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’ll get right on it,” Dad replied, as if to appease me after the whole doorknob incident.

  My father called in the plate number with his police source and the rest of the morning passed in silence until my dad turned to my mother and said, “Did you feed the prisoner yet today?”

  “Al, of course I fed her. I’m her mother. I want her to suffer, not starve.”

  “When’s the meeting with her lawyer?” I asked.

  “On Friday,” Mom replied. “She’s going to plea out. We think she’ll get bombed with hours of community service but no time.”

  “Good,” I replied.

  “I think some of the anti-Rae1 faculty at her school might notify the colleges where she applied. I think we can safely say that Yale is out. Berkeley might take her. They like students who have a cause, don’t they?”

  “Isn’t it time for another room check?” Dad asked.

  Mom looked at her watch. “Close enough,” Mom replied. While Mom was looking in on the prisoner, Dad got a call back from his police source. He wrote down the information and then stared at the piece of paper instead of passing it on to me.

  I cleared my throat to get his attention.

  Dad looked at me with that quizzical expression I have grown so accustomed to and said, “The car is owned by Wallace Brown. Doesn’t he work for Harkey?”

  I was too busy turning this information over in my head to respond.

  “Isabel?”

  “What? Yes. He does work for Harkey.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  Then the phone rang. I turned to my father and said, “Your turn.”

  Dad answered the phone, leaving me to my thoughts, but only briefly. No one’s allowed to think too long in the Spellman home.

  Mom returned to report that the prisoner needed my ear.

  “Did she actually use that phrase? ‘Need my ear’?”

  “Actually, yes,” my mother replied.

  “Are there any sharp objects in her room?”

  “You’re not as funny as you think you are,” Mom said.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  I climbed the stairs to my sister’s cell and knocked, even though in a true jailhouse situation, there would be no pretense of privacy.

  Rae politely opened the door. Inside, the floor, her dresser, and her desk were covered with an assortment of assembled pages from (I can only conclude) Shana Breslin’s recycling.

  “You’ve been busy,” I remarked.

  “It wasn’t easy,” Rae replied.

  She squinted as if trying to refocus. This kind of work certainly doesn’t improve anyone’s vision.

  “Anything I should know?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Rae answered. “This isn’t any original screenplay.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s Shrek!” Rae shouted. “Why would someone shred Shrek? That makes no sense at all!”

  She was right. It didn’t.

  “Did you find anything else?”

  “There’s another partial page and I think it’s from Reservoir Dogs, but I can’t say for sure. I know that there’s a Mr. White in it and a few lines sound right.”

  “Mr. White? Could it be a feel-good Christmas movie?”

  “I doubt it. I’ve never seen a Christmas movie that heavy on the F-word. Why would someone shred screenplays that are already made?”

  “Don’t know,” I replied. “But I’m going to find out.”

  PRATTFALL

  These were the facts: Jeremy Pratt wanted me to do a garbology on recycled screenplays that were shredded just for show, as far as I could tell. On the one night Shana’s recycling was impossible to access, a car was following me, a car driven by a man who worked for Enemy #1, Rick Harkey. Was this a coincidence? I don’t think so.

  I spent my afternoon researching Jeremy Pratt. From his credit file I could pull his last known addresses. The first on record was in San Diego. I followed up with a property-owner search and discovered that the San Diego residence had been owned for the last twenty years by Deborah and Tom Pratt. I then searched for Deborah Pratts in San Diego and matched her credit file to her address. From Deborah Pratt’s credit file, I got her maiden name. Harkey.

  First, I drove to Jeremy’s apartment with my short file of the shredded Shrek.

  “Hi, Jeremy,” I said pleasantly when he answered the door. “Sorry I didn’t call first, but I was in the neighborhood. Do you have a minute?”

  “Uh, okay.”

  I entered his apartment without being invited, which is perfectly fine if you’re not a vampire.

  “Out of curiosity, I pieced together a few pages of the screenplays Shana has been kind enough to shred for you. I won’t trouble you with my comment on the sheer wastefulness of it. God knows how many trees have been destroyed for this prank. But that’s neither here nor there.”

  Jeremy looked confused, as if he were only partially in on the con.

  “Why don’t I make this simple for you?” I said, handing him his final bill. “I’ll expect this to be paid in full. Otherwise, you’ll be seeing me again, and I don’t think you want that.”

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “One little thing. Can you do me a favor and phone your uncle Rick for me?”

  Pratt just stared at me. He didn’t make a move.

  “Or give me your phone and I’ll make the call.”

  Pratt took his phone out of his back pocket. Within seconds he had Harkey on the line.

  “It’s Jeremy. Isabel Spellman is here and she wants to talk to you.”

  A moment passed and Jeremy handed me the phone.

  “Hi, Rick,” I said. “How you been?”

  “What can I do for you, Isabel?” he replied.

  “Let’s meet in a public place for a drink. I have a proposition for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your usual bar?”

  “My new usual bar. You’ll like it. It’s much more convenient. The Hemlock, off Polk.”

  “I’ll see you there in an hour.”

