Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (121 page)

Rae phoned me later that night.

“Izzy?”

“Hi, Rae.”

“Something is wrong.”

“Please don’t ask me for a ride. I’m busy.”

“I’m home.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I went downstairs to grab a snack and I caught Mom in the pantry crying.”

“Mom was crying?”

“Like really hard.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I went back to my room. Should I have done something? What do you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think she was crying about the salsa dancing? I know I would.”

“I think that probably wasn’t it,” I replied.

“Is something bad happening?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, the usual bad stuff. Somebody is sick. She and Dad are getting a divorce.”

“They’re not getting a divorce.”

“How do you know?” Rae replied.

“Who else would have them?”

“Good point. But she was crying really hard, Izzy.”

“Sometimes people cry, Rae.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to come over there?” I asked.

“No. It’s late. But I’m still hungry and I think Mom’s still in the kitchen.”

“Don’t you have anything stashed in your room?”

“No. Wait. Oh yeah. I have those leftover Doritos from the camping trip in my desk.”

“You really shouldn’t keep open bags of food in your bedroom, Rae. You’re going to get ants and then you’ll never get rid of them.”

“Okay, good-bye.”

Most of my conversations with Rae end with that simple cutoff. When she decides a conversation is over, it’s over. Was I worried about my mother’s flood of tears? Yes. But everyone cries sometimes. I’ve been known to cry when I can’t find coffee. Every once in a while a thought hits you and you’re unprepared for it and suddenly it seems like your world is coming to an end. Most of the time it isn’t. That’s not to say I didn’t register this episode as another clue in a vague mystery, but I wasn’t too worried. At least, not yet.

Shortly after my conversation with Rae, I got another call that set off sirens in my head.

“Izzeee,” Bernie
¹
said. That’s how he says my name, as if I’m the star member of his favorite football team.

“Hi, Bernie,” I said dully. He’s not even a benchwarmer on any of my imaginary teams.

“What are you doing?” Bernie asked.

“Nothing,” I replied.

“Been there, done that.”

“How’s everything with Daisy
²
?” I asked, because when things aren’t good with Daisy, they’re also not good with my living situation.

“Everything’s great. We’re coming to the city next week.”

“What hotel are you staying in?” I inquired nervously.

“The Travelodge on Lombard.”

“Excellent choice!” I said with a little too much enthusiasm.

“I’m taking Daisy to see
Beach Blanket Babylon
. Can you believe she’s never seen it?”

“Yes, I can.”
³

“Maybe we can meet up for some clam chowder,” Bernie said.

“Maybe,” I replied. Translation: only under the threat of imminent death.

“Catch you later, Izzee.”

“I hope not.”

Phone calls with Bernie always drain my energy. I like it when Bernie stays in Vegas, because when he does, other things seem to stay there as well. Like trouble, for instance. I couldn’t tell you how I knew it—just a feeling in my gut—but nothing good was going to come from Bernie’s visit.

I
spotted Rule #40 on the board as I entered the Spellman offices. No one vetoed it, because really, how can you veto manners? My father pretended it was a general reminder, Rae curtsied on her way out the door, and I later inquired as to the specifics.

First you must know something about the Spellmans. We like nuts—cashews, almonds, macadamia nuts, mixed nuts, but especially pistachios. My mother had recently taken to leaving a bowl of pistachio nuts on the bar that separates the kitchen from the living room. This was the first time other than a holiday party that the nuts were just sitting there for the taking. Someone was leaving the shells inside the bowl with the uncorrupted nuts, which really got under my mother’s skin. She was so determined to nail the culprit, I found her setting up a hidden camera to capture the evidence. My mother’s a private investigator. This is what she does. And, sure, there have been many occasions on which she’s used such tactics to uncover benign infractions, like who’s left the porch light on or the garage door open, drunk the last of the milk, etc. Our work instincts cannot be left in the office, especially when the office is inside the family home. However, something about Mom was off these days and I wanted to get to the bottom of it.

