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

  “Is-a-bel. It’s me again.1 Pleeaase call me back this time. I miss ya. I’m sorry. Ya know, one of those women I kissed before we were officially together and the other one was just crazy and attacked me. I wan’ ta talk to ya. I wan’ ta see you again. Please. Call me back.”

  Instead, I deleted the message and entered the Winslow home.

  “I’m afraid none of the applicants we have met so far are suitable for this position,” Mr. Leonard said after we sat down for excellent tea and a chat in the butler’s quarters.

  “Did you use the domestic service that I recommended? I got the number from the rich old lady across the street. She’s got a whole crew in that house and doesn’t seem to run into any trouble.”

  “Well, Mr. Winslow’s needs are very particular. He has a great love for the arts and he simply cannot abide having a cultural crude in his employ.”

  “Len, you’ve got to let this job go. It’s not for you. Did you get the paperwork I asked for?”

  Len rolled his eyes and handed me an envelope. “Yes. Here is Mr. Winslow’s latest will. It took forever for us to locate it, as apparently his attorney is on vacation. You will be interested to learn that Winslow provided generously to the valet previously known as Mason Graves.”

  “What’s ‘generously’?”

  “Five hundred thousand dollars.”

  “That’s definitely generous. Anything else in here I should know about?”

  “Yes. He bequeathed approximately fifty thousand dollars to Mrs. Enright.”

  “He scowls every time she enters the room. Why would he leave her any money?” I asked.

  “Apparently Mason was quite fond of her. On numerous occasions Mr. Winslow considered firing her and Mason always convinced him against it.”

  I honestly couldn’t get a handle on that Enright woman; something funny was going on and I was missing it.

  “That’s all for now, Len. I’m giving you two weeks’ notice.”

  “Only Mr. Winslow can do that,” Len replied.

  “Who pays your checks?”

  “You do, but—”

  “No buts. You’re out of here in two weeks. Mark my words.”

  I should have left bread crumbs as I wormed my way through the Winslow home. As I traveled through the mansion maze, I got lost and ended up in an entirely separate wing, which held a separate, more modest kitchen, which I suppose was where most of the staff consumed their meals. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the back of Mrs. Enright’s head. She was eating a sandwich—an innocent enough act. As I turned to find my way out, my coat rustled against the wall. Mrs. Enright twisted around in her chair and stared right at me.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I seem to have gotten lost. How do I get out?”

  “Ms. Spellman, can I help you?”

  “I said, ‘I’m lost,’” I replied, louder than before.

  “You’re what?” she said, competing with me for sheer volume.

  I would have repeated myself again, only I was tired of the ruse. If she could hear fabric brush against a wall, she could hear me say at full volume that I was lost.

  “Forget it,” I said. “I’ll find my way out.”

  That night I phoned Len and Christopher’s house to get a status update on the dialect wars and to find out something else.

  Christopher answered the phone in his regular English accent, which I would have taken as a fortuitous sign if it weren’t for the content.

  “This. Is. All. Your. Fault,” Christopher said, long-jumping over all forms of pleasantries.

  “If I had a dime for every time someone used that line on me … forget about the dime. I’m going to start charging people for saying it. Five bucks a pop. Listen, Christopher, I gave your boyfriend a job—not just any old job, an exciting acting-slash-spying job that most jobless people would shave their heads for. It’s not my fault he took to it like Krazy Glue on … well, anything. Besides, there’s something else going on that you haven’t told me. Len isn’t dedicating himself to this role just because he’s found his calling in butlering. So either fess up or keep it to yourself.”

  There was a pause. You could even call it a lull.

  “He’s bartering,” Christopher reluctantly replied.

  “For what?” I asked.

  “A move to New York or Los Angeles so that he can actively pursue his acting career.”

  “I’ve always thought Benson2 was ripe for a feature film adaptation.”

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

  “I’m funnier, aren’t I?”

  “I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Oh, you’re just cranky because you hate packing.”

  “Won’t you miss us?” Christopher asked.

  “You haven’t gone anywhere yet.”

  “You’ll miss us when we’re gone.”

  “So you are moving?” I asked, suddenly saddened by the prospect of yet another friend skipping town.

  “The way I see it,” Christopher said, “is that either we move to New York or Los Angeles, Len and I break up, or my life partner spends the rest of his days as a black Jeeves impersonator. Obviously, we cannot go on as we are.”

  “Have you made a decision yet?”

  “No,” Christopher replied. It sounded as if the wind had been sucked out of him. “I take it you have business to discuss with Mr. Leonard?”

  “Just a quick question,” I replied.

  A moment passed and Christopher passed the phone to Len.

  “Isabel, darling, what can I do for you?”

  “When Mrs. Enright takes a day off, does she sleep elsewhere?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Does she have a car?”

  “Yes. An old, dented Toyota. Hideous thing. She parks it in the back, out of sight.”

  “Do me a favor. Drop by the office tomorrow morning. I’m going to have you stick a GPS on her car. Okay?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Mr. Leonard replied.

  “Knock it off,” I said, and quickly hung up the phone.

