Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again

by Lutz, Lisa

  RAE: Don’t try to ruin it for me.

  ISABEL: Speaking of pro bono work, when are we going to start investigating Harkey?6

  ALBERT: I don’t think now is the right time.

  ISABEL: Why not?

  OLIVIA: He’ll fight back, Isabel.

  ISABEL: He already did. Do you think that audit last month was random?

  OLIVIA: My point exactly. I was the one who had to spend three weeks pulling together two years of financial data.

  ISABEL: So you’re just going to let him get away with it? Is that what I’m hearing?

  ALBERT: This is not a good use of your time, Isabel. In this economy, we should be focusing on keeping our business afloat, not taking anyone down. Besides, we don’t even know if Harkey was behind the audit.

  ISABEL: You’re kidding, right? The timing was impeccable. I run into Harkey at the liquor store, suggest that maybe he should watch his back, and the next thing you know the IRS is knocking on our door.

  DAVID: Who goes around threatening people like that?

  RAE: Isabel loves to threaten people.

  ISABEL: Shut up. Back to the audit. Harkey started it, Dad.

  ALBERT: Listen, Izzy, business is slow. Do you really want to waste our resources on a witch hunt?

  ISABEL: I do. We know he’s crooked. If we can put him out of business, that cuts our competition by about 20 percent.

  [Albert shakes his head, still undecided.]

  ALBERT: He won’t just roll over, Isabel.

  ISABEL: I’m ready for him.

  [Olivia whispers in Albert’s ear; Albert nods his head.]

  ISABEL: Maggie, is whispering allowed at an official board meeting?

  MAGGIE: I don’t take sides with you people.

  DAVID: “You people”?

  MAGGIE: You know what I mean.

  OLIVIA: Okay, we’ll make you a deal, Isabel. You accept now or we shelve this conversation for a later date. One, the Harkey investigation cannot take you away from your regular work, and two, you may not use more than $200 a month in company resources.

  ISABEL: Deal.

  MAGGIE: Any other orders of business?

  DAVID: I hope not.

  RAE: One last thing. I request that we never do a group camping trip ever again.

  ISABEL: Better than the threatened cruise.

  RAE: It’s still torture.

  ISABEL: At least you didn’t have someone kicking you all night long and shouting conspiracy theories.

  DAVID: If that’s all, I call this meeting to a close.

  ALBERT: I wanted to do that.

  DAVID: Then go ahead, Dad. It doesn’t actually matter.

  ALBERT: Maybe to you it doesn’t.

  OLIVIA: Al, enough.

  DAVID: [to Maggie] I hope you’re paying attention. Nothing about this morning has been out of the ordinary.

  MAGGIE: Relax, David. I’m fine.

  ALBERT: As president and CEO of Spellman Investigations, I call this meeting to a close.

  RAE: I really do think people can die of boredom.

  RULE #22

  Sometime during my employment contract negotiations and the redrafting of the Spellman bylaws (which are hardly as professional as they sound—they’re simply the codes of the family’s personal and work ethics put into writing to prevent arguments at a later date), my mother came up with a new Spellman dictum: the daily rule. It can be written on the whiteboard next to the copy machine by any family member (including David), and so long as no more than two parties object to it at one time, it remains law, punishable by trash duty for the week.1

  Rule #22—No speaking today!

  (Author: Olivia Spellman)

  After the excess of quality time on our camping disappearance, we’d all had quite enough of one another and the hum of bickering filled our domestic and office space. My mom wrote the rule on the board the night before and there was not a single veto. We communicated through e-mails, text messages, and the occasional pantomime. Rae suggested that we do this all the time. That suggestion was vetoed, even though typically we don’t veto suggestions.

  My mother sent an e-mail to inform me that in line with me being the new face of Spellman Investigations, she had decided I should take the meeting with one of our repeat clients, Mr. Franklin Winslow, scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Apparently my mother’s primary concern with the meeting was my sartorial choice. My mother made it clear that a dress was in order and wanted to be sure that one still remained in my closet.

