Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (79 page)

L
ate afternoon on Thursday, a storm rolled in. Rain blanketed the city and violent winds snapped tree branches and knocked down power lines. The conditions were ideal for a quiet night in my brother’s luxurious home, hunting for more murder weapons or evidence of his current whereabouts. That was my plan, at least, until my sister showed up. Rae had apparently walked the full mile and a half from 1799 Clay Street to my brother’s house. Her hair was soaking wet, her yellow raincoat was beaded with water, and her sneakers made a sloshing sound as if she’d been wading in a swimming pool.

“It’s brutal out there,” Rae said, pushing past me.

Since my sister has a driver’s license and qualified car privileges, I asked the obvious question: “Why didn’t you drive here? It would make it so much easier to ask you to leave.”

Rae ignored the question and comment and removed all of her wet clothing, including her socks but minus her jeans, which were soaked at the bottom. She looked over at David’s fireplace and said, “We need flames.” She then began loading kindling into the fireplace. She balled up some newspaper, lit a match, and tossed it on the heap. Then, without checking to see whether any of her flames stuck, she got to her feet, appearing as if she had just discovered the meaning of life.

“Oh my god, we can make real s’mores,” Rae said, and ran into the kitchen. “If he doesn’t have marshmallows, I’m going to kill myself,” she added.

I studied Rae’s fire-making project, shouted toward the kitchen, “You have to open the flue, you moron,” and relit the kindling.

I entered the kitchen to find Rae searching David’s pantry with crime-scene meticulousness. No shelf, no corner, no crevice, no unlabeled jar went unchecked. A solo package of graham crackers was stashed behind a can of emergency coffee.
¹
From David’s freezer she retrieved a half-eaten tube of dark chocolate pastilles. Rae hopped down from the stepladder she was using and said, “I know he’s got marshmallows around here somewhere.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because he’s got graham crackers and chocolate.”

“You had to search long and hard for those items.”

“That’s only because he hides the stuff.”

“From you?” I asked, amused that David was Rae-proofing his house.

“No,” Rae replied, rolling her eyes. “From himself.”

“Explanation required.”

“He buys candy or other junk food and then he comes home and puts it in some random place—sometimes not even the kitchen. Something that’s well sealed he might put in the hall closet or behind the dishes, or—I don’t know. I haven’t found all of his hiding places. Then he tries to forget where he put it.”

“But why?”

“So he won’t eat it,” Rae said, as if it was the most obvious of answers.

“Then why does he buy it in the first place?”

“He likes candy. If he really needs a fix, he wants it around. But he doesn’t want it out in the open where he’ll eat it all the time.”

“That is so weird,” I said.

“He’s weirder than you think,” Rae replied, and then shouted into the air. “I know where the marshmallows are! Open the garage door.”

I pressed the button in the foyer and Rae quickly threw on her raincoat and stepped halfway into her sneakers. She ran into the garage and came back a few minutes later holding a bag of marshmallows sealed inside another airtight bag.

“Near his camping supplies. I knew it,” Rae said.

Since Rae had already catalogued the hiding places in my brother’s home, I decided to consult her on the sly.

“During your s’mores hunt, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“Can you be more specific?” Rae asked.

“Anything out of place?”

“Why are you asking?”

“I’ll put that fire out right now.”

Sometimes a threat is the only thing that gets my sister talking.

“He’s missing some camping supplies. That’s all I noticed,” Rae said.

While I contemplated David’s missing camping equipment, Rae began toasting her marshmallows in the fire. The phone interrupted our respective activities.

“I’m not here!” Rae said.

“Where are you?” I replied as I headed for the phone.

“Not here,”
Rae replied with more conviction.

“I’m not lying to Mom and Dad for you.”

“Just let me have my s’more and I’ll be on my way.”

“Hello,” I said, picking up the receiver.

“Is Rae there?” Mom asked.

“She just left.”

“I know you’re lying. Listen to me carefully, Isabel. I don’t care how you do it, but don’t allow Rae to leave. She’s outdone herself this time,” Mom said without a hint of humor.

“I think she went to a friend’s house,” I replied, quickly switching my allegiance. I wanted Rae to stick around so I could uncover her crime. “No, no. I don’t know which friend,” I said into the receiver.

“We’ll be right there,” Mom said, and hung up the phone.

“Sure, I’ll call you if I hear from her, but that seems unlikely. Okay, bye,” I said to the already dead line.

“They bought it?” Rae asked, not quite believing my act.

“I think so,” I replied, not wanting to oversell it. “What did you do this time, Rae?”

Headlights flashed through the front window and a car engine roared in the driveway.

“Did Mom call from the cell or from the house?” Rae asked.

