THE SPELLMANS STRIKE AGAIN

by Lisa Lutz

  “Satan,” was my clever reply.

  “Will I see ya later?” Connor asked, still thick with a groggy Irish slur.

  “No, I have a date tonight.”

  “Right. Forgot. Now give us a kiss and get the ’ell outta here so I can sleep. I have nightmares to get back ta.”

  I kissed Connor on the lips. His breath still stank of whiskey. I flicked him on the forehead to remind him that not replenishing the coffee supply is a punishable offense and then I did as I was told. I got the hell out of there.

  The notion that coffee can be had anywhere, anytime is a patent untruth. Most decent coffee shops don’t open until six A.M. I planned to be at my post before then, so I traveled the two miles to my parents’ house, entered the premises through the office window (habit), and quietly started the coffee brewing.

  The peaceful quiet of dawn was broken by my sister’s whine.

  “Why aren’t you wearing your shirt?” Rae asked, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, sporting pajamas and tangled bed hair.

  I looked down at the wrinkled blue Oxford that I’d pulled from the pitch-dark closet. I thought there was a chance I could lie my way out of the conflict, so I said, “It’s under my shirt.”

  “Prove it,” Rae replied, as I knew she would, so it was silly to even try.

  “I forgot, okay. It’s early. I don’t even know what you’re doing up.”

  “Finishing an English paper. I think I have an extra shirt lying around,” Rae said. “I’ll get it for you.”

  Rae disappeared while I poured a travel mug of coffee. When my sister returned, she handed me the new Spellman uniform—a blue T-shirt with yellow felt letters unevenly ironed on the front.

  Free Schmidt!

  I proceeded to unbutton my shirt, planning to layer the uniform under my usual wrinkled attire, but Rae would have none of it.

  “Put it on over your shirt,” Rae said in a whiny, demanding tone.

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t like people staring at my boobs all day.”

  “It doesn’t bother me,” Rae replied.

  “That’s because you’re a walking billboard,” I replied.

  Rae shook her head with a dramatic sense of disappointment and said, “A man spends fifteen years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit and you’re worried about people staring at your chest?”

  There was no point in continuing the conversation. I threw the FREE SCHMIDT! shirt over my long-sleeved button-down and exited the house with my mug of coffee.

  After six weeks of surveilling Dr. Hurtt and Harkey, all I had was a subject they had in common: Marco Pileggi, patient of Dr. Hurtt’s and subject of Mr. Harkey’s insurance investigation. Without seeing the surveillance reports themselves (which wouldn’t become available unless there was a trial) I couldn’t be certain that anything untoward was happening with the investigation. Marco Pileggi appeared legitimately injured. He wore his neck brace at all times and didn’t do things like climb ladders, hang Christmas lights, or prowl the Tenderloin for hookers. If Marco wasn’t doing anything wrong then Harkey could hardly doctor a report saying otherwise. I was staring at the deadest of dead ends and even at that very moment I wasn’t ready to admit it.

  My cell phone rang at six fifteen A.M., just as I was settling into reading the paper, drinking my coffee, and hoping that Harkey’s men would lead me in the direction of a serious violation of investigative codes.

  The number was listed as private.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m watching you, Isabel.”

  It was Harkey’s voice; I would recognize that counterfeit growl anywhere.

  “What a coincidence; I’m watching you too, or more specifically, I’m watching Jim Atherton watching Marco Pileggi. Another insurance case, I assume.”

  “What do you think you’re going to find?”

  “With a PI as crooked as you, the sky’s the limit.”

  “I’m careful, Isabel.”

  “You didn’t used to be.”

  “And yet you couldn’t prove anything.”

  “Not yet.”

  “You shouldn’t have started this, Isabel.”

  “I didn’t start it; you struck first, actually.”

  “Like I said before. I had nothing to do with that audit.”

  “I just hope all your books are in order.”

  “You should stop worrying about me, Isabel, and clean your own house. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your parents, would you?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. They’re used to it. Besides, eliminating the competition would be great for business.”

