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

  I got out of bed and walked into the living room.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, when what I should have done was race across the room and throw myself on top of the coffee table.

  “What ta hell is this mess? It smells like rubbish!” he said.

  “It is rubbish,” I said. “Don’t touch it!”

  I watched as Connor swept his hand across the table, sliding my paper puzzle into a paper bag.

  “You’re going to pay for that,” I said in my most villainous voice.

  Connor pulled a quarter out of his pocket and tossed it at me.

  “Will that do?” he asked.

  I threw the quarter back at him, aiming for his eye. He ducked.

  “That was four hours of hard labor you just extinguished with a sweep of a hand! I charge seventy-five dollars an hour. You figure it out.”

  “Why? Because ya can’t?” he shouted back.

  “I want my three hundred dollars!” I said. Loudly.

  “Then I guess I’ll be starting a tab for you at the bar. We’ll call it even in, say, a week’s time.”

  I scanned the room looking for something to throw. My brain was too tired for any comeback more sophisticated than “You’re a dead man.” Besides, I’ve found these empty threats carry no weight. Now, a pet rock, on the other hand …

  I was angry, but I was also tired and devastated by the idea that I would have to spend another four hours trying to reassemble some obnoxious feel-good movie that had done nothing but make me feel bad. I did what any tough, self-reliant, overburdened, sleep-deprived, seasoned investigator would do: I cried. And, to my delight, I discovered tears were the weapon of choice against Connor. Better than any pet rock known to man.

  “Ah, no, Isabel, pleeease don’ cry,” he said in his most soothing and thick accent. He put his arms around me and walked me back to bed.

  A few hours later, Pratt’s stupid puzzle nagged at my subconscious. I woke, returned to the living room, and began the painstaking task of reuniting the slices of screenplay. After an hour at task, Connor woke up, turned on the overhead light, and joined me on the couch.

  “When I was a lad, I had a knack for any kind of puzzle,” he said, carefully sliding shreds of paper out of the bag of recycling.

  I kissed Connor on the cheek and for the next two hours we worked in silence and ended up right back where I started. Although this time, we taped the matching strips together. Then we returned to bed and slept through the morning.

  The next afternoon, I phoned Pratt and explained that Shana was shredding the scripts and that in keeping with his budget, the best I could do was pick up the confetti and deliver it to him.

  Jeremy said that he liked puzzles. If only I’d known that the night before.

  RULE #28—MANDATORY SUNDAY-NIGHT FAMILY DINNERS

  AUTHOR: ALBERT SPELLMAN

  VETOES: NONE (UNDER DIRECT

  THREAT BY MY MOTHER)

  Rule #28 originally started as mandatory individual lunches with Dad but shifted when I pointed out that there was something utterly pathetic about essentially offering your children the choice between having lunch with you or taking out the trash for a week. While I didn’t necessarily want every Sunday night ad infinitum to be ruled by a meal with my immediate relatives, I figured it was the kind of event I could occasionally miss since other parties could make up for my absence. Besides, Connor worked Sunday nights anyway.

  Dad wasted no time in initiating Rule #28. In retrospect, one could view the meal as a collision of varying agendas. My father wanted quality family time. My mother needed information on David’s big blonde. David wanted my mother to take a cooking class. Maggie encouraged another camping trip. I wanted more wine. And Rae, Rae wanted to free Schmidt. In fact, she made T-shirts. Navy-blue cotton with yellow felt letters spelling out her slogan.

  At this point in the evening, I slipped into the office, grabbed the digital recorder, and turned it on. Sometimes it just makes me feel better if I have hard evidence.

  [Partial transcript reads as follows:]

  RAE: I need everyone to wear their shirt whenever it’s appropriate. Obviously, it’s not mandatory when you’re in court, Maggie, but if you go for a jog that’s perfect. It gets the word out. In fact, if everyone could take up jogging, I really think that would help our cause.

  ISABEL: My shirt looks different than the other shirts.