I double-checked David’s caller ID. “From the house.”

“They couldn’t have gotten here that fast,” she said, stuffing the s’more and a few extra graham crackers in her pocket. Rae crept toward the window and peered out beneath the blind. She promptly jumped to her feet and grabbed her sneakers and raincoat by the front door. “No matter what, Isabel, just stall him for ten minutes, okay?” Rae raced through the kitchen.

“Stall who?”

“Henry!” she shouted, and then I heard the back door open and slam shut.

The doorbell rang. It was indeed Henry Stone.

“Hey, Henry. Nice to see you,” I said pleasantly, hoping he was not as angry as he appeared.

Henry pushed past me and said,
“Where is she?”

“She’s not here,” I replied, and then suddenly realized the better response would have been “Where’s who?”

“I can smell the burnt marshmallows. Don’t lie to me.”

“Okay. Sorry. She was here and then she left,” I said, and then depos
ited Rae’s leftover in the trash can. “You look like you could use a drink, Henry.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” he replied.

I served Henry the good stuff without hesitation. Then I poured myself a shot from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s that had my name on it.
²

“Your sister is ruining my life,” Henry said as he sank into David’s couch.

“Please continue,” I said, suddenly realizing I was borrowing a phrase from Dr. Ira.

“You won’t believe what she did this time.”

As it turns out, I did believe it. But you can decide for yourself. Here’s the story:

After the lock-changing incident was followed up by Maggie helping herself to some of Rae’s candy stash and my sister swapping soy milk for Maggie’s regular milk, Maggie decided to handle the “Rae situation” on her own. Without discussing her plans with Henry, the assistant district attorney used her office’s resources to acquire my sister’s cell phone number. She left a brief message on Rae’s voice mail, having noted my sister’s habit of zoning out when speeches get too long. “Meet me at the Dessertery on Polk Street at four
P
.
M
. sharp. This is Maggie.”

Out of curiosity, Rae showed up, albeit fifteen minutes late. Maggie knew their meeting wouldn’t go as planned when she told Rae to order anything on the menu and my sister asked for decaf coffee. Black. Maggie then suggested that perhaps the two of them could come to an understanding. Rae said she was listening. Had Maggie gone straight to her terms, which were indeed reasonable, the two women might have been able to work something out. However, Maggie began with what she believed to be a harmless preface, in which she implied that my sister’s interest in Henry was more like a “crush” than (as Rae had
described it) a “lifelong friendship that is ultimately a meeting of two like minds.”

Rae responded appropriately for someone guilty of neither jealousy nor unrequited love.

“Ewwwww,”
she said as loudly as one can say that word and still give it the proper tone of disgust. She then tossed a quarter on the table and said, “We’re done here.”

Two days later, Rae, knowing that Henry and Maggie had dinner plans that night, logged on to Henry’s e-mail
³
and begged out of their evening plans. She then phoned Henry’s office, claiming to be Maggie’s secretary, and canceled their plans from Maggie’s end. Rae’s plan was discovered straightaway. It was unlike Henry to cancel a date via e-mail. In fact, the only person Henry makes plans with or communicates with primarily in that fashion is Rae.

When Henry finished his tale, or rather Maggie’s, I asked the obvious question.

“Why did she toss a quarter on the table?”

“I know. I thought that was strange, too,” Henry replied.

“Do you think she was paying for the coffee?”

“Maybe.”

“When was the last time a cup of coffee cost a quarter?”

“She’s been watching a lot of old movies lately,” was Henry’s answer. Then he changed the subject. “I need you to do me a favor,” he said.

“Shoot.”

“I need you to take care of the Rae situation.”

“Why me?”

“I ask myself that question every day,” Henry replied.

“Have you tried reasoning with Rae?”

“Have you?”

“Okay. I get your point. I’ll have a talk with her.”

“Talk to Maggie, too. I need a neutral third party negotiating this peace settlement. Here’s her card,” he said.

I studied the card as a stalling tactic. There was something on my mind, but I was debating whether to bring it up.

“You must like this Maggie woman.”

“Call me crazy, but I tend to date people I like.”
⁴

“Ouch. I’m going to let that remark slide for now. Remember, you need me.”

“Sorry. I’ve got a headache.”

“Is it serious?”

“Nothing aspirin won’t cure.”

“No. With Maggie. Is it serious?”

“You have a strange way of asking questions. Seems like an unfortunate quirk for a private investigator. I hope you’re better with strangers.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

“So are you refusing to answer my question?” I asked.

“It could be serious one day. I don’t know. If it were, would you have an opinion on the subject?”

“Are you asking if I have an opinion?”

