Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (46 page)

“Rae Spellman”

When I arrived home, Rae was talking on the telephone
¹
and eating chocolate-chip cookie dough—the store-bought kind in a roll, not from scratch.

“Did I tell you about Mr. Peabody? Okay, so we’re in math class and he blows his nose. Not just like a little bit, but a lot, like he’s got a bad cold or serious allergies. He folds up the tissue and, instead of putting it in the trash, he sticks it in the top-right drawer of his desk. Now, it’s not like the tissue was half used and he’s trying not to be wasteful. Based on the sound of things, there was a lot of snot involved.
You think it’s gross hearing about it?
Try being a direct witness. Where was I?…Okay, so then on the way out of class, he’s standing by the door, passing out the homework assignment. I decide to see what else he’s got in the drawer and guess what I find? No, not porn. No, not lipstick. Do you want to know or what? So I open the drawer and all there is inside are like dozens of used-up tissues. There had to be at least three full ounces of snot in that drawer.”

Rae starts laughing hysterically. “I swear. It was the most disgusting thing I ever saw…Wait, I might have to think about that.”

Rae spots me entering the kitchen and turns around so her back is facing me.

“I better go,” Rae said. “Isabel just got home. Got to hear about her date.”

Rae hangs up the phone and spins back around.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“A friend,” Rae replied.

“From where?”

“From school.”

“How old is she?”

“My age.”

“What’s her name?”

“Ashley Pierce. If you want her social security number, it’ll have to wait until I’ve had a chance to search her residence.”

I picked up the log of cookie dough off the table, rewrapped it, and returned it to the refrigerator. Rae then opened the freezer and pulled out a pint of ice cream.

“It’s a miracle you’re not fat,” I said.

“David says it’s only a matter of time,” Rae (all of ninety-five pounds) replied.

“Want some?” she asked.

As Rae and I finished off the ice cream, we contemplated the Mysterious Door.

“If you lived alone, why would you lock a door in your own home?” I asked.

“Clearly he locked it to keep you from snooping,” Rae replied.

“Until tonight he had no idea that snooping was one of my many fine traits.”

“He still doesn’t know you’re a PI?”

“Nope.”

“You didn’t tell him you were a schoolteacher, did you?” Rae asked, referring to the lie I told Daniel Castillo, DDS, when we first began dating.

“No. I said I was in information technology.”

“That could mean anything,” Rae replied.

“My thoughts precisely.”

“What does he do?” Rae asked.

“Landscaper.”

“Fancy gardener?”

“Yep.”

Monday, April 24
1115 hrs

“I blame it all on the door. My two arrests—”

“Four,” my lawyer interjected.

“I don’t count the other ones.”

“So, having a record doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course it does. I could lose my PI license.”

“Yes, you could.”

“But I think once I find out what I need to find out and can prove what John Brown has been doing—”

“So far the only thing you have accused this man of is locking a door, Isabel.”

“And there was that suspicious thing he did with the papers when Rae knocked him over, and then he’s got that name that’s all wrong, and then there’s that gardening business, which is highly suspicious, but that part comes much later. I’m presenting the facts as they unfold, Morty. If you want me to jump ahead and just give you the bullet points, then fine. But I assure you, he has done other things. But the door…the door was what started it all. The door was my point of no return.”

Sunday, January 22

Rae and I often refer to our parents as the Unit, and while they present a united front when conflicts arise, in their day-to-day existence they are unique and separate individuals. Within the first twenty-four hours of my parents’ week-long road trip, we received our first set of disappearance dispatches. I entered the office as Rae was checking her e-mail.

“Got something from Mom and Dad,” Rae said.

I pulled up a chair and read the e-mails over her shoulder.

Rae stared at the computer screen, studying the e-mail messages.

“This does not bode well,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m going to have to take action,” she continued, and hit the Reply button.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” I said, commenting on my sister’s diabolical e-mail replies.

“I had to,” she said earnestly. “Otherwise they’ll never go out of town, and one of these days I’d like this house all to myself.”

Rae needing space from her parents was a new development in her adolescence. I couldn’t help but recognize that she was finally growing up.

By the afternoon of day two of my parents’ disappearance, Rae had already shredded the four-foot stack of papers in the Spellman office (the one job Mom insisted be complete by her return), cleaned her room (i.e., stuffed all visible items into the closet and under her bed), completed all her homework assignments (although I suspect not with the vigor she showed under Stone’s watch), and made two batches of Rice Krispies Treats.

After she consumed her third square of marshmallow and puffed rice, she began roaming the house aimlessly.

“I’m bored,” Rae said, demanding my attention away from the newspaper.

Had this been an ordinary weekend, there would have been some surveillance activity that I could have used to distract Rae. However, in the last few weeks there had been an unusual lull in business, and we found ourselves with an overwhelming amount of leisure time. As my parents’ e-mails might indicate, leisure is not something the Spellmans are all that familiar or comfortable with.

“Do you want to go to a movie?” I asked.

“No,” Rae replied.

“Why don’t you call your new friend and see if she wants to hang out?”

“I did. She has to visit some sick aunt in Pleasanton.”

