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

  “We’re coming in,” David said, and swung open the door.

  Inside, my parents’ bedroom had been transformed from its previous utilitarian sleeping nook/storage closet to a clean, well-lit, beige bedroom, with the furniture entirely rearranged.

  “What happened here?” David asked.

  “Feng shui,” Mom replied.

  “Gesundheit,” I said.

  “That’s so unlike you both,” David said, eyeing them suspiciously.

  “We got a book,” said Mom. “It’s important for the marriage to keep clutter out of the bedroom. And the bed shouldn’t line up directly with the door and should be approachable from both sides.”

  David stared at the television set that was still stationed in front of the bed.

  “Don’t they tell you to get rid of the TV, too?”

  “We don’t have to do everything the book says,” Dad replied.

  “Is there something we can do for you?” Mom asked.

  “No. We just dropped by to say hello.”

  “Did you feed the prisoner?” Dad asked.

  “Not yet,” I replied.

  “May I recommend Cream of Wheat? Straight up,” Mom said.

  “Excellent choice,” I replied.

  FREE MERRIWEATHER—

  CHAPTER 2

  Demetrius had passed on his alibi information through Maggie. We agreed that I would do the hard labor and she would file the appeal, if I could find any new evidence to base it on. While the Schmidt case hinged on compelling DNA evidence, I had to find a different angle because the physical evidence in this case (both Elsie Collins’s garments and the clothes they took from Demetrius) was “misplaced” in the evidence room and never recovered.

  This didn’t leave me many avenues to pursue, but I would pursue them nonetheless. I needed to speak to everyone who was interviewed at the time of the murder to see whether something was missed in the original investigation.

  Before I commenced my own investigation, beginning with my first interview with Theresa Barnes (the alibi), Maggie asked me to drop by her office for a chat.

  “I’m missing something here, Isabel. I understand that being locked in a file room all night could be traumatic and cause some unusual behavior, but there’s something you’re not telling me. And I think I should know it.”

  “I think this case might hinge on police misconduct,” I replied.

  “They often do. You’re not answering my question. Is this an act of goodwill? Are you trying to clear your conscience? Or something else?”

  “All of the above?”

  “Spill it,” Maggie said rather authoritatively.

  So I spilled. “Look at the lead investigator on the case.”

  Maggie perused the file.

  “Oh,” Maggie said, finally putting two and two together. “Inspector Rick Harkey. Why didn’t I see that before?”

  “You weren’t looking,” I replied.

  In case you were thinking that I had turned saintly or at the very least developed some kind of social conscience, I hate to disappoint you. I took on the Merriweather case for one primary reason—to finally get at Harkey. If I couldn’t destroy his career, maybe I could ruin his reputation.

  Well, that’s how the whole thing started. But as I’m sure you’ve discovered yourself, things change, people change, and what drives you to act can turn on a dime.

  Theresa Barnes conveniently lived across the bay in El Cerrito. When I phoned her about an interview, there was no hesitation in her agreement. We met in her one-bedroom stucco house. She said she lived alone, but I gathered it was more that she paid rent alone. There were signs of other inhabitants, even though the inhabitants weren’t currently around.

  I asked if I could film her and she agreed, although she left the room to apply makeup and don a more flattering top. The interview was straightforward, and Theresa was a sound witness—a witness, however, who was once a drug addict who lied to stay out of prison. Her story was exactly the same as Demetrius said it would be, so I won’t bore you with the details. The most striking thing I noticed about Theresa was that her remorse was unshakable. According to prison records, she visited Demetrius at least once a month. She had contacted lawyers before, seeking help. In fact, it was Theresa who found Maggie Mason.

  Through Ms. Barnes, I got the names of other individuals who knew Merriweather before he was convicted. Character witnesses wouldn’t do me much good at this point, but I was curious, and if the case was ever reopened, they might come in handy.

  While my gut told me that Demetrius and Theresa were telling the truth, I’ve learned to occasionally ignore my innards and instead follow logic. My next stop was Jack Weaver, the ten-year-old neighbor across the street who was the only eyewitness in the case. Jack was now thirty and working for a telecom company. He remembered the case but said he had little to add to his original statement. He never testified in court. He merely said that he saw Demetrius leave Ms. Collins’s home carrying a television. It was dark outside but he recognized Demetrius.

  I asked him what a ten-year-old was doing up so late. Watching Johnny Carson, of course.

  “Do you remember what Demetrius was wearing?”

  “The same thing he always wore. A sweatshirt under a denim jacket.”

  “Do you remember seeing him the next day?”

  “I don’t know if it was the next day, but I saw him after the murder. We were all standing outside Elsie’s house, talking.”

  “Did he look sad?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did he look guilty?”

  “I was ten. I didn’t notice.”

  “Do you remember anything else about Mr. Merriweather?”

  “I saw him steal toothpaste from the corner shop once.”

  “That’s it?”

  “But what I remember was how he made it look so natural. I think that’s why he could take TVs and stuff. He didn’t look around all shifty eyed. He acted like he was supposed to take the TV.”

  “Do you think he murdered Elsie Collins?”

  “No. But I know he stole her TV.”

