Read Revenge of the Spellmans Online
Authors: Lisa Lutz
Revenge of the Spellmans (31 page)
O
n my way home from therapy, I was followed once again. Since my only scheduled activity was my weekly session with Dr. Rush, I had to assume that my pursuers had learned this fact and used it to track me down. Otherwise, if you think about it, I’m a pretty difficult person to find.
The vehicle shadowing me was a green Ford Taurus, driven undoubtedly by one of Harkey’s men. He was good. I tried to lose him, but I couldn’t without breaking some major traffic laws or getting into an accident. Allow me to cut to the end of the chase. Twenty minutes after the pursuit began, I parked in Lower Haight and entered Petra’s hair salon.
“I need a wig, new clothes, and your car keys,” I said to Petra as I entered.
Petra, without asking for details, tossed the keys to me from her pocket and said, “I’m parked around the corner on Steiner. You know where to find the rest.”
I entered the back room of the salon, the smell of shampoo and chemicals burning my nostrils, and searched through the lost-and-found items and Petra’s personal collection of wigs.
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I chose an auburn
shag cut and a faux fur coat with black sunglasses. When I entered the front room, Petra looked at me and said, “I think we found your next look.”
I offered her my car keys in exchange and told her she could reach me on my cell.
I exited the storefront and walked down the street. My challenge was to ascertain whether I was being followed without appearing in any way suspicious. Regular people don’t walk down the street looking over their shoulder.
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As I approached Petra’s car, I looked into her driver’s side mirror to see if the Taurus was anywhere in the vicinity. Nothing. After I drove away, I knew I was free. My escape was just the thing I needed to lift my spirits.
Two minutes later
My mother phoned.
“I need you to pick up Rae from a Buddhist temple in Marin.”
I wasn’t really sure where to begin, so I started with an easy question.
“Why can’t you get her?”
“Dad and I are on surveillance right now,” Mom said.
I moved on to a slightly more difficult question: “Why can’t she return the same way she got there?”
“Because she doesn’t want to come home,” Mom replied. “She only called me so I wouldn’t worry.”
And then the hard question: “What’s she doing at a Buddhist temple?”
Mom’s reply: “Don’t ask.”
My mother text-messaged the address to my phone and I took Petra’s car across the Golden Gate Bridge.
Thirty-five minutes later
I entered the Buddhist Temple of Marin, interrupting a beginning meditation class my sister was attending. The instructor, a warm and peaceful gentleman in robes, invited me to join the group. In a perfect world I would have said in a loud, abrasive tone, “Get your stuff, Rae; we’re out of here,” but I could tell by the way Rae was pretending to meditate yet peeking out of one eye at me and my wig, that she would have refused to move. I didn’t want to disrupt whatever level of calm the other attendees had reached, so I sat down next to my sister, shoving her over just a bit, and followed the monk’s instructions.
I breathed and stuff for the next twenty minutes, which I have to admit took the edge off my anger at Rae. When the class was over, I said to her, “You know, they’ve got places just like this in the city.”
“Oh, so now you’re talking to me again?” Rae said.
“No, I’m not,” I replied.
“What’s with the getup?” she asked.
We walked to the car in silence.
To be obnoxious, Rae then twisted her legs into a pretzel on the car seat, rested her hands on her knees, and began chanting, “Ommmmm…ommmmm…ommmmm,” until interrupted.
“Meditate on your own time!” I said.
I delivered Rae to an empty Spellman house. She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, saying she was going to center herself.
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I then phoned Petra to arrange our car swap.
We met at Crissy Field, in part because it was a nice-enough day and Petra wanted to see the water, but also because there are ample
parking spaces there. Without any fear of being followed, Petra and I strolled along the beach and caught each other up on our current events.
“I still don’t understand why Rae was at a Buddhist temple,” Petra said.
“She thinks her schoolwork is suffering because she’s under stress. Hence the meditation class. At least I think that’s why she was there, based on the conversation I overheard between her and the monk. I’m not speaking to her, so my information isn’t firsthand. I’m tired of talking about Rae. Your turn,” I said.
I’ll spare you the sappy details, even though I was not spared. Petra and Gabe think they’re in love. She’s taken up skateboarding and he’s taken up leave-in conditioner. It’s been only three weeks since he got his first haircut. I think you need at least six weeks, or two haircuts, to know for sure. I’d like to say that my ease with Petra had reverted to that of our old partners-in-crime days, but it hadn’t. We had grown up (sort of) and grown apart. I was never sure how to relate to her after the divorce. She was my best friend, but she cheated on my brother and it changed him. I had spent years being jealous of David’s perfection, but I was always comfortable with my role, envying and resenting him. To see my brother sad and confused, well, I didn’t know how to behave when faced with that. Petra changed everything and I found that our relationship became too sticky to dust off. If we were young and had a mutual enemy’s car to vandalize, I’m sure we could have erased the tension. But today I wasn’t sure when—or if—it would completely vanish.