Later that afternoon, after completing a few hours of work, I tried to launch into a casual conversation. I’m sure you will admire my subtlety.

“You feeling all right, Mom?”

“Why do you ask?”

“How about answering the question?”

“Maybe I would if it weren’t presented with that attitude.”

“Mom, you’re not yourself, and that concerns me because even your normal self is a tad on the unpredictable side.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Well, there was that ‘literature’
¹
and the DVD.”

“What your father and I do on our own time is none of your business,” Mom replied.

“Okay, what about bringing up sex therapy at dinner the other night?” I said as a reminder.

“I don’t want David to screw this up.”

“I’d rephrase that if I were you.”

“I’m his mother and I have the right to meddle, just as I meddle with you and just as I meddle with Rae. One day I won’t be here to meddle and you’ll miss me.”

“And then the three of us will unite as a band of traveling bank robbers and all hell will break loose.”

“Something like that,” Mom replied.

After a long pause, enough time for a topic change to not be too jarring, I asked, “Is everything all right with you and Dad?” I asked.

“Of course. We’re fine. I have no complaints. Well, I’d like him to drop another ten pounds, but with the holidays coming up, I don’t see that happening. And I wish you’d break up with that thug. And I wish that Rae would get a haircut. Well, I have some complaints. But none is all that severe.”

“You should take down the pistachio cam, Mom. In this house we don’t need any more invasions of privacy.”

“Fine,” said Mom, “but that’s the end of the pistachios.”

“I understand,” I replied.
²

My next order of business was to subtly and sensitively inquire into the matter of my mother crying in the kitchen late at night. I assume you’ve gathered by now that subtle and sensitive are not in my regular playbook. How about an A for effort?

“I heard you were crying in the kitchen the other night.”

“How’d you hear that?”

“It was caught on your pistachio cam.”

My mother didn’t think that was funny at all.

“Sorry,” I said. “Rae saw you. It upset her. Then she told me. If it were Aunt Martie
³
I wouldn’t think twice. But you’re not a crier. So is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes,” my mother said, stopping short of saying more. The thing is, people don’t always say more with me, for obvious reasons. I had to push harder and yet with more sensitivity. Not an easy feat.

“If you wanted to elaborate, I would respond in an appropriate manner.”

My mother stared at her computer screen, but there were only floating fish to hold her attention.

“A friend from high school died. I got an e-mail about it.”

“Who?”

“Martha Givens.”

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”
⁴

“No. I hadn’t seen her in years. But she was in my class and she died of natural causes. A heart attack while she was sleeping. It made me sad, that’s all. Got me thinking about my own mortality, which I rarely consider. You were always a perennial teenager. I was always middle-aged. I keep forgetting you’re thirty-two. Oh my god, you’re thirty-two. Speaking of your shortening lifespan and unmarried status—”

“We weren’t actually speaking of that.”

“Have you found your next lawyer?”

“Would you look at the time?”

“Wait, don’t go. I’ll change the subject.”

“What?” I said.

“I need you to do me a favor. I have a seven o’clock meeting with the new Zylor HR person. Somebody needs to pick up Rae from Maggie’s office tonight.”

“How about a bus driver?” I suggested.

“Please, Isabel. Also, I don’t know if it would hurt matters if you could maybe say something to Maggie to smooth things over. You know, with Sunday-night dinner and all.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I replied.

“Really?” Mom said, looking for reassurance.

“There’s no way those giant beavers are coming back.”

I agreed to pick up Rae from Maggie’s office but grew suspicious when I learned that Rae had already arranged for a ride there from school. I decided to swing by Garfield High School to make sure Rae Spellman was no longer using the Logan Engle Car Service.

It was easier to keep watch on the BMW, so I found a post that gave me a clear view of Logan’s car. When he got in and drove off alone, my work was done.

Only, as I was driving away, I caught Rae with that cyclist guy again, and while I had no intention of following them or infringing on their privacy in any way, I did pull out my digital camera, focus with the zoom lens, and take several high-definition shots of the pair looking remarkably cozy. Just as I was pondering how Rae was planning on getting home, David pulled up in front of the school.

