Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (87 page)

I
apologized when I jumped into Gabe’s VW Jetta, but I still got the cold shoulder. Fair enough. If I had told him about my new living situation, he would have understood how I might have upended my internal calendar. Everyone finds moving stressful. Unfortunately, one of the agreements I had made with myself when I decided to move into David’s home unbeknownst to him was that I wouldn’t tell anyone. My point is, I had trouble coming up with a legitimate defense. Matters only got worse when my cell phone rang. It was Maggie, and she had a feeling she was being followed. Maggie provided her current location—a gas station on Van Ness and Pine—but she couldn’t tell whether her pursuer was anywhere in the vicinity. She would stall as long as she could until I arrived.

“Gabe, I need you to pull over and let me drive.”

“Why?”

“It’s an urgent matter. I’ll explain once we swap places.”

“Seriously?”

“Right now.”

I have moments when I can be impressively convincing (family members are immune). Gabe pulled his car to the curb and we switched seats.

Within five minutes of Maggie’s phone call, I was racing Gabe’s Jetta
down Geary Boulevard, which was almost clear of rush-hour traffic. Five minutes after that, as I approached the intersection of Gough and O’Farrell, I phoned Maggie and told her to take Van Ness south. I continued onto O’Farrell Street and reached the Van Ness intersection, pulling to a stop in the right-hand lane and turning on my blinkers—this is the sort of thing that drives me batty when I’m fighting traffic, but I figured it was time for my own cosmic payback. If I planned things correctly, Maggie would pass right by me and I, in theory, could close in on her tail.

My plan worked brilliantly. Maggie passed my vehicle, I waited for a few more cars to cross my line of vision, and then I pulled out onto Van Ness, cutting off a tan PT Cruiser (not a deliberate choice, but a pleasant bonus). I’d say there was nothing safe about my previous ten minutes of driving, but this move caused Gabe to finally speak.

“Now I see why we took my car.”

I phoned Maggie as I was driving; Gabe’s body language indicated that my multitasking was making him nervous.

“Relax,” I said. “I’ve done this before.”

Maggie picked up her phone. “Hello.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Henry’s place.”

“Good,” I replied. “Just make a few unnecessary turns to get there.”

“Gotcha. I’m going to turn right on Hayes Street.”

Maggie was six cars ahead, so her information was necessary, since it was dark and I had a few too many things to keep my eye on, not to mention traffic.

Maggie turned on Hayes. Within her vicinity a black Honda Civic, a yellow VW van, a gold Crown Victoria, and a Mercury Grand Marquis the color of smog made right turns. She crossed Divisadero and neared the park. Within five blocks we had lost the Honda Civic and the VW van. I suggested a right turn on Stanyan Street and all but the Mercury Grand Marquis dispersed in different directions. The Grand Marquis stayed on Maggie’s vehicle for another half mile.

I asked Gabe to write down the license plate number of the pursuing car and then told Maggie we should all reconvene at Henry’s house.

By the time the chase was over and I found a parking space, the adrenaline had drained from my body and I could feel that my eyelids wanted to close for a nap. I slapped my cheeks to wake myself up. Gabe gawked at me as if I were an alien from another planet.

“You scare me,” he said.

“I have insurance,” I replied.

Gabe wasn’t sure what to make of the entire ordeal. The thrill of the chase appealed to his extreme-sports side, but my previous rudeness, followed by my bossy/sleep-deprived/unstable bearing, followed by the missing of the movie for which he’d bought tickets all resulted in a kind of stupor. I parked, but before we exited the vehicle, Gabe insisted on a full explanation for the car chase.

I provided one for him in detail. The edge to his mood had dulled some by the time we reached Henry’s apartment.

Before I relayed any information to Maggie, I thought I should check whether she was keeping Henry in the dark or not.

“Ancay eway eakspay eelyfray?”
¹

“Esyay,” Maggie replied.

Henry rolled his eyes and ignored us; Gabe looked at me as if I’d gone mad.

“I got the license plate number of the pursuing vehicle. It looks like a professional’s car, but that’s impossible to say. If it is, I should be able to find out who the person is working for,” I said to Maggie.

“You think this is a professional surveillance? I figured someone I pissed off just hired a friend to follow me.”

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “Whoever was driving knew what he was doing.”

Henry and Gabe stood awkwardly in the foyer.

I waved in the general direction of the men and said, “You’ve met. Remember? At my ECOT party?”

Henry turned to me and said, “If you ever want to take an etiquette class, it’s on me.” Then he turned to Gabe. “Nice to see you again.”

They shook hands, and Gabe said, “I was just on a high-speed car chase,” with almost no enthusiasm at all.

“Let me get you a drink,” Henry replied.