  An hour later

  I arrived early and was already on my second beer before Harkey showed. I find the happy-hour prices hard to resist.

  Harkey entered, casting a shadow in the doorway, making this whole meeting seem like a showdown in an old Western. He ordered a drink, not knowing that our meeting would be brief.

  “What do you want, sweetheart?”

  “World peace.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to stop calling me ‘sweetheart.’”

  “Anything else?”

  “A truce, I think, is the best we can hope for.”

  “You’re ready to call off your witch hunt?”

  “Did you really think you’d catch me in a garbology infraction?”

  “Women with their hormones and all—you never know what they’ll do.”

  “Which is why you want me off your back.”

  Harkey said nothing at first. He swallowed his shot in one gulp to show me what a man he was. I would have matched him, only I was drinking Guinness and I had almost a full pint left. And I was wearing a clean shirt.

  It was Harkey’s turn to speak and so I waited patiently. If I tried to convince him a truce was in order, he would hold the power. I needed to see how much he wanted it.

  “I think it’s time we ended this thing,” Harkey replied.

  “Glad to hear it,” I said.

  Then we shook hands. I wished that part wasn’t necessary. His hand was clammy and he had that bad habit of trying to crush you with his grip.

  “I have a parting gift for you,” he said, getting to his feet.

  The human slug handed me a manila envelope and said, “No need to thank me. See you around, sweetheart.”

  Harkey exited the bar and left me alone
with the mystery envelope. I didn’t crack the seal right away. For some reason, I knew that what I’d find inside wouldn’t be pleasant. I finished my drink so that I could be at least buzzed for the unveiling. Then my patience gave out and I opened the envelope and emptied the contents on top of the bar.

  Spread out before me were three eight-by-ten glossy prints of Connor kissing another woman. On first viewing I thought it was the same woman, but I looked again and realized there were three different women. Huh.

  FREE MERRIWEATHER—

  CHAPTER 1

  I arrived at Maggie’s office the following morning. She seemed surprised to see me.

  “This is the last place I’d expect to find you.”

  “Do you mind if I look at something in your file room?” I asked.

  Maggie met my gaze, trying to read what was going on in my head. “Sure. I’ll even let you leave when you want to. You know where to find me.”

  I knew what I was looking for, so I made my return visit to the chamber of nightmares quick. I pulled a thick yellow file and brought it into Maggie’s office. I slid it across her desk.

  “Do you mind if I make a copy of this?”

  Maggie looked through the documents and turned to me with a sober expression.

  “I don’t mind, but you know it won’t be easy.”

  “I know.”

  “And you know what else won’t be easy? Fitting the name ‘Merriweather’ on a T-shirt.”

  “Don’t worry,” I replied. “I’ll find a way.”

  • • •

  Demetrius Merriweather had a rap sheet a mile long, as the saying goes. Yet his crimes of choice appeared to be petty larceny1 and marijuana possession. Coincidentally, these were also my crimes of choice, back when I was committing crimes. You could say that I chose Merriweather because he was a kindred spirit, and maybe he was. But I’ll tell you the truth right now: My agenda was even more personal than that.

  Merriweather, back when he was a free man, liked to steal things—cars, jewelry, guitars, leather coats, computers, bicycles, once a coffeemaker, a ladder, and one purebred dog. He would pinch anything that had a resale value over $15. However, what Demetrius liked to steal most was televisions. And stealing TVs was his undoing.

  Currently Demetrius was doing life for the first-degree murder of his elderly neighbor, Elsie Collins, who was stabbed fifteen times in her sleep twenty years ago. Merriweather had always vehemently claimed his innocence, but since his fingerprints were found in Elsie’s house and Elsie’s TV was found in Merriweather’s apartment, he became the prime suspect and eventually the only suspect. While the cops never found the murder weapon or signs of violence in Demetrius’s belongings, they did find a spot of Mrs. Collins’s blood on the television,2 and he was convicted based on eyewitness testimony. Elsie’s neighbor had seen Demetrius leave her house, carrying a television, sometime before her body was discovered. Demetrius claimed that all he was doing was stealing her TV. He assumed she was sleeping upstairs. He knew she went to bed at ten P.M. every night. He knew that because he could see the lights in the bedroom turn dark with clockwork precision.

  I’m a firm believer in consistency. If a man liked to steal things, and small things at that, what would make him escalate to murder? There was a step missing in between. If a man can lose a murder weapon and all evidence of a murder, why would he keep a television around that tied him to the crime? The evidence against Demetrius was unfortunate but utterly circumstantial. He was convicted because he stole the wrong TV at the wrong time, but it was an epic leap to call him a murderer.

  In Demetrius’s file was a letter from the prison chaplain calling Demetrius a peaceful man who had found God while incarcerated (I know, what a cliché) and seen the error of his ways. But the chaplain insisted that he didn’t believe Merriweather could have committed such a crime even before he found God. Merriweather had been a model prisoner from the start and had no infractions against him except for stealing a fellow inmate’s rosary beads. But that was at the very beginning.

