Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (44 page)

“Albert Spellman”

Rae departed after our MILFO/REAFO chat to make a phone call. As I ran a criminal check on Martha Baumgartner, executive assistant applicant, secretly hoping that she had been arrested at least one time in her forty-five years, Dad entered the office, hair still slightly damp—from his gym shower, I presume. Dad said hello, patted me on the head, and sat down behind his desk. Fifteen minutes passed in silence, until I noticed my father glancing in my direction more often than can be reasonably justified.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” I said.

“With all that charm it’s a crime you’re not yet married,” Dad mumbled sarcastically, and returned to his work.

Five minutes later, I caught him looking at me again. I narrowed my eyes and stared back at him.

“Can I ask you a question?” Dad asked.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I replied.

Long pause.

“Are you happy?” he asked sincerely.

“I’d be happier if you gave me a raise.”

“I’m not talking about money.”

“No, but I am.”

“Change. Of. Subject,” my father said in the tone of a demand.

“Fine,” I replied.

“Is this what you want to do with your life?” my dad asked. “Is this enough for you?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’ve been thinking lately,” he replied.

“A by-product of the new REAFO, no doubt.”

“I’m a complicated man, Isabel.”

“So you say.”

“It’s not too late for you,” Dad said, a little too seriously.

“Oh, good.”

“I mean, it’s not too late to do something different.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. You’re still young. You could go to medical school—”

“Dad, if you’re gunning to have a doctor in the family, you better work on Rae. Or David. He could be one of those total high-achieving freaks who earn both an MD and a JD. You know, I think I’d have more in common with a career bank robber than a doctor-slash-lawyer.”

My dad picked up a stack of papers from his desk and gave me a disappointed stare.

“I know you’re very proud of your truly spectacular defense mechanisms, but I swear sometimes it’s impossible to have a simple conversation with you.”

Dad walked out of the room, in a moderate huff. REAFOs (and MILFOs) had never typically taken the form of hostility. This might have been something else entirely.

Monday, January 16
1300 hrs

Daniel Castillo, DDS, phoned the Spellman offices just as I began to tackle a two-foot stack of papers left on my desk to file.

“My three o’clock cancelled and you’re overdue for a cleaning. I’ll see you then,” he said, and then quickly hung up the phone. Daniel has learned that waiting for a response from me can only result in further conversation and negotiations. He discovered the wait-for-no-answer tactic sometime after our breakup and has been using it ever since. The key to his success is that once he hangs up, he won’t pick up his cell phone or accept any calls from me, rendering all communication impossible.

I like to reward innovation, and so I arrived at my appointment at 3
P.M
. sharp.
¹

“You’re late,” Daniel said.

“You never asked if I could make it on time.”

“Sit down.”

I sat down in the chair. Daniel put the paper bib on me and said, “Open up.”

“That’s it? No small talk? Don’t you want to ask me ‘What’s new?’ first?”

“All right,” Daniel said, reluctantly, “what’s new?”

“Well, Rae almost vehicular-manslaughtered her best friend, and I briefly had a sixty-five-year-old roommate, but now have temporarily moved back in with my parents. I think my Dad might be having his second REAFO, provisionally titled ‘Gym REAFO.’ And something’s up with my mom, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Speaking of your mother,” Daniel said, unmoved by my headline news, “tell her she’s overdue for a cleaning.”

“She was just in here a few days ago.”

“No, she wasn’t. I assure you, I remember when your mother visits.”
²

“Interesting. I’ll have to put that in my report.”

“Open up.”

“No. Now I say, ‘What’s new with you, Daniel?’”

“I’m engaged,” Daniel replied. “Open wide.”

Daniel mistook my gawk for acquiescence and promptly stuck the scaler and mirror in my mouth.

“Aat? En id at appen?”

“I proposed three weeks ago,” Daniel replied. He’s fluent in consonant-free cleaning speak.

“Onrayuashons.”

“Thank you.”

“Aaa oes eee ooo?”

“She’s a neurosurgeon. Rinse.”

I rinsed and said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“How is that funny?” Daniel replied, and stuck his fingers back in my mouth.

“Ard ooo splain.”

“Are you flossing regularly?”

“Uh huuhhh.”

“Was that a yes or no?”

“Esss!”

“Liar!” Daniel shouted, then modified his tone. “Rinse.”

