Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (56 page)

W
hy would somebody save their own snot?” Rae asked Henry as she was clearing the dinner dishes. My sister insisted Henry stay for dinner to be sure I didn’t have an allergic reaction to the pain medication.
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It was the response to that question that finally shed a different light on Rae’s unwavering affection for the man.

“You’re looking at this too literally, Rae,” Henry said. “I don’t believe he’s found a purpose for his used tissues. I believe the storing of them is simply a symptom of some other psychological urge.”

“So he’s saving his snot because he’s crazy?”

“No,” Henry said to Rae’s comment, and then, “No. You need to rinse that dish more,” to her dish-loading skills. “Don’t look at just the result of what he’s doing, a drawer full of used tissues. Look at the act itself.”

“Blowing his nose?” Rae asked. “So he’s got a sinus condition.”

“Think, Rae. What is he doing?”

“He’s saving his snot.”

“Right. He’s saving something. Now some people collect dolls or stamps or save every postcard they ever got, but haven’t you met a person who collected things that maybe were a little unusual?”

“That one time I went to camp, I bunked with a girl who used to bite her fingernails off and save them inside an old Altoid container.”

“Anything else?”

“Mr. Lubovich, who lives around the corner, he saves his newspapers. He must have at least like a couple years’ worth inside his house. And he won’t recycle them.”

“Let me show you something,” Henry said, as he strode over to the pantry and opened the door.

“How many boxes of Froot Loops, Cocoa Puffs, and Cap’n Crunch are stored in here?”

“Twenty, last time I counted,” said Rae.

“You’re only supposed to consume these goods on weekends, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And we can safely assume that you go through no more than one box a weekend, correct?”

“I’m trying to cut back,” Rae replied.

“Therefore, you have an almost five-month supply of cereal in the pantry.”

“What are you getting at?”

“You hoard cereal. Mr. Lubovich hoards newspapers. Mr. Peabody hoards used tissues. The symptom is different, but I’m not sure the impulse is.”

“No! No! No!” Rae shouted in her weak defense. “Are you equating my cereal collection with storing a week’s worth of gooey snot rags in a desk drawer?”

“I liked your use of the word ‘equating.’ That was good,” Henry replied.

“They’re completely different, Henry. What I’m doing is based on survival.”

“How so?”

“Haven’t you heard of earthquake preparedness?”

“I have,” Henry replied. “But if you’re so concerned about a natural disaster, why don’t you have any bottled water back there?”

Rae stared back at Henry blankly.

“I’d just like you to have an open mind,” he said, ending the conversation once and for all.

“Dammit!” I shouted.

“What’s wrong?” Henry asked.

“Batteries are dead on the tape recorder. Mom would have loved that one. Think you can reenact it?”

Henry confiscated the tape recorder.

After downing half a pain pill for dessert, I decided to slip out for a little R&R.
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“Where are you going?” Henry asked as I gingerly put on my raincoat.

“I’m sorry, Dad. Am I grounded too?” I asked.

“You’re not supposed to be driving, Isabel.”

I tossed Henry my car keys. “Then you drive me.”

“Okay,” Henry said, unexpectedly. “Let’s go.”

“Can I come too?” Rae asked.

“You’re grounded,” Stone replied.

“Whatever,” Rae replied, picking up the remote control and plopping herself down on the couch.

T
urn left. Turn right.”

“Up here?”

“That’s a driveway. At the next street turn right.”

“Then what?”

“Go straight.”

“Until when?”

“Until I tell you to turn the car. If I had known you were going to be such a nosy chauffeur, I would have driven in pain.”

“Why don’t you just tell me where we’re going? I might know a shortcut,” Henry said.

“I’m not sure where we’re going. I have to retrace my footsteps, so to speak.”

“Perhaps you’d like to tell me why we’re going there?”

“Just park, driver.”

Henry pulled the car into a parking space about four houses down from the Excelsior residence I’d followed Subject to two nights earlier.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Henry took hold of my arm before I could get out of the car.

“First tell me what you’re doing.”

“I’m just checking an address from a surveillance job the other day. Subject was on the move and it was too dark for me to read the street numbers. I need to put it in the report.”
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Henry released my arm. “Okay.”

I noted the address as 1341 San Jose Avenue. The house was dim inside, so I thought it would be safe to check the name on the mailbox. I could run a reverse address search, but if the owner of the house was renting, then I wouldn’t get the identity of the true occupants.

MR. AND MRS. DAVIS

According to the 1990 US Census, Davis is the sixth most common surname in the United States. I explained this earlier and in my previous document,
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so I don’t want to keep repeating myself, but the common name makes my job extremely difficult. Instead of reading the mailbox and running, I lingered a bit on the front porch of the Davis (the assumed “Davis”) residence and looked for any further evidence of the resident’s identity. I lingered too long, to be blunt, and a man I could only presume to be Mr. Davis opened the front door of the residence.

“Can I help you?” “Mr. Davis” asked. He was wearing a flannel shirt over a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and slippers. A can of beer dangled from his hand, his eyes appeared bloodshot, and his skin looked sallow, perhaps from lack of sleep or a vitamin deficiency.

“Is Mary
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home?”

“My wife’s name is Jennifer,” presumably-Mr.-Davis said.

“I think I have the wrong place. You don’t have a book club going on back there, do you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Sorry. I must have written the address down wrong.”