  I drove to San Quentin the following week, after memorizing every detail of Merriweather’s file.

  He was in a maximum-security cell block, which meant we talked on those phones through a thick plastic barrier. The first question I asked him was this:

  “Did you murder Elsie Collins?”

  “I’ve never murdered anyone,” Demetrius replied.

  Some people know how to lie. They can do it with remarkable conviction. Sociopaths do it best because they believe the lie. It’s possible that Merriweather was fooling me, but the moment he answered that question, I believed him and I said so.

  “I want to look into your case, Demetrius. I think there might be a way to reopen it. First, I’d like to go over some of the details I found in your file.”

  “Ask away.”

  “You admitted to being in Ms. Collins’s home the night of her murder, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me exactly what you did.”

  “I climbed through her back window—”

  “What time?”

  “Around midnight. I unplugged her TV and left through the back door. Couldn’t have taken more than five minutes.”

  “So you left the back door open?”

  “Right. I know what you’re thinking. If I didn’t kill her, I certainly made it easier for the real killer to break in.”

  “Did she have any enemies?”

  “No. Everybody loved her. She was a sweetheart.”

  “Then why’d you steal her TV?”

  “I don’t know why I was always stealing her TVs. Her son owned a pawnshop, so I knew she could always replace them, I guess.”

  “You stole her TV more than once?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “How many times?”

  “I’m ashamed to say.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Three times.”

  “Seriously? Couldn’t you have chosen another victim?”

  “I knew where she kept her TVs,” Demetrius said, shrugging his shoulders with embarrassment.

  “Just her TVs? Nothing else?” I asked.

  “Back then I smoked a lot of the dope3 and I really liked watching television when I was high. And eating Cheetos.”4

  “Wasn’t one television enough?”

  “I only stole more TVs when I ran out.”

  “What happened to the TVs you stole?”

  “My brother stole the first one from me and I pawned the second one to buy my mama a birthday present.”5

  “I see. Did Ms. Collins suspect you had stolen her TV?”

  “No. She knew I did it. Every time she saw me, she’d say, ‘Boy, give me my TV back!’”

  “What would you say?”

  “I’d say, ‘I don’t have it no more,’ which was true.”

  “Do you have any idea who killed her?”

  “No,” Demetrius replied. “I just know it wasn’t me.”

  “According to the police report you claimed to have an alibi—Theresa Barnes—but she didn’t back your story.”

  “That’s because they found drugs in her house and threatened her with jail time if she talked. But then she retracted her retraction, but nobody would listen to her no more.”

  “I need to contact Theresa. Can you get her information for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Demetrius, I hate being called ‘ma’am.’”

  “Then I’m gonna call you ‘Angel.’”

  “Or Isabel is just fine.”

  “Are you going to get me out of here, Angel?”

  “I’m going to try. Hang in there, Demetrius. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I knew it, the moment I saw you, that the Lord had sent you to me.”

  “Listen to me, Demetrius: I’m no angel. You and me, we’re not that different.”

  LOST WEDNESDAY AGAIN

  The missing hardware and L
ost Wednesdays were connected. I just couldn’t figure out how and I also couldn’t fathom why my parents hadn’t gotten to the bottom of the situation. As far as I could tell, they knew the identity of the thief but were protecting him or her for reasons that I had yet to determine.

  I borrowed Petra’s car and a wig from her shop and settled into a day of surveillance on the Spellman household. I parked down the block with a set of binoculars and some snack food. As far as long-term surveillances went, this one was a piece of cake. Our neighbor, Edison Horlador, a retired banker and avid baker, was home most days. He could be relied upon for coffee breaks, cookies, and an available bathroom. One with an actual doorknob on it.

  And so I planted myself at the house for a few hours and watched. Eventually three people arrived in the same car. All looked like your average sort. I could have picked them out of a lineup, but there was nothing else I could report about them. They stayed in the house for an hour and then departed. I followed them. Two members of the trio were dropped off at a residence in the Sunset. The woman driving the vehicle returned to her place of employment. None of the parties exited the house with anything more than they had entered with, so one mystery remained unsolved. However, I finally knew what those Lost Wednesdays were about. And let me tell you right now: There was never any salsa dancing.

  David, Rae, and I collided at the front door of the Spellman home early Thursday morning. David was returning Rae to her jail cell (she had a twenty-four-hour furlough at David’s house, during which I gathered he let her watch TV and eat M&M’s). My sister’s spirit had been much restored, although the return to her fate of confined spaces and bland food would soon bring her back to her current status quo (i.e., miserable).

  “Do you know what’s going on here, Isabel?” David asked, taking in the scene.

  All the missing doorknobs had been replaced by temporary ones that didn’t fit the Victorian aesthetic. Our previous knobs were made of brass or glass. These were silver, modern, and straight out of a hardware shop.

  “I’m still working out all the details,” I replied.

  “I think we should pay them a visit,” David suggested. “And gather some intelligence.”

  It was seven thirtyA.M. and Mom and Dad were still in bed. David knocked on their door.

  “What?!” Dad answered, sounding groggy, cranky, and something else.