by Lisa Lutz
ALSO BY LISA LUTZ
Revenge of the Spellmans
Curse of the Spellmans
The Spellman Files
THE SPELLMANS
STRIKE AGAIN
Lisa Lutz
SIMON & SCHUSTER
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
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are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or
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Designed by Davina Mock-Maniscalco
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lutz, Lisa.
The Spellmans strike again : a novel / Lisa Lutz.
—1st Simon & Schuster hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. Private investigators—Fiction. 2. San Francisco (Calif.)—Fiction.
3. Domestic Fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.U897S69 2010
813’ .6—dc22
2009038267
ISBN 978-1-4165-9340-9
ISBN 978-1-4391-9983-1 (ebook)
To all my friends from Desvernine Associates:
Des, Pamela, Pierre, Yvonne, Debra,
and Gretchen. But not Mike.
THE SPELLMANS
STRIKE AGAIN
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
PART I CASE WORK
FAMILY CAMPING TRIP #2
RULE #22
UNHAPPY HOUR
A GENTLEMAN’S GENTLEMAN
PHONE CALL FROM THE EDGE #17
UNDERCOVER BUTLER
EX BOYFRIEND #12
RAE’S OBSESSION
THE TROUBLE WITH HENRY
RULE #26
STAKEOUT #1
MANDATORY LAWYER DATE #1
DAVID’S NEW FRIEND MY NEW CLIENT
PHONE CALL FROM THE EDGE #18
FREE SCHMIDT
THE SNOWBALL EFFECT
RULE #28—MANDATORY SUNDAY NIGHT FAMILY DINNERS
UNDERCOVER BUTLER #2
STAKEOUT #2
MANDATORY LAWYER DATE #2
THE BUTLER DID SOMETHING
“QUALITY TIME”
RULE #31—VACATE RESIDENCE EVERY WEDNESDAY
PART II APPEALS
THE BIG BLONDE
THE ENGLE PROBLEM
REEFER MADNESS
LOST WEDNESDAY #1
WAKE UP CALL
MANDATORY LAWYER DATE #3
PHONE CALL FROM THE EDGE #20
THE RETURN OF SUNDAY NIGHT DINNER
TROUBLE BREWING
RULE #40—LEARN SOME MANNERS
SON OF SUNDAY NIGHT DINNER
TRASH DUTY
THE DIALECT WARS
MORE DETECTIVE WORK
MY FIRST HOLDUP
LOST WEDNESDAY THE THIRD
DEAD ENDS AND NEW BEGINNINGS
MANDATORY LAWYER DATE #4
THE “FREE SCHMIDT ” EXPLOSION
THE FINGERPRINT FAIRY
THE BUTLER’S SECRET
A QUIET NIGHT IN
PART III CHARGES
IN THE HOLE
THE MORNING AFTER
CONSEQUENCES
THE HEMLOCK EFFECT
PHONE CALL FROM THE EDGE #28
BRIDE OF SUNDAY NIGHT DINNER
THREE WISHES
BACK TO WORK
PRATTFALL
FREE MERRIWEATHER—
LOST WEDNESDAY AGAIN
FREE MERRIWEATHER—
WHAT THE BUTLER DID DO
SPAWN OF SUNDAY NIGHT DINNER
WOULD THE REAL MASON GRAVES PLEASE STAND UP
THE GIFT OF PROBATION
FREE SOMEBODY ALREADY
FREE MERRIWEATHER—
LAWYER DATE—THE FINAL CHAPTER
PART IV SENTENCING
PROM NIGHT 1994
THE 500 PAYBACK
CASE CLOSED
FREE MERRIWEATHER—
REGRESSION
THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING DOORKNOBS
MY AGENDA
THURSDAYS WITHMORTY REDUX
FREE MERRIWEATHER—
THE PERENNIAL PROBLEM
ETIQUETTE LESSON #157
MRS ENRIGHT REVEALED
THE SUNDAY NIGHT DINNER MASSACRE
SLEEP INTERRUPTED
FREE MERRIWEATHER—
CONSEQUENCES
FREE MERRIWEATHER—
DIVINE INTERVENTION
SABOTAGE
DECISIONS DECISIONS
DOING TIME
THE ATTACK OF SUNDAY NIGHT DINNER
THE LONG GOOD BYE
MERRIWEATHER
BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS
THE SUNDAY NIGHT DINNER SMACKDOWN
THE EULOGY
APPENDIX
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
Phone call from the edge1 #28
MORTY: What’s new, Izzele?
ME: If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.
MORTY: Never stopped you before.
ME: I wouldn’t know where to begin.
MORTY: It’s true. You tell stories funny. You always start in the middle.
ME: Here’s a headline: Rae committed a felony and might actually have to do time in a juvenile facility.
MORTY: That is news. What did she do?
ME: Something very bad.
MORTY: Usually felonies are. Feel like sharing?