When Henry returned with the drink, Gabe continued his quest for sympathy.

“We were supposed to be at a movie, but Isabel stood me up.”

“Almost. Not completely,” I replied. “So it doesn’t count.”

“I’m sure she had a lengthy and convoluted excuse,” Henry said, showing just a little too much interest.

“No,” I replied, defensively. “I just forgot what day it was.”

Henry then turned to Gabe. “What were your plans?”

“The usual. Dinner and a movie.”

“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Henry said.

“No, thank you,” I said.

“Why not?” Gabe chimed in.

To make a short story even shorter, we stayed for dinner, which was awkward, I think, for everyone but Maggie. A retired skateboarder and a police inspector tend to have little in common. Since the only thing they had in common was me, I was the topic of most conversations. Since I have a tendency to disappoint, any discussion of me will eventually lead to a complaint. The only upside was that I was so exhausted, my mind wandered to a borderline-unconscious dimension and I missed most of the good jabs.

I woke from my stupor when Henry began commenting on my character. Apparently when I’m preoccupied with something, personal considerations don’t come into the picture.

It was Maggie who came to my defense with these simple words:
“Henry, shut up. Not everyone has your attention to detail.” There was a long pause, followed by “Thank god,” which she mumbled at the very end.

As “dessert”
²
was being served, there was a knock at the door. A brief surge of anger flashed across Henry’s face.

“Don’t answer it,” he said.

Gabe appeared confused and turned to me for an explanation, but I didn’t have one. Maggie got to her feet and charged toward the door. Henry intercepted her in the foyer.

“No,” he said grimly.

“Don’t be such a sourpuss,” Maggie replied.

“She’s not allowed in my home,” said Henry.

Okay, so now I had an explanation. I turned to Gabe. “My sister is here. We should probably give her a ride home. Thanks for dinner, Henry,” I said as I took my coat off the rack. “I’ll handle the Rae situation.”

“Thank you,” Henry replied.

“You need to chillax,” Maggie mumbled at Henry. I realized she was probably spending far too much time with Rae.

Gabe and I slipped out of a narrow space in the doorway, aimed at not giving Rae entry into Henry’s place.

“Why can’t I come in?” Rae said, trying to push past me.

“Henry doesn’t want you in his home,” I said with maybe a little too much enthusiasm.

“Everyone has forgiven me but you, Henry!” Rae shouted from the other side of the partially open door.

Henry leaned into the hallway and said to Rae, “I don’t care if the pope has forgiven you; I haven’t.”

Rae gave Henry the annoyingly confused face she often pulls when she’s trying to play the innocent victim.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “We’re not Catholic.”

I shoved Rae down the hallway, insisting that the only personal transportation option for the evening was from Gabe (through me).

“I wanted Maggie to give me a ride,” Rae said, disappointed.

“Sometimes things don’t work out the way you plan.”

“That’s your trip,” Rae said, which Gabe seemed to find more amusing than it was.

In truth, Rae was far less amusing than she used to be. What was cute in a little girl was not so charming in someone closing in on adulthood. Of course, I have no business griping about anyone’s adolescent behavior, but there I was. Griping.

We dropped Rae off at the Spellman residence and I had Gabe drive to where my car was last seen, claiming that I had to check on the street-cleaning schedule. Obviously, I was trying to avoid a long walk home from my purported residence in the Tenderloin. Before I exited his vehicle, Gabe had a few minor things to get off his chest.

“Well, it’s been interesting, Izzele,” said Gabe.

“‘Interesting.’ What does that mean?”

“Tonight was meant to be a date, but clearly it wasn’t.”

Great.
So Gabe was one of
those
people who can voice his/her emotions without embarrassment. Why can’t I make friends more like me? At least that was the thought I had at that very moment.

“If you think about it, I still think tonight qualified under the definition of ‘date.’ Plus, it was free and included a car chase,” I unwisely replied.

And that was the end of the me-and-Gabe saga. His parting words: “I think you like me, but you’re in love with that cop. We’ll stay friends for the sake of Grandpa Mort.”

Most men don’t show Gabe’s good sense. There was a part of me that wished I felt more for Gabe. I could think of no pure flaw in his character, and then it occurred to me that someone so delightful should not go to waste.

“Do me a favor and get a haircut,” I said as I handed Gabe Petra’s card. “You need one. You really, really need one.”

Gabe stared at me like I was a lunatic but took the card. Then we said our good-byes. I walked in the shadows until I reached David’s house. Only his bedroom light was lit, so I figured I had a fairly safe passage to the back of the house. I just had to be quiet with the key. I entered my dark home, tripped over my own backpack, brushed my teeth by moonlight, and fell fast asleep. Okay, I didn’t fall asleep, but everything else was true.

