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

  “Oh, right. That reminds me. I need to get on it.”

  “I need some sympathy right this second, Isabel.”

  I leaned across the bar and combed Connor’s thick black hair with my fingers. “I’m sorry, Connor. You’ve got all kinds of sympathy. I swear. Please forgive me and my family.”

  “I accept your apology. On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “I want the lawyer date for this fortnight out of the way. His name is Larry. He’s in the back waiting for you. An honest-to-goodness lawyer.”

  “Really? Back there?”

  “Don’t keep him waiting.”

  “Can I finish my drink first?”

  “Drink fast,” Connor replied. “I’ve already had to prop him up twice this afternoon.”

  MANDATORY LAWYER DATE #2

  Larry Meyers, fifty-four, semiconscious, in a two-day-old suit and three-day unwashed hair (best guess), sank into a corner crevice in a booth in the back room. If he were a vain woman, he would have been pleased with the backlighting that hid his many flaws.

  Larry was indeed a lawyer—an ambulance chaser, to be exact. But his client list had dimmed to a flicker in the past few years, beginning at the time of his divorce. I brought Larry a glass of water and hoped that he would be coherent enough to satisfy the lawyer-date requirement. My job was to force the awkward conversation that followed into something that resembled a date. Fortunately, for now, no accompanying photographs were required.

  [The partial, but utterly sad, transcript reads as follows:]1

  ISABEL: Hi, are you Larry?

  LARRY: If I could be anyone else, I would be.

  ISABEL: My friend tells me you’re a lawyer.2

  LARRY: I’ve heard all the jokes. Please spare me.

  ISABEL: I never remember jokes anyway.

  LARRY: Good, because I hate jokes.

  ISABEL: Me too.

  LARRY: You probably don’t hate them as much as I do.

  ISABEL: Probably not. Can I get you a cup of coffee?

  LARRY: Stick some whiskey in it this time. That bartender is stingy with the booze.

  ISABEL: I’ll be right back.

  [Long pause while I return to the bar. The recorder picks up Larry falling asleep again. The sound of snoring is unmistakable.]

  ISABEL: Wake up, Larry. I brought you another drink.

  LARRY: That was so nice of you.

  ISABEL: It was nothing.

  LARRY: [choking with emotion] Why would you do something so nice for a complete stranger?

  ISABEL: We’re not strangers, remember?

  LARRY: Who are you?

  ISABEL: Your date.

  LARRY: You can’t possibly be my date. You’re pretty. And nice.

  ISABEL: Thanks. You must work too hard. That’s why you fell asleep.3

  LARRY: Oh. Maybe.

  ISABEL: Drink up. The caffeine will do you good.

  [Long pause.]

  LARRY: What’s it all about?

  ISABEL: What’s what all about?

  LARRY: Life.

  ISABEL: That might be too big a question for me.

  LARRY: It’s just so full of pain.

  [Sound of crying.]

  ISABEL: Do you have any hobbies?4

  When I couldn’t get Larry to stop crying, I insisted that we head across the street to the Squat and Gobble café and I ordered Larry something they call the Tripple Gobble, which eventually did the trick of sobering him up. I’m not sure that he was any happier sober, but at least he could find his way home. I also managed to work in a few more required date questions, which I played for my mother a few hours later.

  ISABEL: If you could have dinner with any person, living or dead, who would it be?

  LARRY: My nana. She was the only person who ever really loved me.

  [End of tape.]5

  My mother picked up the recording device as if it were a miniature Larry and gestured with it.

  “Where did you find this guy?”

  “Around.”

  “Around a homeless shelter? I’m not sure this qualifies.”

  “Oh, it qualifies. I have a first and last name and his bar number. I spent two hours drinking and eating with him. I even woke him up twice. I asked him what he did for fun. I inquired into his past relationships. It was a date, if you consider a date a bizarre ritual your mother forces you to enact in order to maintain some false idea of control. It was a date according to your definition of one.”

  THE BUTLER DID SOMETHING

  Mason Graves’s e-mails provided no concrete evidence of his current whereabouts. They were formal, banal, and came from a web-based e-mail account. Here’s a sampling of the juiciest one:

  To: Franklin Winslow

  From: Mason Graves

  Subject: Greetings

  Dear Sir:

  I hope this e-mail finds you well. I feel dreadful for leaving you for so long but hope that you have found a sufficient temporary replacement. I assure you I will be back in no time at all.

  Mother has taken a turn for the worse. She is stubborn and might linger for a while, but I suspect her days are numbered.

  Please take care of yourself and remind the gardener that he must not overwater the lilies in the back.

  Your humble servant,

  Mason

  In the years we’d had Mr. Winslow as a client, we’d never investigated his valet, since he never gave us cause to. Mason was hired a year before Winslow became a client. But I decided to run a database check on the name Mason Graves in the Bay Area. I found fifteen. However, no one jumped out at me as a plausible match. All but three were employed elsewhere and the rest didn’t match Mason Graves’s probable age (late forties to early fifties was my best guess). This was cause for some concern, but not as much cause for concern as Mr. Leonard’s accent, which had still not returned to normal.

