THE SPELLMANS STRIKE AGAIN

by Lisa Lutz

  “If he’s that great,” I said, “shouldn’t we be protecting him from Rae?”

  “My thoughts precisely.”

  • • •

  The subadults spread their food on Henry’s coffee table and began their feast. The adults retired to Henry’s office to go over the fingerprint results. But before we talked business, I noticed a swatch of dark blue peeking out beneath Henry’s charcoal-gray sweater.

  “Take off your sweater,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” he replied.

  “You heard me.”

  “If you insist.”

  Henry removed his outer layer to reveal what we all know was hiding beneath.

  Free Schmidt!

  “You too, Henry?” I said, like I imagined Caesar saying to Brutus (only in Latin, I think).

  “He is innocent,” Henry said, defending his shirt.

  “I know,” I replied. “That’s not the point.”

  I threw the sweater at him.

  “Put it back on,” I said. “I’ve seen enough.”

  While Henry reclothed himself, he gave me the lowdown on the fingerprints.

  “No match,” he said.

  Now that was sitting-down news. After all this fingerprint fuss, I had nothing.

  “Really?” I asked, disappointed. It was a stupid question.

  “You gave me four prints,” Henry said. “Did you cross-check them against each other?”

  “No, I just made sure they weren’t from any of the regular household staff.”

  “You gave me duplicates. Two identical thumbs and two identical index fingers, I think.”

  “Oh,” I said, taking it in.

  “Were those the only prints you found in the room?” Henry asked, and I could see what he was driving at.

  I wasn’t exactly thorough since it was Mason’s room and the door was locked and I was under a time crunch. I pulled the first prints I found. It never occurred to me that there was anything suspicious about their placement.

  Humor me with a short course on fingerprint analysis. While every fingerprint is unique (even with identical twins), there are only seven types of fingerprints—the arch, the tent arch, the loop, the double loop, the pocked loop, the whorl, and mixed.1 Each individual might have only one type on all ten fingers, or a variety. Had I given the prints a cursory glance, I should have spotted the duplicates and perhaps, based on print size, noted that they all came from the same person.

  I thought back to when I was collecting the prints—they were awkwardly located on the bureau. It was like someone had tapped their thumb and index finger on the bureau, then twisted their hand eighty degrees, moved it two inches to the left, and did it again. In fact, standing still in front of the bureau, it would be almost impossible to get your hand at that angle.

  What did all this mean? I don’t know. My working conclusion: Someone had planted the fingerprints to throw me off the scent. I decided to go back to the Winslow home and look at where the fingerprints were placed again. Hopefully the room had not been tampered with since my previous visit a week earlier.

  On my way out of Henry’s place, I found Rae and Fred reading aloud from The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes with a gallon of milk and shot glasses before them.

  Henry rolled his eyes when he took in the spectacle. I turned to him for an explanation.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Rae made up a drinking game,” Henry said. “You must be so proud.”

  “How does it work?” I asked.

  “Whenever the words ‘elementary,’ ‘indeed,’ or ‘extraordinary’ are used, you have to take a shot.”

  “How stupid. They’re drinking milk.”

  “True,” Henry said with reluctant resignation, “only, poor Fred’s lactose intolerant.”

  THE BUTLER’S SECRET

  Mr. Leonard was unchanged when he answered the door, still Method-acting his way through his assignment.

  “Isabel, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “Where’s Mr. Winslow?” I asked.

  “Napping.”

  “Good.”

  “I agree. I wouldn’t want him to see you in that grungy ensemble.”

  “Be nice,” I snapped.

  “As you wish,” Len replied, leading me into the foyer.

  “Something strange is going on here,” I whispered.

  “Indeed,” Leonard replied.1 “Mr. Winslow is considering repainting the library in glossy coral.”

  I ignored Len and simply took care of business.

  “Can you let me back into Manson’s bedroom? I need to look for a few more prints.”

  I stared at the bureau again, trying to align my hand in the formation that would be required to leave those two sets of prints. It would be impossible unless one was a contortionist.

  I had no doubt at this point that the prints had been planted. But why? The only logical reason was that Manson didn’t want his real fingerprints found, which meant that he was probably in the system.

  The second time I searched Manson’s bedroom I noticed how utterly unclean it was. The bed was made and no objects were turned over or clothes tossed about the floor, but dust had been settling for months around the room. The patches of clean were what stood out. There was a moon around the light switch where the wall had been scrubbed down to the bare faded paint. You could still see cleaning streaks on the desktop. There were no prints anywhere on the inside doorknob. After dusting for prints in all the obvious locations, I decided I had to be more creative about where I searched.

  “Who cleans this room?” I asked Len.

  “No one,” Len replied. “Mrs. Enright said that Graves has some allergies to standard cleaning supplies and he has always been the maid and master of his domain.”

  “Then his prints should be in here somewhere,” I said.

  “I thought you already collected prints from here.”

