Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (48 page)

R
emember,” I said to Milo a moment before Subject sat down in the adjacent bar stool, “you don’t know me.”

“Whatever,” Milo said, scowling.

“What are you drinking?” I asked Subject.

“What have you got on tap?” Subject asked.

Milo pointed to a board with a list of domestic beers.

“Anchor Steam,” Subject said.

“Can I see some ID?” asked Milo.

“Oh, uh, sure,” Subject replied, reaching for his wallet. In the dim lighting of the bar, I could only make out that his driver’s license was not issued in California.

Milo checked the license as I instructed him to. He pretended he couldn’t see and moved over to the light.
¹

“Thank you,” Milo said, handing back the ID. Then he turned to me.

“ID, please.”

“But you already served me.”

“It slipped my mind. Hand it over, sweetheart.”

I scowled at Milo’s use of the word “sweetheart” (a first, as far as I can recall) and handed him my ID.

My bartender studied my driver’s license for a moment and began chuckling to himself.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“A hundred and twenty pounds?” he said, handing me back my card.

I shot him one final hostile glance and then he served Subject his beer. Milo retired to the end of the bar and Subject asked the question he had refrained from asking for over a week.

“So you’re a private investigator.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you investigate me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’m positive.”

“Because that little performance with you and your sister and the eastern/western zodiac quiz, well, it sure seemed like you were trying to get my date of birth.”

“We’re just really into astrology.”

“Is that so,” Subject said, looking me right in the eye. Then he leaned in and whispered in my ear.

“I’m going to let you in on a secret,” Subject said. “I’m not a rat.”

“Then what are you?” I asked.

“A snake,” Subject replied, giving me the chills.

My mother used to say that if you can’t verify a man’s existence, you probably shouldn’t go home with him.
²
However, based on my most recent observations of Mom, she was hardly the spokesperson for sound judgment. Two hours later, I was on my second whiskey in John Brown’s apartment.

I stayed off the subject of birthdays and employment histories, just to throw Subject off balance. Instead, I let the topic of discussion float over to me for a while, since clearly he did not want to talk about himself. I told Subject about Ex-boyfriends #4 and #9 (because that is the normal thing people do on dates, discuss past relationships) and then we had an hour-long conversation about Bernie and my rent-controlled apartment. Subject seemed to believe that I should fight for the space. Watching Subject speak on this matter, I noted that his interest was purely for show. It was a magician’s sleight of hand. He thought he had redirected my attention from his nonexistence and locked doors to my own upscale homelessness.

But I am not so easily handled. I excused myself to use the restroom because 1) I had to pee, and 2) I wanted another crack at that door. After 1 was completed, I exited the restroom and reached for the mysterious door. Still locked, but I came prepared. I pulled a picking tool out of my pocket and knelt in front of the keyhole. I knew there wasn’t much time. Even if I got the door open, I’d only have a chance to look inside for a second before I’d have to close it again.

But Subject was on guard. He knew better than to leave me unaccompanied in any part of his home. I was still working on the lock as I heard his footsteps turn the corner. There were two ways I could play it: A cover-up, or the direct approach.

“Can I help you with anything?” Subject asked as I was still working on the lock.

“If you don’t mind, I could use a minute alone with your door,” I replied.

“Isabel.” It was said as a warning.

“Just one more minute,” I said, not budging, “and I’ll be right with you.”

Subject approached me, looking very stern, and cornered me in front of the door.

“What is it with you and that door? I’m starting to get a little jealous.”

“You
have
to let me inside that room.”

“I don’t
have
to do anything.”

“Let me rephrase,” I said. “It would be in your best interest to let me see what’s in there.”

Subject slid his arm around my waist and pulled me close. He whispered in my ear, which was both sexy and creepy.

“It would be in your best interest to forget about the fucking door. Can you do that?”

I looked Subject in the eye and ignored the half of my brain that was telling me to run.

“For now,” I said, because the other half really wanted to stay.

Subject kissed me, or I him (the details are now a blur). What I remember about the kiss was the absence of the internal monologue that often accompanies first kisses. I’m usually preoccupied with what the guy’s hands are doing, concerned that the kiss will ruin everything. Because sometimes you don’t really know how you feel about someone until he actually kisses you. The thing about Subject was that his kiss made me forget everything. My mind went blank. My suspicion went away.

It came back, however, in the middle of the night. At three A.M., I made one more valiant attempt at cracking the mystery room, but I was caught and reprimanded with “If you can’t behave yourself, maybe you should go home,” and I did. But mostly because I preferred not having my parents know that I spent the night with our new neighbor, even if they did think he was harmless and pleasant.

The following morning I called Milo for the scoop on the previous night’s intelligence gathering.

“Hold on a second,” Milo said. “I have that scrap of paper around here somewhere.”

“What state was the driver’s license from?” I asked.

“Hold your horses. I wrote it down.”

“You don’t even remember that?” I asked.

“Is this how you talk to someone who is doing you a favor?”

“All I’m saying is that maybe you should see a doctor.”

“I don’t need to see a friggin’ doctor. Okay, I found it. It was a Washington state license.”

“What was the name on it?”

“John Brown.”

“How about the birthday?”

“March 7, 1971.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“Positive?”

“I’m gonna hang up now,” Milo said.

“No, don’t. Sorry. Do you have any other info?”

“Nope.”

“You didn’t write down his address?”

“I think it would have been suspicious if I took out a pen and paper and started copying down everything on his license, don’t you?”

“Do you remember what city?”

“I’m pretty sure it was Olympia.”

“How sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Is that like ninety percent or sixty?”

“Good-bye, Izzy,” Milo said, and hung up the phone.