I rinsed and said, “So what else can you tell me about her?”

“She’s a Latina, so my mother is thrilled. She’s an excellent tennis player, gourmet cook. What do you want to know?”

“Did she model to put herself through medical school?” I said sarcastically, which Daniel didn’t pick up on.

“Not that I’m aware of. Open up.”

“Ank odd.”

“But she was in the Olympics,” Daniel said, twisting the knife into my gut.

A
fter my teeth cleaning and reminder of my all-around mediocrity, I needed a stiff drink. I knew my bartender (yes,
my
bartender) would lend a sympathetic ear, so I headed over to the Philosopher’s Club.

“Do you want to be a neurosurgeon?” Milo asked, unsympathetically.

“No.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Forget it.”

“You want to be in the Olympics, that’s it?”

“I said forget it.”

“Forgotten,” Milo replied, gladly. “Oh, your sister came back here the other day.”

“When?”

“A couple of weeks ago. Forgot to mention it.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“She came in, ordered a drink, I told her to leave, and she phoned a cop to pick her up.”

“Henry?”

“I think that’s his name. Stiff-looking fellow. Doesn’t smile.”

“That’s the guy.”

“And then yesterday, he came into the bar by himself. He was asking about you. When you came in and stuff.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said you weren’t on a schedule. I figured I better be cagey, a cop coming in here asking questions.”

“I appreciate your concern, but relax. I’m not in trouble with the law.”
¹

F
or the five days following Bernie’s reentry into my life, I remained in the Spellman house, but I did not give up hope that soon my apartment would be mine again. The most direct approach I considered was reuniting Bernie and Daisy. On day three of my Bernie eviction, I phoned Daisy and suggested a reconciliation, citing Bernie’s devastation. Daisy then told her side of the story, which involved her husband of eighteen months clocking in close to thirty hours a week at the local strip club. She hung up on me when I recommended marriage counseling.

Shortly after my drink at Milo’s, I drove back to my apartment, thinking I might try a night at the address on my phone bill as a change of pace. I cast aside the tie on the doorknob and unlocked the deadbolt. I opened the door to a vision that I still cannot erase from my memory no matter how many bourbons I drink: Bernie, half naked, chasing Letty, a fifty-something woman with a bouffant hairdo and blue-eye-shadowed raccoon eyes, also half-naked, around the apartment, which in the last week had turned into a disaster zone.

I stared at the couple in utter disbelief.

“What the hell is going on, Bernie?”

“I’m entertaining a friend,” Bernie said, not even trying to cover up.

“Didn’t you see the tie on the door?”

“Yes,” I replied, averting my gaze from…
everything.

“What did you think it meant?”

“I thought it meant you were a slob.”

“In the future, roomie, the tie on the door means—”

“We have no future,” I replied, grabbing a suitcase out of the closet and heading into the bedroom. “I’m not coming back until you’re gone.”

I packed another suitcase and a backpack of clothes and told Bernie to call me when he was planning to vacate. He managed to even look sad as I slammed the door on my way out. In San Francisco a rent-controlled apartment is a goldmine and I had just lost my treasure. I accepted defeat in the moment but planned a series of far more drastic measures to win back my home.

“Olivia Spellman”

As I was driving up the block to the Clay Street house, with the clock on my dashboard reading 11:15
P.M
., I saw my mother pulling her car out of the driveway. I knew she wasn’t on the job and could come up with no reasonable explanation for her late-night venture, so I decided to tail her.

I stayed at least one car back the entire drive. Mom, in her nondescript Honda, was traveling at a leisurely just-above-the-speed-limit pace. She was clearly not tailing anyone, nor was she aware of being tailed. She took Gough to Market Street and Dolores Street over the hill into Noe Valley. She parked in an illegal corner spot and got out of her car. I double-parked, thinking Mom wasn’t planning a lengthy visit, and followed her down the block, scaling shrubbery the entire way.

From about twenty feet back, I saw my mother kneel down in front of a motorbike, unscrew the air caps on the tires, stick a pin inside, and let out all the air. She looked around nervously as she was accomplishing this simple act of vandalism and then quickly got up and walked briskly, but confidently, back to her car. I remained in the bushes watching her as she drove away.