Petra and I returned to our cars and swapped keys in midair. We said a vague “I’ll see you around” good-bye. I told her to invite me to the wedding. I got in my car, took Bay Street up to Van Ness, made a right turn, and then noticed that I was being followed yet again. This was my own fault. I assumed that when my pursuers saw Petra get into my car, they would stop the tail. I guess they weren’t as stupid as I thought, and apparently I must have been more important than I thought.
Car Chase #I-don’t-know-anymore
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I’d love to tell you that I took Harkey’s goon in the green Taurus on a
Bullitt
-style pursuit through the streets of San Francisco, culminating in a top-speed chase down Lombard Street, but I didn’t. First of all, car chases are dangerous; second, there’s usually a line backed up for Lombard; and third, I had another idea that I figured would save me some time.
I drove to my parents’ house, parked in the driveway, and watched television until my mom and dad came home.
When the Unit came through the door, my dad looked at me and said, “We have company,” nodding his head in the direction of the street.
“I know,” I replied. “Mom, could you distract him for a minute while I skip out through the back?”
While my mom offered Harkey’s surveillance guy a cup of coffee and chatted with him about the weather, I exited through a side window and cut across a neighbor’s backyard to the next street over. I then took a leisurely stroll back to David’s house.
C
onnor had left a message on my cell phone while I was waiting for my parents to return home. He said there was another letter for me at the bar. I would have preferred avoiding the barman altogether, but I wanted the letter, just so I had one final piece of ammunition against my blackmailer.
I took a bus and train to the Philosopher’s Club, because—if you recall—my car was still located at my parents’ house. When I arrived, the bar had a modest crowd, a population unseen at this hour, on this day of the week, during Milo’s long tenure.
Connor was tending bar by his lonesome. I wasn’t sure what to expect after the incident, but Connor simply handed me an envelope, same as before. I avoided eye contact; he didn’t.
“Ya can’t blame a man fur tryin,” he said pleasantly.
I smiled and said, “No, you can’t.”
I left the bar and hailed a cab to find my true blackmailer.
On the cab ride I opened the envelope and read my final note:
The Symphony Is Next
U Might Want 2
Buy Ur Tickets Now
My blackmailer opened the door. I crumpled the ransom note and threw it at his chest.
“Isabel, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You can drop the act,” I said. “I know it’s you.”
I pushed my way past Henry and checked the apartment to make sure we were alone.
“What are you talking about?” he asked with a perfectly innocent delivery.
“
You
are my blackmailer,” I said, looking Henry in the eye.
It was my hope that he wouldn’t deny it, since I had no hard evidence.
Henry smiled, full of himself. “You got me.”
“Why did you make me wash my dad’s car?” I asked.
“It was dirty and I wanted to throw you off the scent.”
“Bravo.”
“Thanks.”
“But why?”
“You were living in your brother’s house without his knowledge!” Henry shouted.
“What’s it to you?”
“Someone had to stop you.”
“But you didn’t stop me. You made me go to the zoo and the museum.”
“The zoo was your crazy idea. Who thinks that the zoo and SFMOMA are interchangeable?!”
“I asked my mom and she said it was fine!”
“Of course she did.”
“Why make me go to the museum or the theater or whatever?”
“I thought you could use some culture.”
“You are such a snob!” I said, looking for something to throw.
I couldn’t find anything that wouldn’t cause personal injury, so I kicked some magazines off of his coffee table.
“Really mature.”
“That was just an accident,” I replied. I walked into his office and emptied the trash on the floor. “But that was not.”
“This is ridiculous,” Henry said. While he was restoring the garbage to its place, I returned to the living room and began realphabetizing the books on his shelf.
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I managed to relocate at least ten books before Henry intervened. He grabbed
War and Peace
out of my hands and stuck it back on the shelf.
“You wouldn’t like that one. It’s really long.”
“Ouch. That hurt,” I replied, backing Henry into a corner.
“Now what are you going to do?” Henry asked. “Rearrange my furniture?”
I kissed him. That’s what I did. He didn’t have anywhere to go and I was pretty close to him. He’s taller than me so I had to stand on my toes. I thought for sure I felt an arm slide around my back and I know at first I felt the kiss returned, but then he stopped and pulled away. He looked confused and sad, sort of, and he didn’t make eye contact. I didn’t utter a word because it looked like Henry had something to say.
“No,” he whispered.
I took a few steps back.
“What?” I asked.
“No,” he said more clearly.
“Okay,” I replied.
“It’s not that I don’t feel anything—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, backing away some more.
“I can’t wait for you,” Henry said.
I was almost at the door, but then I had to ask.
“You can’t wait for what?”
He sighed and cleared his throat and fought his own brand of discomfort.
“I’m forty-five years old, Isabel. I can’t wait for you to grow up.”
What is there to say to that? I had nothing. Nothing. I turned around and walked out the door.
I spent the entire evening on David’s couch, watching TV and eating an assortment of candy from god knows where. My brother didn’t ask me about my troubles; he just sat there, keeping me company. He even let me drink the good stuff.