  RAE: That’s because yours was the test shirt.

  OLIVIA: Since we haven’t done this in a while, I made turkey tonight.

  DAVID: [loud sigh]

  OLIVIA: Do you have a problem, mister?

  DAVID: No, it’s just that your turkey is usually extremely dry.

  OLIVIA: Why don’t you taste the food before you start complaining about it?

  ALBERT: I have an idea: Why don’t we go around the table and share something about our week with each other?

  RAE: I’ll start.

  ISABEL: We all know what you’ve been up to.

  RAE: This week I helped Maggie research the wrongful conviction of Levi Schmidt. Maggie is in the process of filing an appeal. We could use some more help, however. I mean, a man’s life is on the line. Would anyone here like to help free Schmidt?

  ISABEL: I’ll wear the shirt. What more do you want?

  DAVID: I’ve been helping, Rae. I do a little free legal research on the side. I just don’t go around announcing it to everyone.

  RAE: Why not?

  ISABEL: Okay, my turn.

  RAE: I wasn’t done.

  MAGGIE: Rae, your help with Levi’s case has been invaluable. But we all have other work that we need to attend to as well.

  RAE: How can anyone think about work when a man is rotting away in a prison cell for a crime he didn’t commit?

  OLIVIA: Speaking of work, David, how is your job hunt coming along?

  DAVID: I’m not actively looking for work, Mom. I’m still trying to figure out what areas of the law I want to pursue. I’m pretty sure I’d like to stay away from corporate.

  OLIVIA: So what have you been doing with your time?

  DAVID: This and that.

  OLIVIA: Just give me a picture of your typical day. How about Wednesday, for example?

  DAVID: I don’t know. I went for a jog. I picked up a new kerosene lamp for our next camping trip.

  MAGGIE: Do you guys want to come?

  RAE: Never again.

  ISABEL: I’m busy.

  ALBERT: I could be talked into it.

  MAGGIE: Ouch. David, that hurt.1

  DAVID: [quietly to Maggie] We agreed not to invite anyone.

  OLIVIA: So what were you doing Wednesday afternoon?

  DAVID: I don’t know, Mom. I don’t keep a surveillance report on myself. I admit that I’m leading a life of leisure. However, after ten years of an eighty-hour workweek, I think I deserve a break.

  OLIVIA: I’m sorry, David. My question came out wrong. I think you should take all the time in the world to figure out your career. I’m more interested in your hobbies.

  DAVID: I don’t have that many hobbies.

  ALBERT: Since you have so much free time, you must come to my yoga class with me.

  ISABEL: I just lost my appetite.

  The evening came to its merciful end when a horn honked outside.

  Rae cleared her plate and said, “That’s my ride. Am I excused?”

  I could only assume it was Logan Engle behind the wheel, so I asked the obvious question: “Is he your boyfriend or your driver?”

  “Why can’t he be both?” Rae replied.

  Once Rae departed, I was the next guest to make a beeline for the door, in part because Maggie was too polite to leave my parents’ house with a sink full of dirty dishes. I thought I’d made a silent escape, but my mother caught up with me so we could have a private chat.

  She brushed a strand of hair off my face.

  “Are you getting enough sleep
, sweetie?”

  “Enough,” I replied.

  “Are you happy?”

  “Enough,” I replied.

  Mom studied my face and then said, “You’re getting dark circles. You want me to buy you some eye cream?”

  “No. Is there anything else?”

  “I want to know who the big blonde is. Get on it.”

  “Good night, Mom.”

  UNDERCOVER BUTLER #2

  The following week I dropped by the Winslow residence to check on Mr. Leonard. However, Christopher answered the door, in the same three-piece Masterpiece Theatre getup.

  “Christopher, what are you doing here?” I said when he appeared before me.

  Christopher glanced over his shoulder and said, “Shhhh.” Then he took me by the arm and dragged me into the drawing room. “Just call me Mr. Leonard,” he said quietly.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Len had an audition. I insisted that he go to it and so I figured a substitute for one day wouldn’t be a problem. When I arrived I was going to explain the situation to Mr. Winslow, but he apparently can’t tell us apart.”