  FREE MERRIWEATHER—

  CHAPTER 4

  Having been unable to free Merriweather, I figured the least I could do was visit him on occasion and let him know that someone was on the case. My fear, however, was that all my work would be in vain. It’s a hard concept to wrap your head around—a man can be in prison for a murder he didn’t commit and there’s no way to fight the system. You have to fight it, of course, but in my research it’s become obvious that sometimes justice isn’t served. DNA evidence has freed many men and women, but in cases where DNA evidence has been lost or corrupted, the other avenues of appeal are incredibly limited. Especially so many years after the original crime took place.

  “My angel,” Demetrius said when he saw me through the plastic divider.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if it had special filters that made me appear more virtuous. I had no news for Merriweather. I was still hoping Henry would come through on the case files, but I figured incarcerated life had to make someone crazy—evidenced by my sister’s insanity upon her release—so I paid my “pen” pal a visit. I even wore my shirt.

  According to Rae (not that I’m crediting her with being an expert on anything), one of the primary complications for a newly released prisoner is adapting to a world that has drastically changed. Since Demetrius and I had little in common—he could quote scripture all day long; I’d memorized most of the Ramones’ songs—I decided to use visiting hours to test him on his knowledge of the outside world. I made up a quiz and I am happy to report Demetrius passed with flying colors.

  Quiz for Merriweather1

  1) What corresponds to a medium-sized cup of coffee?

  a. grande

  b. tall

  c. venti

  d. medium

  2) People talk to themselves more than they used to.2

  a. True

  b. False
r />   3) How do you spell “See you later” in a text message?

  a. See you later

  b. See U later

  c. c u l8r

  4) What does phat-phree mean?

  a. Something low in calories

  b. Something that’s not phat

  c. Something that’s uncool

  d. B and C

  5) Flying cars are …

  a. Available to the very wealthy.

  b. In Germany only.

  c. Still only seen on The Jetsons.

  6) Pay phones have all but disappeared.

  a. True

  b. False

  7) Pilates is …

  a. A children’s television program about pilots who have wooden legs and pet parrots.

  b. A new wacky disease.

  c. A type of exercise.

  d. The largest cup of coffee in the world.

  8) The U.S. will be switching over to the metric system

  a. In one year.

  b. In five years.

  c. Never!

  9) After going to the moon in 1969–1972, scientists used that knowledge to:3

  a. Use the moon as a toxic-waste dump.

  b. Go to Mars.

  c. Build a luxury moon hotel.

  d. Not go to the moon anymore.

  10) A venti mocha with whipped cream costs:

  a. Approximately $2.00.

  b. Approximately $3.00.

  c. Approximately $4.00.

  Now this is where Merriweather and I got into our first and only argument.

  “I’d never pay four dollars for a fancy cup of coffee.”

  “You say that now, but things change, Demetrius.”

  “Never, Isabel. That’s just wasteful.”

  “We’ll see what happens when we get you out.”

  “Never,” he said, shaking his head.

  And then, when I was scoring his quiz (100 percent), Demetrius said, “Angel, I do appreciate your efforts to enlighten me on current events. But we do have access to the Internet and TV here. And you know how I love the television. Reality TV has been my porthole to the outside world. I know what’s going on.”

  “That’s the saddest thing I ever heard,” I said.

  “It’s sad to watch,” Demetrius replied. “Almost makes me want to stay on the inside.”

  Then he laughed.

  “Just kidding, Angel. I still want out.”

  When it was time for me to leave, I told Demetrius to hang in there. Demetrius told me to “be good.” I thought about it, but then I changed my mind.

  Henry phoned me later that afternoon.

  “I’ll be home at seven. Come over then,” he said, and then promptly disconnected the call.

  I arrived at seven fifteen. Henry had a stack of files splayed across his kitchen table. Harkey files. It would be hard to convey the pleasure this vision brought to me. I guess it would be akin to another woman coming home to a room full of roses. “Did you look through them?” I asked hopefully.

  “I glanced,” Henry said, which meant he did more than glance.

  “Your initial impression?” I asked.

  “He was a bad cop,” Henry replied. “See for yourself.”

  • • •

  For the next two hours I reviewed all of Harkey’s murder cases over a ten-year period, during the time he was a homicide inspector for the SFPD. By the time the two hours were up, I could tell you that Harkey can’t spell, has trouble forming complete sentences, and definitely never looked beyond the obvious suspects.

  “How did he even make it into homicide?” I asked Henry.

  “He comes from a long line of cops.”

  “Right. I forgot.”

  When it came time to discuss what to do with all this information, I drew a blank. I’m used to private investigative work, not legal research or criminal law.

  “How would you proceed?” I asked Henry.

  “I’d let it go,” Henry replied.

  “Let me rephrase the question: If you were me, how would you proceed?”