ME: I’m not ready to talk about it. Let’s switch subjects.
MORTY: Okay, how’s your Harkey investigation going?
ME: Nowhere.
MORTY: Your brother still seeing the hooker?
ME: I explained this to you before. She’s not a hooker.
MORTY: Sorry, I got confused. I’m not even going to ask about your Irish boyfriend.2
ME: Good. Don’t.
MORTY: I didn’t. That’s what I just said.
ME: Don’t you have some news for me, Morty?
MORTY: That’s right, I haven’t told you yet. We’re moving back to San Fran.
ME: Say San Francisco, not San Fran.
MORTY: Why? Life’s short. No point wasting it on extra syllables.
ME: It makes you sound like a tourist.
MORTY: You’re grumpy today.
ME: You have no idea what the past few days have been like for me.
MORTY: True,
because you haven’t told me.
ME: Later. You’ll hear all about it, later.
MORTY: Don’t wait too long. I’m old.3
ME: I am well aware of that.
MORTY: I got the shirt, by the way.
ME: What shirt?
MORTY: The blue shirt that says “Free Schmidt.”
ME: I didn’t send you that shirt.
MORTY: Who did?
ME: Rae.
MORTY: It came with instructions. A typewritten note that told me I should wear it in public at least twice a week. Who is Schmidt?
ME: A man inadvertently responsible for one of the most traumatic events of my life.
MORTY: So, I take it we don’t want to free him?
ME: No, we want to free him. Definitely.
MORTY: Should I wear the shirt?
ME: Wear it, don’t wear it, I don’t care. I just don’t want to talk about Schmidt anymore.
MORTY: Okay. How’s the weather?
ME: Excuse me, isn’t there some real news to discuss?
MORTY: Are you referring to my forthcoming return to San Fran?
ME: Ahem.
MORTY: Cisco.
ME: Yes. Give it to me straight, Morty. How on earth did you convince Ruthy to move back to the city?
MORTY: Let’s call it divine intervention.
PART I
CASE WORK
(Three Months Earlier)
FAMILY CAMPING TRIP #2
Why???? we all asked when my father broke the news. A family disappearance/corporate retreat/camping trip all rolled up into one. Surely it was a bad idea, I suggested. The sentiment was reaffirmed by Rae with her constant references to the Donner Party and repeated inquiries as to which one of the Spellmans plus guest would most likely be consumed first (should it come to that). The third time this particular line of inquiry rolled around, my mother sent Rae to her room.
If all of this is confusing you, perhaps I should give you a quick refresher course on the Spellmans. Although I highly recommend reading the first three documents1 if you want a true understanding of what is really going on here.
My father is Albert Spellman, a onetime cop turned private investigator who really likes lunch. He is happily married to Olivia Spellman, my mother and co-owner of Spellman Investigations. Mom is an extremely attractive woman—although lately people have been adding the disclaimer “for her age,” which has started to get under her skin. Other than my mom’s mild vanity, her most obscene characteristic is that she seems to think meddling in her children’s lives is an Olympic event. Her training regimen is positively brutal.
Albert and Olivia have three children. The oldest is my brother, David, thirty-four: Formerly a poster boy for the all-American corporate male, currently an out-of-work human being. I’m the middle child. Isabel, thirty-two, if you didn’t catch it already. My MO from fifth grade until my midtwenties was that of the problem child. The “student” the principal knew by name, the neighbors feared, and the pot dealers counted on to stay afloat. Also, in the interest of honesty, there were a few arrests thrown into the mix—two (or four, depending on how you’re counting) as recently as two years ago, which I guess means that I can’t argue that my problem years were confined to my youth or even my twenties. But it’s important to note that I’ve come a long way. Therapy helped, and I’m big enough to admit it was court ordered.
About six months ago, after years of doubt about my future with Spellman Investigations, I committed to the job completely and agreed to slowly begin taking over the business from my parents so they can retire and learn to do macramé2 or something. My father likes to say the seeds of adulthood have been planted. He’s just waiting for them to take.
There’s only one other Spellman to speak of—Rae—and I’ll mostly let her speak for herself because you might not believe me otherwise.
I suppose the most defining characteristic of my family is that we take our work home with us. If your family’s job is investigating other people, you inevitably investigate each other. This single trait has been our primary point of conflict for most of my life.
Finally, to round out the players on this unfortunate camping trip, I should mention Maggie. Maggie Mason, girlfriend to brother David. Maggie is a defense attorney who used to date Henry Stone (that’s a whole other story I don’t really want to get into right now, okay?), who happens to be the “best friend”3 of my now seventeen-year-old sister, the briefly aforementioned Rae. Henry is a forty-five-year-old police inspector and Rae is a senior in high school. They’re an unlikely duo. Rae met Henry when she was fourteen and I guess she decided that they were kindred spirits. However, on the surface (and beneath the surface) they have nothing in common. At the start, Henry endured Rae. Then he got used to her. Then, when Henry was dating Maggie and Rae went to supernatural lengths to sabotage their relationship, Henry cut Rae off completely. Now they have found peace. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I don’t get involved anymore.
