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

  Then there was the knocking again. I was closer to the door this time, so I can say with 100 percent certainty that the knock was for me.

  What was I supposed to do? I had only two options: 1) Ignore the knock and let unknown events unfold as they might, or 2) answer the door. Frankly, I had been living in a state of uncertainty for so long, I don’t think I could have taken much more. I answered the damn door.

  David stood there in his bathrobe, holding a cup of coffee.

  “Hi,” I said, because, really, what else can you say under this precise set of circumstances?

  “Hi,” David casually replied. “Do you want some coffee?”

  Dumbfounded, I took the offering. I took a sip of the coffee to kill some time and think of something, anything, to say.

  “How long have you known?” I asked.

  “I’ve known all along,” David replied.

  Long, long pause.

  “So, are you my blackmailer?”

  Twenty minutes later, David and I were sitting in his kitchen drinking coffee and eating breakfast while I grilled him about the details of my secret sublet. It wasn’t entirely true that David had known all along. It took him approximately three days to notice my presence below him. Here were his clues: The sound of footsteps in the middle of the night, the occasional drop in water pressure when he took a shower, and the time his neighbor Tom asked him how his new tenant was working out. Also, my soundproof closet phone booth apparently tunnels conversations directly into his kitchen pantry.

  It had been over a month since David’s return. I had to ask the obvious question:

  “Why didn’t you kick me out?”

  David shrugged his shoulders. “It seemed like you were going through a rough time—no job, the therapy, who knows what else? I figured you were broke or would be soon, and your only other option was to move back in with Mom and Dad. That didn’t seem like a good idea.”

  His response was so out of character it was jarring; it took me some time to form words.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll get out of here soon. I promise,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” David replied.

  “You’re being suspiciously nice,” I said.

  “I’m your brother. I’m going to be nice on random occasions.”

  “Thanks. But I’m trying to understand why this time you were so nice.”

  “Honestly, because you were so, so…pathetic.”

  “True,” I replied.

  “You need to take a shower,” David said.

  It had been three days. I couldn’t argue with him.

  “Right,” I replied.

  And then I noticed that while David appeared clean and well—his health and arm repaired from his wilderness adventure mishap—he was still home in his bathrobe at 11:55 A.M. on a weekday.

  “What day is it?” I asked.

  “Wednesday,” David replied.

  “You’re still not at work,” I said, begging for an explanation.

  “A natural detective, you are,” David replied. I think he was debating whether to speak the truth or concoct an untruth. I think we were all coming to the conclusion that the truth was actually easier to live with.

  “I quit my job,” he said.1

  “No!” I replied.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I didn’t care about it. If I’m going to work seventy hours a week, it should matter, right?”

  “Right,” I replied. “Do Mom and Dad know?”

  “Not yet. So keep your mouth shut.”

  “Sure thing,” I said. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “More coffee?” David asked. He didn’t wait for a response; he just poured me another cup.

  “So, are you or are you not my blackmailer?” I asked.

  THERAPY SESSION #20

  [Partial transcript reads as follows:]

  ISABEL: Sorry I missed my session Monday.

  DR. RUSH: Would you like to tell me why?

  ISABEL: I was depressed.

  DR. RUSH: That’s a good reason to come to therapy.

  ISABEL: I couldn’t get out of bed.

  DR. RUSH: Are you better now?

  ISABEL: I’m out of bed.

  DR. RUSH: What sent you to bed in the first place?

  ISABEL: Friends were leaving. People are changing, but I’m sort of staying the same.

  DR. RUSH: Are you sure about that?

  ISABEL: I don’t know. The great thing about staying in bed is that nothing happens then. You know?

  DR. RUSH: Things still happen.

  ISABEL: But I can pretend they don’t.

  DR. RUSH: Pretending will only get you so far.

  [Long pause.]