  WHAT THE BUTLER DID DO

  It’s easy to get lost in a cause (or a vendetta), but when you suddenly realize bills need to be paid, well, real cases take priority. At least that’s the grown-up perspective on things, and since I’ve been impersonating one of those recently, I had to go with the plan.

  If you recall, we last left the Case of Mr. Winslow’s Sort-of-Missing Butler with a new set of fingerprints, which I found under the toilet seat. Henry left a message on my voice mail informing me that he found a match on the prints. He said he’d meet me at my new bar at seven if I wanted the information. Of course, a name, Social Security number, and any criminal record could easily have been provided in either a phone message or an e-mail. But I guess Henry wanted a drink and I wanted information, so I agreed to meet him. I guess that’s what friends do: They drink together and exchange information. I was getting used to this relationship. I no longer felt the need to protest.

  “Hand it over,” I said as soon as Henry arrived.

  Henry passed me the envelope and then went to the bar and ordered. I broke the seal and reviewed the contents.

  • • •

  Mason Graves was no Mason Graves at all. He was Harvey Grunderman, born in Missouri and raised in Arizona, where he first did time for check fraud. He was currently serving six months in a minimum-security prison for neglecting to pay child support. Ten years of child support, to be exact. So, apparently, Grunderman also had a kid. I checked the home address listed on his police record and decided I’d check it out the next day.

  After I studied the file and finished my drink, I remembered my manners. The fact remained that Henry owed me nothing and using him as a source was a favor. And I knew that later I was going to have to ask him for an even bigger favor. I reminded myself to be extra nice.

  “Thank you, Henry.”
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  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m sorry I forgot to say it five minutes ago.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m rude.”

  “I know.”

  “Can I buy you another drink?” I asked.

  “I’m not done with the first one.”

  “Well, when you’re done.”

  “Okay.”

  There was an awkward silence while I waited for Henry to finish his drink.

  “I don’t drink as quickly as you do, Isabel. Don’t rush me.”

  “Right,” I replied.

  “We can make small talk,” Henry suggested. “You need to practice that anyway.”

  “How’s it hanging?” I said, practicing.

  “You’ve never said that before in your life.”

  “Since we’re practicing, I thought I’d give it a whirl.”

  “Make that its last whirl.”

  “Agreed.”

  “How was your day?” Henry asked, identifying precisely what it is about small talk that I don’t like—simple, general questions that can be answered in myriad ways. I need specific questions to answer or avoid directly.

  “Fine,” I said, like I’ve said since I was twelve whenever asked the very same question.

  “You’re horrible at this,” Henry replied.

  “You are too. Going around asking lame questions and then insulting the person you ask when they answer.”

  Henry finished his drink in one delightful gulp.

  “Now that’s how it’s done. I’ll get you another,” I said, returning to the bar and ordering for both of us.

  Back at small-talk central, Henry attempted a different line of inquiry.

  “Do you have any plans for tonight?”

  “Yes,” I replied, because I did.

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “No,” I said, because I didn’t.

  Two hours later, I hit a liquor store for provisions. Then I swung by the Philosopher’s Club and found Connor’s truck parked on a residential street around the corner. I posed the glossy snapshots (courtesy of Harkey) on the windshield. I searched the area for witnesses, gave myself pitching distance from the truck, opened the carton of eggs, aimed, and then suddenly I lost interest.

  Over the years, I’d often found the egging of a car to be the perfect ritual to mark the end of a relationship. But this time around I couldn’t muster the energy. There was no point. I simply left the carton of eggs on top of his car—a reminder of what could have been—and left. If that’s not evolution, I don’t know what is.

  SPAWN OF SUNDAY-NIGHT DINNER

  After ten days of Rae being in solitary confinement, my parents agreed to let her join the general population, just for dinner. However, leaving the confines of the Spellman home was still out of the question. The prisoner was even allowed a visitor, Fred. But I suspect the Fred invitation was more for my parents’ benefit than Rae’s. As I soon discovered, Fred was universally adored. I noticed, when he arrived, that he ate a few pistachios and then pocketed the shells. That did not go unnoticed by Mom, even though the pistachio cam was long gone.

  I decided that this particular dinner was the perfect time to share my new pro bono case with the family. I had shirts made up and everyone donned theirs while Rae was still held captive in her cell.

  Justice 4

  Merri-

  weather

  No matter how hard I tried, I had to hyphenate.

  Mom asked me to fetch Rae from her bedroom and to make sure she wasn’t wearing pajamas, which she had been for most of her parental internment. I knocked on Rae’s door. She opened it within seconds. That’s what solitary confinement does to people. It makes them crave the company of those they often try to avoid.

  Rae studied my shirt.

  “Justice for Mary?” she said mockingly.

  “Merriweather,” I corrected, pulling my shirt down to make sure she got a full view.

  “Oh, I see it now. Merriweather? I think I saw that file. Refresh my memory.”

  “Demetrius Merriweather. Thief, not murderer.”

  “Maybe you should put that on a T-shirt,” Rae smugly replied.