  When I dropped by Len and Christopher’s home, shortly after nine P.M., the new valet was shining his shoes and laying out his clothes for the following day. Apparently, he had spent almost his entire salary to date on a new wardrobe. Christopher sat helplessly in a lounge chair and pretended to read a book, but I noticed that he didn’t turn a single page during my visit. Len answered the door (because that’s what he does), gave me a warm greeting, and then adjusted my collar and dusted some lint off my jacket.

  “Isabel, a pleasure to see you,” Len said very politely, but still in character. I guess I had to see it in context—or rather out of context—to believe it.

  “Okay, knock it off,” I said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I never thought a day would come when I’d miss your Christopher Walken impression.”1

  “Oh, Isabel, you’re so droll.”

  I turned to his partner. “Make him stop!”

  “You started it; you make him stop!” Christopher shouted back at me. Then he pretended to be reading his book again.

  “I’m worried about you, Len,” I said.

  “Darling, you mustn’t worry. I assure you I am perfectly well. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  “Yeah, you do that,” I replied, just to get him to leave the room.

  I sat down next to Christopher on the couch. His glare was loaded with accusation.

  “This is not all my fault,” I said. “Would you prefer he lounged around the house all day taking bubble baths and giving himself facials?”

  “I’m undecided,” Christopher replied.

  “What’s going on with him?” I asked.

  “He hasn’t had a decent part in eight months.”

  “Well, he’s only playing one of his parts. That’s the problem I’m having here.”

  “You need to explain it better. It’s like Victor Victoria.”

  “Huh?”

  “Do not tell me you have never seen that classic. Julie Andrews, James Garner, a positively brilliant performance by Lesley Ann Warren.”


  “Go ahead and list the entire credits—I’ve got all night—but I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I keep forgetting you’re a cultural retard.”

  “It’s not a crime to miss a single film made in the sixties.”

  “Eighties, darling. And sorry. I’m in a dreadful mood.”

  “Was there a point you were going to make?” I asked.

  “Yes. In Victor Victoria, Julie Andrews plays a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman.”

  “That makes no sense at all.”

  “She plays a drag singer in an old nightclub.”

  “I’m getting a headache.”

  “Forget it,” Christopher said. “My point is, you didn’t emphasize to Len that he was an actor, playing a spy, playing a butler.”

  “I thought ‘undercover butler’ explained enough.”

  “You never gave him a backstory.”

  “Oh my god. Can you do me a favor? I’ve had all of the actor-speak I can handle for one night. Discuss Len’s motivation with him and then give him this kit. Instructions enclosed. Tell him I want him to gather fingerprints of the entire staff—on the sly, if possible. I just want to make sure there are no surprises. Obviously, not the driver. Since we already know about him. Also, have Len get fingerprints from Mason’s bedroom. I doubt we’ll find anything, but it’s worth a try.”

  Christopher’s face lit up when he got a glimpse of the fingerprinting kit.

  “This looks like fun. Can I do it instead? I’ve always wanted to dust for fingerprints.”

  “I don’t care who does it; just don’t send warning signals out to the rest of the staff. Don’t forget to label the prints. Okay?”

  Len returned with the tea, served on a silver tray that was once Christopher’s grandmother’s. While our butler-channeling friend set out the teacups, I lost my appetite for Earl Grey.

  I glanced at my watch for show and said that I had to run.

  “Where?” Christopher asked suspiciously.

  “I need to spend some quality time with Connor.”

  “Of course,” Christopher replied, “because that one is definitely going to last.”

  “Now I’m leaving for sure.”

  “What a pity,” said Len, as Mr. Leonard.

  “You’ll live,” I replied.

  “Christopher, do you want cream and sugar or just cream?”

  “I’d like a whiskey and soda.”

  “Then why did I make tea?” Len asked with the patient understanding of a seasoned manservant.

  Who says you can’t find good help these days? Christopher walked me to the door.

  “What am I supposed to do about Jeeves here?”

  From the doorway I watched Len clearing the tray, still in character.

  “Perhaps he needs a taste of his own medicine,” I replied.

  “QUALITY TIME”

  I lied. I went straight home and back to work. I looked at Mason’s e-mails again and realized that there might be a way to at least track his general whereabouts. It was eleven P.M., but I phoned Robbie Gruber, Spellman Investigations’ tech support guy, since I knew he was awake and would be awake for hours.

  “What?” Robbie said when he picked up the phone. That’s how he always answers the phone. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Robbie say “hello.”

  “Hi, Robbie. It’s Izzy.”

  “I know that. What do you want?”

  “Is there any way to track where an e-mail originated from?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I’d need the e-mail headers.”

  “How do I do that?” I asked.

  “You don’t know?”

  “That’s why I asked.”

  “I’ll send you an e-mail with detailed instructions.”

  “You can’t just tell me over the phone?”

  “No. It will take too long to explain it to you and I don’t feel like talking anymore.”

  Robbie hung up the phone. No good-bye. That’s another word I haven’t heard him use.

