Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (39 page)

Sunday, January 8
1100 hrs

Fifteen minutes after we left Henry at the hospital, Rae and I pulled into my parents’ driveway at 1799 Clay Street just as Subject’s moving truck double-parked in front of the triplex next door.

Rae and I both registered the vehicle in our peripheral vision, but our attention was otherwise occupied.

“Get out of the car,” I said, unlocking the doors.

“No,” Rae replied stoically.

“Are you planning on sitting in the car all day?”

“No. I’m planning on taking the bus back to the hospital.”

Rae remained still, but I knew she was about to make a run for it. I picked up my cell and dialed the house.

My father answered. “Hello.”

“Dad, we have a situation.”

“Where are you?”

“In the driveway. I think I’m going to need backup.”

Just as my sentence was complete, Rae hopped out of the car and jetted down the block. She would have made it too. She would have found a way to the hospital before we could stop her. She would have returned to Henry Stone’s room and I would have broken my promise.

But our new neighbor, unwittingly, gave Henry a twelve-hour reprieve. Just as Rae was jetting along the sidewalk in front of his new residence, the still-unknown male carrying two file boxes stepped out of his U-Haul truck and blocked her path. It happened in an instant. The human crash. Bodies flew to the ground, boxes tipped over, files scattered like a deck of cards, and a few individual papers floated in the air.

My father and mother exited the house in time to witness only the aftermath.

“What happened?” my mother asked, turning to me.

“She ran him over,” I replied, “literally.”

“Not again.”

There were no serious injuries visible to the naked eye. Subject, who had yet to introduce himself, took the brunt of the impact. Rae kind of bounced off the side of the file boxes like a cartoon character and fell smack on her behind. She quickly jumped to her feet and dusted herself off. My first opinion of the unknown male as he lay on the ground, woozy from what was apparently the second head injury Rae had inflicted that day, was that our new neighbor had a certain something, enough of a something for me to contemplate Ex-boyfriend possibilities. Not that he was really my neighbor; I didn’t live at home anymore, but perhaps it was time for more regular visits.

I estimated the age of Subject, who was splayed on the sidewalk, to be approximately thirty. He was about six feet even, with sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, and an easy tan, the kind I myself have never been able to attain. What the still-unknown male did next I found curious. No, I found it suspicious.

He didn’t check his body for cuts or bruises. He didn’t look to his attacker (Rae) for an explanation. His eyes darted around, noting only the papers encircling him. He grabbed at them as if they were stock certificates or hundred-dollar notes and quickly returned all loose items to the boxes and shut the lids. Only after he performed several three-hundred-and-sixty degree scans of his immediate vicinity, and satisfied himself that he’d caught all the loose pages did he turn to my family and acknowledge our existence.

He first cast his eyes on Rae. The prior focus during his minute-ago treasure hunt softened, and a smile formed on his face.

“What’s the hurry?” he said to my sister.

“I have to get back to the hospital.”

“Why?” Subject asked. Unfortunately.

Rae, unable to respond to any question without the precise answer, said, “Today I almost accidentally murdered my best friend.”

“I wasn’t aware you could accidentally murder someone. I thought the accidental causing of death was called manslaughter.”

“Thank you,” my mother said pleasantly. She’s all for other people educating her children, as you’ve probably figured out by now.

“Well, then I almost accidentally manslaughtered my best friend today and I want to get back to the hospital to see him.”

“That’s redundant, Rae,” said my dad.

“But he doesn’t want to see her,” I said to Subject, who was appearing more and more perplexed.

“You don’t know that,” my sister replied snappishly.

“I do,” I said. “He asked me to keep you away.”

“We’ll see about that,” Rae said, and I could tell from the way her eyes darted about that she was planning another escape.

My father noted Rae’s body language out of the corner of his eye and put his arm around her, holding her in place. Then Dad broke the tension with the stranger by finally making introductions.

“Hi, it seems we are your new neighbors. I’m Albert Spellman, this is my wife, Olivia, my older daughter, Isabel, and this one here, trying to make her getaway, is Rae.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m John Brown.”

If the obsessive paper-gathering wasn’t enough, my suspicion grew the moment I heard Subject’s name. John Brown. It was so common, too common, conveniently common. For the private investigator the common name is the kiss of death. Unless we have a social security number or a date and location of birth, it might be impossible to acquire any true background information on an individual with a name such as that.

John. Brown. According to the 1990 census, “John” is the second most common male name in the United States and “Brown” is the fifth most common surname. The only thing worse would be if he were named James Smith. But as I’ve said before, I find everyone suspicious. And, once again, I get ahead of myself. On Sunday, January 8, John Brown was far down the list of things demanding my attention. My mother, my sister, my father, and my best friend’s unusual behavior were all in the lead.

I
keep lists. They’re kind of like to-do lists, but I’ve already done them. They can document habits, crimes, or relationships (see appendix for complete list of ex-boyfriends). I had always found that the simple list form worked for me. It was clear, concise, and easily folded up into a single-page reference sheet. However, recently I had discovered the need to document suspicious behavior. My habit was to jot down notes shortly before bed or when thoughts came to me in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, the next morning, I would often find cryptic Post-its blanketing my nightstand.

You get the point. My suspicious behavior notes required reports. So I purchased a notebook and took the time to elaborate on my subjects, who happened to be, for the most part, family members. I wrote my first complete suspicious behavior report the night after I met the neighbor Subject—John Brown—although that particular report had nothing to do with Subject.

