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 had no doubt at this point that the prints had been planted. But why? The only logical reason was that Manson didn’t want his real fingerprints found, which meant that he was probably in the system.

  The second time I searched Manson’s bedroom I noticed how utterly unclean it was. The bed was made and no objects were turned over or clothes tossed about the floor, but dust had been settling for months around the room. The patches of clean were what stood out. There was a moon around the light switch where the wall had been scrubbed down to the bare faded paint. You could still see cleaning streaks on the desktop. There were no prints anywhere on the inside doorknob. After dusting for prints in all the obvious locations, I decided I had to be more creative about where I searched.

  “Who cleans this room?” I asked Len.

  “No one,” Len replied. “Mrs. Enright said that Graves has some allergies to standard cleaning supplies and he has always been the maid and master of his domain.”

  “Then his prints should be in here somewhere,” I said.

  “I thought you already collected prints from here.”

  “I did. But I think they were planted.”

  “The plot thickens.”

  “Knock it off,” I said.

  “Knock what off?” Len asked.

  “Everything. Where is Mrs. Enright?”

  “At the store.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “Any minute now.”

  “Keep her downstairs,” I said. “I need to have a chat with her.”

  “As you wish,” Len replied, and then, with the straightest back I’ve ever seen, he slowly descended the staircase.

  I scanned the room, calculating my best bet. Where are fingerprints sure to be found but not so obviously noticed?

  The furniture in Mason’s room was sparse. Every clean surface could have been easily wiped down. In fact, I was starting to think that Mason had planned ahead and cleared his own prints and planted the new set before he left. However, Graves had lived in this house for five years. He couldn’t possibly have erased every trace of his fingerprint existence. I bravely donned a pair of plastic gloves and entered the bathroom. Men use toilets. Men lift the seats of toilets. Maybe I would get lucky, although that phrase seemed inappropriate for the job at hand.

  I dusted the underside of Mason’s toilet seat and found a few partial prints. I attached a wide slice of printing tape to the edge and then carefully flattened it with a credit card over the prints. Once I’d extracted them and attached them to the fingerprint cards with a label, I put them in an envelope and dropped it in my purse. I removed the gloves, washed my hands, and found Mrs. Enright in the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Enright, where is Mason Graves right now?”

  “In England, visiting his mother.”

  “Where is he really?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did you plant someone else’s fingerprints in his bedroom?”

  “There is no plant in his bedroom,” Mrs. Enright replied. “I would know because then I’d water it.”

  Watching the elderly woman scowl and slip about the house, I pictured her as Mason’s crafty partner in the perfect long con, but now, with my brief questions answered, I got the feeling the permanent scowl was simply an unfortunate feature that belied the simple woman she was.

  Mr. Leonard walked me to the door, glancing back at Mrs. Enright, who peeked out at us from behind the kitchen door. She slipped out of view without an ounce of subtlety.

  “That woman drives me mad,” Len said, rolling his eyes. “I know she’s up to something.”

  “That woman,” I said, “needs a hearing aid. She’s trying to hide it. She lurks so if someone calls for her, she can see it.”

  “You don’t think she’s in cahoots with Mr. Graves?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. Mason kept her around for a reason—maybe because she couldn’t eavesdrop. Mr. Graves certainly liked to surround himself with people whose faculties are compromised.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Mason Graves has been the problem from the start.”

  “Agreed. Now we just need to find out where he is and what he gains from his employment here.”

  I took my fingerprints and ran.

  A QUIET NIGHT IN

  I returned to my apartment, hoping for a quiet night in, and discovered Connor there, along with five of his “mates,” in the midst of a boisterous, booze-soaked poker game.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “John’s got the bar covered so we thought we’d skip out, playing cards.”

  “But why here,” I asked, “when you have your own place?”

  “But I don’ have a table like this,” Connor said as if he was speaking to a slow child.

  It is true that I had a table well-suited for poker games. It was one of Bernie’s relics. In fact, I was having a Bernie flashback at that very moment. Cigar smoke snaked throughout the room, the scent of beer came no longer from the open bottles but from the pores of men, and snack food was tossed about like the remnants of a three-year-old’s birthday party.

  “You could have called first,” I suggested.

  “Check your voice mail,” Connor replied, staring at his hand. He had three kings, two queens. “Love, can you grab me another beer from the fridge?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  I could have kicked the men out and made a scene, but I didn’t have the energy for it. I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, popped the cap, and stood behind Connor, checking out his hand. He had just raised, conservatively, in an attempt to slowly build the pot, and had the other players’ attention.

  I held up three fingers and mouthed “kings.” Then I held up two fingers and mouthed “queens.” Any player with elementary lip-reading skills would fold.

  “See you later,” I said, and I was out the door.

