Curse of the Spellmans Read online

  ALSO BY LISA LUTZ

  The Spellman Files

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Spellman Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230

  Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lutz, Lisa.

  Curse of the Spellmans / by Lisa Lutz.

  p. cm.

  1. Private investigators—Fiction. 2. Domestic fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3612.U897C87 2008

  813'.6—dc22 2007021152

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-6563-5

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-6563-9

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  For Stephanie Kip Rostan

  & Marysue Rucci

  IN THE MIDDLE…

  Friday, April 21

  1900 hrs

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Isabel, and don’t ask me again.”

  “Who?”

  “Mom, it’s really not funny when you do it.”

  “Seriously, who is this?”

  “I don’t have time for your games right now.”

  “Neither do I,” said Mom, finally dropping the amnesia act. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “Don’t hang up!!!” I shouted into the receiver.

  “Isabel, calm down.”

  “Just don’t hang up.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…I only get one phone call.”

  ARREST #2 (OR #4)1

  That statement was, in fact, untrue. I used it purely for dramatic effect. According to the California Penal Code, Section 851.5, California grants arrestees the right to three telephone calls to the following individuals: 1.) an attorney, 2.) a bail bondsman, and 3.) a relative or other person. The code isn’t clear on whether the three calls must be made to each of the above or if you can double or triple up on any one.

  Regardless, my mother was not my first choice. Before Mom, I tried my brother, David (no answer), and Mort Schilling, an old2 friend of mine who used to be a defense attorney. As of this arrest, I had not yet acquired the services of a regular bail bondsman. After searching through my internal Rolodex and running the list by my new friends, Scarlet and Lacey (also in lockup but for different offenses), they both agreed that I should call my mother.

  “If your own mother won’t bail you out of jail, who will?” Lacey asked.

  Her reasoning was sound, but I called my mom because I thought she owed me after arrest #1.5 (or #3, depending on how you’re counting). The rest of the conversation went like this:

  MOM: Not again, Isabel. Please explain this to me.

  ME: I’ll explain as soon as you pick me up.

  MOM: We’re already on the road, dear. I’m not canceling our disappearance3 to bail you out of jail.

  ME: Oh, I forgot about the disappearance.

  MOM: You’re on your own, sweetie.

  ME: No, Mom! You’ve got to call someone to get me out of here. I don’t want to spend the night in this place.

  MOM: That might be a good idea. Remember Scared Straight!?

  ME: Of course I remember it. You made me watch it at least ten times in high school.

  MOM: A lot of good it did.

  ME: Listen, call Morty again. Call until he picks up the phone. He’s home. He just can’t hear it.

  MOM: I don’t think he should be driving at night.

  ME: Mom, please.

  MOM: Or during the day, for that matter.

  OFFICER LINDLEY: Spellman, can you hurry this up?

  ME: I gotta go. Just make sure someone gets me out of here.

  MOM: I’ll do my best. See you on Monday, Isabel.

  ME: Have a nice disappearance.

  Three hours later, Officer Lindley banged his nightstick on the cage and said, “Spellman, you’re out.” After retrieving my personal effects from the clerk, I was led into the waiting room, which I scanned for a familiar face.

  Morty was slumped over, asleep, in one of the green vinyl chairs. His wild, thinning hair drooped over his square Coke-bottle glasses. There was a crumpled lunch bag on his lap. His snoring alternated between kitchen blender and energy-efficient dishwasher.

  “Wake up, Morty,” I said, gently shaking his shoulder.

  Morty woke with a start, then turned to me and smiled. “How’s my favorite delinquent?” he asked.

  “I’ve been better,” I replied.

  “What’s this, arrest number four?”

  “Do you think it’s fair to count two and three?”

  “We don’t have to count them if you don’t want. I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you a sandwich,” Morty said, and then handed me the abused paper bag. “It’s your favorite. Pastrami on rye.”

  “No, Morty, it’s your favorite, which would account for why there’s only half a sandwich left.”

  “I had to wait over an hour,” Morty said in his own defense.

  I put my arm around my pint-sized octogenarian friend and kissed him on the cheek. “I knew you wouldn’t let me rot in there.”

  “Let’s talk business for a minute,” Morty said.

  “Shoot,” I said, knowing it wouldn’t be good news.

  “Your arraignment is on Monday. I don’t think I can get this charge dropped. Four arrests in under two months. They’re getting tired of seeing your mug around here. You violated a TRO.4 Izzele,5 what were you thinking?”

  “Arrests two and three don’t count, Morty. As for the other two, I think we can defend against those charges, although I need more evidence.”

  “Gathering evidence is what got you in trouble in the first place. You got to stop that. Besides, your mother wanted me to tell you that you’re grounded.”

  “I’m thirty years old. She can’t ground me.”