  ISABEL: My father left five voice mail messages on my cell phone when I was sleeping or half asleep. The first time he asked me to lunch, I assumed it was so he could remind me that time was running out on my big decision. But when he called me again, he said we didn’t have to talk about my big decision. But he still asked me to lunch. What is it with him and lunch?

  DR. RUSH: What do you think it is?

  ISABEL: Maybe he’s really hungry.

  DR. RUSH: [impatiently] You must have a theory beyond that.

  ISABEL: Not really.

  DR. RUSH: [sigh] Isabel.

  ISABEL: Look, I know. People think I don’t see things beyond the surface, but I do. I see it. My dad is getting older; he doesn’t want any regrets. I know he loves me and I know he cares about what happens to me. I don’t exactly dislike spending time with my father, but he always wants to know how I’m doing deep down. Sometimes I don’t want to think about that.

  DR. RUSH: What happens when you do?

  ISABEL: For instance, my job. When I think about doing it for the rest of my life, it makes me think not just about the job and how I feel about that, but the rest of my life. And then I think, Is this it? And when I ask myself that, I’m not even sure I’m thinking about the job.

  DR. RUSH: What are you thinking about?

  ISABEL: Life and death and that sort of thing.

  DR. RUSH: That covers a lot of ground.

  ISABEL: I know.

  DR. RUSH: Maybe you need to break it down.

  ISABEL: I have. This week I’m only thinking about my big decision.

  DR. RUSH: Have you come to one?

  ISABEL: I just need to figure out this case I’m working on. If I can solve the case, I’ll know what to do.

  DR. RUSH: Why is this case so important?

  ISABEL: Most of the job is pretty basic. I sit behind a computer and research someone’s past, someone’s criminal record, or I follow a person around and try to catch him or her doing something they’re not supposed to be doing. But every once in a while a case comes along that demands more, and I need to be sure that I can handle it the right way. Sometimes the answer isn’t everything.

  DR. RUSH: Where are you on this case?

  ISABEL: Nowhere. I’m certain there’s something to figure out, but I don’t know what.

  [Long pause.]

  DR. RUSH: Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?

  ISABEL: My secret has been exposed.

  DR. RUSH: Oh, good.

  ISABEL: It’s a load off my mind.

  DR. RUSH: You’re referring to the secret about where you were living, right?

  ISABEL: Right.

  DR. RUSH: So?

  ISABEL: I guess I can tell you now. I was living in my brother’s secret basement apartment.

  DR. RUSH: Why would that be a secret?

  ISABEL: Two reasons: A) At first, I didn’t know this apartment existed, and B) because he didn’t know I was living in it.

  DR. RUSH: You were living in your brother’s apartment without his permission?

  ISABEL: Yes. And he wasn’t as angry as I thought he’d be. He was pretty decent about the whole thing. I apologized, in
case you were wondering.

  DR. RUSH: It sounds like an apology was in order.

  ISABEL: It was.

  DR. RUSH: I hope you’ve stopped investigating him.

  ISABEL: I have. But mostly because I ran out of steam. It turns out David just sort of changed. There was no big turning point behind it, besides his divorce, which I already knew about.

  DR. RUSH: Why do you seem so surprised? People change all the time. You’ve probably changed more than you think.

  ISABEL: I don’t know about that.

  [Short pause.]

  DR. RUSH: Something else on your mind?

  ISABEL: David wasn’t my blackmailer.

  DR. RUSH: Could it have been someone else in your family?

  ISABEL: I questioned everyone and each one denied it, even after my secret was revealed. The Spellmans, like any fringe political organization, like to take credit for their crimes. There would be no benefit in denial. Besides, the terms of the blackmail never seemed to fit anyone’s MO.

  DR. RUSH: Could it be someone outside your family?

  ISABEL: Morty was too busy and I don’t believe he has the hand dexterity to cut and paste—

  [Long pause.]

  DR. RUSH: Isabel?

  ISABEL: I know who it is.

