Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (62 page)

Rae packed up her Rice Krispies Treats in plastic wrap.

“What kind of understanding?” Mom asked suspiciously.

“Olivia, it’s nothing. We’re fine. Rae just needed a ride home.”

“Ready?” Dad asked Rae.

“Yeah. I’ll be back tomorrow. Ten
A.M
.” Rae said. “
Don’t
even think about starting without me,” she added in a tone of severe warning.

Mom and Dad shared a silent, baffled communication. Mom sat down on the couch next to Henry and whispered loud enough for me to hear. “We can take Isabel away too. Just say the word.”

“We’re fine. Isabel is fine. I’m fine.”

“You have my cell number,” Mom said. “Call anytime. We’re here for you, Henry.”

DAY-2

Sunday, April 2

Day two was almost an exact replica of day one, except Henry refused to drink any beer and Rae arrived an hour earlier. In the afternoon, when Stone was finally allowed to change out of his pajamas, Rae and I were alone on the couch. The conversation began innocently enough, but my Lost Weekend was simply a minor diversion from my primary focus, which I could not jar out of my head.

“I
love
the tenth doctor,” Rae said after we watched our sixth episode of
Doctor Who
that day. Interestingly, the actor playing the doctor had changed between the first season and the second. The transition was remarkably smooth. Still, I wasn’t as convinced of the tenth doctor’s superiority over the ninth as my sister was.

“You only like the new doctor because you think he’s cuter than the first,” I said.

“He is cuter.”

“No, he’s not,” I replied. “In your opinion he’s cuter. But it’s not an absolute truth.”

“You like the ninth doctor better than the tenth doctor?” Rae asked in shock.

“Totally,” I replied.

“Okay. Let me rephrase the question: Do you think the ninth doctor is better-looking than the tenth?”

“Yes, I do,” I replied.

“You can’t be serious. Look at his ears.”

“Would you stop talking crap about
my
doctor?” I said in mock anger.

“Whatever,” Rae replied, turning back to the television. I pressed Pause and hoped to switch subjects briefly, while Henry was out of earshot.

“I need you to do me a favor,” I said in a whisper.

“What?” Rae whispered back.

“Are we using any of the GPS devices right now?”

“Mom might be using one, but the other is available,” Rae replied.

“I need you to sneak one on Subject’s truck. Be very careful. If anyone catches you, I am in big trouble.”

“What’s in it for me?” Rae asked.

“Name your price.”

“Fifty.”

“Forty.”

“Deal.”

Henry entered the room and Rae covered like a professional. “I can’t believe you think the ninth doctor is cooler than the tenth.”

Judging by television and film, the life of the PI is filled with gadgets and high-tech devices worthy of top-secret organizations. We disabuse clients of this notion all the time. In truth, my job is far less
Mission: Impossible
than one might imagine, but modern invention has pushed a few tricks up our sleeves, and based on my recent arrests, I needed to resort to tricks.

My parents had recently acquired two GPS tracking devices. You’re probably wondering why I hadn’t used these sooner. While it might be fun and all to know where Subject is going, what I really want is to know what he does when he gets there. GPS systems are great for tracking individuals, but not for monitoring their activities.

L
ater that night, after Henry and I got Rae home safely, I insisted we drop by the Philosopher’s Club. Henry and I sat down at the bar. Milo nodded pleasantly at Henry.

“What can I get you?”

“Club soda,” Henry replied.

“Whiskey for me. Isn’t this great? I’ve always wanted a designated driver.”

Milo poured the club soda and whiskey and served the drinks. Then he leaned over the bar in front of me and made bored but direct eye contact.

“Izzy, tell me something,” Milo said. “What does the sign outside say?”

“‘We reserve the right to refuse service—’”

“The other sign.”

“‘Use other door.’”

“No, Izzy, the big fat neon sign out front.”

I stared at Milo quizzically, unsure what sign he was referring to.

“You mean the sign that says ‘The Philosopher’s Club’?”

“That one,” Milo said, pointing at me like I was a contestant on a game show.

“It actually says ‘he hilosop er’s Clu,’” I corrected, having many a time mentioned the fading neon to my friend.

“But it does not say ‘The United States Postal Service,’ does it, Izz?”

“Not since I last checked,” I replied, finally following Milo’s conversational thread.

Milo collected a pile of mail from behind the bar and dropped the stack in front of me.

“You had your mail forwarded here?” Milo asked, even though the answer was plain as day.

“Thank you,” I said, looking through the collection. “Sorry, I forgot to mention it.”

“What would possess you to have your mail forwarded to a bar?” Milo asked.

“I didn’t want to go back to Bernie’s and wasn’t sure where I’d be staying. I usually drop by every few days. It was the logical choice.”

I separated the junk mail while Milo approached Henry for a chat.

“You seem like a nice guy,” Milo said. “This one’s trouble. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Henry replied nonchalantly.

“What is with you, Milo?” I asked, just as I spotted the unmistakable peach shade of a wedding invitation.

“Nothing,” Milo replied. “Just making small talk. That’s what we bartenders do. Oh, and deliver mail.”

Milo’s bad mood prompted an early departure. On the car ride “home” I played with the invitation, wondering how conveniently it could get “lost” in the mail.

“Is your bartender always so hostile?” Henry asked.