  After my phone call with Robbie I went straight to bed. There was no point in staying up for Connor. Considering our schedule conflicts, it’s a miracle our relationship had lasted this long. Connor starts work at four P.M., doesn’t finish until three A.M. most nights, and sleeps until noon. I’m usually at the office by nine A.M. and out cold by midnight. We were together when I visited the bar after work, for a few hours in the morning on Saturday, and as for Sunday … well, Sunday was always decided by a coin-toss. If Connor won, I maimed the morning watching rugby and killed the afternoon drinking beer with stinky, sweaty, dirt-streaked men. When I won, I enjoyed quiet time at home, alone.

  As you might imagine, the snippets of time Connor and I shared did not a relationship make. And when you toss in a hostile mother, dates with other men, constant sleep interruptions from both parties, and almost all communication happening in the privacy of a crowded bar, well, things were complicated. We needed more time together (and watching him play rugby is not time together, as I have explained again and again) and since I’m always thinking about my revenge on Harkey, I decided that bringing Connor into my Harkey investigation was a good idea for everyone. Except maybe Connor and Harkey. I had to admit that Connor tried to be a good sport about the whole thing. But when he realized that surveillance was sort of like sitting on a couch and watching TV together, only the television show was really bad and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the set, he lost interest in the endeavor. As with all surveillance neophytes, the first time is always the best; Connor had finally reached his boredom threshold.

  The following day, Ex #12 and I were parked together in my car, watching Jim Atherton watching Marco Pileggi, but Connor was trying to get a football game on the radio.

  CONNOR: I could be watching football right now, if I weren’t doing this.

  ISABEL: But then we’d almost never see each other.

  CONNOR: Are you coming to my game on Sunday?

  ISABEL: Maybe. How many points is Declan offering?

  CONNOR: Ya can’t bet against me again.

  ISABEL: There’s no room for sentiment in wagers.

  CONNOR: There’s no bloody balance to this relationship, Isabel. I come on a bloody boring job with you, I tape pieces of shredded paper together, I endure your family, I lose sleep, I get kicked in the middle of the night, and you get free drinks.

  ISABEL: I always say thank you and sometimes I even tip.

  CONNOR: It’s time to take a stand, Isabel. I have a few precious hours a day away from the bar; I’m not spending them sitting in a car, taking pictures of people with neck braces. I’m sorry, Izzy. But I quit.

  Once again, I was alone in my quest to take down Harkey.

  RULE #31—VACATE RESIDENCE EVERY WEDNESDAY

  AUTHOR: MOM AND DAD VETOES: (N/A)

  I assumed there was a logical explanation, like maybe the house was being painted or fumigated, but no, the rationale was far more warped.

  “Rae, did you pack your overnight bag?” Mom asked.

  “You were serious about that?” Rae replied.

  “Yes, you’ll be spending the night at David’s.”

  “I don’t get it,” Rae replied.

  “Just pack your bag or you’ll be late for school.”

  “I won’t step foot out this door until everyone has their shirt on,” Rae said as she passed Dad on her way out of the office.

  Our shirts were laid out on our desks. We didn’t argue, since there wasn’t any point. We all simply donned our FREE SCHMIDT! uniforms and continued the conversation.

  “Somebody better start talking,” I said. “You need the house vacated for twenty-four hours why?”

  “Once a week. Twenty-four hours. No one enters or exits,” Dad said.

  “Well, we do,” my mom added, correcting him.

  “You and Rae need to sta
y out,” Dad explained, explaining nothing.

  “I’m still waiting for the details, please,” I said.

  “One day, when we’re retired and the house is empty, we need to know that we can handle it,” Mom said.

  “We’re doing a test run once a week,” said Dad.

  “Huh?”

  “Because if we can’t handle it, we need to be prepared,” Mom chimed in.

  “Maybe get a dog or a foreign exchange student,” Dad suggested.

  “I’m vetoing the foreign exchange student idea right now,” Mom said.

  I tried to steer the conversation back to some semblance of rationality: “So, you’re just kicking us out so you can see what it’s like to be alone? Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “In a nutshell,” Dad replied.

  “Why don’t you take a freakin’ vacation like normal people?”

  “Vacations are different,” my mom said.

  “And we don’t actually like them so much,” Dad continued.

  “We need to see what it’s like to be home alone together with no distractions,” said Mom.

  “And face it,” Dad said. “You are all really distracting.”

  Rae resurfaced with a more voluminous backpack.

  “What did I miss?” she asked.

  “Mom and Dad need some quality time together, so we have to vacate the house for twenty-four hours every Wednesday at eight A.M. until Thursday same time.”

  “Why can’t you have quality time while I’m here?”

  There was a brief pause, which filled Rae’s head with probably the wrong idea.

  “Oh my god. I’m going to be sick!” she shouted, and ran for the front door. “Izzy, drive me to school now!”

  My father calmly bellowed to my sister, “It’s not what you think, Rae.”

  A very loud “La la la la” was the only reply he got.

  I gathered any work-related items I might need and said, “I’ll be taking wagers on which one of you snaps first. Send me a text message if you want in.”

  In my car Rae took a few soothing breaths to clear her mind. Then she shivered and shook her head and made this noise that sounded like she was trying to cough up a hairball.

  As I drove her to school, I fished for a few pieces of information. I hadn’t had time to go fishing in a while.