  While I sat in my car, stewing over Connor’s home invasion, I listened to the voice mail messages that I had failed to notice earlier. It was true that Ex #12 had called to inform me of his poker night; however, there was no form of a question in his brief message. A beep followed and then I heard Bernie’s unnecessarily loud voice.

  “Hey, Izzy,” he said. “You want to eat some crab cakes?”

  It occurred to me that Bernie had the ability to make everything sound dirty. I deleted both messages and started the car.

  Fifteen minutes later I knocked on Henry’s front door.

  “Long time, no see,” he said.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I replied. We both knew it was a lie. But who cares? “I have another set of prints for you.”

  “Come on in,” Henry said.

  I scanned the living room. All signs of the adolescent takeover were gone.

  “You got rid of them,” I observed.

  “Fred wasn’t feeling well,” Henry replied.

  I handed Henry the prints.

  “Where’d these come from?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Okay.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Watching TV.”

  I approached the muted television set and saw that it was an episode of Doctor Who where the Doctor thinks he’s human and Martha (his traveling companion) has to convince him he’s the Doctor and help him figure out how to get his powers back and save the world.

  “I love this episode,” I said.

  “Me too,” Henry replied, taking a seat next to me and unmuting the sound.

  The Doctor Who marathon saved my evening from complete disaster. Henry and I sat in rapt silence, taking breaks only for more beer (me) and tea (Henry) and some lightly salted snack food that was probably good for you. It was three A.M. when the marathon ended, but I apparently didn’t notice. I fell asleep on the couch; Henry threw a wool blanket over me and I didn’t wake up until eight o’clock, when Henry was getting ready for work.

  Connor
didn’t notice until hours later that I was missing.

  That night was the last peaceful night’s rest I would have for weeks. Everything changed after that night.

  I mean everything.

  IN THE HOLE

  The next morning was business as usual. I drove straight to the office from Henry’s house and occupied my morning with dull background research, until the monotony was interrupted by irritation in the form of an e-mail from Jeremy Pratt.

  To: I.Spell@spellmaninvestigations.com

  From: JP.Prattman@gmail.com

  Re: What’s up?

  Hey Izzy,

  What’s going on with my case? All I got so far are some fluffy plastic bags. Are you any closer to figuring out what Shana Breslin is up to?

  I replied quickly to abate my annoyance; no point in letting it linger.

  Jeremy:

  You agreed that the investigation would only involve garbology. You’ve conveniently omitted that fact. Are you any closer to paying your bill?

  Warmest regards,

  Isabel

  Mom and Dad entered the office right after I hit the Send button. Before they uttered a single world, I said: “I’m in a bad mood. Don’t mess with me today.”

  I decided to clear my head while tackling the giant shred pile in the basement. However, when I reached for the door, the knob was missing.

  “The doorknob is missing,” I said.

  “Would you look at that,” Dad replied.

  “What happened to it?”

  “It must have fallen off,” Mom said.

  “Why do things keep vanishing from the house?”

  My mom then pulled a spare doorknob from her desk and opened the basement door for me, leaving it ajar.

  “Call me crazy,” I said, “but I think every door should have a knob.”

  “Have fun down there,” Mom replied.

  I tried to get into a zone of mindless shredding, but my mind wandered to all the available objects of disappointment—my foiled investigation on Harkey, my never-ending lawyer dates, Pratt, and my apartment, which I was certain I would find in a state of disrepair once I returned to it. I am all too aware of what happens when you leave men alone overnight playing poker. Then my mind started wandering to the subject of the missing objects in the Spellman home. Why would a doorknob, drawer handle, and towel rack vanish without explanation? Either the grating sound of the shredder or too much thinking was giving me a headache.

  I reentered the Spellman offices, sluggishly ascending the staircase. My sluggishness afforded me an overheard snippet of my parents’ conversation.

  “Have you found them yet?” Mom asked.

  “No,” Dad replied. “I thought you were on it.”

  “I’ve looked. I can’t find them,” my mother said.

  “Well, they have to be around here somewhere.”

  “They could be anywhere, Al.”

  “Have you checked the pistachio cam?” Dad asked.

  “Isabel made me take it down. By the way, it was that Jeremy Pratt kid who was leaving the shells in the—Isabel, are you there?”

  And that was the end of my eavesdropping. I suppose I could have asked my parents what they were talking about, but instead, I just entered the office and said, “I can’t shred anymore.”

  “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” Mom said. “You look tired.”

  “What gives?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Everybody should have a day off now and again,” Dad replied.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Isabel, go home, go to a movie. Just do something for yourself today,” replied Mom.

  “Get a hobby. You’ll need one eventually,” said my father.

  On my way out the door, I noticed another doorknob missing from the bathroom just outside the dining area.

  “Another doorknob’s gone,” I shouted.

  “We’re on it!” my dad shouted back.