  TWO CAR CHASES AND A BUDDHIST TEMPLE

  On my way home from therapy, I was followed once again. Since my only scheduled activity was my weekly session with Dr. Rush, I had to assume that my pursuers had learned this fact and used it to track me down. Otherwise, if you think about it, I’m a pretty difficult person to find.

  The vehicle shadowing me was a green Ford Taurus, driven undoubtedly by one of Harkey’s men. He was good. I tried to lose him, but I couldn’t without breaking some major traffic laws or getting into an accident. Allow me to cut to the end of the chase. Twenty minutes after the pursuit began, I parked in Lower Haight and entered Petra’s hair salon.

  “I need a wig, new clothes, and your car keys,” I said to Petra as I entered.

  Petra, without asking for details, tossed the keys to me from her pocket and said, “I’m parked around the corner on Steiner. You know where to find the rest.”

  I entered the back room of the salon, the smell of shampoo and chemicals burning my nostrils, and searched through the lost-and-found items and Petra’s personal collection of wigs.1 I chose an auburn shag cut and a faux fur coat with black sunglasses. When I entered the front room, Petra looked at me and said, “I think we found your next look.”

  I offered her my car keys in exchange and told her she could reach me on my cell.

  I exited the storefront and walked down the street. My challenge was to ascertain whether I was being followed without appearing in any way suspicious. Regular people don’t walk down the street looking over their shoulder.2

  As I approached Petra’s car, I looked into her driver’s side mirror to see if the Taurus was anywhere in the vicinity. Nothing. After I drove away, I knew I was free. My escape was just the thing I needed to lift my spirits.

  Two minutes later

  My mother phoned.

  “I need you to pick up Rae from a Buddhist temple in Marin.”

  I wasn’t really sure where to begin, so I started with an easy question.

  “Why can’t you get her?”

  “Dad and I are on surveillance right now,” Mom said.

  I moved on to a slightly more difficult question: “Why can’t she return the same way she got there?”

  “Because she doesn’t want to come home,” Mom replied. “She only called me so I wouldn’t worry.”

  And then the hard question: “What’s she doing at a Buddhist temple?”

  Mom’s reply: “Don’t ask.”

  My mother text-messaged the address to my phone and I took Petra’s car across the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Thirty-five minutes later

  I entered the Buddhist Temple of Marin, interrupting a beginning meditation class my sister was attending. The instructor, a warm and peaceful gentleman in robes, invited me to join the group. In a perfect world I would have said in a loud, abrasive tone, “Get your stuff, Rae; we’re out of here,” but I could tell by the way Rae was pretending to meditate yet peeking out of one eye at me and my wig, that she would have refused to move. I didn’t want to disrupt whatever level of calm the other attendees had reached, so I sat down next to my sister, shoving her over just a bit, and followed the monk’s instructions.

  I breathed and stuff for the next twenty minutes, which I have to admit took the edge off my anger at Rae. When the class was over, I said to her, “You know, they’ve got places just like this in the city.”

  “Oh, so now you’re talking to me again?” Rae said.

  “No, I’m not,” I replied.

  “What’s with the getup?” she asked.

  We walked to the car in silence.

  To be obnoxious, Rae then twisted her legs into a pretzel on the car seat, rested her hands on her knees, and began chanting, “Ommmmm…ommmmm…ommmmm,” until interrupted.

  “Meditate on your own time!” I said.

  I delivered Rae to an empty Spellman house. She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, saying she was going to center herself.3 I then phoned Petra to arrange our car swap.

  We met at Crissy Field, in part because it was a nice-enough day and Petra wanted to see the water, but also because there are ample parking spaces there. Without any fear of being followed, Petra and I strolled along the beach and caught each other up on our current events.

  “I still don’t understand why Rae was at a Buddhist temple,” Petra said.