“No,” I replied distractedly. When I thought about it, Milo had not been himself for weeks. I made a mental note to myself to ask him about that one of these days.

Monday, April 24 1305 hrs

“My blood sugar is getting low,” Morty said, scanning the garage for something to eat.

Twenty minutes later, we were seated in a diner in the Sunset district. Morty wanted to skip the shop talk to aid his digestion, so his comments leaned in a more personal direction.

“You know who is a mensch?” Morty asked.

“
You
are,” I replied, thinking he was fishing.

“No, that cop fellow, the one that let you stay with him. He’s a mensch.”

“I suppose he is.”

“You should give him your phone number.”

“He has my phone number.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, but I’m pretending I don’t. Can we move on?”

“You’re not so young anymore. And not all the fellas are comfortable with a woman with a record. Snatch that one up while you have the chance.”

“Morty, change the subject.”

Morty spooned ice cubes into his hot cocoa.

“That’s enough,” I said, anticipating the upcoming act.

Morty looked like he was churning around some idea in his head.

“Why was your bartender angry at you?”

“He’s not angry at me; he’s just been cranky lately.”

“For how long?”

“Like a month or two.”

“Has he gone through a cranky phase before?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Then why would he go through one now?”

“I don’t know. He’s getting older. He’s tired.”

“You think we go along all happy and everything and then overnight we become rude because we’re old?” Morty asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t really think about it.”

“Remember, Izz, the world keeps spinning even when you’re not around to witness it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

H
enry’s and my Lost Weekend ended on Monday morning when he shaved off two days of stubble; washed, dried, and carefully replaced every dish in its correct cabinet; and left the house, well-coiffed and tucked in, reminding me not to get arrested that day.

Another week passed in Henry’s house without event. In fact, we fell into a routine that served me quite well. Henry would leave in the morning, while I perused the newspaper, pretending to be looking for apartment rentals. I would kill the day with various leisure activities—a trip to the coffee shop, a stroll in Golden Gate park, a few hours on the computer investigating John Brown, and even finishing that book I had started a week or so earlier.
¹
In the evening, when Henry returned home, he would cook me dinner and then clean up after me. I performed some token dish-drying, but he didn’t like my method and firmly suggested I stop trying to help. At no point did Henry suggest that I was overstaying my welcome. So I stayed.

Tuesday, April 11

Based on anecdotal evidence, the Copycat Vandals would strike any time between the night that Mrs. Chandler installed her tableaux and the date of the holiday for which they were intended.

Mrs. Chandler called me Tuesday afternoon to inform me that she had completed her latest installation, and that the surveillance should begin that evening.

Rae arrived at Henry’s house later that afternoon.

“Is he here?” Rae asked conspiratorially.

“No,” I replied.

“I haven’t had a chance to take care of that thing you wanted me to take care of.”

“He’s not here, Rae. You can speak plainly.”

“Mom and Dad are using both of the GPSs on jobs. One will be available tomorrow. So I’ll get the device on Subject’s car as soon as I can,” Rae said.

“The sooner the better,” I replied.

“I have to tell you something and it’s a secret.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ve been checking his trash,” Rae said.

“For how long?”

“Since that first night we took his recycling. I’ve been grabbing it any chance I could get, thinking he might not always stay on top of it.”

“Do Mom and Dad know?”

“No; I sort through it, just to be sure, and then I put most of it out with our garbage the next day. He’s usually pretty careful, but last night I found this.”

Rae removed a plastic bag from her backpack. Inside it was a woman’s blouse. Size medium. Blue with a ruffled collar. One of the buttons was missing.

“This is unusual,” I said, although what I was thinking was that it was unusual that Subject was careful for months and then slipped up like this.

My sister’s discovery was intriguing, indeed, but so was her timing. I had to consider that I was being played.

“You found this last night in his regular trash?”

“Yes. Last night,” Rae replied, studying her shoes. “I think you should probably resume your tail on him,” she continued.

Catching my sister in a lie is satisfying, but this lie would lead me to other lies, and I had to tread carefully so as not to alert her.

“I want you to keep an eye on Subject this evening. If he heads out, give me a call.”

“Where will you be?” Rae asked.

“Just a few blocks away at Mrs. Chandler’s, so I should be able to catch him if he moves.”

My next question would solve one of the many mysteries that had plagued me in recent weeks.

“Rae, does your boyfriend have a motorbike?”

“How’d you know?”

“So, he has one?”

“Well, sort of. He has one, but someone’s always messing with it, so it never works.”

I left Henry’s place after eleven
P.M
., drove to Mrs. Chandler’s and waited an hour and a half until Rae called as expected.

“He’s on the move,” she said.

“Which direction?”

“He made a left on Polk Street.”

“I’m leaving,” I replied, although I didn’t move an inch and I would have bet serious money on the fact that neither did Subject.

Ten minutes later, several young males drove up in a late-eighties-model Oldsmobile. They scanned the area for signs of witnesses and then proceeded to swap out Mrs. Chandler’s basket of Easter eggs for eight-balls they had lugged in an old pillowcase.

The eight-ball swap was the simplest and least time-consuming of all the pranks on my résumé. The boys were done in five minutes, and I followed their vehicle as two members of the three-person gang were dropped at their respective residences. The final member, Jason Rivers (Rae’s mystery boyfriend), drove to his home in Noe Valley. Rivers stared longingly at the motorbike that would never work and entered his home.