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

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Try saying ‘hello’ first and then maybe I’ll answer the question,” David replied.

  “Sorry. I’ve been working on my pleasantries.”

  “Work harder.”

  “So how have you been?”

  “Good. And you?”

  “Fine. I got a haircut today. Petra’s engaged. Rumor has it Morty is moving back to the city.”

  “That was fast,” David casually replied.

  “Which of the above are you referring to?”

  David thought about it. “All three, I guess.”

  “Do you have an opinion on any of them?”

  “Not that I feel like sharing.”

  “Come to think of it, you rarely feel like sharing.”

  “Are you calling for a reason,” David asked, “or is this just one of those ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ calls?”

  “So, what are you doing?” I asked again, thinking enough time had passed.

  “Reading.”

  “What?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Is it porn? Because if it is, you shouldn’t say ‘reading.’ I think ‘looking’ would be the more appropriate term.”

  “It’s not porn.”

  “Hmmm. I can’t imagine why you’d want to keep it secret. Is it one of those Pot Roast for the Soul books?”

  “No.”

  “Would you find it in the self-help aisle of your local bookstore?”

  “This conversation is nearing its end,” David said.

  “I can sense that you would like me to switch topics, so I’m going to, because I’m evolving into the kind of person who switches topics when she senses the cue.”

  “Well done.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, glad for some validation.

  “You know that evolution is a constant process, right? Improving yourself doesn’t end when you’ve stopped getting arrested regularly.”

  “Are you always evolving?” I asked.

  “I’d like to think so,” David replied.

  “How does that work, exactly?” I inquired, not to mock, but out of genuine curiosity.

  “It’s different for everyone,” David replied.

  “But since we’re related, maybe your method could work on me.”

  David sighed extra hard, which meant he was done talking with me on this topic. If I wanted to see how David was evolving, or whatever it was he was doing with all his free time, I would have to find another way to unearth that mystery. For now, I changed the subject.

  “How’s Maggie?” I asked.

  “That was a very clumsy transition,” David replied.

  “I’m also working on my transitions.”

  “Good.”

  “So how is Maggie?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “She’s not under any unnecessary stress?”

  “No more than usual.”

  “Have you noticed any changes in her personality?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “I thought maybe Rae or Mom or somebody else was stressing her out.”

  “Has she seemed stressed to you?” David asked.

  “No,” I said. And that was the truth.

  “I asked her to move in with me. Could that be causing her stress?”

  This is when I realized I’d blown it. I had no idea what was causing Maggie stress, but now I was convincing my brother that he was the source of it.

  “I’m sure that’s not the reason,” I said.

  “Maybe she’s just not prepared for all this,” David said.

  “You mean prepared for our family?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” I replied. Then I felt kind of bad. Like David’s relationship might run more smoothly if he and Maggie didn’t have all of us to contend with. “Forget I asked the question,” I said. “I’m sure everything is fine and if she is stressed, I assure you it is Rae’s fault.”

  I’ve discovered that Rae is the best diagnosis for all stress-related conditions.

  “You’re probably right,” David agreed.

  There was a lull and then David surprised me with a question of his own.

  “And how are things with you and Connor?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “You’re hilarious,” he replied without conviction.

  “Things are excellent,” I said. “You know I get free drinks, right?”

  “Of course. I forgot. The primary selling point.”

  “I wouldn’t say primary, but it is up on the list.”

  “Do you think it will last, Isabel?”

  “Sure,” I replied. “At least through the week.”

  “Don’t you have another lawyer date coming up?”

  “Oops. Thanks for reminding me. Talk to you later. Bye.”

  MANDATORY LAWYER DATE #4

  To refresh your memory, lawyer dates with an even number are chosen at my discretion, minus the predetermined standards. I found www.litidate.com to be an excellent site for finding the available barristers in the area. For my particular situation, the best bets were the most attractive and well educated. I figured I could turn off one of those guys within five minutes flat (maybe less on a good day). The key was somehow getting them to go out with me to begin with. I didn’t feel like faking my educational background, so I admitted to PI work, but I did claim to be a golf enthusiast,1 a gourmet cook, and a killer on the tennis court.2 What I didn’t list on my profile but planned to market on the date, which would make my ill-suited-ness more ill suited, was that I was a new-age enthusiast with an astrological chart obsession.

  Conrad Frith booked a table for two at Michael Mina3 for eight P.M. I arrived early to express the eagerness that men so often fear. I smiled too much, looking him up and down, attempting to illustrate approval of the specimen before me. Conrad, I got the feeling, was accustomed to this particular expression of approval. His attractiveness was that standard white-male attractiveness that is typically lost on me. However, I can fake approval with the best of them.

  Once we were seated, the gushing phase of the evening commenced. I complimented Conrad’s choice of restaurant, then I complimented his tie, his suit, and after looking under the table, his shoes. He ordered a whiskey; I said, “Oh, that sounds tasty. I’ve never had one before. I think I’ll give it a try.” Then I returned to perusing the menu.