  The e-mail was followed by an instant-message exchange:

  Olivia: What exactly are you planning on wearing?

  Isabel: Remember that periwinkle bridesmaid’s dress from cousin Sandy’s wedding?

  Olivia: There’s no way it will still fit you. Just remember to err on the conservative side.

  Isabel: Don’t you worry, Mom. I plan on erring.

  The phone rang, so I ended our chat.

  Isabel: Nice chatting with you, Mom. Let’s not make a habit of it.

  I picked up the phone.

  “Hello?” I said, which felt strange after four hours of silence.

  The voice on the other end of the line was awkward, formal, and extremely familiar.

  “Hi, Isabel. It’s Henry.”

  “Rae’s not here. She’s probably at school.”

  “I’m not calling for Rae.”

  “My mom just stepped out of the office. You can try the house line.”

  Sigh. “I’m not calling for your mother either.”

  “Is it Dad you’re after? Because, frankly, I’m running out of people who can be found at this number.”

  “Nope. Don’t want to talk to your dad.”

  “Has someone else moved in that I don’t know about?” I asked.

  “I was calling for you,” Henry said, impressively containing his annoyance.

  “Huh,” I said. I tend to say “huh” when I’m not sure what else to say. Some people rely on more classic nonresponses, like “I see” or “Interesting” or even “Oh.” But I say “huh” and so far it’s worked for me.

  This might be a good time to elaborate just a bit on the awkward telephone conversation, even though I shouldn’t really have to elaborate if you’ve read these documents in order.2

  Henry Stone, once my sister’s best friend, then enemy, then BFF again, has been tangled in the Spellman web for over three years now. A few years back, he was the lead investigator on a missing persons case—the missing person being Rae. (The conclusion: She staged her own kidnapping.) Since then, Henry has been around and I have gotten used to him being around. And last year I got so used to his whole being-around-ness that I started to think that it was something more than just that, if you know what I mean. If you don’t, you’ll have to figure it out because I’m not in the mood to dig up the details.

  Anyway, when I got this idea into my head, I couldn’t get it out, which makes it like most ideas I have. Eventually I made my feelings known to Henry and he made his nonfeelings equally well known. And that was the end of that. I then got used to him not being around. Not that he wasn’t around. He and Rae had settled their primary disputes and continued their bizarre friendship. My parents still invited him over for dinner and consulted him on cases, and he and my mom even have lunch now and again, exchange Christmas presents, and once went shopping together.3

  As for me, I see Henry as little as possible. I find it’s healthier for my ego. When you’re thirty-one years old and someone tells you you’re not a grown-up, it stings. Now, at the age of thirty-two, the worst of the sting was gone.

  Besides, I had matured considerably in the intervening months and was about to take over the family business. In fact, at that very moment I was wearing a tucked-in shirt that was relatively wrinkle free, and my hair was combed. I could certainly handle a simple telephone conversation.

  “Isabel?” Henry said into the receiver. I guess I had been sil
ent awhile.

  “Sorry. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to speak to you.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

  “In person.”

  “Why? Are the phones tapped and I don’t know about it?”

  Sound of throat clearing. “Meet me for a drink after work.”

  “I’ll be at the Philosopher’s Club4 at—”

  “Not there!” Henry said too quickly and with a buzz of hostility.

  “Then you better be buying, because I’ve grown accustomed to free booze and I have to pay rent these days.”

  “Yes. I’m buying,” Henry said, sounding like he was regretting this entire conversation.

  “Okay. Where?”

  “Edinburgh Castle.”

  “I thought that place was too divey for you.”

  “It is. But I want you to be comfortable.”

  “How kind.”

  “Six o’clock?”

  “Six thirty,” I replied, only to assert a share of control.

  UNHAPPY HOUR

  It was still light outside, even though the fog had rolled in, but the interior of the bar felt like the night was nearing its end. I spotted Henry at a booth in the back. He was easy to spot, being the most well-groomed patron in the establishment.

