Revenge of the Spellmans by Lisa Lutz Page A

got to run. Is there something I can do for you?”
    “Know when David will be back?”
    “Nope,” I replied.
    “Tell him Joe’s looking for him.”
    “Joe who?” (Always try to get a last name.)
    “He’ll know,” Apparently Joe said. “Nice meeting you, sweetheart.”
    The two suspicious gentlemen walked away, although they appeared, oddly, to be on foot, making it impossible to take down a license plate. On my way to the Philosopher’s Club I left a detailed message for David on his voice mail. And then I killed the rest of the afternoon serving drinks and concocting theories about my brother’s relationship with Apparently Joe. Until my dad walked in, that is.
    I served Dad his usual glass of middling red wine and waited for him to file some kind of verbal complaint against me. Instead, he picked up a discarded newspaper and pretended to read it. I knew he was pretending because his eyes met only the headline. Eventually he put down the newspaper and spoke.
    “One of Rae’s instructors accused her of cheating on the practice SAT. And another teacher supported her accuser,” Dad said, seeming genuinely troubled.
    “On what grounds?”
    “That Rae is a mediocre student and nothing in her academic history would support her having scored that high.”
    “How does someone even cheat on the PSATs anymore? And why cheat on a test that’s just a trial run for the real thing?”
    “I don’t know. They think she’s clever enough to cheat with her access to surveillance gadgets, but not smart enough to score in the ninety-fifth percentile.”
    “What does Rae say?”
    “Nothing. She won’t confirm or deny.”
    “What do you mean she’s not confirming or denying?”
    “It’s hard to explain,” my dad replied, although he did try to paraphrase some of Rae’s reactions to the accusations. But it’s probably best if you hear it from the source. I’ll get to that shortly.
    After my dad finished his wine, he slipped five dollars on the counter and said, “You want to have lunch next week, Isabel?”
    “Why?” I asked.
    “No reason.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “Seriously, Isabel. I’m just asking you to lunch.”
    “There’s got to be an angle.”
    “Forget it. Have a nice evening, Izzy.”
    Dad left. An hour later Rae arrived. I served her a ginger ale and tried to get to the bottom of the situation.
    “Did you cheat on the SATs?”
    “The PSATs,” 1 she corrected me.
    “Answer the question.”
    “Where are you getting your information?”
    “Dad.”
    “Interesting,” Rae replied.
    “So?” I asked, leading once again back to the original question.
    “I’m sorry. Where were we?”
    “Why have you been accused of cheating?”
    “Why is anyone ever accused of anything?”
    “Why are you talking like this?”
    “Like what?” she replied.
    Out of frustration, I resorted to an ultimatum. “If you don’t answer my question, I’m going to ask you to leave.”
    Rae finished her drink in a single gulp and left a dollar on the bar.
    “Don’t expect a tip,” she said as she made her exit.
    An hour later my mother called on her cell phone. In the most venomous tone, she said, “The next time your father asks you to lunch, you say yes.” Then she hung up on me.
    The rest of the day I had only one thought in my mind: Is this really my life?

CASE #001

CHAPTER 4
    T o the naked eye, Linda Black wasn’t doing anything wrong. But she must have been doing something to have two private investigators following her. I decided against telling Ernie about my latest information. I kept an eye on the blue Nissan’s whereabouts over the next few days. If Bob’s car was idling outside of Ernie’s muffler shop or home, I wouldn’t bother leaving the house, but on the rare occasion Linda (followed by Bob) ventured somewhere else, I’d pick up the tail. Other than the bank, lunch with a local female friend (not Sharon), and a trip to the library (where Linda used the computer but did not check out any