Curse of the Spellmans

Lisa Lutz

Book - 2008

Izzy struggles to retain her private investigator's license after her fourth arrest., David's marriage to Petra, and Rae's teenage angst.

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Subjects
Published
New York : Simon & Schuster 2008.
Language
English
Main Author
Lisa Lutz (-)
Edition
1st Simon & Schuster hardcover ed
Physical Description
409 p. ; 25 cm
ISBN
9781416532415
Contents unavailable.
Review by New York Times Review

BUCKINGHAM PALACE GARDENS (Ballantine, $26) is Anne Perry's 25th novel featuring her 19thcentury police inspector, Thomas Pitt. But unlike so many detective series gliding on cruise control, this mature work provides a fine introduction to Perry's alluring world of Victorian crime and intrigue. Ever the master of her milieu, she delivers sumptuous descriptions of life among the gentry when England still basked in its imperial glory. And in an intricate plot about a murder at the palace while the Prince and Princess of Wales are in residence, she also marshals the series's major themes: the way crime reverberates throughout the social classes; the precarious status of women of every rank; and the need for honorable heroes to preserve and protect the Empire, sometimes from itself. The glittering centerpiece of Pitt's latest adventure is a formal dinner party attended by the royal couple and their guests, including four entrepreneurs intent on building a railway from Cape Town to Cairo. By the time Perry is finished with the menu, the wives' gowns and the barbed conversations, we've been given subtle insights into every character. The one we care about most is Elsa Dunkeid, the abused but loyal spouse of the most ruthless of the master builders who are seeking the prince's support. Elsa has an independent mind, but because she's no rebel and keeps her intelligence to herself, her views on palace politics seem more authentic than those of the extraordinary protofeminists who tend to dominate Perry's novels. To make her point that the most insignificant life matters, even in the most classbound society, Perry employs an irresistibly appealing "Upstairs, Downstairs" perspective. While the prince and his guests try to explain to Inspector Pitt how the naked body of a prostitute got into a linen closet and bled all over Queen Victoria's own bedclothes, Pitt's clever housemaid, Gracie Phipps, infiltrates the servants' hall, alert to clues that her social superiors might miss. But it isn't young Gracie who is most changed by all this exposure to the powerful elite. It's the idealistic Pitt: "He had still imagined in them a love of the same values as the best of their subjects." Disillusioned by royal reality, he's wiser now, but still committed to restoring order to his imperfect world. The emotional stakes must be high, excruciatingly so, for a suspense novel to maintain its tension, a point obviously understood by David Levien when he wrote CITY OF THE SUN (Doubleday, $24.95). While it deals with the practical mechanics of how a private detective tracks down a boy who has been missing for more than a year, this relentless novel is really about how parents suffer the loss of a child. As such, the story conveys a piercing sense of honesty, even when the investigation itself seems implausibly free of complications. Twelveyearold Jamie Gabriel was snatched off his bike while delivering newspapers in suburban Indianapolis. But after more than a year the trail is "iceage cold," and besides, the police always figured him for a runaway. That leaves his parents, Carol and Paul Gabriel, frozen in a state of grief that begins to thaw only when they hire a former cop, Frank Behr, who lost his own young son in a tragic accident. Scenes are brief and sharp, and there are no stalls in the easy flow of the investigation, which ends with Frank and Paul on a grim road trip to Mexico that also proceeds with remarkably few hitches. But despite all the holes in the plot, the truth of the characters and the intensity of their pain is as unbearably real as it gets. Certain books come to mind whenever that little voice whispers in your ear, "Oh, lighten up!" The mysteries of manners that M. C. Beaton sets in the Cotswolds and laces with the acerbic wit of her village sleuth, Agatha Raisin, are always good for a nasty laugh. Somewhat sweeter, but also restorative, are the "Morgue Mama" whodunits of C. R. Corwin, whose smalltown snoop, the longtime librarian at a Midwestern newspaper, has yet to miss a dirty trick. Louise Penny's series about the eccentric residents of a postcardperfect town in Canada can also be pretty funny. Two relatively new series are putting twists on this impulse to laugh in the face of death. "The Spellman Files" was Lisa Lutz's quirky introduction to Isabel (Izzy) Spellman, dragooned into the family firm by parents who run investigations from their San Francisco home. Izzy returns in CURSE OF THE SPELLMANS (Simon & Schuster, $25) with another breathless tale of comic woe, related through intelligence reports ("Subject Is Observed Digging a Hole"), tape transcripts ("The Stone and Spellman Show Episode 48") and annotated accounts of everything from Izzy's exboyfriends to her arrest history. It's nice to hear such an original voice. AVALANCHE (Simon & Schuster, paper, $14) is Patrick F. McManus's second shaggy dog tale (after "The Blight Way") about Bo Tully, sheriff of Blight County, Idaho, and a good man to have around if you're hunting elk. Bo's current case, tracking down the missing owner of a fancy ski resort, gets tricky when an avalanche traps him inside the resort's lodge with his crazyoldcoot father, an assortment of rowdy guests and maybe a murderer. McManus is a columnist for Outdoor Life and Field & Stream, so it's not surprising to find him setting a pretty nature scene. But his idiosyncratic characters and their lunatic ways are what make this folksy whodunit such fun to curl up with. In Anne Perry's latest Victorian crime novel, a murdered prostitute is found in a linen closet at Buckingham Palace.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [October 27, 2009]
Review by Booklist Review

