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 doubt it,” he said.

  “I need a favor.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  I handed Henry the set of prints. “Will you run these for me?”

  “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Apparently friends don’t just demand police work and run. They sit and chat and maybe drink or eat things together. At least that’s Henry’s agenda. So I played along in order to push my “favor” agenda. This is simply how the world works. I think. I’m just saying that, actually. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know how the world works. Sometimes it seems like it’s not working at all.

  Henry asked me what I was drinking. I said, “Not tea.” He served me a beer and put out a bowl of spelt 1 pretzels. He asked me what was new; I said not much. He inquired into the Harkey matter and I said it was a dead end. He apologized for the insurance information. I told him not to worry about it. It was the only angle available to me. Henry asked me how Connor was doing. I said fine. He asked me whether our relationship was getting serious. I asked him to define “serious.” He described serious as “moving forward.” I asked Henry where forward might take someone. Henry said that forward usually leads to moving in, engagement, and maybe marriage. I told him that while Connor kept his own apartment, he had practically moved in. I see, Henry said. Then I explained that if Connor didn’t practically live with me, we’d never see each other, what with our opposite hours and such. Henry said, “I see,” again. Then he asked if Connor and I ever spoke of marriage. We didn’t, but I didn’t mention that. What I did mention was that way back my mom had had me sign a legal document promising that I wouldn’t marry Connor. I asked Henry whether he thought that document was legally binding and Henry said that he thought it was unlikely.

  “Do you want to marry him?” Henry asked.

  At this point my beer was finished. I asked for another one instead of answering the question.

  The truth: No, I didn’t. In fact, I was sure of that one thing. And yet I couldn’t tell you why. In case you’re wondering: Yes, I’ve discussed this in therapy, so I don’t see any point in going on about it here. As for Henry, the question quickly slipped away when I made it slip away by changing the subject. I casually brought up the far more compelling mystery of the missing fixtures in the Spellman home.

  “Isn’t that strange?” I asked.

  “I guess so,” Henry replied. “But it is an old house. Things are bound to break.”

  For another forty-five minutes, Henry inquired into an assortment of details about my life. Nothing too intrusive, but he got updates on Morty, Mom and Dad’s Lost Wednesdays, and even Bernie’s impending visit.

  “Do you think I should change the locks?” I asked.

  Henry said no. Turns out, Henry had never been so wrong.

  MY FIRST HOLDUP

  I was supposed to be sitting on a park bench in the middle of the night, waiting for my date. This didn’t seem like a wise location for a rendezvous, which I guess was the point.

  A man approached. He made no introduction. He then pointed something at me, which I guessed was a gun.

  “If you do everything I tell you, no one will get hurt,” he said. Then he stared at me with cool confidence.

  “Uh, okay,” I replied.

  “Give me all your money,” the man said.

  His dress wasn’t robber-appropriate, so I had some trouble taking him seriously. But I regrouped and realized that I shouldn’t stereotype. Robbers come with a variety of different fashion senses, and he’d probably come straight from work or something.

  “I don’t have my money with me,” I replied.

  “Where is it?”

  “In my purse.”

  “Where’s your purse?”

  “In my car.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “In the parking lot.”

  “Give me your car keys.”

  “Uh, okay,” I said, and handed him my keys.

  He took them.

  “A thank-you would be nice,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Empty your pockets,” he said.

  “I’d rather not,” I said.

  “I’m not afraid to use this thing,” the man with no name said, sounding plausibly threatening.

  I had on a jacket and jeans, so there were a number of pockets.

  “You probably don’t want everything in my pockets,” I replied.

  He held out his other hand. “Everything,” he repeated.

  “Okay.”

  My jacket pocket held a used tissue, a paper clip, a lost Lifesaver, a parking stub, and a tampon. I tossed the items into his hands. The man with the gun tossed them on the ground.

  “If you didn’t want them, why did you ask?”

  He stared at me and at the bits and pieces on the ground for a while. It looked like he was thinking, but since I didn’t know the man, I couldn’t tell you for sure what he looked like when he was thinking.

  “I can’t do this,” he suddenly said, dropping his arms to his sides.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because you’re not taking this seriously.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re not scared.”

  “I would be if you were scary.”

  “Oh, so it’s my fault.”

  “Nobody’s to blame here,” I generously suggested.

  Finally the teacher, Mrs. Louise Granger, called, “Cut,” and our mediocre improvisation came to a halt. Unlike the previous three-minute performances, ours didn’t receive even token applause. Not one single clap to break the awkward silence. Perhaps it was my fault. And perhaps, as the teacher suggested later that night, acting classes were not for me. I was fine with all that. I just wanted to play the odds and find a room full of people who might work for free.

  When the evening came to a close and I had seen the wide variety of actors available to me, I approached my favorite (or at the very least the most gullible looking): Chelsea Jacobs, twenty-three, blond, skinny, fake tan, your usual actress in the last two years before regular Botox injections begin. Still, she wasn’t bad. In her improv, she played a woman trying to return a sweater to the wrong store. I liked her determination and she had some nice comic timing.