  “What about the housekeeper?”

  “It’s her day off.”

  “This makes me uncomfortable,” I said.

  “Why? Because a white man can’t tell two brothers apart or because of the deception angle?”

  “Both,” I replied. “You didn’t think to come clean at any point?”

  “Well, it seemed easier this way. I do suspect that he needs new glasses. When I asked him when was the last time he saw an eye doctor, he couldn’t recall. Also, I did a bit more digging. Hope you don’t mind. I’m afraid Len is taking more to the part of butler than that of investigator. You know, some days I think he could do this full-time. That’s why I insisted he go to the audition today. I refuse to have a life partner who spends his days pretending to be on a BBC show.”

  “So far Len has given me nothing; have you got anything that I can use?”

  “You could check Mr. Winslow’s driver, Bill Cosgrove. Len described his eating habits to me. He hovers over his food protectively and is a little jumpy.”

  “That means?” I asked.

  “Haven’t you watched Oz? He’s probably done time. Hold on, I’ll get you his employee file. I found where Winslow keeps his records. I will say that the driver seems to have gone legit. Neither Len nor I have noticed anything amiss.”

  Christopher climbed the stairs two at a time and I followed him into a small room that was clearly designated office space for “the help.”

  “We already know about Cosgrove’s record. It was for a minor drug charge twenty years ago. But good work. If you found the employee records in a day, what has Mr. Leonard been doing?”

  “He’s been reorganizing Mr. Winslow’s closets and taking him shopping for more suitable attire.”

  “What about investigating?” I asked.

  Christopher sighed and said, “Len thinks Mr. Winslow’s only problem was his previous valet. He believes it would be for the best if Mason Graves never returned.”

  “Has anyone heard from him yet?”

  “No.”

  “Did Len get a copy of those e-mails for me?”

  Christopher pulled an envelope out of the desk drawer.

  “I printed out the three e-mails I could find on Winslow’s computer. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about them. I’m still looking for Mason’s employee file. You want his Social Security number, right?”

  At this point I was wishing I’d given the job to Christopher. At least he had his priorities straight.

  “Also in the envelope,” said Christopher, “is a copy of Winslow’s will. But it’s dated 1998, so I’m not sure if it’s the latest version. Len needs to get Winslow to check on that. I read through this will and there’s nothing out of the ordinary in it.”

  A quiet beep sounded somewhere on Christopher’s body. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

  “What’s that?”

  “Len is bringing Mr. Winslow into the twenty-first century. They purchased cell phones last week. And now, instead of shouting or using the bell or fumbling with the intercom, Mr. Winslow sends a polite and subtle text message. Len programmed it for him so all he needs to do is press a button on his cell phone.”

  Christopher read his message and looked up at me.

  “I’m needed now. I suggest you call Len later and remind him about his primary responsibilities.”

  Christopher spoke with a sharp edge that indicated his problem with Len wasn’t left at the office, so to speak.

  “Everything all right at home?” I asked.

  “When actors perform, there’s usually a time limit involved. Once they leave the stage, they have to return to some semblance of their real selves. Len is already speaking with the accent at home, in constant formal attire, and, well, I’d rather not mention what he does with his pinkie when he sips tea. And don’t get me started on that ridiculously expensive Gucci smoking jacket that he purchased. First of all, if he’s going to go all Method-actor on me, he should know that the help doesn’t wear smoking jackets, even when they are off duty.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about this, Christopher,” I said. “I’ll try to straighten things out, once I do a little research on these latest employee records.”

  “Thank you, Isabel. Anything that will speed this investigation along would be greatly appreciated. Must run. It’s tea time.”

  Christopher gave me a kiss on the cheek and told me to let myself out. What he did next, I couldn’t tell you. But I was picturing him serving tea and scones. I was feeling hungry and maybe just a little bit offended that I wasn’t invited to stay.