  “I thought you’d be a more worthy adversary.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “There’s trouble under your nose and you don’t even see it.”

  “An empty threat, I think.”

  “You’re wasting your time, sweetheart.”

  “Maybe. But I’m young. I’ve got more time to waste than you.”

  I liked my exit line. It left my threat in the air. But the fact of the matter was this investigation was a total waste of time. If I wanted to find Harkey’s Achilles, I’d have to attack from another angle.

  Before my lawyer date that night, I decided to check in on one of my paying cases and see whether any progress had been made. I phoned the Winslow home and caught Len breathless and impatient.

  “Len, it’s Isabel.”

  “Darling, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  “We’re already late for the theater,” Len replied.

  “The theater?”

  “Yes. Mr. Winslow and I are on our way to see Shaw tonight and we’re already late.”

  “Who’s Shaw?”

  “George Bernard Shaw, Isabel. We have orchestra seats for Don Juan in Hell.”

  “Is that a play?”

  “I cannot believe you just asked that question,” Len said in the most condescending tone.

  “Remember, that accent isn’t real.”

  “We have fifteen minutes to get across town, Isabel.”

  “Len, have you made any progress on this investigation?”

  “We’ll chat tomorrow, darling. And I’ll tell you all about the play.”

  “Can’t wait,” I said, but Len had already disconnected the call.

  I thought it was safe to assume that no progress had been made.

  MANDATORY

  LAWYER DATE #3

  JAMES FITZGERALD

  [Partial transcript reads as follows:]

  JAMES: So, Isabel, what do you like to do for fun?

  ISABEL: Shopping is my first love.*1

  JAMES: I see.

  ISABEL: What about you?

  JAMES: In the winter I like to ski. Are you into any snow sports?

  ISABEL: No, but I think some of the outfits are really cute.

  JAMES: You’re a PI, I hear.

  ISABEL: And you’re a lawyer. I love lawyers.

  JAMES: Why exactly?

  ISABEL: They’ve come in handy a few times.

  JAMES: Oh.

  ISABEL: And they make tons of money.*

  JAMES: Not all of us.

  ISABEL: But you do all right, don’t you?

  JAMES: Uh, I guess so.

  ISABEL: Whew. So, are you a player or do you want to get married and have kids?*

  JAMES: Eventually, I’d like those things.

  ISABEL: How many kids do you want?*

  JAMES: I don’t know. Not too many.

  ISABEL: I want four. One girl. One boy. And a pair of twins. Is that redundant? A pair of twins?

  JAMES: Yes.

  ISABEL: Oh well, the English language is so not my thing.

  JAMES: Waiter, can I get another drink?

  WAITER: And for the lady? Are you finished with your vodka tonic?

  ISABEL: Yes, keep ’em coming.2

  [Long, awkward silence while I work on a new
line of defense.]

  ISABEL: So where did you go to school?

  JAMES: Princeton.

  ISABEL: Oh, that’s one of the good ones, isn’t it?

  JAMES: How about you?

  ISABEL: Garfield High and then I did some time at community college. And then I actually did some time.

  JAMES: Excuse me?

  ISABEL: That was a joke. But a true one.

  JAMES: What are your long-term goals?

  ISABEL: I’d like to start my own charitable organization.

  JAMES: What kind of charity?

  ISABEL: I’m still working out the details, but we’ll have really great soirees, I know that for sure.

  JAMES: Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.

  ISABEL: There’s something I should tell you.

  JAMES: What?

  ISABEL: I don’t know whether I should bring it up on a first date.

  JAMES: Maybe you shouldn’t.

  ISABEL: [whispering] I’m saving myself until marriage.*

  JAMES: Interesting.

  ISABEL: Now, tell me everything about yourself.

  To close the deal, I phoned James an hour after the date was over and told him what a great time I had and hoped we could do it again real soon.*

  The following day, my mother phoned me and asked how my date went. Her tone was unfriendly, so I figured she’d already heard.