  “She can fire you,” Morty replied. “And then what are you going to do?”

  Morty had a point. But I was convinced that once I solved my primary mystery, all my troubles would vanish. But first, I had to stay out of jail, which meant staging a defense.

  At 9:00 A.M. the following Monday morning I was arraigned in Courtroom Four of the San Francisco criminal court building. Morty predicted correctly: these charges would not be dropped. My preliminary hearing was set for the following Monday, which gave Morty and me a full week to stage my defense. We returned to Morty’s office later that morning to go over the details of my case.

  THE “LAW OFFICES” OF MORT SCHILLING

  Monday, April 24

  1000 hrs

  Morty punched holes in my arrest sheet and secured it in his brand-new file on Isabel Spellman, or Spellman, Isabel (case #21). Me.

  “We should be able to keep the second and third arrests out of any court hearing. I can argue that they’re not related.”

  “Good.”

  “What?”

  “Good!”

  “During our lunches2 you’ve told me bits and pieces about this case, but I need the whole picture to figure out the best way to paint your story in court.”

 
“Do you really think this is going to court?”

  “What? Speak up.”

  “Do you think this will go to—Morty, put in your hearing aid.”

  Morty reached into his desk drawer, stuck in his hearing aid, and adjusted the volume.

  “This thing drives me crazy. What were you saying?”

  “Do you think this will even go to court? I mean, we can explain the evidence to the district attorney and maybe they’ll finally investigate this guy.”

  “Isabel, first things first. Let’s get your story down and then we’ll figure out how to deal with the DA. Right now I want you to tell me the whole story, and don’t leave anything out. I like the details and I’ve got all day. And I’ve got tomorrow and the next day, God willing.”

  “But I’ve already figured out my defense.”

  “Enlighten me,” Morty replied.

  “I’m innocent,” I said.

  “But you acknowledge you violated a TRO?”

  “I acknowledge that.”

  “Then how can you be innocent?”

  “Because the person who filed the restraining order is not who he says he is. Therefore the TRO is invalid.”

  “Why don’t we start at the beginning, Isabel.”

  Part I

  BEGINNINGS

  SUBJECT MOVES INTO 1797 CLAY STREET…

  Sunday, January 8

  1100 hrs

  I have trouble with beginnings. For one thing, I don’t find stories all that interesting when you start at the beginning. If you ask me, you only know there is a story when you get to the middle. And besides, beginnings are hard to determine. One could argue that the true beginning to all stories is the beginning of time. But Morty is already eighty-two years old, so given our time constraints, I’ll begin this story on the date I met, or, more specifically, first laid eyes on “John Brown” (hereafter referred to as “Subject” or by some variation of his alias, “John Brown”).

  I remember the day that Subject moved in next door to my parents like it was yesterday. He was taking over the second-story apartment of a triplex, previously occupied by Mr. Rafter, whose tenancy lasted close to thirty years. David knew Mr. Rafter better than I since his bedroom was six feet from Rafter’s den and their windows were level enough to provide each a fishbowl view of the other. Since Rafter spent most of his time watching television in his den and David spent most of his time studying in his bedroom, the two men got to know each other in their respective comfortable silences (minus the sounds of the television, that is).

  But I digress. As I said, I remember the day Subject moved in next door like it was yesterday. And I suppose the reason I remember it so vividly is because of the events that transpired earlier that day, the events that caused me to be at my family’s home at the precise moment Subject’s moving truck double-parked out front. So, I’m thinking I should probably start earlier that day and mention the aforementioned events.

  0900 hrs

  I woke in my bed, or, more precisely, the bed in the home of Bernie Peterson, a retired SFPD lieutenant whom I sublet from. My illegal residence in the Richmond district is exactly 2.8 miles and one giant hill away from my parents’ home, but I’m always just a phone call away.

  The phone rang, like it always does, before I’d had enough coffee to face the day.

  “Hello.”

  “Isabel, it’s Mom.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not in the mood for this today.”

  “Not ringing a bell. When did we meet?”

  “Listen to me very carefully; I don’t want to repeat myself. I need you to pick up Rae from the hospital.”

  “Is she all right?” I asked, concern altering the tone of my voice.1

  “She’s fine. But Henry2 isn’t.”

  “What happened?”

  “She ran him over.”

  “How?”

  “With a car, Isabel.”

  “I got that part, Mom.”

  “Izzy, I’m in the middle of a job. I have to go. Please get all the details of what went down. As usual, record everything. Call me when you get home.”

  San Francisco General Hospital

  1000 hrs

  The woman at the reception desk told me that only immediate family would be allowed in Henry’s room. I flashed my quarter-carat engagement ring and asked if fiancées qualified.

  A nurse directed me toward room 873 and explained that he was in serious, but stable, condition.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” I asked the nurse.