Henry’s spirits were not up to the task of an indirect conversation with me. “No, Isabel, I’m not asking if you have an opinion. Thank you for taking care of this matter for me. Excellent bourbon,” he said, placing the empty glass on the bar and taking his leave.

Okay. For those who have read documents one and two, you might be thinking that I do have an opinion—a strong opinion—on the subject of Henry Stone and that perhaps this was a missed opportunity to voice that opin
ion. It’s true. I have an opinion. For the time being, I’m going to keep it to myself.

Five minutes after Henry left, my father showed up looking for Rae. When I explained that she had left at least a half hour ago, my dad decided to make the most of his visit and used David’s hot tub. After Dad relaxed his muscles, he decided to relax his mind in front of David’s television. He even had the nerve to make casual conversation.

“So how have you been?” he asked.

“Can’t complain,” I replied, turning up the volume on the television.

Dad shouted over the laugh track. “Anything new?”

“I’ve almost completed my court-ordered therapy.”

“I’m proud of you, Isabel.” Dad said that line as if he were struggling to make it sound legitimate.

“For what?” was my response. The therapy was court-ordered; it wasn’t like I set out on my own to sort out my troubles.

Dad stared at the television, hoping an answer would come to him. “Well,” he said, “you didn’t get into any more trouble in the meantime, did you?”

I turned to my father, perplexed. He’s not exactly the kind of man to congratulate you on your misdeeds (or absence of misdeeds, in my case). I must have looked guilty rather than confused, because then he said, “You didn’t, did you?”

“Noooo,” I replied, and turned the volume up even more.

Another long silence extended through more bad television, accompanied by desperately encouraging laugh tracks. A commercial came on and I muted the sound.

“Seen any good movies lately?” Dad asked.

Having endured what I believed was more than a fair amount of small talk, I reminded my father of our agreement at the bar the other day, and he reminded me of all the times I had broken my word. My plans for
the evening (searching David’s house) were derailed by Dad’s visit, but I wasn’t going to let him interfere with my sleep. I phoned Mom, who phoned Dad, and finally my father was on his way. I went to bed near one
A.M
. As I drifted off to sleep, I contemplated reasons why David might have a gun the way some people might count sheep.

M
y phone rang at dawn the following morning. I don’t know about you, but I like at least six hours of sleep a night.

“Hello?”

“Izzele. Morty here. I need a ride.”

“What time is it?”

“Six
A
.
M
.”

“Where do you need to go this early?”

“Nowhere. But at ten this morning, I have an appointment with your friend the dentist. I thought you could drive me.”

“Why are you calling me at six
A
.
M
.?”

“So you don’t make other plans. Can you drive me?”

“Sure. Okay.”

“Be here at nine,” Morty said.

“But your appointment is at ten.”

“I like to be early.”

“I don’t.”

“You know, the new Caddies have just come out. I could hop on over to the dealer this afternoon.”

“How would you get there?”

“I’d take a cab. And then I’d leave with a brand-new four-door sedan with my name on it.”

“I’ll see you at nine,” I said, and hung up the phone.

I tried to sleep in, but the universe was conspiring against my rest, or at least the Golden Gate Disposal and Recycling Company was. I can sleep through many things, but the piercing jingle of bottles smashing against one another is not one of them. By 6:45 I gave up on sleep.

“Isabel, what a pleasant surprise,” Daniel said when he saw me and Morty enter the examination room. Ex-boyfriend #9, Daniel Castillo, DDS, gave me a warm kiss on the cheek and asked what I was doing in his office.

“She’s my driver,” Morty said as he seated himself in the chair.

“Are you two related?” Daniel asked.

“No,” I replied.

“I’m her lawyer,” Morty said.

“Lawyer?” Daniel repeated, seeming confused.

“I kept her out of jail. She owes me.”

“Hey!” I shouted. “What about attorney-client privilege?”

“I’m confused,” Daniel said. “Are you now working for Mr. Schilling?”

“No,” I replied. “He’s just not allowed to drive anymore.”

“I still have my license,” Morty said, giving me the evil eye. “There has been no official ruling.” The last sentence was directed at Daniel.

“I see,” Daniel replied, deciding that further questions were probably a bad idea. “Shall we begin the exam?”

Daniel put the bib on Morty and angled the chair back.

“Can you do anything about his teeth-sucking?” I asked.

“Mr. Schilling, try to floss after every meal. Or at least once a day.”

“Ahhh onnn uck ayyy eeth,” Morty said while the scaler and mirror were in his mouth.

“What? I can’t understand you,” I said.

“He said he doesn’t suck his teeth,” Daniel replied.

“He also makes this weird clicking noise, like his dentures are loose or something.”

