Curse of the Spellmans
by Lisa Lutz
Summary
THEY’RE BAAAAACK.
Their first caper, The Spellman Files, was a New York Times bestseller and earned comparisons to the books of Carl Hiaasen and Janet Evanovich. Now the Spellmans, a highly functioning yet supremely dysfunctional family of private investigators, return in a sidesplittingly funny story of suspicion, surveillance, and surprise.
When Izzy Spellman, PI, is arrested for the fourth time in three months, she writes it off as a job hazard. She’s been (obsessively) keeping surveillance on a suspicious next door neighbor (suspect’s name: John Brown), convinced he’s up to no good—even if her parents (the management at Spellman Investigations) are not….
(Re)meet the Spellmans, a family in which eavesdropping is a mandatory skill, locks are meant to be picked, past missteps are never forgotten, and blackmail is the preferred form of negotiation—all in the name of unconditional love.
Excerpt
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.
“She’s fine. But Henry 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.
Copyright © 2008 by Spellman Enterprises, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Simon and Schuster Inc.
Reviews
“Fans of The Spellman Files will laugh just as loudly at the comic antics chronicled in this sparkling sequel”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“[A]nother breathless tale of comic woe…It’s nice to hear such an original voice”—The New York Times
Author's Biography
Lisa Lutz attended UC Santa Cruz, UC Irvine, the University of Leeds in England and San Francisco State University, although she still does not have a bachelor’s degree. Lisa spent most of the 1990s hopping through a string of low-paying odd jobs while writing and rewriting the screenplay Plan B, a mob comedy. After the film was made in 2000, she vowed she would never write another screenplay. Though she’s not on the lam, Lisa has not had a permanent residence in over two years. She’s calling Seattle home, for now.