“Must have.”

“Have a nice evening,” I said, about to slip away.

“Hey there,” presumably-Mr.-Davis said.

“Yes?” I replied, turning back around.

“Where’s your book?”

“What?”

“You were planning on going to a book club. I was just wondering where your book was.”

“Oh, I never read the book,” I said. “I just go for the free booze. See you.”

“Let’s go,” I said to Henry once I was back inside his car.

“You made a new friend?”

“Nah. I just got made.”

Stone and I drove home in silence. It had been a long day and what I needed most was one more full night of narcotic-induced rest. If breathing were unnecessary, I would have been pain free. But you know the story.

Henry pulled the car up in front of the Spellman house. Just as I was reaching for the door, I had a flashback from the previous night’s adventure.

“Who was that kid, Henry?”

“What kid?”

“From the party. You went right up to that kid and shook him and said something like ‘You’ve disappointed me.’”

“I don’t remember,” Henry casually replied.

“I was doped up on Vicodin and Ambien and I remember.”

“Another way to look at it,” Henry replied, “is that your memory is cloudy from prescription drugs.”

“You know that kid. Who was he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a lousy liar.”

“I haven’t had as much practice as you.”

“Who was the kid?”

“Isabel, at this point, I’ve spent almost twenty straight hours with you.”

“I too have enjoyed our time together.”

“Get out of my car,” Henry said, trying to sound threatening.

I studied Stone’s stolid expression to gauge his resolve.

“Okay, good night.”

Then I did the oddest thing. I kissed him on the cheek. Henry flinched slightly when I moved toward him, as if he thought I might injure him.

“Sorry,” I said, feeling my skin flush with embarrassment. “I have
no
idea why I just did that.”

“Must be the drugs you’re on.”

“Must be,” I echoed as I exited the vehicle.

CHAPTER-5

I
entered the Spellman home and found my sister plopped in front of the television watching some old sci-fi movie on DVD.

“What are you watching?”

“Dr. Who: The Five Doctors.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Henry. He has, like, all forty years of
Doctor Who
on DVD. I just want to watch the new series, but he won’t let me until I’ve viewed some of the older stuff. He has so many rules,” Rae said.

“Yes, he does,” I agreed. “At the party,” I said, changing the subject, “there was a boy about sixteen, maybe seventeen. Lanky, sandy-brown hair, skater wear all the way. After we busted into the joint, Henry took him by the shoulders and said, ‘You’ve disappointed me.’ So?”

“So what?”

“Answer the question.”

“That was not an interrogative.”

“Rae, who was the skater dude?”

“I think his name is Dylan Loomis, although there were a couple of boys there matching your description.”

“Why would Henry say ‘You’ve disappointed me’?”

“I don’t know. Did you ask Henry?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?” Rae asked, turning to me. Her demeanor had remained casual up until this point. But the answer to this question held some genuine interest for her.

“He said nothing. But there’s no reason for him to be disappointed in a random boy at a party you attended. So here’s my follow-up question: Is Dylan Loomis your boyfriend’s real name or did you supply a fake one to keep me off the scent just a little bit longer? And I know there was an interrogative in that last sentence.”

Rae pressed the Play button and returned her attention to five middle-aged men in lab coats. I had a brief flashback to my own adolescence and thought perhaps if I didn’t push, didn’t pry, Rae might have a better chance than me. So I let the subject drop. For now.

“You know what? It’s none of my business, although you should probably lay off the beer at parties for a while.”

This time Rae pressed the Pause button. “Are you going to tell Mom and Dad?”

“If I don’t, Henry will. You got drunk at a party, Rae.”

“No, the other thing.”

“They don’t know you maybe have a boyfriend?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Why does Henry know and Mom and Dad don’t know?”

“Because I tell Henry everything,” Rae said, getting up and scouring the pantry for more snack food. Rae grabbed a bag of potato chips and a can of root beer and sat back down on the couch. “So you’re not going to tell?”

“I don’t know. I have to think about it.”

“I have something to offer you in exchange for your silence,” she said in a conspiratorial tone.

“What?”

“If you want to investigate someone in the family, how about choosing a more worthy subject?”

“Who?”

“Dad.”

“What about him?”

“I don’t think he’s having a REAFO.”

“What are you saying, Rae?”

“Look in the glove compartment of his car.”

“Albert Spellman”

Confidential sources are common in all investigative work, but this was the first time Rae had ever passed on information instead of using it to her own end. It is true I had found my father’s behavior suspicious as of late, but I never thought beyond the wet hair, leafy greens, and attempts at heartfelt chats about life and death. I was purely of the school of thought that Dad was going through yet another REAFO. But after opening Dad’s glove compartment, I determined that the suspicious behavior report needed an upgrade.

I found three child-proof pill bottles with prescriptions from a Dr. Nate Glasser at the California Pacific Medical Center. I slipped the bottles into my pocket (Mom and Dad weren’t due home for another three days) and re-entered the house. I pressed the Pause button on the remote control and asked Rae if she had researched anything on the internet. She said she hadn’t; she was afraid of what she might find out. I told her not to worry. I lied and told her I was certain that Dad was fine. It took tremendous discipline for me to avoid researching the prescriptions myself, but I waited until the next afternoon when I met Morty at Moishe’s Pippic for lunch.
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