Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (131 page)

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All the missing doorknobs had been replaced by temporary ones that didn’t fit the Victorian aesthetic.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 thirty
A.M.
and Mom and Dad were still in bed. David knocked on their door.

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

“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.

CHAPTER 2

D
emetrius 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.”

I
t’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.”

“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.

A
fter 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.”