“Henry Stone”

When you witness your mother vandalizing a motorbike for no apparent reason, there aren’t a whole lot of people you can discuss it with. I jotted down the address where the motorbike was parked and then returned to my car. It was too late to phone Petra, so I went to Milo’s, even though the last time I went to Milo’s his ear wasn’t as sympathetic as it used to be.

When I entered Henry was sitting at the bar, nursing a whiskey neat, and staring down at the counter. I nodded at Milo, who pulled a Guinness for me. I had begun ordering those lately because they take a really long time to serve and it annoys Milo. I also like the rich, soupy flavor, but that’s secondary. I sat down next to the unexpected patron and asked the obvious question.

“What are you doing in
my
bar, Henry?”

“It’s a free country,” he replied, sounding almost drunk.

Henry Stone’s expressionless face was impossible to read. All communication with him happened through words and he chose them very carefully. But there had to be a reason he was in my bar at close to midnight, maybe intoxicated.

“Are you drunk?” I asked, hoping he’d say yes, hoping that I had finally caught him with his guard down.

Then he did the oddest thing. He reached over to me and put his hands in my jacket pockets, then slid them down over my hips and thighs.

I smacked his hand away. “You’re buying my drink now.”

“Sorry. I wanted to make sure you weren’t recording me,” he said by way of explanation.

“I only do that when Rae’s around,” I replied.

Henry then returned his focus to the bottom of his drink. Milo slid the Guinness in front of me. I pointed at Henry.

“He’s buying.”

Henry reached into his wallet and bought me my drink. Usually Henry’s eye contact had a way of unnerving you, making you feel like he knows exactly what you’re thinking and is disappointed that you’re thinking it. But Henry wasn’t looking anyone in the eye. I had never seen him appear so…weak.

“I’m going to ask you if there’s something on your mind, Henry, because clearly there’s something on your mind. Please don’t deny it. It will just insult me. So, if you want to tell me what it is, I promise I’ll be quiet and listen.”

Henry finished his drink and pointed at his glass for Milo to pour him another.

As Milo was refilling Henry’s whiskey, Milo turned to me and said, “Still upset about not making the Olympics?”

“You’ve changed,” I snapped back at Milo.

Milo chuckled to himself and turned to Henry. “You doing okay there, son?”

“I’m fine,” Henry replied politely.

“How many has he had?” I asked Milo, and then finally Henry made eye contact. His loaded glance at
my
bartender was a clear warning to respect his privacy. Milo nodded back to him in understanding and turned to me.

“Mind your own business. That’s between me, my customer, and the cab driver.”

I flashed my ring for Milo and said, “Can you leave me alone to talk to my fiancée in private?”

Milo rolled his eyes and walked away.

“There are over three hundred bars in San Francisco, give or take. There has to be a reason why you came into
my
bar,” I said.

Henry finished his drink and continued to ignore me.

“Let me drive you home,” I said.

“No, I’ll take a cab.”

“Why? I’ll drive you. Come on, let’s go.”

Henry took my left hand in his and pulled off my mother’s ring. He then stuck it in my pocket and got to his feet.

“You shouldn’t wear it all the time. Makes them think you’re taken. Then you attract the wrong kind of guy,” Henry said.

“I attract the wrong kind all on my own,” I said. “But I find if I wear the rock
¹
I get much better customer service. Give me your keys, Henry.”

Henry looked like he was thinking about it. I didn’t want an argument. I just wanted the keys, so I reached into his pocket and took them.

“Let’s go,” I said, exiting the bar and waving to Milo.

Henry took his time following me to the car, like he was making a point, although the point was lost on me.

Henry buckled up his seat belt and said, “You people have taken over my life.” There was a flash of genuine hostility in the delivery that rendered me speechless.

In all my car rides with cops in squad cars, none were as tense as this one. The silence was that eerie cricket kind, as if breaking it would disrupt nature. I had ten minutes to consider what we had done to this man, and it was true. Somehow we did take over his life. But I suppose we had been mistakenly convinced that he didn’t really mind.

As I pulled up in front of Henry’s apartment, he prepared to shoot out of the car. I locked the door from the control panel and held on to his arm.

“Is my family the source of your troubles?” I asked point-blank.

“No,” he replied. “But I need some space to think.”

“About what?”

“That’s not giving me space.”

“Got it,” I said, and unlocked the door.