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

  “Thank you,” I hesitantly replied, since “What are you getting at?” would have sounded unprofessional.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Mr. Winslow said, waving me back into my chair. “You’ve done something different with your hair.”

  I hadn’t, but it’s best not to argue with clients, especially on the first meeting. “Something. I’ve definitely done something with it.”

  “Well, it’s a pleasure seeing you again, Olivia,” Mr. Winslow said, and then I solved my very first mystery of the day.

  “Mr. Winslow,” I interrupted. “I’m Is-a-bel Spellman, Albert and Olivia’s daughter.”

  Mr. Winslow stared at me for an uncomfortably long time, shook his head sadly as if fighting tears, and said, “I couldn’t find my glasses this morning.”

  “They’re on top of your head,” I replied.

  Mr. Winslow relocated his glasses and took me in one more time.

  “I see it now. You are not Olivia. Your mother is a very beautiful woman.”

  He said it plainly, not rudely, but sometimes the content is more relevant than the delivery.

  “I hope you’re not disappointed,” I replied, insulted but holding it in. “I believe my mother told you that I would be meeting you today.”

  “Without Mason, I’m afraid that my entire life is in disarray.”

  Mrs. Enright hovered with more tea. Mr. Winslow waved her away with a look of distrust and suggested we move into his study, where our meeting could be more private. I suddenly realized why my mom enjoyed these Winslow meetings so much. It was like briefly inhabiting a life-sized game of Clue.

  Mr. Winslow has employed Spellman Investigations throughout the years to investigate bad domestic help so that he can clean house with a clear conscience. The problem is he’s always cleaning house, with the exception of his absent valet, Mason, and Mrs. Enright. No other current employee had lasted longer than a year, which meant that no one—other than Mason, the unspoken head of the household—fully understood how to keep this compound running. And now the house, the staff, and its owner had found themselves living in a state of chaos. Although I have discovered that chaos is relative. Nothing in Winslow’s home seemed amiss to me besides Winslow himself.

  Ultimately, my client’s primary problem was the absence of his not-so-longtime “gentleman’s gentleman,” Mason Graves. Recently Mason’s mother had taken ill and Mason had to return home to England for a few months to care for her. In the meantime, Mr. Winslow was sharing his home with a furtive housekeeper and a handful of strangers.

  When it came down to it, Mr. Winslow wanted me to find him a temporary valet, but not just any valet: a valet/spy who could make sure that the support staff wasn’t plotting against him at every turn and that the house and the man of the house were kept in working order. When I left Mr. Winslow’s home, I had just the valet in mind. I also had two messages on my voice mail, followed by a text message that read: “If the heat doesn’t kill me, the boredom will.” I decided I should save a life before tackling my next line of business.

  PHONE CALL FROM THE EDGE #17

  One of my best friends is old—like, really old. And you could say we have nothing in common except a mutual interest in keeping me out of jail. He was my pro bono attorney. I’d met him on a random surveillance and he later helped with some pesky harassment charges. Once the case was closed, we started having lunch. Then I had his driver’s license revoked and then I persuaded Morty to move to Florida against all his wishes, since it was the only thing that would keep his marriage (a long and solid one at that) together. If you look at just the bullet points, I guess I don’t sound like the kind of friend you’d want on your side. If you want more information, you know what you need to do.

  Three months earlier, Morty had moved to Miami. As with our previous lunches, we rarely went more than a week without having some form of communication. I should note, however, that in the dozens of conversations we’d had so far, I hadn’t heard any bright lights mentioned about his recent move other than the blazing bright light of the sun, which still doesn’t shine as much as you’d think, what with the rain and humidity.

  Our conversation on this day went something like this:

  ME: When did you learn to text-message?

  MORTY: What else am I supposed to do here?

  ME: I’m so proud of you.

  MORTY: Don’t be. It took me a total of fifteen hours to figure it out. I actually timed myself so the next time Gabe tries to get me to learn some of this new cockamamie technology, I’ll have evidence that it’s not the best use of my last days here on earth.

  ME: When did you start counting in days?

  MORTY: Since my doctor pointed out that I’m already nine years past the average male lifespan.

  ME: Morty, I’m going to start ignoring your calls if you keep talking like this.

  [Sound of teeth-sucking.]

  ME: Would you stop that!

  MORTY: You can hear that?

  ME: Yeah, Morty. Teeth-sucking isn’t like rolling your eyes. It can be heard over phone lines.

  [Long pause.]

  ME: You’re rolling your eyes now, aren’t you?

  MORTY: They don’t roll like they used to.

  ME: I doubt I’d even see it through those Coke-bottle glasses of yours.

  MORTY: Still with that Irish guy?

  ME: Yes. Can we change the subject?

  MORTY: You’re always changing that subject.

  ME: Because you always ask as if you’re surprised.

  MORTY: I am.

  ME: So how’s life at Sleepy Palms?1

  MORTY: They’re dropping like flies here.

  ME: Do you suspect foul play?

  MORTY: It’s almost always the cancer or the ticker.

  ME: Just say “cancer.” You don’t have to say “the cancer.”

  MORTY: What are you, a doctor?