  “Harkey’s first partner—John Rooney—took an early retirement. From the outside, it looked like they were trying to avoid a scandal. At the same time, a forensics expert, Graham Daley, quit unexpectedly. There were rumors that they were tampering with evidence, but everything was hushed up. Remember, it was twenty years ago. If Harkey learned the job from Rooney, he might have taken certain matters into his own hands if he thought he had his suspect. I’d look into any case that Harkey was working on with Rooney. Also, I heard that he butted heads a lot with his last partner. A young guy, still on the job. His name is”—Henry shuffled through the paperwork to find it—“Andrew Fishman.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “A straight-up cop. The wrong partner for Harkey. They were together two years before Harkey retired. Fishman has a good reputation. But I don’t know if he’ll talk. You know how cops are.”

  I stared down at the mess of my papers and tried to unscramble my head; I had a flashback to my high school days, trying to write a ten-page term paper on the American Revolution—I spent most of my time widening the margins and playing with the font to make 2,200 words stretch.

  Henry brought me a cup of coffee and a snack of carrots and celery and hummus, which he annoyingly called “brain food.” My own brain functions better on a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips.

  Speaking of potato chips, my sister and Fred showed up a short time later. Henry had grown accustomed to their regular drop-bys, but this time there was a new energy in the air.

  “How’d you get here?” Henry asked, after he opened the door and peered outside for evidence of transportation.

  “We took the bus,” Fred said triumphantly.

  “Excuse me,” Rae said, brushing past Henry. “I need to wash my hands.”

  “So, how’d it go?” Henry asked anyone who would answer.

  Rae sighed. Fred smiled and said, “We got to where we were going and nobody vomited on anybody.”

  “There’s always next time,” I chimed in.

  Rae glared at me and then scoured the pantry looking for her not-so-secret-stash of junk food, which was not-so-secretly missing.

  “You got rid of it again?” Rae said, betrayed.

  “Yes, when you commit a felony, you lose junk-food storage privileges. That’s how the world works.”

  “Whatever,” Rae said, rolling her eyes. “Can we watch TV?”

  “What’s wrong with either of your homes?”

  “Lost Wednesday,” Rae replied. “And David is having a dinner party, which I’m not invited to. He told me to make myself scarce until ten.”

  “My parents don’t have cable,” Fred said, explaining his side of the bargain.

  “Just keep the volume down,” Henry said.

  “I’m not driving anyone home,” I announced ahead of time.

  “Who asked you?” Rae replied.

  • • •

  Two hours later, the kids performed a quiet disappearing act. I got the feeling Henry was wondering when I would do the same. I suppose I should have asked him earlier.

  “Can I sleep on your couch?”

  “Something wrong with your home?” he replied.

  “Yes. It’s being fumigated tonight.”

  I doubt he believed me, but Henry made up the couch and offered me an extra toothbrush. I turned off my cell phone just to make sure that my sleep wasn’t interrupted.

  REGRESSION

  I met Bernie at the Hemlock the following afternoon. I think this was the first time in our history that I returned his bear hug with the same enthusiasm. Bernie and I sat down at the bar and I said for the first time in my life, “Get this man the finest bourbon you have.”

  Of course I didn’t know that the finest bourbon would cost me ten dollars a shot, but still, it was worth it.

  “You okay?” I asked Bernie, eyein
g him for any visual injuries.

  “I’m fine. Not sure I can say the same for the other guy, though,” Bernie replied, chuckling to himself.

  “Tell me everything.”

  “It’s a short story, Izz. I arrived at your apartment at two A.M. on the dot. I put on my PJs and got into bed. Believe it or not, I nodded off. The next thing I know, some Irish guy hops into bed with me, just wearing his T-shirt and shorts. If I weren’t so assured of my own manhood, I might have had an issue. Anyway, Irish guy screams like a girl, says, ‘Bloody ’ell,’ asks what I’m doing there. I says, ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ He says, ‘Where’s Isabel?’ I says, ‘She’s not here, but she gives you her best.’”

  “That was a nice touch,” I said.

  “I thought so. Then he puts on his clothes, storms out of the apartment, and the rest, as you say, is history.”

  There’s one final detail that I suppose will bring this matter to a close. Connor left a single voice mail message at three A.M.: “Okay, Isabel. I hear ya loud and clear. Give my regards to the fat guy. You know, he’s not so bad, come to think of it. At least he shows up when you make a date.”

  And that was the last I ever heard from Connor O’Sullivan, Ex-boyfriend #12.

  THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING DOORKNOBS

  I watched the exodus of stuff from the Spellman residence for over a month. I’d solved one piece of the puzzle, but there was another angle I couldn’t figure out. Light fixtures vanishing, doorknobs departing, and now the hot-water nozzle in the downstairs bathroom sink had made an exit.

  “All right. What gives?” I said to my parents when I returned to my desk after a quick bathroom break that required the use of my own personal doorknob.

  “Excuse me?” Mom said innocently.

  This time I was going for a direct approach.

  “When are you going to tell me what’s going on here?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Isabel,” Mom replied dismissively.

  Dad remained silent, as usual. I wasn’t surprised to see my father keeping his distance from the conversation, but I knew he was the weak link.

  I used my doorknob as a pointer and turned to him. “Something fishy is going on here, Dad. Speak.”

  “Don’t point that thing at me. It’s rude,” Dad replied.

  “Evading as usual,” I said.