  STAKEOUT #2

  I didn’t bother asking Connor to accompany me on the early-morning shift, since I was switching gears and using my allotment of Harkey investigation time checking out the insurance surveillance his firm was conducting. By following Harkey’s lead investigator, I hoped I could connect the dots to one of Dr. Hurtt’s patients. In the early hours of dawn, groggy and sleepy eyed, I sat in my car, wishing that I’d gotten myself that cup of coffee that I’d decided against because I was running late and didn’t know when Harkey’s surveillance guy, Jim Atherton, would be starting his shift. Jim would lead me to the subject of the investigation and I couldn’t risk missing his departure.

  Atherton’s car was still in his driveway at six fifty A.M.; by seven forty-five, he was on the move. The move was short—four miles to Bernal Heights. I parked two cars behind his and tried to pare down the options of houses he was surveilling. Using my laptop I did a reverse address check on the residences and compared them to the list of potential patients I got from my photographs and license plate numbers from the Dr. Hurtt surveillance. Eventually, a name clicked. Marco Pileggi. The thrill of this minor victory was dulled by my caffeine-withdrawal headache. Just as I began searching my purse for an aspirin, there was a knock on my passenger-side window.

  I was first startled and then calmed. I unlocked the door and the passenger entered my car with a nice hot cup of black coffee.

  “How’d you know I’d be here?”

  “I was the one who told you to check the insurance angle to begin with.”

  “But how did you know my exact location?”

  “I’m a cop, remember?”

  “And you were in the neighborhood?” I asked.

  “It’s early. I thought you might need your drug.”

  I really wanted the coffee and no matter how I tried to wrap my mind around turning it down impolitely, I simply couldn’t. I grabbed the cup and said thank you, because that’s what you do when a friend brings you coffee. We sat in the car in relative silence until Marco Pileggi exited his house, neck brace still in place.

  “I better get to work,” Henry said.

  “Me too,” I replied.

  Henry hopped out of the car and I waited until Pileggi drove away
followed by Atherton. Then I followed Atherton. I spent the next two hours surveilling one man surveilling another man. When it was time for me to call it quits and return to my own work, no man had done anything that would help me get another man in trouble. Sometimes you just have an off day.

  Later that afternoon, I would discover that I wasn’t the only person who had an off day.

  “How’s your day been?” I asked Connor after he served me a drink. Although to be perfectly honest, I was still brainstorming about how to take down Harkey. A new storm shoved my brainstorm out of the way, however, when Connor answered the question with a dose of sharp hostility.

  “How’s my day been?” he asked. He does that a lot, repeating the question with more inflection before answering it. He answered it, all right.

  “It’s been a fecken Spellman family reunion in here today.”

  “‘Fecken.’ I’ll never get used to that,” I replied, hoping to distract him with friendly banter.

  “Did you hear me?” he asked.

  “Did I hear you?” I said, turning the tables. “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “Please, go on,” I said, since he was going to go on anyway.

  “First your sister came in here.”

  “I thought you liked her.”

  “I did. But then she asked me to drive her to San Quentin, and when I said no she said she’d be willing to pay for the gas money and followed it up with a comment about how she’s heard my people are cheap. And when I told her that’s the Scots, not the Irish, she said, ‘Same difference.’‘”

  “Oops. Sorry about that. Then what happened?”

  “I refused to serve her just like the sign says and so she pouted in the back booth until that cop fellow with the shifty eyes showed up and they left. Maybe he drove her to San Quentin. If you ask me, that’s where she belongs.”

  “No argument from me.”

  “Then your brother showed up, looking for your sister, but she had already left. He’s clearly adopted. He said hello, ordered a drink, tipped well, and departed. Not too long after that, your mother arrived, pretending to be looking for you, but I know better. When I told her you weren’t in, that she just missed the young lass, your mom ordered a gimlet, complained about it, and then asked if you had arranged your lawyer date for this week, just to rub it in, I guess.”