  ME: No. But I know that you don’t need to insert an article before the word “cancer.”

  MORTY: When did you become a linguist?

  ME: I’m just giving you some helpful advice so your new friends don’t make fun of you.

  MORTY: I don’t have any new friends, but if I did, they’d say “the cancer” too.

  ME: Forget it.

  MORTY: Forgotten.

  ME: How’s the Northern California vacation plan coming along?

  MORTY: It could be better. Ruthy thinks I’m going to go AWOL, so we’re still negotiating.

  ME: You wouldn’t do that to her, would you?

  [Dead silence.]

  ME: Would you?

  MORTY: Speaking of the devil. Ruthy just got home from the market. I got to help her with the bags. Or should I just say “bags”? “I got to help her with bags”? That doesn’t sound right.

  ME: Good-bye, Morty.

  UNDERCOVER BUTLER

  I was halfway across the bridge when my phone call with Morty ended, just in time for me to phone my friend Len and warn him about my impending arrival.

  “Hello,” he answered, having no idea that this phone call was going to change his entire life—or at least his immediate life and bank account.

  “Isabel here. I have a proposition for you.”

  “Oh, Isabel, why is it that all your propositions are either illegal, ethically questionable, or at the very least offensive?”1

  “Are you still an unemployed actor?”

  “Are you implying that unemployed actors have no right to integrity?”

  “No. I was merely making sure you weren’t busy, because I have an acting job for you.”

  “You have an acting job for me?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Do I get to keep my clothes on?” Len asked skeptically.

  “Oh, yes. In fact, formal wear will be mandatory.”

  • • •

  I was across the bridge and at Len and his lover Christopher’s Oakland loft in an hour (although it sh
ould have taken only forty-five minutes). Christopher had just returned home from work; he’s a decorator at a tiny firm in the city. Like Len, Christopher was once an actor (they met at ACT), but reality set in, which included news from his wealthy mother in England that she would no longer be supporting their “habit,” as she liked to call it. On the surface Len and Christopher are quite similar—black, lean, handsome, with impeccable taste and manners. But their backgrounds could not be more different. Christopher was brought up in the English boarding school system and his childhood home had wings. Len, by contrast, lived in the San Francisco projects on and off and was once a drug dealer (by financial necessity more than choice).

  Len, aka Leonard Williams, and I met in high school. Our relationship began, like so many of mine, with a secret. I accidentally discovered that Len was gay and kept it to myself. The longer the secret remained a secret, the more Len realized that he could trust me. Other than the secret, we had nothing in common. This seems like a fragile beginning for any relationship, but for whatever reason it stuck. Even as Len grew to become a respectable member of society and my maturity level flatlined, we remained friends. Eventually his secret came out. (Did it ever.)

  In the past, I’ve asked Len and Christopher to put their considerable acting skills to questionable uses, but this time my request was legitimate. I was offering real money and a true test of his craft. And from the looks of things, Len needed a break from his life of leisure.

  I found my old friend swathed in a luxurious bathrobe, being warmed by a cup of tea and an old Bette Davis movie on television. There was a scent of lavender in the air, as if a bath had recently been run, and I could catch the smudge of a face mask on the edge of his forehead. Len was clearly well rested, well groomed, and the picture of idle good health. Christopher, just home from work, observed the same particulars (using the set of detective skills that seem to come with any intimate relationship).

  The partner with the job instructed Len to get me a drink from the kitchen—the traditional domestic roles firmly in place, in part because one person had spent the day doing nothing at all. Len hopped to his feet, happy for the company and the diversion. Christopher got off his feet and looked at me with a note of pleading.

  “Tell me you’ve got a real job for him and not one of your nonsense, no-pay pranks.”1

  Once I’d provided a feature-length version of the assignment, both Len and Christopher were entirely on board, even though the job was Len’s alone.

  “Can I use my British accent?” Len asked.

  “Mr. Winslow was raised in London, so I wouldn’t use it unless it’s really good,” I cautioned him.

  Len turned to Christopher for his approval.

  “It’s good. We’ll have to determine which dialect would be the most appropriate, but I think you can pull it off.”

  I handed Len Mr. Winslow’s card with the time of his appointment and added my final instructions: “Remember, this is a full-time valet position, although you can come home at night. Don’t take it unless you’re up for it. The pay is fifty dollars an hour. Spend the weekend reading up on what modern valets do—don’t just watch a marathon of Jeeves and Wooster, okay? Your job is to take care of Mr. Winslow and keep an eye on the help. Make sure nothing is amiss; report to me every few days. If I drop by the house at some point to meet with Mr. Winslow, you don’t know me. Got it? You’re in there undercover.”

  “Anything else, boss?” Len asked with a wink.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Lose the soul patch.”

  “Thank god!” Christopher exclaimed, as if it was a long-fought battle and the victory was finally his.

  EX-BOYFRIEND #12

  Connor phoned me as I was crossing the bridge.

  “Where are ya?” he said with a rough edge.

  I told him.

  “Where are ya headed?”

  “I thought I’d drop by the bar and surprise you.”

  “It’s not a surprise if ya do it almost every day.”