  “I did. But I think they were planted.”

  “The plot thickens.”

  “Knock it off,” I said.

  “Knock what off?” Len asked.

  “Everything. Where is Mrs. Enright?”

  “At the store.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “Any minute now.”

  “Keep her downstairs,” I said. “I need to have a chat with her.”

  “As you wish,” Len replied, and then, with the straightest back I’ve ever seen, he slowly descended the staircase.

  I scanned the room, calculating my best bet. Where are fingerprints sure to be found but not so obviously noticed?

  The furniture in Mason’s room was sparse. Every clean surface could have been easily wiped down. In fact, I was starting to think that Mason had planned ahead and cleared his own prints and planted the new set before he left. However, Graves had lived in this house for five years. He couldn’t possibly have erased every trace of his fingerprint existence. I bravely donned a pair of plastic gloves and entered the bathroom. Men use toilets. Men lift the seats of toilets. Maybe I would get lucky, although that phrase seemed inappropriate for the job at hand.

  I dusted the underside of Mason’s toilet seat and found a few partial prints. I attached a wide slice of printing tape to the edge and then carefully flattened it with a credit card over the prints. Once I’d extracted them and attached them to the fingerprint cards with a label, I put them in an envelope and dropped it in my purse. I removed the gloves, washed my hands, and found Mrs. Enright in the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Enright, where is Mason Graves right now?”

  “In England, visiting his mother.”

  “Where is he really?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did you plant someone else’s fingerprints in his bedroom?”

  “There is no plant in his bedroom,” Mrs. Enright replied. “I would know because then I’d water it.”

  Watching the elderly woman scowl and slip about the house, I pictured her as Mason’s crafty partner in the perfect long con, but no
w, with my brief questions answered, I got the feeling the permanent scowl was simply an unfortunate feature that belied the simple woman she was.

  Mr. Leonard walked me to the door, glancing back at Mrs. Enright, who peeked out at us from behind the kitchen door. She slipped out of view without an ounce of subtlety.

  “That woman drives me mad,” Len said, rolling his eyes. “I know she’s up to something.”

  “That woman,” I said, “needs a hearing aid. She’s trying to hide it. She lurks so if someone calls for her, she can see it.”

  “You don’t think she’s in cahoots with Mr. Graves?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. Mason kept her around for a reason—maybe because she couldn’t eavesdrop. Mr. Graves certainly liked to surround himself with people whose faculties are compromised.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Mason Graves has been the problem from the start.”

  “Agreed. Now we just need to find out where he is and what he gains from his employment here.”

  I took my fingerprints and ran.

  A QUIET NIGHT IN

  I returned to my apartment, hoping for a quiet night in, and discovered Connor there, along with five of his “mates,” in the midst of a boisterous, booze-soaked poker game.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “John’s got the bar covered so we thought we’d skip out, playing cards.”

  “But why here,” I asked, “when you have your own place?”

  “But I don’ have a table like this,” Connor said as if he was speaking to a slow child.

  It is true that I had a table well-suited for poker games. It was one of Bernie’s relics. In fact, I was having a Bernie flashback at that very moment. Cigar smoke snaked throughout the room, the scent of beer came no longer from the open bottles but from the pores of men, and snack food was tossed about like the remnants of a three-year-old’s birthday party.

  “You could have called first,” I suggested.

  “Check your voice mail,” Connor replied, staring at his hand. He had three kings, two queens. “Love, can you grab me another beer from the fridge?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  I could have kicked the men out and made a scene, but I didn’t have the energy for it. I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, popped the cap, and stood behind Connor, checking out his hand. He had just raised, conservatively, in an attempt to slowly build the pot, and had the other players’ attention.

  I held up three fingers and mouthed “kings.” Then I held up two fingers and mouthed “queens.” Any player with elementary lip-reading skills would fold.

  “See you later,” I said, and I was out the door.

  While I sat in my car, stewing over Connor’s home invasion, I listened to the voice mail messages that I had failed to notice earlier. It was true that Ex #12 had called to inform me of his poker night; however, there was no form of a question in his brief message. A beep followed and then I heard Bernie’s unnecessarily loud voice.

  “Hey, Izzy,” he said. “You want to eat some crab cakes?”

  It occurred to me that Bernie had the ability to make everything sound dirty. I deleted both messages and started the car.

  Fifteen minutes later I knocked on Henry’s front door.

  “Long time, no see,” he said.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I replied. We both knew it was a lie. But who cares? “I have another set of prints for you.”

  “Come on in,” Henry said.

  I scanned the living room. All signs of the adolescent takeover were gone.

  “You got rid of them,” I observed.

  “Fred wasn’t feeling well,” Henry replied.

  I handed Henry the prints.

  “Where’d these come from?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Okay.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Watching TV.”

  I approached the muted television set and saw that it was an episode of Doctor Who where the Doctor thinks he’s human and Martha (his traveling companion) has to convince him he’s the Doctor and help him figure out how to get his powers back and save the world.