Subject was neither a rat nor a snake, according to the license issued by Washington state. He was a Pisces pig, which made him older than he appeared. Also, Subject claimed to have been born and raised in St. Louis. At no point did he mention having lived in Washington. It occurred to me that the St. Louis backstory was used purely to throw me off the scent. I ran a DOB database search for Washington state and came upon two John Browns born on March 7, 1971. One was currently a CPA in Seattle and the other died five years ago. Who was I kidding? I didn’t need Subject’s driver’s license, I needed his whole wallet. I was banking on the fact that he might keep his social security card in there. With a common name and no verifiable birth date, I needed a social security number. I leaned back in my office chair and tried to come up with another plan.

Tuesday, February 14

Over the next two weeks I remained at my parents’ house, making the occasional phone call to Bernie, praying that reconciliation with Daisy was imminent. Bernie repeatedly invited me to move back in with him and explained that he was already back on the market. Reconciliation was out of the question.

I continued to garden with Subject, always hoping that I’d catch him with his guard down and he’d reveal at least one piece of identifying information about himself. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get my hands on his wallet. I was growing more impatient and suspicious with each flower bed and tomato plant I watered.

In the early
¹
morning of February 14, Subject and I were returning from one of his community garden projects when his cell phone rang. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hello? Oh, hi. Yes, I got your message. Are you sure? Okay. I can’t talk right now; I’m driving. Meet me Thursday, ten
A.M
., at the Ashby Community Garden in Berkeley. I’ll see you then.”

“Who was that?” I asked Subject, hoping the question sounded more casual than it was.

“I’m meeting a potential client,” Subject replied, and then changed the subject. “I think I’d like to swing by Mrs. Chandler’s residence and see how her grass is doing.”

Five minutes later, Subject and I were at the scene of the crime. Had these been real cherubs and real knives, Mrs. Chandler would have been the prime suspect, since she was standing over the bodies, her hands covered in “blood,” although it was obvious to me that she was simply cleaning up the mess. When Subject and I approached, Chandler gazed at me with a look of genuine bafflement. She
knew
it was me back then and chose not to punish me. The fact that the crime was an exact replica of the original seemed to make me the guilty party once again, but I’m sure she could find no logical explanation why a thirty-year-old woman would be repeating the crimes of her adolescence. I couldn’t help but feel sympathy this time around. I was indirectly responsible; I just couldn’t figure out how. I believed the tableaux were tasteless monstrosities; I still believe that. But they were her monstrosities, and she took pride in them. Subject and I helped her clean up the debris and then quickly parted ways.

Thursday, February 16
0900 hrs

I departed from the Spellman residence at nine A.M. Thursday morning and crossed the bridge. I parked approximately five blocks away from the garden, found a spot under an oak tree that provided a perfect visual of the grounds, sipped coffee, and waited, binoculars in hand, for Subject to arrive at his rendezvous point.

Shortly before the hour, Subject parked his truck next to the fenced-in patch and entered the gardens. Five minutes later, a woman, approximately thirty years of age, with long brown hair, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, approached Subject hesitantly. Subject and female spoke for about five minutes. Then female handed Subject an envelope and Subject handed female a brown paper bag. They spoke for a few more minutes. Based purely on their body language, there was nothing light and friendly about the conversation. Both parties shook hands and left the grounds separately. Neither did any gardening.
¹

CHAPTER-1

Saturday, February 18

A few days later, as I sat at my desk and contemplated different methods of acquiring Subject’s true identity, my mother interrupted me with a new job.

“We have a new case I’m going to put you on. Mostly surveillance. It’ll get you out of the office.”

“What’s the job?” I asked.

“Mrs. Chandler. Her yard is getting vandalized again. She says she’s tired of just sitting back and taking it. She’s willing to pay to make it stop.”

“Mrs. Chandler?” I repeated.

“Yes,” my mother replied. “I thought it was poetic justice that her first vandal should investigate the next generation.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied, per my usual script.

“Of course not,” said my mother nonchalantly.

“Mom, I’d rather not take this job.”

“Too bad,” Mom replied. “She asked for you specifically, Isabel. And she’s paying very well. I told her you’d be by this morning at eleven
A.M
. Sharp. Do not be late. She’s a very prompt woman.”

“It’s a labor of love,” Mrs. Chandler said of her holiday tableaux. “I know it’s not for everyone, but it makes me happy and I think it brightens up the neighborhood. Don’t you agree?”

Yes, eyesores often brighten things up, I thought to myself. Then I said, “I admire your dedication.”

“Each installment can take from ten to thirty hours of labor. I do it all myself. I hang every streamer, I dye every egg and sew every item of clothing. As you know, I’ve been doing this for fifteen years.”

“I have a vague recollection of when you began.”

Mrs. Chandler’s calm expression shifted slightly. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Isabel. I let your little pranks slide all those years ago because clearly you had to get something out of your system. You needed to express yourself just as I did. But this time it’s different. There’s no expression in copying a piece of work. What is happening now is a base prank and I want it to end. You know, it was Groundhog Day that always got under my skin. There is nothing creative about it; it’s just an excuse for vandalism.”

As awkward as this situation was, I was glad to be on the job. Someone out there was copying Petra’s and my pranks down to a T. This was a case I had to solve.

“Mrs. Chandler, I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience this has caused you. I assure you I will give this job top priority and find out exactly who is behind it.”

Mrs. Chandler followed me to the door.

“I forgive you, Isabel,” she said as I turned around to shake her hand.

“I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied.

Mrs. Chandler and I shook hands and I drove directly to Petra and David’s house to confer with my ex-partner in crime.