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Funny how you don’t mind people staring at your boobs for Merriweather, but Schmidt was another story. FYI, they’re going to stare a lot longer with a name like that.”

  “My body. I get to decide what I advertise on it.”

  My mother shouted up the stairs, “Girls, time for dinner.”

  I shouted back: “I’m thirty-two. Don’t lump me in the same category as the prisoner.”

  As Rae and I descended the stairs, she even had the nerve to say, “I’m going to free my guy way before you free your guy.”

  “That’s because you picked an easy guy.”

  “He’s not easy,” Rae snapped back.

  “You’re swimming with flippers,” I said. “I’m swimming with dead weights attached to my ankles. These are entirely different situations.”

  When we reached the dinner table, Rae turned to Fred and smiled.

  “You have no idea what’s it like in there,” she said, nodding her head in the direction of her bedroom. “Now I know exactly how Schmidt feels.”

  My father sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, you don’t, Rae. You are in a comfortable bedroom with clean sheets and allowed to use the toilet without people watching you. Okay? I’d rather you didn’t equate being grounded with prison time.”

  “Yes, but I know what it’s like to not have anyone to talk to for a week. It’s not easy.”

  “That’s why we let you out,” Mom said. “I got tired of listening to you talk to yourself.”

  Mom and Dad began loading the serving dishes onto the table.

  “You were talking to yourself?” Fred asked.

  “I was thinking out loud,” Rae replied defensively.

  “About what?” Fred asked.

  “Random stuff.”

  “He’s looking for examples, Rae,” I said.

  “Well, at first I was just practicing what I’d say to the judge so I wouldn’t have to do time. It was compelling. I’m pretty sure he’ll understand. Then I was thinking about escaping through the window and then I got distracted by the glass and wondered who first found glass. Where does it come from? What was it first used for? You took my computer away, so I couldn’t look it up. It was driving me crazy. Then as I was getting ready for bed and I was flossing my teeth, I thought about how weird it was that there’s this universal rule to floss every day, but that seemed so strange because the cavemen didn’t floss. They also didn’t have toothpaste or shampoo. If I don’t wash my hair for three days, it’s unbelievably itchy and disgusting. So, how could the cave people not be totally grossing themselves out? Sure, you can swim in a lake, but that doesn’t solve the greasy-hair problem. Oh, and then I was thinking about other disgusting things. Like, have you noticed that whenever a woman takes a pregnancy test on TV, she waves that wand around like it’s a lollipop? She just peed on the thing and then passes it off to the maybe-father and then when she’s done with the whole thing she never washes her hands. I have never seen an actor accurately portray touching a stick that you just peed on.”

  It had become clear that Rae’s rambling was just the beginning of the deluge that would follow. My father was distracted by the flood of words; my mother was in the kitchen when Rae’s little speech began. But something happened at the table when Rae touched on her pregnancy-test issue. Even though no one else was speaking, it was like a hush came over the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at a silent exchange between David and Maggie. Fred, intriguingly, spotted it himself. Sometimes my instincts fail me. For instance, I missed every warning signal before my file room incarceration. But this time, in a flash, I knew that Maggie was pregnant. I also knew that Fred knew that Maggie was pregnant, and I needed to make sure that Fred knew that this inform
ation should not be shared with Rae.

  “Mrs. Spellman, will you please pass the potatoes and the spinach?” Fred asked.

  “Of course, Fred,” my mother replied, and then she gave him eyes like she wished she could adopt him or something. “Rae, did you notice that Fred took a second serving of spinach?” Mom said.

  “No,” Rae replied distractedly. “I’m still adjusting to being on the outside. So much has changed since I went in.”

  “Shut up,” I said.

  “Eat more spinach,” Fred suggested. “I’ve heard fresh produce is hard to come by in lockup.”

  “Actually, it’s very easy to come by,” Rae replied.

  “So, Fred,” Dad said, “what do you do for fun?”

  “Dad, leave Fred alone,” David said.

  Wow. Even David loved Fred.

  “I was asking an innocent question,” Dad replied.

  “You sound like you’re on a blind date with him,” David said.

  Mom said, “Speaking of blind dates—”

  “Not another word,” I interrupted.

  “I don’t mind,” Fred said.

  Then the table went silent.

  “Fred, if you want to answer the question, go ahead. But if you don’t want to, you have the right to refuse to answer the question. We do it all the time,” Rae advised him.

  To the delight of the entire table, Fred answered the question.

  “I like to go mountain biking and to the movies, listen to music, read books, worship Satan. You know, the usual stuff.”

  “Don’t you just want to clone him?” Mom asked no one in particular.

  When the meal ended and “dessert” was finished, my parents turned to Rae and said, “I think it’s time you went back to your room, Rae.”

  Rae gave them a strangely evil expression. If anyone was worshipping Satan, it was her. “Is it?” she said with a sneer. “I thought maybe we all might drink some Sanka and have a chat about a few things.”

  When I turned to my parents for a reaction, they appeared almost, well, intimidated.

  Then my father hardened his gaze at Rae and said, “Say good night, Fred.”

  Then he actually said, “Good night, Fred.”

  “Let me walk you out, Fred,” I said, walking Fred out.