  I was on my way home when I realized that all home had to offer was the mess to repair from last night’s raid of Irishmen.1

  Instead, for reasons I couldn’t tell you at the time, I drove to my brother’s house and parked in front. His car was in the driveway, so I knew he was home. But instead of calling or ringing the doorbell, I just sat there, casing his residence. If pressed, I wouldn’t be able to provide a solid excuse for my behavior. I was curious is the best answer I have. David had been unemployed for over six months and I couldn’t imagine how he’d killed all that time. It seemed to me that a man who once worked eighty hours a week might go mad with all that empty space in his day calendar. I wanted to see what he did with himself. David has always been the more responsible, useful, reasonable member of the family, and frankly, I wanted to know his secret. Whenever I asked David what he did with himself, he was always vague. His answers fell into the “You know, stuff” category, which really doesn’t help if you’re interested in duplicating those activities yourself. My point is I was staking out David’s residence to discover what his idle activities involved. Unfortunately, I was made within the first fifteen minutes.

  My phone rang.

  “Hi, Isabel,” David said.

  “Hi, David. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “What a coincidence,” I said. “Me too.”

  “Would you like to come in?” David asked.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll see you in about thirty seconds,” David replied.

  I found my brother in his kitchen, wearing an apron, hunched over the chopping block, studying a recipe book.

  “Hand me that onion, will you?” he asked.

  I tossed David the onion, which he caught in midair without even raising his gaze from the cookbook.

  “So, you’re cooking?” I said, hoping the question would lead to an explanation.

  “Your observational skills continue to amaze me.”

  “Is this something you’ve been doing for a while, or is it a new activity?”

  “Relatively new,” David replied as he skinned the onion and began chopping it with professional precision.

  “You look like one of those people on cooking shows,” I said.

  “I’ve been taking a class,” David replied. “Give me the garlic.”

  I tossed him the garlic. In one swift motion he grabbed it from midair and then smashed it into pieces on the cutting board.

  “Why are you taking a cooking class?”

  “Because I’m not the best cook and neither is Maggie and we don’t want to be eating out all the time.”

  “Good answer. What else have you been doing with your time?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you have a lot of time and I’m curious how you fill it.”

  “Let me ask you a question for once,” David said.

  “Shoot.”

  “What happened on Prom Night 1994?”

  Sigh: “Nothing.”

  “So it’s that bad?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I said it this time with much less conviction than in the past.

  “These lawyer dates. You’d never agree to them unless Mom had a vise grip on you. Damn, you must have done something awful.”

  “I did. Can we leave it at that?”

  “Yes, and you know why? Because you asked me to. It would be really great if you showed me the same courtesy. I’m not a mystery for you to solve. I’m just your brother. I don’t have all the answers. All I’m trying to do is figure out what makes me happy.”

  “Have you figured it out?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I thought you knew things.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “That’s okay. Can I stay for dinner?”

  “No, Isabel. I promised Maggie a quiet night in. She’s been stuck with Rae all day.”

  David served me bourbon (the good stuf
f) and when I was done with my one2 drink, he walked me to the door.

  “Maybe I should get a hobby,” I said, standing in his foyer.

  “I thought you had one.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Drinking,” he replied, amused with his little joke.

  “Right. Thanks for reminding me.”

  I kissed David on the cheek and departed. When I arrived at home, I deloused my apartment for three hours. Then I took a shower and a very long nap. A nap so long, in fact, I wasn’t awoken until half past eight in the evening. The phone call came from Rae.

  “Izzy, I’m at Maggie’s office. I need a ride home.”

  “Where are Mom and Dad?”

  “I think they’re at a movie. Please,” she said.

  “One of these days you’re going to tell me what happened on that bus,” I replied.

  “It’s a deal.”

  Twenty minutes later, I was inside Maggie’s office.

  “Do you need to pee?” Rae asked.

  “Not really,” I replied.

  “Maybe you should go ahead, because I need to make a couple stops.”

  “Where?” I asked suspiciously.

  “It won’t take that long, but maybe you should use the bathroom.”

  “I don’t need to use the bathroom, okay?”

  “Not even a little bit?”

  “No! Now get your stuff together so we can leave.”

  The door to the unlit file room was open; a sturdy chair rested under the light fixture.

  “Even on a chair, I can’t reach it,” Rae said.

  “Isn’t there a janitor?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but I don’t want Maggie to have to deal with that in the morning,” Rae replied.

  I climbed up on the chair, unscrewed the burned-out bulb, and handed it to Rae. She was texting someone on her cell phone and not paying attention.

  “My phone’s dead,” Rae said. “Where’s yours?”

  “In my purse,” I replied, which was on the receptionist’s desk.

  Then my sister gave me this meaningful look and said, “Have you changed your mind about helping with the Schmidt case?”

  “No. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  Rae stuck her phone in her pocket and passed me a fresh lightbulb. Once I’d screwed it in, Rae flipped the switch, which was outside of the file room door.