After Maggie and Henry broke up, over half of the Spellman clan vetted Maggie and determined that she was a quality human, the kind of person that the Spellman circle sorely needed. After an appropriate amount of time passed, the matchmaking plans for Maggie and David were successfully enacted. The couple had only been together about two months at the point of this camping trip, but since Maggie is the only person we know who can make fire from a flint, can pitch a tent, can use a compass, and actually owns bear spray, we thought it wise for our own personal safety to bring her along. That and David refused to come unless she accompanied him.
Now picture me in the predawn hours, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the Russian River, in the middle of nowhere, sharing a tent with my much younger sister, Rae, who had spent the past two days either trying to get cell phone reception, complaining about the mosquitoes, or “sleeping,” during which time she carried on lengthy conversations about . . . well, honestly, I couldn’t tell you. I caught phrases like “I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” “Not in this lifetime,” and “You’ll find the treasure at the bottom of the gorge.” I might have been able to sleep through her babbling if she weren’t a nighttime thrasher and kicker. And so, once again, there I was, sleep deprived, trapped with family, waiting for the nightmare to come to an end. My life in a nutshell.
On the morning before our return-home date, I gave up on sleep, knowing that this was my last full day in the wild. When I exited my tent, my father was trying to make coffee and failing miserably. He appeared glad for company since my mother was still slumbering in their tent.
“What am I doing wrong?” he asked.
“Strong-arming your family into a cruel and unnecessary nature excursion,” I suggested.
“No,” Dad replied. “What am I doing wrong with the coffee?”
“You don’t stick the coffee in the pot and boil it with the water, Dad. Are you brain-dead? You just boil the water first and use the French press Maggie brought. Weren’t you watching her yesterday?” I replied with too much hostility.
My father tried to lighten the mood with the only joke he had in his arsenal this weekend.
“Why don’t you take a hike?” he said for about the thirtieth time.
“I’m going to dig a grave for that line and you’re going to bury it, Dad. I swear to you, if you say it one more time—”
“Maggie!” Dad shouted with way too much enthusiasm for waking hours. “Thank God you’re awake.”
Maggie smiled, approached the campfire, and took over the coffee making. Already the morning had improved. But the purpose of the trip had not yet been realized, and eventually we had to accept that this wasn’t simply a bonding experience for the Spellmans and friend, but something even more bizarre.
I should mention that no Spellman child had gone AWOL or refused to participate in the excursion since “business” was not to take place until the final day and, frankly, we all wanted our voice to be heard, even if it was heard above the buzz of mosquitoes. Also, I should mention
that my parents said they would refuse to give a raise to anyone who didn’t participate in this bonding exercise. As for David, he was only there because he thought Maggie needed more quality time with the family, as a kind of cautionary lesson.
I suppose it’s time we get to business.
The First Annual Shareholders’ Meeting of Spellman Investigations, Inc.
[The minutes read as follows:]
ALBERT: Here, here. I call this meeting to order. Are all ye present?
DAVID: Dad, we’re not in old England. These are just shareholders’ minutes. State the date, the location, and the parties present.
OLIVIA: Isabel, are you recording?
ISABEL: Yes. And I’d like to put on record that we could have had this meeting in the comfort of our own home.
OLIVIA: Rae, what are you doing?
RAE: Making s’mores.
OLIVIA: It’s ten A.M., sweetie.
RAE: What’s your point?
OLIVIA: S’mores are not breakfast food.
ALBERT: Excuse me, I’m trying to have a meeting here.
RAE: Who’s stopping you?
ISABEL: Put the skewer down, Rae.
RAE: This is seriously the most torturous experience of my life.
ALBERT: Hello? Do I need to drag out the cowbell?
DAVID: Dad, if you do, I’m walking right now.
ALBERT: David, your presence here is necessary. I need you to draw up the minutes.
DAVID: You are aware of the fact that many small companies have minutes created without a meeting.
RAE: Oh my god, now you tell us!
ALBERT: We have actual business to conduct.
DAVID: Dad, you wanted a family vacation and used the threat of business to make it happen by refusing to give a raise to anyone who didn’t attend. You got your camping trip. Why don’t you just make your announcements, we’ll go for one last hike, and then we can get out of here.
ISABEL: I second that motion.
OLIVIA: Stop scratching, Rae! You’ll get scars.
RAE: Why haven’t we rid the planet of mosquitoes yet? If we can practically wipe out the ozone layer, I don’t see why these tiny bloodsuckers can’t be systematically destroyed.
MAGGIE: Put some calamine lotion on and then wait a minute or two. You should be fine.
ISABEL: Can we start the meeting already?
ALBERT: That’s what I’m trying to do.
