

  Morty said nothing; he just gave me a dirty look and then another look that meant I haven’t got all day. Keep reading.

  Stay away from new religions. They tend to be a lot of hoo-ha.3

  When you get old, start making friends with people younger than you so you always have at least one around.

  Morty winked when I finished reading that line.

  Always tip well unless you don’t plan on returning to the restaurant.

  Don’t drink so much.

  Always double-knot your shoelaces.

  “It’s a shock you don’t have a book deal with these kinds of gems.”

  “Shhhh. Keep reading.”

  “Do you want me to be quiet or do you want me to keep reading?”

  I continued reading the list out loud. Occasionally I’d lower my voice when the waiter was in the vicinity. There’s only so much public humiliation that I can tolerate.

  Get some fiber in your diet.

  Stay out of jail.

  “Are you giving this list to everyone, or is this my personal medley of advice?” I asked. Frankly, it was hard to tell at that point.

  “Keep reading,” Morty said as if he’d said it one hundred times before.

  If I had doubts about whether the list was generic or custom-made, the final three edicts cleared that up for me.

  Give the cop your phone number.

  Tell your dad that you’re happy to take over the business.

  Let your brother know that you’re living in his home without his consent.

  I asked repeatedly over an excellent lunch whether Morty was responsible for the series of ransom notes. His replies were as cagey as my sister’s recent pseudodenials. You will find this impossible to believe, but I left lunch that day having no idea whether Morty was or was not my blackmailer. After I kissed him good-bye and promised one final farewell, I began to seriously contemplate a conspiracy.

  Then Maggie called with her own conspiracy to discuss.

  THE PHILOSOPHER’S CLUB

  I took an unplanned nap on the Muni train and was woken by my father calling to inquire about the bizarre turn in the Truesdale case. I knew my father couldn’t resist political intrigue. I explained to Dad that I knew nothing; then I explained it using different words, since the first time around it didn’t stick. Dad asked a few more questions and reluctantly accepted that I wasn’t holding out on him.

  “If it makes you feel any better, Dad, right now I think that nobody knows anything.”

  When I arrived at the Philosopher’s Club, Maggie was on her second beer and had dipped into her pocket provisi
ons.1 Connor served my usual whiskey without a word. He was really growing on me. I apologized to Maggie for my tardiness and joined her.

  “You’re going to think I’m paranoid,” she said.

  “I have no business judging people on that front,” I replied.

  As she sipped her beer, I could tell she was grasping for the words that would make her sound the sanest.

  “I think someone’s investigating me,” she said. “Again.”

  “My mom and Rae both promised me that they’d stop. And my dad is kind of busy, and it’s not really his style.”

  “This time I don’t think it’s anyone in your family.”

  “Are you being followed?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Is someone looking into your personal records?”

  “I’m getting phone calls. Two so far.”

  “Harassing phone calls?”

  “Not really. Both times it was a woman’s voice and she asked me survey questions.”

  “Are you sure it’s not just a survey?”

  “I’m pretty sure. The questions aren’t normal survey questions.”

  “For instance?” I asked.

  Maggie pulled a notepad from her purse and reviewed her own scribbles, which, at least on upside-down viewing, were as illegible as hieroglyphics for one not schooled in hieroglyphics.

  “She started with legal questions, asked me if I worked pro bono; then she inquired whether I believed in the legalization of drugs, and if so, which drugs.”

  “It sounds like it could be a legitimate survey,” I interjected.

  “Then the questions changed. She asked me if I was satisfied with my work. Then she ran off a list of leisure activities, including going to the beach, movies, camping, something else I can’t remember, and asked me to rate my enjoyment of each one on a five-star scale. Then she inquired whether I was a dog or cat person.”

  “Really?” I said. “And how did you reply?”

  “Cats give me the creeps. I’m a total dog person.”

  “What else?” I asked.

  “The last question was the weirdest of all: She asked me about my favorite monkey, and when I said, ‘Do you mean monkey as in rhesus monkey, or Monkee as in the band the Monkees?’ she said, ‘I don’t know, let’s skip that question.’ That can’t be a normal survey,” Maggie said, looking for confirmation.

  “Yes,” I replied, confirming her suspicions. “I’ll look into this matter for you,” I said. And then my current nemesis arrived.

  As far as I knew, it had been weeks since Rae had returned to the bar. But now she walked in and sat right down like a regular, oblivious to the fact that her sister and her new friend were seated at a table nearby.

  I observed my sister for a moment before I approached. She threw her book bag on top of the bar with an air of frustration and casually ordered “the usual.” Apparently Connor was familiar with her “usual,” since he poured a large glass of ginger ale and placed it in front of her.

  “Rough day?” he asked, which took me aback. Shouldn’t this conversation have begun with “We don’t serve minors in here”?

  I quickly approached.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked Rae.

  “Unwinding,” she replied, not even turning her head.

  I sat down next to my not-yet-seventeen-year-old sister and then turned to Connor.

  “You know, in this country the drinking age is twenty-one.”

  “She’s drinkin’ ginger ale,” Connor casually replied. “When she’s done, she’ll be on er way. Right, Rae?”

  “Right,” Rae said, as if she and Connor agreed on almost everything. When Rae turned to look at me, she finally spotted Maggie.

  “Just the person I was looking for,” Rae said as she hopped off the bar stool and lugged her backpack over to Maggie’s table.