  He’d already started drinking, but there was a glass of some kind of whiskey and another glass of ice waiting for me.

  “I ordered for you,” Henry said. “Hope you don’t mind. I just got the booze you usually steal from your brother’s house.1 Wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

  “The question is: What do you want?” I said.

  I took a sip of the excellent whiskey and studied Henry, trying to get an angle on him.

  “All I want is to have a drink with a friend,” he said.

  “Then you should have called one.”

  “We were friends.”

  “Were,” I repeated.

  “Well, I would like to be friends again. What will it take?”

  I drained my bourbon and contemplated the scratched wood table for the answer. It wasn’t there.

  “Another drink wouldn’t hurt,” I replied.

  Henry slid a twenty across the table and told me to order whatever I wanted. He still wasn’t halfway finished with his whiskey, so I didn’t even take his order.

  At the bar I considered the most expensive options, but then I chose the house label, because I didn’t want Henry to think that his bribe had worked. I returned to the table with ample change.

  Henry sniffed my drink and instantly got the message.

  “How can we work this out?” he asked.

  “My brother says I should start making friends my own age.”

  “Ouch,” the inspector replied with mock injury.

  “We’re not enemies,” I offered, thinking that was friendly enough.

  “I want to be more than enemies.”

  “Archenemies? I suppose we could head in that direction. But you’d have to do something pretty awful for us to drive down that road.”

  “I was thinking in the other direction,” Henry answered, not amused.

  “We can be friendly acquaintances,” I suggested, realizing that I had found myself in the midst of negotiating the terms of a friendship. How odd. Although it’s something my sister and Henry have done on numerous occasions.

  “No,” Henry flatly replied.

  “Well, that’s my best offer,” I said.

  “No, it isn’t,” Henry said with an interrogation-room stare.

  I was unprepared for this type of meeting. I figured I held all the cards. Therefore, I would control the conversation. Something was going on here—the power had shifted but I couldn’t trace when it had happened.

  “I’m going to leave now,” I announced.

  “See you soon,” Henry answered.

  “Not that soon.”

  I left my half-empty drink on the table and Henry opened the book he had been reading when I entered. He made no move to leave, which I found odd since this wasn’t his kind of bar and at the moment the smell of hops mixed with something sour was harsh. When I exited, it was dark outside. I didn’t have to adjust to the light and therefore didn’t have to adjust back to the darkness when I returned to the bar five minutes later.

  I stood beside Henry, casting a shadow over his literature. He looked up and smiled.

  “Forget something?”

  “I want my keys and my wallet back,” I demanded.

  “Have a seat,” Henry calmly replied, “and we’ll talk about it.”

  “No,” I said. “Just give ’em back.”

  “Or what. You’ll call the cops?” Henry chuckled at his little joke.

  I sat down in a huff and glared at him.

  “Have you gone mad?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Henry replied. “I’ve just figured out the Spellman way of doing things.”

  It was then I realized that this particular tactic—the coercion/blackmail/threat technique of reviving a friendship—was exactly what Rae did to return to Henry’s good graces. It had worked on him; why wouldn’t it work on me? I had to admit that I was both impressed and intrigued that Henry would do something so out of character just to keep me around. If I’m honest with myself, which if you know me you know I’m not all that often, I missed Henry too.

  Henry slid a fresh drink across the table. I took a sip and realized it was the good stuff again.

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I waited for my captor to speak.

  “Now tell me, Isabel. What’s new?”

  A GENTLEMAN’S GENTLEMAN

  Before my meeting with Mr. Winslow, my mother insisted I drop by the house for a personal inspection. Mom took one look at the dress I was wearing, pulled out the iron and ironing board, and told me to take it off. I stood in just a slip and heels in the foyer while she reironed my dress. Just as the lingerie show was ending and I was slipping the dress over my head, one of our lawyer clients, Gerard Mitchell, exited the office.