  “Your daughter is with him now. I’ll let her explain.”

  “My daughter?”

  I found my sister, Rae, sitting by Inspector Henry Stone’s bedside, staring at the electronic device monitoring his vitals.

  Henry’s nurse tried to smile over her annoyance at Rae’s hypervigilant announcements.

  “Seventy-two. His heart rate went up by five beats,” Rae said as I entered.

  My sister’s eyes were bloodshot and her flushed cheeks showed signs of recent crying. The nurse looked relieved when she saw me and said to Rae, “Oh, good. Your mother’s here.”

  “Eew,” I said, offended. “I’m not her mother. Do I look old enough to be the mother of a fifteen-year-old girl?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” she replied.

  “I’m his fiancée,” I clarified to the nurse, and then turned to the inspector.

  Henry Stone was lying in the hospital bed with an assortment of tubes and monitors attached to his body, wearing the standard-issue hospital gown. Minus the unfortunate outfit and the single gauze bandage stuck to his left temple, he looked pretty much the same as he always does: well groomed, slightly underweight, and handsome in a way that’s very easy to ignore. His usually short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair had grown out more in the past few weeks, which had the added benefit of making him appear younger than his forty-four years. Although at that moment the dark circles under his eyes and his patently agitated expression had offset that benefit.

  “How is he?” I asked the nurse, trying to emote the appropriate shade of concern.

  “There’s some bruising on the legs just below the knee, but nothing’s broken. The main concern is the concussion. He lost consciousness for five minutes and is experiencing nausea. We did a CT and everything looks fine, but we need to keep him under observation for forty-eight hours.”

  “Will he have permanent brain damage?” Rae asked.

  Henry grabbed my wrist. Hard. “I need to speak to you in private,” he said.

  I turned to Rae. “Leave the room.”

  “No,” she replied. I never thought a single syllable could possess such heartbreaking desperation.

  “Get out,” Henry demanded, unmoved by her wells of emotion.

  “Are you ever going to forgive me?” she said to him.

  “It’s only been two hours since you ran me over,” he replied.

  “Accidentally!” she shouted.

  Then Henry shot her a look that seemed to have more power than any lecture, punishment, or curfew my parents ever unleashed on Rae.

  “Two and a half hours,” Rae mumbled as she soberly exited the room.

  Henry gripped my arm even tighter after Rae was out of earshot. “That kind of hurts, Henry.”

  “Don’t talk to me about pain.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Keep her away from me.”

  “For how long?”

  “A couple weeks.”

  “Dream on.”

  “Isabel, please. I need a break.”

  “I’ll do what I can, but—”

  “Your sister almost killed me today—”

  “Accidentally!” shouted Rae from the other side of the door.

  “I need a Rae vacation.3 Please. Help me.”

  THE “LAW OFFICES” OF MORT SCHILLING

  Monday, April 24

  1015 hrs

  “
When did you and Inspector Stone get engaged?”

  “We’re not engaged. We’re ‘engaged’,” I said, using finger quotes.1

  “You’re not wearing an engagement ring.”

  “I don’t need to wear it anymore.”

  “Run that by me again.”

  “It’s a really long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

  “I want to hear any story that will help explain the evidence that has been amassed against you.”

  “That might take a while.”

  Morty shrugged his shoulders. Retirement hadn’t been his cup of tea. Anything that kept him busy was.

  Like I said, beginnings are impossible to define. For my story and my defense to make complete sense, I need to provide details from long before my troubles with “John Brown” began.

  A BRIEF HISTORY OF ME

  I am the second child of Albert and Olivia Spellman. Since the age of twelve I have worked for the family business, Spellman Investigations, a private investigative firm located inside the Spellman family residence in San Francisco, California. My brother, David, is two years my senior and my sister, Rae, fourteen-plus years my junior.

  I was, unequivocally, the difficult child (and adolescent and young adult). My reign of terror over the Spellman household lasted almost twenty years. I have often theorized that my bad seed MO arose out of having a sibling (David) whose perfection, both physical and intellectual, could not be matched. Because I could not compete with my brother, I responded by slumming in imperfection, leaving a wake of vandalism and truancy everywhere I went. David often tried to temper my exploits by sweeping whatever he could under the rug, but eventually even he grew tired of compensating for me. Now David is a lawyer married to my best friend, Petra.1 His primary connection to the family business is throwing work our way.

  My sister, Rae, age fifteen (and a half), barely looks a day over thirteen. She inherited her small frame from our mother, but the dirty-blonde hair and freckles mimic no one else in the family. My sister’s grand loyalty to the family, and especially the family business, has set her apart from me and David. Rae began working for Spellman Investigations when she was six years old and seemed to believe that she led the perfect life. For her, maybe it was true; it appeared that she was born into precisely the right family.