  “What did he say?”

  “ You have a very nice daughter, but I feel like we didn’t connect intellectually,’ he said. Bravo,” Mom said.

  “He’s a liar,” I insisted. “ Not connecting intellectually’ means he thought my ass was too big.”

  “Not true,” Mom replied. “I asked James, and he likes women with a little meat on their bones.”

  “I think I might be sick.”

  “I want the evidence, Isabel,” said Mom. “Bring the recording to dinner on Sunday.”

  “Fine.”

  “We’ll talk about this later,” she said.

  “Make an appointment first,” I replied.

  PHONE CALL

  FROM THE EDGE #20

  Morty phoned me Sunday morning, while Connor was playing rugby and I was enjoying a few hours of peace before the mandatory family meal.

  [Partial transcript reads as follows:]

  MORTY: You know what they call a widower in Miami?

  ME: No.

  MORTY: A guy with too many girlfriends.

  ME: Was that a joke? Because it was a bad one and the timing and phrasing are all wrong.

  MORTY: No, it’s not a joke, Professor Shecky Green. It’s a fact. The old guys here whose wives have passed on are like players.

  ME: Who taught you the word “player”?

  MORTY: I watch a lot of the television.

  ME: Just say “television” or “TV”; don’t say “the television.”

  MORTY: I’ve been speaking for a lot longer than you have. What makes you the expert?

  ME: I don’t want to have the “things change” talk again. Can we agree to switch subjects?

  MORTY: Fine by me.

  ME: Has your shuffleboard game improved?

  MORTY: That’s a very rude stereotype.

  ME: So, it hasn’t improved.

  MORTY: You know the shiksa and Gabe are still together?

  ME: Morty, her name is Petra.

  MORTY: Right. I’m old. I got a bad memory.

  ME: You always remember she’s a shiksa.

  MORTY: With tattoos.

  ME: Yes, she has a few tattoos.

  MORTY: I sure hope Gabey doesn’t get them.

  ME: They’re not contagious, you know.

  MORTY: Do me a favor and go visit them sometime. I want to make sure that my Gabe doesn’t have any ink.

  ME: Ink? Where’d you learn that term?

  MORTY: From the television.

  ME: I’m going to hang up now.

  THE RETURN

  OF SUNDAY-NIGHT DINNER

  Picture a table of five adults and one seventeen-year-old, all clothed in navy-blue T-shirts with the FREE SCHMIDT! slogan in yellow felt letters across the front. Keep that image in your head as I describe the rest of the meal.

  “Isn’t Schmidt free yet?” I asked over salad.

  “No,” Rae replied, emoting with the appropriate shade of social conscience. “You should be helping,” she added.

  “We’ve already had this conversation,” I replied.

  “Even Dad’s helping.”

  I turned to my father, a look of surprise, I’m sure, sliding over my previous expression, whatever that was.

  Dad sighed and then spoke. “It’s a serious case of police misconduct. A horrible travesty of justice. Whenever this happens it puts a cloud over my whole profession.”

  Maggie smiled at my dad. “Thanks again for the help,” she said.

  “Dad’s helping with the Schmidt case,” said Rae. “Did you hear that, Isabel?”

  Then Maggie turned to me as if to absolve me of my sins. “He’s just helping interview witnesses. We’re getting ready to file an appeal and I want to make sure everything’s in order. We have it covered.”

  I was wearing Schmidt. Did I have to talk about him all night long? It wasn’t that I didn’t feel for Schmidt, but I was busy with other things.

  Fortunately, or not, David decided to change the subject.

  “So how was secret Wednesday?” he asked.

  “We’re calling it Lost Wednesday,” I said.

  “It was fine. Your father and I had some quality time together,” Mom said, reaching over and running her fingers through what’s left of my father’s hair.

  “Yes, we did,” Dad echoed.

  Rae coughed, as if she were choking on a particle of food, and said, “Please don’t talk about it while I’m trying to eat.”