  “Hi, Isabel,” Gerard said nonchalantly as he departed.

  After he left, my mother whispered, “Recently divorced.”

  “So?” I replied.

  “So, I’m thinking he should be your first lawyer date,” Mom casually replied.

  “Mom, I have a boyfriend. I’m not going to go on dates with other men.”

  “I think you are,” Mom replied. “I know it was a long time ago, sweetie, but I don’t think we need the events of Prom Night 1994 to see the light of day. Do you?”

  “You wouldn’t,” I replied.

  “I would,” Mom answered. “I’ve been holding on to this nugget for Rae’s entire lifetime, just waiting for the perfect opportunity.”

  My mom’s threat must have drained the color from my face.

  “You could use some blush,” she added, scrounging through her purse.

  I swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump in my throat. While blackmail is standard fare in the Spellman household, most of my misdeeds had already been exposed. Honestly, I had almost forgotten about this one. And this one was probably the worst of all.

  Mom put some color on my cheeks while I batted her hand away. Then she gave me the lowdown on my impending meeting.

  “Remember, Izzy. This is important. Mr. Winslow has been our client for seven years. He might be suffering from the early stages of dementia—it’s really hard to tell with him. But he is always polite, usually serves some food and drink at meetings, and he always pays his bill on time. Don’t fuck this up, sweetie.”

  I arrived at Mr. Franklin Winslow’s obscene mansion in Pacific Heights at precisely twelve fifteen P.M. I pulled into his driveway, delighting in one of those rare occasions when parking is not a challenge.

  I was greeted at the door by the wary housekeeper, Mrs. Elizabeth Enright. Only Enright and the absent valet, Mason Graves, have been in Mr. Winslow’s employment for more t
han eleven months. The housekeeper had logged five years and the valet eight—relatively brief employments considering how old Mr. Winslow is and how long he has resided at that residence. His previous valet had been with him since he was in his early thirties and died at the ripe old age of eighty-five. I gathered it was a crushing loss, but one that was tempered by his employment of Mason Graves, whom I gathered had been a solid replacement.

  Judging purely by the scowl on her face, the housekeeper wasn’t pleased to see me. Since that’s a phenomenon I’m not unfamiliar with, I wasn’t offended. Otherwise I might have taken issue with the scones she served, which I’m pretty certain were scrounged from the back of the freezer and probably baked when I was still in my twenties. In the interest of full disclosure, I ate them anyway because I was starving.

  I waited fifteen minutes for Mr. Winslow to make an appearance, which was just enough time to take the edge off my hunger and catch Mrs. Enright peering in on me surreptitiously, although not that surreptitiously, since I spotted her.

  Mr. Winslow was old, as I expected, and dressed in a mismatch of evening wear, business clothes, and something that I can only assume is called a smoking jacket, but my familiarity with that fashion statement was limited to stoned viewings of Masterpiece Theatre (or maybe it was parodies of Masterpiece Theatre from reruns of The Muppet Show). One could hardly call me an expert, is my point. Aside from Mr. Winslow’s complicated, mismatched ensemble, I would discover other incongruities to fill the time.

  As Winslow descended his circular staircase, I got to my feet out of courtesy. He was tall and slim and seemed to be gray all over, including his clothes. I estimated his age to be in the midseventies, but his gait was that of a much younger man. Some might say he was in sore need of a haircut, but I couldn’t decide if that was his foppish style or negligent grooming. He was too thin and I found myself considering that I’d lose my appetite too if a rude woman were serving me stale scones all the time. But he didn’t exactly look malnourished, just Peter O’Toole, I’d-rather-have-a-drink thin, and Mr. Winslow’s posture was exquisite. But then I think English people haven’t taken to slouching the way North Americans have.1

  When Winslow finally reached me, he said, “My dear, a pleasure to see you,” and then he kissed my hand, looked me up and down, and wrinkled his brow. “You look so young and big and well fed.”