  When the drinks arrived, I took a sip, made a face, and then immediately adjusted to its flavor and downed mine in one quick shot, calling the garçon4 over to bring me another. Then we ordered food. While I was pretty sure I had lost Conrad at “Your shoes are yummy,” I sealed the deal over dinner.

  [Partial transcript reads as follows:]

  ME: What’s your full name?

  CONRAD: Conrad Easterly Frith.

  ME: What a stately name. Are you a third or a fourth?

  CONRAD: No, I’m just a first.

  ME: Now, down to important matters. What’s your birthday?

  CONRAD: July eighteenth.

  ME: [with palpable disappointment] So, you’re a Cancer?

  CONRAD: I guess so.

  ME: There’s no guessing about it. If you were born on July eighteenth, you’re a Cancer.

  CONRAD: I don’t pay much heed to those things.

  ME: Well I do.

  CONRAD: I see.

  ME: I have some bad news for you.

  CONRAD: What?

  ME: Astrologically speaking, we’re a nightmare waiting to happen.

  CONRAD: You don’t say.

  ME: It could still work, but we’d be bucking the odds.

  CONRAD: Should we even finish this meal?

  ME: We already ordered.5

  CONRAD: Maybe we should talk about something besides our astrological charts.

  ME: That’s an idea.

  CONRAD: You’re a golfer, I believe.

  ME: Yes.
One of my many loves.

  CONRAD: What’s your handicap?

  ME: I think the preferred term is “physical challenge” and I don’t have one as far as I know.

  CONRAD: What’s your golf handicap? Your profile says you play golf.

  ME: Oh, that. What’s yours?

  CONRAD: Nine.

  ME: No way! Mine too!

  CONRAD: Excuse me?

  ME: So, aside from golf, what do you do for fun?

  THE “FREE SCHMIDT!” EXPLOSION

  My punishment, after my mother heard the recording of Lawyer Date #4, was playing chauffeur for Rae the following Saturday. At one P.M. Rae’s final stab at the SAT would be over, and so would her chance to sway all those Ivy League schools my parents had forced her to apply to.

  I waited outside Mission High School (the test center) for fifteen minutes until the exodus of weary, test-addled students began. Out of the corner of my eye, something struck me as off, but I didn’t turn my head from the newspaper until it was impossible to ignore.

  Picture this: A swarm of close to two hundred awkward and not-so-awkward students of various sizes, shapes, and ethnicities, all in the now-familiar blue T-shirts with yellow felt letters:

  Free Schmidt!

  Just as all penguins look alike to most nonpenguins, I didn’t even notice my sister until she approached the car and knocked on the window. Intriguingly, she was accompanied by none other than that secret boyfriend with the bicycle, although he did not have his accessory with him. I unlocked the car door.

  “How’d it go?” I asked.

  “Only time will tell,” Rae vaguely replied.

  “You didn’t throw it again, did you?” I asked, annoyed. It was a reasonable accusation. She’d thrown the PSAT (pronounced Psssat) last year.1

  “No, not this time,” Rae answered.

  By now both my sister and the relatively unknown male were safely ensconced in the car. I thought introductions were in order.

  “Who’s the intruder?” I asked.

  And then the fresh-faced young male leaned over the seat and held out his hand.

  “Hi, I’m Fred. Nice to meet you, Isabel.”

  “Fred what?”2

  “Fred Finkel.”

  “Seriously?” I said, because if Rae was in the mood to make up a name, this would be it.

  “Do you want to see my ID?” “Fred” asked pleasantly.

  “Sure,” I replied. “Why not?”

  “Fred” presented an authentic school identification card. He wasn’t lying.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, handing it back to him. The apology was less about demanding the ID and more about his unfortunate name. Fred picked up on that.

  “It’s okay,” he replied. “After seventeen and a half years, you get used to some things.”

  “I like your attitude, Fred.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Where’s your bike?”

  “How’d you know I rode a bike?”

  “There’s a wear mark on your right pant leg from a leg strap.”

  “A friend of mine is riding my bike home. But your observation was impressively Holmesian.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, pleased that my fake deduction got its due notice. Fred was growing on me in leaps and bounds. Aside from the company he kept and the FREE SCHMIDT! T-shirt he wore like a uniform, no obvious faults were apparent in this boy. Was it possible that Rae had better taste in men than I did?

  “Rae, what have you done to all these people?” I asked, staring at the swarm of blue T-shirts with bright yellow lettering.

  “I mobilized them,” Rae replied.

  Trying to avoid a repeat of the same conversation I’d been having for the past several weeks, I kept quiet and waited for my driving instructions. Because celebrating was in order, and celebrating with the unit is hardly celebrating (especially these days), Rae insisted that I drive the pair to Henry’s house. I couldn’t imagine what he had planned for the duo, but I didn’t bother asking.

  “They’re everywhere,” I said, slowly fighting my way through the traffic of FREE SCHMIDT! fashion campaigners.

  “It’s not too late for you to join the cause, Izzy,” Rae said.

  “It looks like you’ve got it covered.”

  “Schmidt’s not the only one.”

  “I have my Schmidt, Rae. I don’t need another.”