I
t might seem like the case of Ernie’s maybe-suspicious wife was far from my thoughts, but the truth was, I believed the case was the answer to everything. If I could figure out Linda Truesdale’s secret, then maybe all sorts of other things would become clear. My last investigation—the Case of John Brown
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—had me convinced that my instincts were off and maybe I was in the wrong line of work. I had to solve the Truesdale case or I had to quit. You might find my logic arbitrary, but it seems to me that someone should have at least a minor talent for his or her career choice. Setting out a shingle for the Lousy Detective Agency wasn’t an option. I could never be like Harkey.
Never.
Ernie phoned me the next morning as I was sleeping off the whiskey I drank in my brother’s living room the previous evening. Ernie said that his wife was meeting Sharon for lunch again. He wasn’t sure where, so I’d have to start the tail from their place. She would be departing in less than
forty-five minutes. Depending on traffic, I needed at least a half hour to get there, since my car was parked at my parents’ house.
I dressed in my clothes from the night before and knocked on David’s door. No answer. I took his spare key and entered his house. I shouted his name; I called his cell phone. Nothing. I saw his car key by the front door. I took it and I took his car.
There was an accident on the freeway. I made it to the Black residence just as Linda was pulling out of the driveway. I followed her back onto 101 North and continued the tail as she took 280 and exited at Nineteenth Avenue. Linda stayed on Nineteenth for over five miles. At first I thought she would head across the Golden Gate Bridge, but instead she made a right turn on Clement Street and began searching for a parking space. After parking, she entered, surprisingly, a casual dining establishment called Good Luck Dim Sum.
I was hungry and, for once, dressed appropriately for their restaurant of choice. Since Sharon and Linda had never laid eyes on me, I saw no harm in keeping a short leash on this surveillance and grabbing a bite. I waited five minutes and entered the restaurant.
I saw the women in the window by the street. I asked for a table along the wall. It would provide a clear view of both subjects as they dined.
I ordered hot and sour soup, a pot of tea, and some pot stickers. The women ordered off the cart, although body language indicated that Linda was in her element and was making all the ordering decisions. I could overhear snippets of conversation, Linda offering descriptions of the delicacies. I hadn’t observed the women up close for this long. The observation that struck me most was how uncomfortable they seemed with one another. Before, I had witnessed Linda’s discomfort in her friend’s austere, pricey environments. But this time Sharon, dressed in a hugely inappropriate Chanel suit, looked positively silly trying to eat with chopsticks. And unlike my dad, she wouldn’t use a fork and knife.
What broke the awkward lunch was even more awkward: Sharon took
a small gift box out of her enormous handbag and handed it to Linda. The redhead opened the box and smiled appreciatively. I think it was jewelry, but Linda didn’t display the gift. She put the box in her own more modest handbag and poured herself another cup of jasmine tea. A sadness—at least that’s how I translated it from twenty feet away—appeared to wash over Linda’s face, but then a moment later it seemed to disappear.
I assumed after lunch that the women would be returning to their respective homes, so I lingered and made sure that I got the caffeine equivalent of four strong cups of coffee from the less efficiently caffeinated tea. I finished my soup and departed about twenty minutes after the subjects did.
When I pulled out of my parking space, I realized I was being tailed yet again.
This time I tried to evade my pursuer, who was driving a black Ford Explorer. I should remind you that I was in my brother’s shiny new Prius—an excellent vehicle, but not exactly a muscle car. I turned south down Nineteenth Avenue, thinking the freeway might be my only option of escape. When I merged onto 280 South, I immediately cut across three lanes and continued along by the center divider. I switched lanes only to pass other vehicles. I was speeding, but safely. The Ford was a few cars back and one lane to my left. I cut across three lanes to my right, consecutively, and exited the freeway. When I checked my rearview mirror, I had lost the Ford Explorer. On the other hand, I had gained a squad car.
“License and registration, please,” the officer said. I didn’t catch his name, because I was trying to find the paperwork in David’s glove compartment.
I showed the officer my license and the paperwork from David’s recent purchase. There were no license plates on the car, but I didn’t see a problem.
“You’re not David,” the officer said.
“No, I’m his sister, Isabel. See, we have the same last name.”
“Please remove your sunglasses,” the officer asked.
I complied.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Wait here.”
I waited about five minutes and the officer returned.
“Ma’am, please step out of the vehicle.”
“Is there a problem, officer?”
“Ma’am, step out of the vehicle.”
I exited David’s car and the officer put my hands behind my back and cuffed them.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to take you down to the station.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because this car has been reported as stolen.”
Arrest Number…Whatever
If you’ve read the previous document, you may be thinking that my parents might let me stew in a holding cell all afternoon, but that was not the case. My father arrived with Rae just an hour or so after I was booked. Dad explained the situation and had the arresting officer speak to David on the phone. I was immediately released. I suspect my sister came purely for the entertainment value.
When my personal effects were returned and I met my father and sister in the waiting room, Rae said, “Talk about irony.”
“I swear, I’m going to kill you,” I repeated once again within the walls of a police station.
“If I am ever murdered,” Rae snapped, “you should leave the country right away, because you will be suspect number one.”
My dad then told us both to shut up.
Because the car was registered under David’s name, he had to pick it up from the impound lot. When he arrived at the police station, I unloaded some hearty apologies.
David shook his head in bafflement. “All you had to do was write a note.”