  Len was right. An actor has got to act. It took me about ten minutes to convince Chelsea that I was legit and not your average San Francisco lunatic.1 But by the end of the night, she had my card and promised to call. She even had some friends whom she thought might be up for the challenge.

  After improv class, I pulled Shana Breslin’s recycling, dropped it by Pratt’s house, waited fifteen minutes, and watched him stick the same bags back in his own recycling receptacle. I pulled the bags and stuck them in my trunk. That kid was up to something, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what.

  LOST WEDNESDAY THE THIRD

  I arrived at the offices in the afternoon. My parents were hunched over their desks, drinking coffee, yawning, and struggling to stay awake.

  “Too much salsa dancing?” I asked.

  They looked at each other, as far I could tell, to get their stories straight. My mom did the talking.

  “We went for a hike in Muir Woods. Maybe we overdid it.”

  “If you’re running around on outdoor adventures, then why do we need to leave the premises?”

  “Because it’s all about spontaneity, Isabel. We weren’t sure when we were going to return or what we’d want to do when we did.”

  “And what did you do?” I asked against my better judgment.

  “We watched moves and ate popcorn,” Dad replied. “Air popped,”1 he added to get sympathy.

  “What movies?” I inquired as I sat down at my desk.

  “We had a Mel Brooks marathon,” my mother answered, a little too quickly. “Blazing Saddles, High Anxiety, and Young Frankenstein.”

  “Frahnkenshteen,” my father said, co
rrecting her per Gene Wilder’s pronunciation. I guess you have to have seen it to understand. If you haven’t seen it, then you should put down this document immediately and run, not walk, to your local video store. You should also be ashamed of yourself, if you are over the age of eighteen.

  Here’s the problem with my parents’ collective claim to have watched movies all day: I couldn’t quiz them on the films since we’d all seen them at least five to ten times each. There was a deeper lie embedded in there somewhere, I just couldn’t figure out what.

  “There are a few holes in your story,” I said.

  “There were holes in every story you told from age nine to nineteen,” Mom replied. “Why don’t you just worry about your own work, and Dad and I will keep our marriage in order?”

  “Right,” I replied, and focused my attention back on my work.

  In the afternoon, when I was grabbing a snack from the kitchen, I noticed the light fixture was missing from the ceiling. This left a raw unfiltered light that was headache inducing. The fixture itself was nowhere to be seen.

  When Rae arrived home from school, I asked her where the light fixture had gone.

  “How should I know?” Rae replied.

  I followed her into the Spellman offices, where Mom was giving Dad a back rub.

  “Feel any better?” Mom asked.

  “Thanks, dear,” Dad replied.

  Rae glared at my parents and in complete silence dictated a new rule.

  Rule #44—No more PDA

  Then she departed without another word. My mother approached the whiteboard and vetoed the rule, followed by my father.

  While I’m no fan of watching my parents grope each other, I had other topics on my mind.

  “Why do things keep disappearing from the house?”

  “What are you talking about, sweetie?” Mom asked.

  “There was the towel rod that David noticed, then the doorknob the other day, and now the light fixture in the kitchen is gone. It’s kind of blinding in there.”

  “I was dusting and it broke,” Mom casually replied.

  “Since when do you dust?” I asked.

  “It happens on occasion,” Mom replied.

  “Okay, if that’s your story,” I said, and that was the end of the conversation for the time being. However, I decided then and there that these Lost Wednesdays needed some looking into.

  In the early evening I pulled the bags of screenplay fluff into the basement and started the long and miserable process of continuing the assembly of the confetti puzzle. Little progress was made in deciphering the text, but based on the three-hole-punch edges and the blank spaces on the sheets, the documents were almost certainly a screenplay. After two hours of time wasting, I decided there might be another way to figure out the mystery of Pratt.

  I parked outside his residence for two hours. He neither came nor went. I made use of the hours by studying astrological charts,2 but then it occurred to me that my arrests and court-ordered therapy were the consequences of my taking a case too far—often a case that wasn’t even mine. I was hired to pull Shana’s trash. Why was I wasting hours of my own time trying to understand a client’s motivation? I returned to the office and generated Pratt’s bill. I decided that if he paid it, there was no problem. If a man wants to throw away his parents’ hard-earned money, what’s it to me?

  DEAD ENDS AND NEW BEGINNINGS

  Chelsea, my free actress, met me for coffee thirty minutes after her first (and only) meeting with Harkey. The plan was for Chelsea to pretend she had an ex-boyfriend who owed her three thousand dollars in rent from when they’d lived together. After Harkey informed her of her legal options—namely, small-claims court—Chelsea was supposed to bat her eyelashes and ask if there was another way, because she was pretty sure that if she served her ex notice of any sort, he would skip town. If Harkey took the bait, he might suggest that he (or one of his guys) pay a visit to the deadbeat ex and maybe pretend to be a cop and maybe shake him down and scare him into paying up. Such behavior would at the very least be worthy of an investigation from the California Bureau of Consumer Affairs. PIs are forbidden to pretend to be persons of authority. We even had an actor lined up to play the lame ex, but it never came to that. Harkey told Chelsea that her only option was within the legal system. She cried and pleaded. I would have recorded the proceedings if it weren’t illegal and I was dealing with an unknown entity (i.e., an actor), so I can’t verify the quality of her performance. My uneducated opinion is that it probably sucked.