  “I love this episode,” I said.

  “Me too,” Henry replied, taking a seat next to me and unmuting the sound.

  The Doctor Who marathon saved my evening from complete disaster. Henry and I sat in rapt silence, taking breaks only for more beer (me) and tea (Henry) and some lightly salted snack food that was probably good for you. It was three A.M. when the marathon ended, but I apparently didn’t notice. I fell asleep on the couch; Henry threw a wool blanket over me and I didn’t wake up until eight o’clock, when Henry was getting ready for work.

  Connor didn’t notice until hours later that I was missing.

  That night was the last peaceful night’s rest I would have for weeks. Everything changed after that night.

  I mean everything.

  PART III

  CHARGES

  IN THE HOLE

  The next morning was business as usual. I drove straight to the office from Henry’s house and occupied my morning with dull background research, until the monotony was interrupted by irritation in the form of an e-mail from Jeremy Pratt.

  To: I.Spell@spellmaninvestigations.com

  From: JP.Prattman@gmail.com

  Re: What’s up?

  Hey Izzy,

  What’s going on with my case? All I got so far are some fluffy plastic bags. Are you any closer to figuring out what Shana Breslin is up to?

  I replied quickly to abate my annoyance; no point in letting it linger.

  Jeremy:

  You agreed that the investigation would only involve garbology. You’ve conveniently omitted that fact. Are you any closer to paying your bill?

  Warmest regards,

  Isabel

  Mom and Dad entered the office right after I hit the Send button. Before they uttered a single world, I said: “I’m in a bad mood. Don’t mess with me today.”

  I decided to clear my head while tackling the giant shred pile in the basement. However, when I reached for the door, the knob was missing.

  “The doorknob is missing,” I said.

  “Would you look at that,” Dad replied.

  “What happened to it?”

  “It must have fallen off,” Mom said.

  “Why do things keep vanishing from the house?”

  My mom then pulled a spare doorknob from her desk and opened the basement door for me, leaving it ajar.

  “Call me crazy,” I said, “but I think every door should have a knob.”

  “Have fun down there,” Mom replied.

  I tried to get into a zone of mindless shredding, but my mind wandered to all the available objects of disappointment—my foiled investigation on Harkey, my never-ending lawyer dates, Pratt, and my apartment, which I was certain I would find in a state of disrepair once I returned to it. I am all too aware of what happens when you leave men alone overnight playing poker. Then my mind started wandering to the subject of the missing objects in the Spellman home. Why would a doorknob, drawer handle, and towel rack vanish without explanation? Either the grating sound of the shredder or too much thinking was giving me a headache.

  I reentered the Spellman offices, sluggishly ascending the staircase. My sluggishness afforded me an overheard snippet of my parents’ conversation.

  “Have you found them yet?” Mom asked.

  “No,” Dad replied. “I thought you were on it.”

  “I’ve looked. I can’t find them,” my mother said.

  “Well, they have to be around here somewhere.”

  “They could be anywhere, Al.”

  “Have you checked the pistachio cam?” Dad asked.

  “Isabel made me take it down. By the way, it was that Jeremy Pratt kid who was leaving the shells in the—Isabel, are you there?”

  And that was the end of my eavesdropping. I suppose I could have asked my parents what they were talking about
, but instead, I just entered the office and said, “I can’t shred anymore.”

  “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” Mom said. “You look tired.”

  “What gives?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Everybody should have a day off now and again,” Dad replied.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Isabel, go home, go to a movie. Just do something for yourself today,” replied Mom.

  “Get a hobby. You’ll need one eventually,” said my father.

  On my way out the door, I noticed another doorknob missing from the bathroom just outside the dining area.

  “Another doorknob’s gone,” I shouted.

  “We’re on it!” my dad shouted back.

  I was on my way home when I realized that all home had to offer was the mess to repair from last night’s raid of Irishmen.1

  Instead, for reasons I couldn’t tell you at the time, I drove to my brother’s house and parked in front. His car was in the driveway, so I knew he was home. But instead of calling or ringing the doorbell, I just sat there, casing his residence. If pressed, I wouldn’t be able to provide a solid excuse for my behavior. I was curious is the best answer I have. David had been unemployed for over six months and I couldn’t imagine how he’d killed all that time. It seemed to me that a man who once worked eighty hours a week might go mad with all that empty space in his day calendar. I wanted to see what he did with himself. David has always been the more responsible, useful, reasonable member of the family, and frankly, I wanted to know his secret. Whenever I asked David what he did with himself, he was always vague. His answers fell into the “You know, stuff” category, which really doesn’t help if you’re interested in duplicating those activities yourself. My point is I was staking out David’s residence to discover what his idle activities involved. Unfortunately, I was made within the first fifteen minutes.

  My phone rang.

  “Hi, Isabel,” David said.

  “Hi, David. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing much.”