  “She thinks her schoolwork is suffering because she’s under stress. Hence the meditation class. At least I think that’s why she was there, based on the conversation I overheard between her and the monk. I’m not speaking to her, so my information isn’t firsthand. I’m tired of talking about Rae. Your turn,” I said.

  I’ll spare you the sappy details, even though I was not spared. Petra and Gabe think they’re in love. She’s taken up skateboarding and he’s taken up leave-in conditioner. It’s been only three weeks since he got his first haircut. I think you need at least six weeks, or two haircuts, to know for sure. I’d like to say that my ease with Petra had reverted to that of our old partners-in-crime days, but it hadn’t. We had grown up (sort of) and grown apart. I was never sure how to relate to her after the divorce. She was my best friend, but she cheated on my brother and it changed him. I had spent years being jealous of David’s perfection, but I was always comfortable with my role, envying and resenting him. To see my brother sad and confused, well, I didn’t know how to behave when faced with that. Petra changed everything and I found that our relationship became too sticky to dust off. If we were young and had a mutual enemy’s car to vandalize, I’m sure we could have erased the tension. But today I wasn’t sure when—or if—it would completely vanish.

  Petra and I returned to our cars and swapped keys in midair. We said a vague “I’ll see you around” good-bye. I told her to invite me to the wedding. I got in my car, took Bay Street up to Van Ness, made a right turn, and then noticed that I was being followed yet again. This was my own fault. I assumed that when my pursuers saw Petra get into my car, they would stop the tail. I guess they weren’t as stupid as I thought, and apparently I must have been more important than I thought.

  Car Chase #I-don’t-know-anymore4

  I’d love to tell you that I took Harkey’s goon in the green Taurus on a Bullitt-style pursuit through the streets of San Francisco, culminating in a top-speed chase down Lombard Street, but I didn’t. First of all, car chases are dangerous; second, there’s usually a line backed up for Lombard; and third, I had another idea that I figured would save me some time.

  I drove to my parents’ house, parked in the driveway, and watched television until my mom and dad came home.

  When the Unit came through the door, my dad looked at me and
said, “We have company,” nodding his head in the direction of the street.

  “I know,” I replied. “Mom, could you distract him for a minute while I skip out through the back?”

  While my mom offered Harkey’s surveillance guy a cup of coffee and chatted with him about the weather, I exited through a side window and cut across a neighbor’s backyard to the next street over. I then took a leisurely stroll back to David’s house.

  ARE YOU MY BLACKMAILER?

  Connor had left a message on my cell phone while I was waiting for my parents to return home. He said there was another letter for me at the bar. I would have preferred avoiding the barman altogether, but I wanted the letter, just so I had one final piece of ammunition against my blackmailer.

  I took a bus and train to the Philosopher’s Club, because—if you recall—my car was still located at my parents’ house. When I arrived, the bar had a modest crowd, a population unseen at this hour, on this day of the week, during Milo’s long tenure.

  Connor was tending bar by his lonesome. I wasn’t sure what to expect after the incident, but Connor simply handed me an envelope, same as before. I avoided eye contact; he didn’t.

  “Ya can’t blame a man fur tryin,” he said pleasantly.

  I smiled and said, “No, you can’t.”

  I left the bar and hailed a cab to find my true blackmailer.

  On the cab ride I opened the envelope and read my final note:

  The Symphony Is Next

  U Might Want 2

  Buy Ur Tickets Now

  My blackmailer opened the door. I crumpled the ransom note and threw it at his chest.

  “Isabel, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “You can drop the act,” I said. “I know it’s you.”

  I pushed my way past Henry and checked the apartment to make sure we were alone.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked with a perfectly innocent delivery.

  “You are my blackmailer,” I said, looking Henry in the eye.

  It was my hope that he wouldn’t deny it, since I had no hard evidence.

  Henry smiled, full of himself. “You got me.”

  “Why did you make me wash my dad’s car?” I asked.

  “It was dirty and I wanted to throw you off the scent.”

  “Bravo.”

  “Thanks.”