  “We’ll talk about this later,” my sister said.

  And we did. Sort of.

  THE FINGERPRINT FAIRY

  I delivered Team Schmidt to Henry’s house a few minutes later. He patted the delightful Fred on the back and said, “Dude, how you been?”

  “Dude”? Since when did Henry use the word “dude”? Also intriguing: his familiarity with the previously unfamiliar Fred. Before I inquired into professional matters, I needed some background information.

  “You know Fred?” I asked with a touch of accusation.

  “He’s great, isn’t he?” Henry replied.

  Meanwhile, Fred and Rae ignored the adults and raided the shelf in Henry’s pantry that contains my sister’s stash of food, all of which lives somewhere in the heavens of the food pyramid—specifically, a blend of salted and heavily sugared items that Henry thoroughly disapproves of and yet agreed to accommodate under the duress of a rather lengthy negotiation.

  “He seems more likable than I would expect,” I replied, “but sometimes that’s a sign of a true con artist.”

  “No con,” Henry said. “He’s exactly what he seems: nice, honest, humble, smart, geeky, curious. You couldn’t assemble a better kid if you got a kit and made one on your own.”

  “If he’s that great,” I said, “shouldn’t we be protecting him from Rae?”

  “My thoughts precisely.”

  • • •

  The subadults spread their food on Henry’s coffee table and began their feast. The adults retired to Henry’s office to go over the fingerprint results. But before we talked business, I noticed a swatch of dark blue peeking out beneath Henry’s charcoal-gray sweater.

  “Take off your sweater,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” he replied.

  “You heard me.”

  “If you insist.”

  Henry removed his outer layer to reveal what we all know was hiding beneath.

  Free Schmidt!

  “You too, Henry?” I said, like I imagined Caesar saying to Brutus (only in Latin, I think).

  “He is innocent,” Henry said, defending his shirt.

  “I know,” I replied. “That’s not the point.”

  I threw the sweater at him.

  “Put it back on,” I said. “I’ve seen enough.”

  While Henry reclothed himself, he gave me the lowdown on the fingerprints.

  “No match,” he said.

  Now that was sitting-down news. After all this fingerprint fuss, I had nothing.

  “Really?” I asked, disappointed. It was a stupid question.

  “You gave me four prints,” Henry said. “Did you cross-check them against each other?”

  “No, I just made sure they weren’t from any of the regular household staff.”

  “You gave me duplicates. Two identical thumbs and two identical index fingers, I think.”

  “Oh,” I said, taking it in.

  “Were those the only prints you found in the room?” Henry asked, and I could see what he was driving at.

  I wasn’t exactly thorough since it was Mason’s room and the door was locked and I was under a time crunch. I pulled the first prints I found. It never occurred to me that there was anything suspicious about their placement.

  Humor me with a short course on fingerprint analysis. While every fingerprint is unique (even with identical twins), there are only seven types of fingerprints—the arch, the tent arch, the loop, the double loop, the pocked loop, the whorl, and mixed.1 Each individual might have only one type on all ten fingers, or a variety.
Had I given the prints a cursory glance, I should have spotted the duplicates and perhaps, based on print size, noted that they all came from the same person.

  I thought back to when I was collecting the prints—they were awkwardly located on the bureau. It was like someone had tapped their thumb and index finger on the bureau, then twisted their hand eighty degrees, moved it two inches to the left, and did it again. In fact, standing still in front of the bureau, it would be almost impossible to get your hand at that angle.

  What did all this mean? I don’t know. My working conclusion: Someone had planted the fingerprints to throw me off the scent. I decided to go back to the Winslow home and look at where the fingerprints were placed again. Hopefully the room had not been tampered with since my previous visit a week earlier.

  On my way out of Henry’s place, I found Rae and Fred reading aloud from The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes with a gallon of milk and shot glasses before them.

  Henry rolled his eyes when he took in the spectacle. I turned to him for an explanation.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Rae made up a drinking game,” Henry said. “You must be so proud.”

  “How does it work?” I asked.

  “Whenever the words ‘elementary,’ ‘indeed,’ or ‘extraordinary’ are used, you have to take a shot.”

  “How stupid. They’re drinking milk.”

  “True,” Henry said with reluctant resignation, “only, poor Fred’s lactose intolerant.”

  THE BUTLER’S SECRET

  Mr. Leonard was unchanged when he answered the door, still Method-acting his way through his assignment.

  “Isabel, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “Where’s Mr. Winslow?” I asked.

  “Napping.”

  “Good.”

  “I agree. I wouldn’t want him to see you in that grungy ensemble.”

  “Be nice,” I snapped.

  “As you wish,” Len replied, leading me into the foyer.

  “Something strange is going on here,” I whispered.

  “Indeed,” Leonard replied.1 “Mr. Winslow is considering repainting the library in glossy coral.”

  I ignored Len and simply took care of business.

  “Can you let me back into Manson’s bedroom? I need to look for a few more prints.”

  I stared at the bureau again, trying to align my hand in the formation that would be required to leave those two sets of prints. It would be impossible unless one was a contortionist.