When his car came into view, Rae and the cyclist took on the roles of complete strangers. My sister casually walked over to my brother’s vehicle and my siblings departed. Briefly I considered that Rae had dirt on David and that was why he was driving her, but I followed them a short distance (just a few blocks; don’t judge me!) and realized that they were headed to Maggie’s office. Everything made sense now, except for the secret boyfriend. But that was none of my business and I was done investigating family members. For the day, at least.

Maggie and Rae were celebrating over Jelly Bellies and root beer. Their appeal had been successful—Levi Schmidt’s case was reopened. The crime lab was currently testing for any leftover DNA evidence. Barring any laboratory or storage mishaps, there was an excellent chance that science could free Schmidt, although Rae would take all the credit.

When my sister started to appear drunk off the sugar, Maggie cut her off and reminded Rae that she had to refocus her energy on the upcoming SATs. As we were leaving, I asked Maggie if she had any concerns that she needed to voice.

“I’m fine,” she casually replied.

It seemed impossible that someone could be casual in the aftermath of Sunday night’s dinner, but I took her at her word.

“If you have any problem with my mother, let me know.”

Rae, who had taken my car keys, started honking the horn.

“There’s only one Spellman who scares me,” Maggie said, eyeing Rae through the office window. “That one.”

I couldn’t argue with her.

I
t’s remarkable how quickly seven days can pass. I had to admit, I was ready to author a rule that limited Sunday-night dinners to every other Sunday. There’s only so much bland food and conflict-laden conversation that a person should be expected to tolerate. And since I worked at the house all week, it seemed especially cruel to make me show up on Sunday.

When I arrived, Mom had burned a roast and called out for pizza. Rae, I was told, was in her room celebrating. This seemed as good a time as any to clear up the situation behind Mom’s crying jag, so I knocked on Rae’s door, although I didn’t wait for an invitation to enter.

She was hanging upside down off her bed and in the midst of a conversation.

“All I did was turn up the oven to five hundred degrees for an hour and then turn it down. Voilà, pizza. That’s how it’s done—”

My entrance interrupted her sentence, but at least now the roast mystery was solved (Mom’s roasts are not exactly good, but the woman knows how to follow a recipe).

“Got to go,” Rae said, and then she quickly ended the call.

“I knocked,” I said.

“Then you wait for an invitation,” Rae replied. “That’s how it’s done.”

“I have information,” I said. “I figured you’d be interested.”

Rae sat upright. “Shoot.”

“Don’t worry about Mom,” I said. “She’s okay. An old friend died.”

“What friend?” Rae asked.

“Martha Givens.”

“From high school?”

“Yes.”

“I heard about that,” Rae said.

“Well, then, mystery solved.”

“No.
Not
solved. I was there when Mom got the e-mail from Aunt Martie. Martha Givens was the superhero of bitches. She and Mom liked the same guy—his name was Benjamin something—”

“Ben Frankel. That’s Uncle Ben.
¹
You know, the guy who always wears sock garters.”

“Mom and Uncle Ben used to go out?” Rae asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh my god,”
she said, and then she made that hairball face and shivered. “First let me clear that image from my head.”

Rae closed her eyes and breathed. Then she continued.

“So after some guy named Ben and Mom started going out,” Rae said, “Martha put drain cleaner in Mom’s shampoo. But Mom smelled it first, so nothing happened. But then Martha told all these lies about Mom.”

“Like what?”

“That Mom put out on the first date. You would have been like the school slut if you lived in Mom’s day,” Rae said.

“And you’d be in reform school,” I said. “Now back to Martha. So, they were
never
friends?”

“They were full-on enemies,” Rae replied. “I don’t think Mom wanted her dead, but I
know
that crying spree was not for the loss of a woman who tried to make her go bald.”

“Huh,” I said. Then it occurred to me that Mom was really a spectacular liar. This is a fact I have always known, but sometimes it’s good to take notice of a fresh reminder.