  David eyed my parents with a dose of skepticism and then asked Mom what else was for dinner.

  “Al, will you grab the turkey loaf and the pilaf?”

  David made a face when he heard the menu, which my mother caught but ignored. My dad did his best oblivious act and served the food. Once the table began its unchoreographed dance of serving dishes and salt-shaker swapping, the previous line of conversation was revisited.

  “What’s this Lost Wednesday you’re all talking about?” foolish Maggie asked.

  “You can retract questions in this house,” Rae informed her. “It’s in the rule book.”1

  Maggie turned to David for an explanation. “Is it a secret? I don’t mean to pry.”

  “You’re not prying,” my mother casually replied. “Al and I just feel that at this point in our marriage we need to spend more time getting to know each other.”

  “Did you know you can plant fingerprint evidence with regular old Scotch tape?” Rae said.

  “We call it ‘Lost Wednesday,’” Dad explained, “just because we lose a day. We don’t work and stuff.”

  “How do you fill the time?” Maggie asked.

  “You definitely want to retract that question,” Rae said.

  “We’re creative,” Mom replied.

  “Did you know,” Rae interrupted loudly, “that in the Ice Age giant beavers roamed the earth? Beavers the size of grizzly bears. I can’t imagine. Can you?”

  “Rae, would you like to take your dinner to your room?” my mom asked. It was a simple question, not a punishment.

  “Not this particular meal,” Rae replied. “But I wouldn’t mind going to my room with other nourishment.”

  “Fine,” Mom said. “Just make sure there’s some protein in the mix.”

  Rae made a run for it to the kitchen, quickly scrounged around so she wouldn’t hear any more “Lost Wednesday” chatter, and raced up the stairs.

  Some peace and quiet arrived upon Rae’s exit, while the remaining diners consumed their bland dinner. It was my mother who broke the silence and also the basic laws of good taste.

  “There’s nothing wrong with trying to figure out how to pu
t a little spice into your relationship. I mean, even when Al and I were first dating, we had to figure a few things out.”

  Maybe to you that statement sounds innocent enough. But it wasn’t innocent. It was loaded with meaning, which I will now share with you. Apparently Mom didn’t buy my text message about the headhunter and did her own investigation on the big blonde, acquiring the same knowledge I did. Judging by the way my father picked and gawked at his hideous turkey loaf, he was clueless and guiltless. However, Olivia had to be stopped before Maggie realized that my mother was essentially trying to talk about sex therapy with my brother’s girlfriend of only three months.

  There was no time for subtlety.

  “Mom!” I shouted. This got her attention.

  I slit my finger across my throat.

  “Relax and eat your dinner, Isabel. I’m just making conversation.”

  “Boundaries, Mom. Boundaries.”

  “I want us to be the kind of family that talks about everything.”

  “Let’s not get carried away,” Dad said, still oblivious.

  “Mom, if you say one more word on the topic, I will come around the table and tackle you to the ground.”

  “Am I missing something?” Dad asked.

  David then turned to Maggie and said one simple word: “See?”

  Maggie chuckled to herself. “So who knows?” she asked, scanning the faces of her fellow dinner companions.

  I turned to her. “Just me and Mom, I think. And, I swear, I did everything I could to keep her in the dark. Also, I just want to add, the only reason I was investigating you was because Mom blackmailed me.”

  “So everybody knows but me?” Dad said, sounding really left out and kind of hurt.

  David, once again, directed his words to Maggie: “You need to know what it’s like before things go any farther. Can you deal?”

  “Can we at least tell them the truth first?” Maggie said, squirming under the four sets of eyes that were gauging her expression.

  David turned to my mother.

  “Mom, we weren’t seeing a sex therapist. We were fake-seeing one.”

  “What does that even mean?” Dad asked.

  “It was a setup,” David explained. “Maggie and I are thinking about moving in together and I wanted her to understand that if she did, her expectation of privacy would have to significantly diminish.”