  “Five minutes and we’re leaving,” I said, to apparently deaf ears.

  Rae sat down at the table and rummaged through her backpack, eventually pulling out a recently graded essay.

  “I need a consult,” Rae said.

  “A legal consult?” Maggie asked.

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Rae said. “Look at this essay. Do you think it deserves a C-minus?”

  As Rae passed the paper over to Maggie, I turned my attention to Connor.

  “Is Milo around?”

  “He’s in the office, sorting through his old files. He’ll be happy to see ya.”

  We’ll see about that, I thought to myself.

  I entered an office that had been transformed from its previous dingy overload. A paper shredder sat in the corner with two tied bags of devoured documents. Milo was evidently on the cusp of reducing his life’s accumulation to a single file cabinet. I sat down in the lumpy chair across from his desk. It’s there more for show than anything else—Milo doesn’t appreciate visitors in his office, hence the uncomfortable chair. It’s an obvious dichotomy when you catch a glimpse of the lumbar support on Milo’s ergonomic specimen.

  “So, you’re really leaving me?” I asked.

  “I like how you’re making this all about you.”

  “You could have called me.”

  “I told you I was moving.”

  “But I didn’t believe you.”

  “I’m in love, Isabel.”

  “I figured it wouldn’t last.”

  “That’s very supportive. Thank you.”

  “So, what are you going to do about the apartment?”2 I asked.

  “Bernie says he wants to keep it in the family. Why? You want it back?”

  This was an interesting offer. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep my scam going and live with the accompanying sleep deprivation. Every day I felt my mind slipping more and more. Besides, visiting the museum on occasion is one thing, but if my blackmailer got any more ambitious with his/her cultural initiatives on my behalf, I could see it becoming seriously inconvenient. And if David ever found out, I thought he just might kill me, or at the very least spend the rest of his days finding ways to torture me.

  “Let me think about it for a few days.”

  “By the way, where are you living now?”

  “In my apartment—you know, the crappy one in the Tenderloin.”

  Milo opened his desk drawer and passed me an envelope, an envelope addressed to me with NOT AT THIS ADDRESS—RETURN TO SENDER stamped on the front.

  “Well, wherever you’re living, you need to figure out how to get your mail,” Milo said, clearly not wanting any of the details.

  I decided to change the subject.

  “When are you moving?” I asked.

  “Two weeks. This Sunday, Connor’s throwing me a good-bye party at the bar.”

  “How long have you been planning this party?” I inquired, curious that this was the first time he’d mentioned it. What if I hadn’t shown up? Was he planning on saying good-bye to me at all?

  “About three weeks. I sent you an invitation, but I guess it got lost in the mail,” Milo said with an unnecessary amount of attitude.

  The chair was digging into my leg and cutting off my circulation. I stood up, eyeing it with disdain.

  “That’s not a chair; it’s a torture device,” I said.

  “This is an office, not a waiting room,” Milo explained in defense of the chair.

  “I guess I’ll see you Sunday,” I said.

  Before I exited, Milo had to impart his own words of wisdom. Thankfully, his were relatively brief.

  “Tick tock.”

  “Excuse me?” I said. “I don’t speak clock.”

  “Time is running out, Izzy. One day, you got to grow up like the rest of us.”

  I’m not sure anyone would consider Milo all grown up—a career bartender skipping town to move in with a woman he barely knew. He was giving me advice? It felt like a new low.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” I replied, although at that point I co
uldn’t remember what statement I was replying to.

  CULTURE 101

  I drove by David’s house on a reconnaissance mission. I didn’t want to bother parking unless I was certain I could find safe passage into my apartment. I saw Maggie’s car in the driveway. I assumed that Rae had insisted on a drop-off at my brother’s house and then further insisted that Maggie come in for coffee, tea, or s’mores. Who knows?

  I had time to kill and was at a loss for how to use it. At the moment I wasn’t sure where to take the investigation. I’m not the kind of person who makes to-do lists, but if I was, going to the museum would have been on the list. According to the literature included with my ransom note, SFMOMA stayed open late on Thursday. It was Thursday. I phoned Henry.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Reading.”

  “Good. So you’re not busy,” I said.

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “SFMOMA.”

  Forty-five minutes and twenty-four dollars later,1 Henry and I strolled among the permanent collection. Henry liked to stop and stare for a long time at each piece. Me, I liked to grab all the free pamphlets I could get my hands on and attempt to memorize as many artists’ works as I could, just in case my blackmailer decided that a quiz was in order.

  I can’t say that I was 100 percent bored, but Henry’s extended viewing started to get on my nerves.

  “Okay, let’s move this show along,” I said after I timed him staring at a Jackson Pollock2 piece for thirty-four seconds.

  An hour and a half later, Henry and I exited the building on Third Street and found a diner a few blocks away. Over a grilled chicken salad (for Henry) and a burger and fries (for me), we did what I suppose most people do after taking in some culture. I considered this practice overly time consuming: Look at art and then talk about art. I don’t see why people can’t look and talk at the same time.

  “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Henry asked.

  “It was okay,” I replied. “These fries, however, are amazing. Are you sure you don’t want to try one?”

  Henry shook his head disappointedly. “Seriously, Isabel. Wasn’t there one piece of artwork that you liked?”

  “I guess I kind of dug that Rauschenberg guy.”