  The last thing Harkey said to Chelsea as she was exiting his office: “Say hi to Ms. Spellman for me.”

  • • •

  I decided to drown my sorrows and seek some comfort from my own ex. Specifically, Ex #12. It took only a half a pint to tell him the whole story, and I was drinking fast.

  “That’s all?” he said.

  “I could add some color to it, if you’re looking for more information. For instance, Chelsea was wearing a pink sweater and skinny jeans.”

  “So are ya done now?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “With this whole Harkey mess. Is it over?”

  “I was thinking I just needed a better actor. I went for the looks instead of talent, which is a common mistake it seems.”

  “Seriously?” Connor said, looking downright grumpy.

  “Have you been to the movies lately?” I asked.

  “I’m talking about Harkey,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t think giving up is the answer. If I don’t take him down, who will?”

  “Retirement or death,” Connor replied.

  My cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Morty here. I have news. Big news. The kind of news you might want to be sitting down for.”

  “Hang on a second.”

  I went into Connor’s office to find a comfortable chair and avoid the distraction of the jukebox.

  “What is it?”

  “Gabe and the shiksa are engaged.”

  “Then it’s time you started calling her Petra.”

  “If that isn’t a goy name, I don’t know what is.”

  “Do you really think an engagement is sitting-down news? I think the sitting-down imperative should be limited to a more shocking headline.”

  “I’m old. I like most of my news sitting down.”

  I did then sit down, for the record. “Well, it is newsworthy. I’ll give you that. Although it’s kind of weird hearing it from you first, Morty. Don’t you think she should have called me?”

  “I got off the phone with Gabe only five minutes ago. She’ll probably call you any second now.”

  As it turned out, my call-waiting buzzed through and it was Petra’s line.

  “That’s her,” I said.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Do me a favor, Izzele, eat an apple today.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s never too early to think about your health.”

  I clicked over to the other line.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “I know. I have caller ID.”

  “I know you know. That’s why I said ‘It’s me’ rather than my name.”

  “What’s up?” I asked. “It’s been a while.”

  “It certainly has,” Petra replied. “Your hair must look like shit.”1

  “It doesn’t look great.”

  “You should make an appointment.”

  “I will.”

  “What are you doing right now?”

  “Uh, nothing, come to think of it.”

  “I’ll see you in a half hour,” she said.

  On my way out of the bar, Connor said, “Where are ya going now?”

  “Haircut,” I replied.

  “Well, don’ cut too much off. I like it long.”

  His instruction, for obvious reasons, didn’t sit right with me. I approached the bar and leaned in so Connor would
have to mirror my move. Then I could whisper.

  “It’s my hair, if you haven’t noticed. I’ll do whatever I want with it.”

  As I turned to walk away, Connor said in his lightest leprechaun voice, “I’ll see ya later, gorgeous.”

  “Don’t wait up!” I shouted over my shoulder. “I have a date tonight.”

  That would have been a superb exit line if Ex #12 weren’t a bartender who frequently returns home just before dawn. No matter how long the date lasted, I’d still be in bed before him.

  Connor laughed mockingly and said, “Have a lovely time.”

  An hour later, as Petra was hacking away at my hair, she finally broke the news to me.

  “Gabe and I are engaged.”

  “Finally,” I said.

  “We’ve only been dating six months.”

  “The ‘finally’ was in reference to giving me the news, not the length of your courtship.”

  “You knew?”

  “Morty called me right before you.”

  “Wow. You and the old guy are tight.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Are you sure you want it this short?”

  “I’m making a statement,” I replied.

  Petra kept cutting and then there was a lull. This happens when you haven’t seen someone in a few months. History counts for only so much. A lull can happen with anyone.

  “You must be happy that they’re moving back,” Petra said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Morty and Ruth.”

  “They’re moving back?”

  “He didn’t tell you?” Petra asked.

  “No,” I replied, trying to figure out what scam Morty pulled to make that happen.

  “I just heard the news, so it’s new. I’m sure he’ll tell you any day now.”

  “Right,” I said.

  Then Petra started blow-drying my hair, which dried up the conversation.

  After being coiffed I returned to my car and tried to mess up my hair enough so that I resembled myself. Then I called Morty, hoping for the scoop. But the call went straight to voice mail. Then I phoned Henry to see if he’d gotten those fingerprint results back. Voice mail again. I decided to drive home and change for my lawyer date that night. While struggling with the decision between donning a conservative skirt and sweater set or that potentially perilous wraparound dress, I phoned David for a pep talk. The lawyer date was putting me in a bad mood and I needed a distraction.