  “Well, would you like a different kind of surprise?” I said, not liking the tone in his voice.

  “For instance?”

  “Me changing the locks on my apartment,” I suggested.

  “Don’t you sass me after the day I’ve had,” Connor said, and for some reason I could pinpoint the exact source of his agitation.

  “Did my mother happen to drop by the bar today?”

  “She certainly did,” Connor replied. “And you, young lady, have some explaining to do.”

  An hour and a half later, and forty-five minutes into the explaining, the conversation hadn’t taken any turns, for better or for worse.

  “Let me get this straight,” Connor said. “You will be dating other men while you’re seeing me, but I’m not allowed to see other women.”

  “You’ve got the basic idea down,” I said, “but somehow when you say it, it sounds unreasonable.”

  “It is unreasonable!” Connor shouted.

  I should mention that since it was still early in the evening, Connor was the only bartender on shift and so our conversation was pretty much free entertainment for the regulars, primarily Clarence.

  “But they’re not real dates,” I calmly replied. “I don’t want to go on them either. But if I go, I think she’ll leave us alone for a while. At least that’s what she promised.”1

  “She didn’t leave me alone today,” he said.

  Excellent point, but I didn’t mention that.

  “Well, she thought if she broke the news to you, she could put a slant on things that would interfere with our relationship.”

  “I think you dating other men will interfere with our relationship as it is.”

  “Why can’t I get it through your thick skull? They’re fake dates. I’m going out with lawyers to improve our relationship.”

  “Why is it that half o’ what you say doesn’t make a damn bit o’ sense?”

  “Not half,” I replied. “Crunch your numbers again.”

  “You’re right,” Connor replied. “More like 60 percent.”

  “Better than a lot of people in this city,” I replied.

  “But worse than most.”

  A long silence followed. I was afraid that Connor would see this last bit in a string of family interventions as his final breaking point. I had to figure out the best way to phrase things.

  “Why don’t you look at it this way?” I suggested. “For a half hour, twice a month, I’ll be having coffee or some other kind of beverage with other men. I should point out that I meet with male clients all the time and we drink things together. And rarely do we end up having sex. Rarely.”

  Connor didn’t respond, but he did this head-nod, which meant that the fight was out of him. I leaned across the bar and kissed Connor on the cheek.

  “You’re the best Irish boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

  “That’s not funny anymore,” Connor replied, trying to fight off a smile.

  Then my phone conveniently rang.

  It was Maggie.

  “Hi, Isabel. I need a Rae extraction.”

  RAE’S OBSESSION

  Twenty minutes later I was at Maggie’s modest office near the Bryant Street courthouse, observing a standoff.

  “I would like to go home for the day,” Maggie said. “Rae would not. And apparently she is accustomed to winning these kinds of simple debates.”

  Maggie and I stood in the doorway of the file room. Rae had made a desk of the floor and encircled herself with a mass of thick, yellow files. Her attention was so wrapped up in the cases she was studying that my shouting her name elicited only a “Shhhh.”

  I flicked off the light switch.

  “Hey!”

  Rae got to her feet and flicked it back on. I flicked it off. She flicked it on again.

  Back and forth until Rae said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I was called for an extraction,” I said.

  “I hav
e work to do,” Rae replied. “Real work. Serious work. People’s lives are at stake here.”

  “You also have home work and Maggie would like to leave for the day.”

  “All things insignificant compared to this,” Rae said, sweeping her hand across the assemblage on the floor.

  Maggie tried to reason with her. “Rae, you’ll come back on Wednesday and pick up where you left off.”

  Rae simply ignored her “employer” and returned her attention to one of the files.

  “Where’s the circuit breaker?” I asked.

  Maggie led me into the break room and I flicked off the file room lights. When we returned to the file room Rae had found a flashlight and was continuing her work under its glow.

  Maggie is about five foot seven and a hundred and twenty-five pounds. I’m five-eight and more than that.1 Rae is approximately five foot two and around ninety-five pounds. Suffice it to say, Maggie and I had enough manpower, so to speak, to physically remove her.

  After a very brief consultation, we decided that it was the only way.

  “I’ll take her head. You take her feet. Watch out,” I said. “She’s a kicker.”

  Fifteen minutes later, in the car on the way back to the Spellman house, Rae was deep into her tirade about the abuses in the criminal justice system.

  “False confessions are way, way more common than you think. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t confess to a crime I didn’t commit, but you never know. Like, if somebody didn’t let me pee for hours and hours, I think at some point I’d crack,” she said.

  “I’d like to see an appeal on a conviction based on no bathroom breaks,” I said.

  “It’s not just that,” Rae replied. “There are so many ways a person can be wrongfully incarcerated: biased police lineups, coerced confessions, bad forensics, misuse of informants—the list goes on, and I’m not even thinking about police corruption, like planting evidence and stuff. Which I won’t mention in front of Dad because he’ll get all mad, but it happens.

  “So, anyway, Maggie shows me the files she has. These are all guys in prison who say they are innocent. She can only work on one pro bono case at a time and she told me to review the files and pick the three most likely candidates. How am I supposed to decide something that important? How? Do you realize that I am holding a man’s fate in my hands?”