“Are there any other friends you could call?”
¹

“Yeah, but they’re busy.”

“You have friends in the plural now?” I asked.

“Yes, but they all have things to do today and I’m bored.”

“You could go visit David and see how much money you can extort out of him.”
²

“No. He’s been weird lately.”

“Weird how?”

“Nervous and stuff. Short-tempered.”

“Do you know why?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. Rae often has insight into family matters that somehow escapes me. I attribute this to her short stature and ability to disappear into the walls a little better than me.

“No, I don’t know. Do you think I can call Henry yet?”

“It’s only been ten days, Rae.”

“Ten whole days of space,” Rae said, shaking her head in disbelief.

“It’s not enough time. You’re going to have to trust me on this.”

Whether my judgment was sound or not, I decided to distract my sister with a simple but necessary caper. Since my date two nights prior, that locked door had been nagging at me. I had a simple question that I wanted answered. Was the door locked for my benefit or was it locked all the time?

R
ae hid in the backseat of the car under a blanket. I pulled my 1996 Buick out of the garage and drove three blocks away.

“Are you ready?” I asked Rae.

“I’m ready.”

“Leave your cell on and call me as soon as you’re done. In and out, Rae. Nothing fancy. You got me?”

“I got it,” Rae said, rolling her eyes as she walked back toward 1799 Clay Street.

Two minutes later, Rae was knocking on the door of the Spellman home. She shouted my name (for show, of course). She peered through windows and even tried to jimmy some open. She paced nervously and looked around. She hopped up and down. She made a call on her cell phone to me.

“Phase two in action,” she said, and then hung up her phone.

Rae buzzed 1797 Clay Street, apartment two. She pressed the buzzer frantically until she was buzzed in. She ran up the single flight of stairs and met Subject as he opened the door into the hallway.

“Rae, what are you doing here?” Subject said pleasantly.

“Isabel’s out. I lost my keys and I have to pee,” Rae said, hopping up and down. “Really, really badly. Can I use your bathroom?”

“Of course,” Subject said, and allowed Rae’s entry. Rae ran down to the end of the hall and into the bathroom. She waited thirty seconds, flushed the toilet, turned on the faucet, and then peered outside the door. Subject was not in sight. Rae crossed the hall and tried the mysterious door—I had drawn a very clear diagram—and it was locked. She tried again, just to be certain, and then walked down the hall to the kitchen.

“Thanks so much,” Rae said, when she met Subject in the kitchen. “I really don’t like peeing in the backyard.”

“No problem,” Subject replied.

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Rae asked without a moment of hesitation.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Are you sure it’s all right with your sister?”

“I’m sure. How does seven o’clock sound?”

“Okay,” said Subject. “Should I bring anything?”

“You could bring dinner,” Rae said, not entirely joking. “No, we’ll have dinner,” she said after a long pause. “And dessert. The dinner won’t be the best dinner you ever had, but the dessert will be pretty good.”

“Okay. I look forward to it.”

During Rae’s debriefing ten minutes later at the house, I asked the obvious question.

“Why’d you invite him over for dinner?”

“Because we need to get a DOB on him before we can do a background check and I could not figure out how to transition from ‘Can I use your bathroom?’ to ‘What’s your birthday?’ without sounding like a weirdo. If we invite him over for dinner, we can bring it up casually in conversation. We can also take his coat, and there’s a chance he keeps his wallet in his coat pocket.”

“Who said I want to investigate anyone, Rae?”

“The door was locked,” Rae replied. “Who is he locking it from, himself? Besides,” she continued, and I wished she hadn’t, “you always investigate your dates.”

Besides having to “cook,” there was another unfortunate side-effect of inviting Subject over for dinner: cleaning. In my parents’ absence Rae and I had reverted to our natural slothfulness. As we entered the foyer, we kicked off our shoes and threw our coats over the side of the couch, each day a new pair of shoes and a different coat—it adds up after a few days. Our habit was to fill the sink with dishes until no clean dishes remained, and then we would load them into the dishwasher. We lied to each other that this was a more time-efficient strategy. We had the same system with mail. We let it pile up on the table in stacks, grabbing only the most promising-looking items (magazines, checks, anything in a box).

The living room, dining room, and kitchen (all on the main floor) took the brunt of our sloppiness. Imagine a garden of used glasses, footwear, coats, dirty dishes, and schoolbooks sprouting in the living room. The dining room table was fighting off an invasion of paper products and the kitchen had already lost its battle with dirty dishes and an overflowing trash can. I am not proud of this unfortunate tendency of mine; I simply present you with the facts.

That said, I like to keep my vicious untidiness a secret, and so Rae and I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning or hiding the evidence.

There was one final cover-up that had to be handled before Subject’s arrival. On the front porch of the Spellman household there are four separate mailboxes: one is for the family and the other three are for the family business. They read: Spellman Investigations; Marcus Godfrey;
¹
and Grayson Enterprises.
²
Rather than remove three of the mailboxes, Rae and I simply relabeled all of them with individual family members’ names. While it would seem unusual that each Spellman required his or her own mailbox, it would not give away the family business.