M
ost people who function in everyday society have had more than two
¹
job interviews by the time they’ve reached the age of thirty-one, but working for the family has a few perks. For the most part, I’ve escaped this particular rite of passage; however, you might be surprised to hear that my very first job interview was for my position at Spellman Investigations. While I had been working for my parents for close to three years (off the books), my dad decided it was time they used me as a tax deduction. At this time, my father insisted on a formal meeting in which we played strangers (or, I should say, he played a stranger) and performed a mock—but very serious—job interview. In fact, I even had to write up a résumé for the occasion. If I am to be honest, I’m still bitter about that mandated charade to this day.

Allow me a brief digression to revisit that occasion…

Isabel, age 15

After Dad forced me to write a cover letter with an attached résumé and mail it, he called me from the office line on the home line and asked to
make an appointment for an interview. Our conversation ended with the following suggestion: “Dress appropriately, Ms. Spellman.”

Who’s to say what appropriate is? My father was making me jump through hoops to get a job I already had. Remember, this occurred during the height of my rebellion. I wasn’t going to play along without some form of subterfuge.

My appropriate dress was one of David’s costumes from a Halloween past: black dress pants, a white short-sleeved oxford shirt with a pocket protector, a bow tie, dress shoes (David’s stuffed with socks for comfort), and a plaid jacket that didn’t quite fit the ensemble, but I liked its effect. I finished off the look by pulling my hair into a severe ponytail and putting on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. I then grabbed David’s briefcase, which I had already packed with the necessary props for the occasion.

At one
P
.
M
. sharp, I knocked on the door to the offices of Spellman Investigations.

My mother answered, holding her coffee cup. Sadly for her dress, she had taken a sip just before she saw me. The coffee cascaded out of her mouth and down her dress. She had the nerve to be angry with me for her own loss of control.

“For god’s sake, Isabel, I just bought this dress,” Mom said, allowing my entry.

“Good afternoon. You must be Mrs. Melman.
²
I’m Isabel. I’m here for the interview.”

My mother rolled her eyes, which was pretty much all I had done for the two days after I learned of this ridiculous interview. She excused herself, wanting no part of this charade, which suited my purposes just fine.

Dad eyed my outfit, debating whether he should call the whole thing off then and there, but opted in that moment to continue with the show.

“Mr. Melman, a pleasure meeting you,” I said.

“It’s Spellman. Have a seat, Isabel. Can I get you anything?”

“I could use a coffee,” I replied.

“Refuse the coffee, Izzy.”

“If you don’t want to serve me coffee, then don’t offer it.”

“Just say ‘No, thank you,’ Isabel.”

“No, thank you, Isabel.”
³

“Sit down,” Dad said, this time in a far more hostile tone.

I sat down, placed the briefcase in my lap, and opened it. I had packed a lunch to keep me busy in case Dad got boring. I tucked a cloth napkin into my shirt and began dining.

My dad observed my behavior for a full thirty seconds, trying to map out his next move. He put his feet up on his desk and watched me eat.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.

“It’s a pretty good sandwich, if I do say so myself. However, a cup of coffee would make it even better.”

“That’s it. Get out. I want you to go to your room, change into your normal, I-don’t-care-what-you-think-of-me clothes, and come back into this office as Isabel, prepared for an interview.”

“Dad, this is seriously one of the dumbest things you’ve ever asked me to do.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Dad replied. Then he got out of his chair, snapped my briefcase shut, almost snapping off my fingers in the process, and sent me on my way.

“Make it a half hour,” I shouted upon exiting the room. “I’d like to finish my lunch.”

Twenty-five minutes later

I returned to the office impersonating myself. I messed up my hair a bit more than usual and wore a sweatshirt with a stain instead of a clean one,
and sneakers instead of boots, just to add a bit more mockery to this game. Dad scowled and sat down at his desk. The official interview went something like this:

ALBERT:
Tell me about yourself, Isabel.

ISABEL:
What do you want to know?

ALBERT:
Anything.

ISABEL:
Are you sure about that?

ALBERT:
New question.

ISABEL:
Thank god.

ALBERT:
What do you know about our organization?

ISABEL:
It’s not very organized.

ALBERT:
Wrong answer.

ISABEL:
If you’re feeling sorry for yourself right about now, remember that it’s your own fault.

[Albert clears his throat, looks at his list of questions, and tries to move on.]

ALBERT:
Why should we hire you?

ISABEL:
Do I need to remind you that I already work here?

ALBERT:
Tell me how you can contribute to our organization.

ISABEL:
Please. Just let me drink the Kool-Aid.

ALBERT:
That’s it, Isabel. Get out of here!

ISABEL:
It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Melman.