Morty once again mumbled something incomprehensible, and I turned to Daniel for translation.

“Can you go sit in the waiting room, Isabel?” Daniel asked.

“Is that what he said?”

“No. It’s what I said.”

Twenty minutes later, Morty left the exam room and immediately made that teeth-sucking noise.

I turned to Daniel for at least sympathy, but I got none. I guess dentists hear a wide variety of teeth-related noises all day long. I suppose you get used to it. Daniel said good-bye and gave me a list of family members who needed to make checkup appointments. He said something about getting together sometime; his wife
¹
would love to have me over for dinner—the usual awkward ex exchange, although in this case I got a free toothbrush.

Upon exiting Daniel’s office, Morty insisted that I take him to the store to do his weekly grocery shopping. Having never gone to the supermarket with my ancient friend before and therefore not knowing whether his ten-minute study of the decaf coffee selection, his intimate dance with the grapefruit, and his long-winded discussion at the deli counter were the true habits of an old man whose wife was on the lam or whether it was payback, I let our four-and-a-half-hour excursion (door to door) slide for the time being. However, after I dropped Morty off at his house, I decided to do a little research to be certain how to cope with my new responsibility in the future. I dropped by Gabe’s skate shop.

This time, Gabe was alone at the counter, doing something to a skateboard—no, I don’t know what. The closest I’ve come to skateboarding is smoking pot with someone who did.

“Izzele,” Gabe said, much to my annoyance.

“I’d hoped you’d stop calling me that.”

“It’s good to have hope. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I leaned on the counter, suddenly feeling too tired to stand upright. “Have you ever been to a grocery store with your grandfather?”

“Sure. But it’s been a while. He hates going to the store. That’s why we set him up with an online delivery service. He just logs on to his computer.”

“I knew it!” I said.

“Huh?” Gabe said.

“Morty’s punishing me. I just spent three hours chauffeuring him to the dentist—we had to be early—and then an hour and a half in the grocery store, shopping for items that came to a grand total of forty-three dollars. Have you talked to your grandmother yet?”

I played along with Morty at the diner, but called Gabe with the inside scoop later that night. He agreed to intervene. “I’m afraid it’s not very good news,” Gabe replied.

Here’s Morty and Ruth’s conflict in a nutshell: For sixty years, Ruth Schilling, a sun worshipper at heart, lived in a city that is temperate but rarely toasty. She settled for yearly vacations in the desert or the tropics and bided her time. The Schillings made a deal. When Morty retired, they would move to a meteorological sauna. But when he turned sixty-five, he postponed his retirement another five years, then another five. Then he stuck a desk in their garage and took on a random client (like me) here and there—just enough to be able to claim he wasn’t officially retired. Ruthy eventually hopped on a plane to Miami with her mah-jongg tiles, jewelry, and resort wear, and told Morty that she’d either see him in Miami or see a divorce attorney. But Morty wasn’t budging and neither was Ruth.

Gabe and I compared notes and concurred that Ruth was 100 percent
in the right. We therefore agreed that our responsibility in this matter was to convince Morty of that fact.

On my way to the car, after leaving Gabe’s shop, I was poised to call Maggie and begin mediating the Rae situation when my mother phoned.

“I need you to come home right away,” my mother said, sounding professional but urgent.

“Is it an emergency?” I asked.

Long pause. “Sure. Why not?” she replied.

I arrived at the Spellman residence fifteen minutes later.

My mother held an official-looking envelope in her hands. I’d already waited five minutes for her breaking news, and my patience was waning.

“Mom, I have to be at work in an hour. Either spill the beans or let me go.”

My mother slid the envelope across the table. “You can’t tell anyone. No one has seen it yet.”

“What is it?” I asked, trying to place the return address.

“Rae’s PSAT scores.”

I opened it and studied the report. “This can’t be right,” I said.

SAT scoring has changed since my day, when 1600 was a perfect score. An essay question has been added, upping the total to 2000. Rae’s score was 1795 (really, really high).

“I thought the same thing,” replied my mom. “But I called the school. It was just a practice test, but the score is legitimate.”

Mom kept talking, but I wasn’t paying attention anymore.

“What was David’s score? Do you remember?” I asked.

“Fourteen-eighty,” Mom said.

“You are so weird, Mom. Why would you have memorized David’s SAT score?”

“I checked his file
²
this morning. Yours, too, Miss Ten-Fifty.”

In my defense, I was seriously stoned both times I took the SAT (and didn’t break into quadruple digits on the first outing). However, my sister’s score was shocking.

“If she is this smart, why is she scraping by with a B-minus average?”

“Good question,” Mom replied.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But there are going to be some changes around here.”