If sassy Jersey sleuth Stephanie Plum had a wacky cousin in San Francisco, it might be Izzy Spellman, the heroine of Lutz's witty series. In this second offering (after The Spellman Files, 2007), Izzy, a reluctant member of the family's detective business, is having the usual troubles with her kin. Her father seems in the midst of another REAFO (retirement age freak-out, not to be confused with MILFO, the midlife version); her mother has been leaving the house in the wee hours to puncture some poor soul's motorcycle tires; and her teenage half sister, Rae, just accidentally drove over Izzy's much older detective inspector pal, Henry. Then there's new neighbor John Brown, a handsome if somewhat shifty gardener who has Izzy experiencing equal parts suspicion and lust. Lutz's novel reads like a series of humorous vignettes, with provocative titles like My Almost Fake Drug Deal #2. While mystery purists may prefer a more fast-paced narrative, Lutz is an excellent choice for readers in the market for steady laughs and a smattering of suspense.--Block, Allison Copyright 2008 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

This lighthearted romp, focusing on the antics of Isabel Spellman and her family of private detectives, is delightful. There's not much vocal variation by Ari Graynor for the mystery's female characters: 30-year-old Isabel sounds exactly like her teen sister and her mother. But Graynor shines portraying some of the male characters, like Morty, the Spellmans' elderly lawyer, or Isabel's slurring, cigar-smoking roommate. Isabel digitally records conversations, and Graynor recites them back in a hilarious deadpan rendition. Lutz's first outing (The Spellman Files) was fresh, funny and unwieldy; her plotting skills take a leap forward here, masterfully juggling several compelling mystery threads at a time. The quirky Spellman family is still fun, and Graynor's sardonic and sly delivery doesn't attempt to upstage the writing. One disappointment is that S&S didn't release an unabridged version. Simultaneous release with the S&S hardcover (Reviews, Jan. 14). (Apr.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

In this sequel to Lutz's side-splittingly funny debut novel, The Spellman Files, licensed P.I. Isabel "Izzy" Spellman has been arrested for the fourth time in two months, and no one from her oddball family of fellow investigators will bail her out. Her sister, Rae, has run over Izzy's "fiance," Inspector Henry Stone, during a driving lesson. The senior Spellmans have staged a "disappearance," their term for a vacation where no one can reach them. To complicate Izzy's life further, a man with the suspiciously ordinary name of John Brown has moved next door, and she's absolutely positive he's up to no good. In other words, it's life as usual for the zany Spellmans, and who knows what will happen next. Once again, Lutz treats readers to a madcap roller-coaster ride. Fans of such hilarious sleuths as Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum, Meg Cabot's Heather Wells, and Sarah Strohmeyer's Bubbles Yablonsky will find that Izzy Spellman can make them laugh their socks off, too. Sure to be popular in fiction collections of all sizes. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 11/15/07.]-Shelley Mosley, Glendale Community Coll. Lib. Media Ctr., AZ (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