After dropping my sister off in the afternoon, I returned to the Spellman house that evening for the latest installment of recently implemented Sunday night dinners. These began shortly after David’s wedding to my long-time best friend, Petra. The wedding occurred a year ago (from the date of Arrest #2 or #4) after four months of sneaking around behind my back and three months of open dating. Apparently David didn’t think I would approve. I didn’t back then. In fact, I thought Petra could do better than my freakishly attractive, intellectually superior, and all-around charming brother. Anyway, I got over it and grew to fully appreciate that family gatherings include my vandalism buddy from years past. See, Petra was as much a delinquent as I was. Now she’s a hairstylist, married to a respectable lawyer, and sometimes she seems almost respectable herself.

That evening, suspicious behavior must have been in the air, because I noticed it from every single family member.

I’ll begin with Petra. In case the suspicious element isn’t obvious to you, I’ve put an asterisk next to the behavior in question with a brief explanation.

When Petra entered the house with my brother, she looked me over and said, “When’s the last time I saw you?”

“I think it’s been about two weeks.”

“I can’t believe I let it get so bad,” she said, referring to my hair.

“Relax, it’s just hair.”

“Don’t belittle my profession.”

“Sorry.”

Petra excused us to administer my quarterly haircut. When she removed her sweater I noticed a new tattoo of a rose (how original) where Puff the Magic Dragon used to reside before he was eliminated with a laser last year. In fact, Petra eliminated several of her tattoos when she and my brother began dating. The arrival of a new tattoo is asterisk worthy.

“What is that?” I asked.

“It’s called a tattoo,” Petra replied with the tone of a kindergarten teacher.

“But you just had a bunch of them removed.”

“And your point is?”

“If I were your skin, I’d stage a revolt,” I said.

“The space just looked empty.”

“What does David think?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Petra replied snappishly. “It’s my skin.”* [No argument from me on that point, but the response seemed more hostile than necessary.]

“Since I’ve got you alone,” Petra said, changing the subject, “let me ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Are David and your mother in a fight?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because she doesn’t call as much as she used to, and the last time she called, it sounded like they were having an argument, and then David hung up on her, or at least it sounded like he did.”* [David and my mother do not fight. David does not hang up on my mother. I cannot recall the last conflict they’ve had.]

“That was a mistake.”

“So you haven’t heard about any conflict?”

“No, but I’ll look into it for you.”

Over dinner, I spotted the next subject of my report: Dad. He arrived late with a yoga mat* under his arm, sat down at the table, and asked David to pass the salad.* All eyes were on Dad, since this suspicious behavior was the most suspicious of all.

“Honey, were you just at a yoga class?” my mom asked.

“Yes,” Dad replied.

My mother, too stunned and pleased that my father was—even for a single day—considering his health, opted against any further discussion for fear of discouraging him.

What followed was a brief discussion about Rae’s almost manslaughter, but I drew that conversation to a close since, frankly, I was sick of it.

“We’ve decided to take a couple of disappearances this year,” my mother casually said over an incredibly bland turkey loaf. “Aunt Grace left us some money that she wanted used specifically for leisure activities.”
¹

“You’ve never mentioned that before,” David interjected.

“We don’t tell you everything, David. Just as you don’t tell us everything,” my mother replied sharply.* [There was clearly a hostile subtext here that I was not privy to. Further investigation would be required.]

This might be a good time to explain how “disappearance” came to mean “vacation” in the Spellman household.

Almost two years ago to the date of this dinner, my sister went missing. As I explained before, it was a dramatic yet somewhat effective move to bring the family together again. It was also a terrifying ordeal that left every Spellman physically and emotionally drained and somewhat bitter toward my younger sibling. Rae, sensing the quiet hostility and wanting it to simply go away, began referring to this disturbing event as her “vacation.” She’d casually exchange the two words in the following manner:

“When is the last time you went to the dentist, Rae?”

“Uh, I think it was a couple weeks after my vacation.”

My parents attempted to disabuse her of this word exchange, but Rae refused in a feeble attempt to rewrite history. My parents’ response to this was to exchange the word “vacation” for “disappearance” so that Rae would never forget. Hence, if Rae uses the word “vacation,” she is often referring to her five-day absence during winter almost two years ago. If my parents use the word “disappearance,” they are most likely referring to taking a vacation
²
of their own.

Over a dessert of fresh fruit for my dad and ice cream for the rest, the main point of discussion was whether Rae would be allowed to stay home alone at the Clay Street house during my parents’ disappearances. What followed was a brief discussion of taking Rae along with them on a summer cruise, but when Rae said she’d take a vacation
³
to get out of the disappearance, my parents backed down.

The final suspicious behavior of the night was when Rae’s cell phone rang. She picked up on the first ring and said hello. She then turned to Mom and asked to be excused.

After she left the table, my dad said, “We might need to implement some telephone etiquette with her. She’s becoming a regular phone hound.”

“Who’s she talking to?” I asked.

“She has some friends* now,” my mother replied. [To date, my sister has had only a few acquaintances, who she would see on rare occasions for study and even rarer occasions for a birthday party or movie. But actual friends with whom she might enjoy a casual conversation over the phone were an extremely rare occurrence.]

The evening ended with Rae on the phone, ignoring the family; my father sipping herbal tea; my mother sending David off with a cool “good night”; and Petra bidding an uncomfortable adieu after being oddly silent during dinner.* [I made a note to ask her about this at a later date.]