The dysfunctional Spellman family private-investigation firm is back in action with another heavily annotated adventure. Isabel "Izzy" Spellman has a problem. Through no fault of her own, she keeps getting arrested. Yes, she is arrested for investigating--some would say stalking--her parents' next-door neighbor, whom she briefly dated. And, yes, she has broken into his house, used a GPS tracker on his car and rifled through his garbage, despite, at one point, a temporary restraining order. But to a Spellman, raised to be a PI, this is normal behavior when suspicion lingers that something is "off." The fact that the neighbor is neither a client nor suspected of any known crime makes Izzy's obsession only slightly odder than usual. But Izzy's younger sister, Rae, is also acting bizarrely, as is Izzy's older brother, David, who has abandoned his straight-shooter lawyer lifestyle to drink all day. Izzy's best buddy Petra has disappeared. Izzy's father has a secret of his own: He certainly couldn't be going to a gym and eating broccoli voluntarily. In this second, longer Spellman adventure from former screenwriter Lutz (The Spellman Files, 2006), some of the debut's sparkle is gone: The idiosyncrasies of this mismatched family are now known, including Izzy's tendency to footnote anything that might approximate a fact. And the central story--Izzy's fixation on the neighbor--isn't founded on much. (He claims to be a landscaper and yet shreds a lot of paper.) But the snappy, honest narration by Get Smart-obsessed Izzy keeps things popping, with its mix of trade talk and brutal honesty: "...tonight would be the last time I could investigate (a.k.a. break into) Subject's residence without the watchful eye of the parental unit." Most of the side stories, such as one involving Rae's teacher's dirty tissues, keep the laughs coming. The Spellmans return with more personality than plot. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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. Henry's nurse tried to smile over her annoyance at Rae's hypervigilant announcements. "Seventy-two. His heart rate went up by five beats," Rae said as I entered. My sister's eyes were bloodshot and her flushed cheeks showed signs of recent crying. The nurse looked relieved when she saw me and said to Rae, "Oh, good. Your mother's here." "Eew," I said, offended. "I'm not her mother. Do I look old enough to be the mother of a fifteen-year-old girl?" "I hadn't thought about it," she replied. "I'm his fiancée," I clarified to the nurse, and then turned to the inspector. Henry Stone was lying in the hospital bed with an assortment of tubes and monitors attached to his body, wearing the standard-issue hospital gown. Minus the unfortunate outfit and the single gauze bandage stuck to his left temple, he looked pretty much the same as he always does: well groomed, slightly underweight, and handsome in a way that's very easy to ignore. His usually short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair had grown out more in the past few weeks, which had the added benefit of making him appear younger than his forty-four years. Although at that moment the dark circles under his eyes and his patently agitated expression had offset that benefit. "How is he?" I asked the nurse, trying to emote the appropriate shade of concern. "There's some bruising on the legs just below the knee, but nothing's broken. The main concern is the concussion. He lost consciousness for five minutes and is experiencing nausea. We did a CT and everything looks fine, but we need to keep him under observation for forty-eight hours." "Will he have permanent brain damage?" Rae asked. Henry grabbed my wrist. Hard. "I need to speak to you in private," he said. I turned to Rae. "Leave the room." "No," she replied. I never thought a single syllable could possess such heartbreaking desperation. "Get out," Henry demanded, unmoved by her wells of emotion. "Are you ever going to forgive me?" she said to him. "It's only been two hours since you ran me over," he replied. "Accidentally!" she shouted. Then Henry shot her a look that seemed to have more power than any lecture, punishment, or curfew my parents ever unleashed on Rae. "Two and a half hours," Rae mumbled as she soberly exited the room. Henry gripped my arm even tighter after Rae was out of earshot. "That kind of hurts, Henry." "Don't talk to me about pain." "Right. Sorry." "I need you to do me a favor." "Shoot." "Keep her away from me." "For how long?" "A couple weeks." "Dream on." "Isabel, please. I need a break." "I'll do what I can, but -- " "Your sister almost killed me today -- " "Accidentally!" shouted Rae from the other side of the door. "I need a Rae vacation. Please. Help me." Copyright (c) 2008 by Spellman Enterprises, Inc. Excerpted from Curse of the Spellmans by Lisa Lutz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.