THE SPELLMANS STRIKE AGAIN

by Lisa Lutz

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 information 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.

  While the delightful Fred unlocked his bike, put on his helmet, and turned on the light, I decided to see if I could gain his confidence for a little while.

  “You might have noticed something earlier at the table, while Rae was talking about pee and pregnancy tests.”

  Fred looked me in the eye. “I might have noticed something.”

  “Can you not notice it anymore?” I asked.

  “Don’t see why not,” Fred replied.

  “Especially don’t notice it with Rae.”

  “I think I hear what you’re saying,” Fred said.

  “Do you need a bribe?” I asked, because Rae always needs a bribe and by virtue of association, I thought Fred might be the same.

  “No. But thanks for the offer,” Fred said.

  When I returned to the dining room, I heard my father say to Rae in his sternest tone, “Go upstairs and practice your please-forgive-me face in the mirror for an hour. You have court tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “Not another word out of you, young lady.”

  Rae stomped up the stairs but followed her instructions—not a single word leaked from her lips.

  The rest of the family, drained by the run-of-the-mill family dinner, dispersed in silence.

  WOULD THE REAL

  MASON GRAVES

  PLEASE STAND UP?

  The address on Mason Graves’s employee file was a one-bedroom apartment in the Tenderloin, which I had assumed was Mason’s cheap getaway from the Winslow home. I rang the buzzer and a man answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, I’m looking for Mason Graves. I have some information for him.”

  I was buzzed up without any further communication. Apartment 606 was inconveniently located on the sixth floor of a walk-up. A large man in his midforties met me at the door.

  “Are you Mason Graves?” I asked.

  “Yes. Did I win something?”

  “No.”

  “Oh,” he said, appearing unduly saddened by the lack of good news.

  “I’m sorry,” I said because it seemed like the right thing to do.

  Before I met the real Mason Graves, I imagined a crafty man in collusion with an even more crafty man currently serving time. This Mason Graves brought to mind Lennie in Of Mice and Men.1

  “Were you expecting to win something?” I asked.

  “There’s always a chance. I play the lottery every week.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I didn’t bring you good news.”

  “That’s okay. No one ever does.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” I asked redundantly.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know a Harvey Grunderman?”

  “Yeah. He’s my cousin Harvey. He helps take care of me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He pays my bills and makes sure they bring me food every week.”

  “Harvey pays your bills?”

  “I’m not good with money.”

  “Does he take care of your taxes and stuff?”


  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a job?”

  “I clean the building for less rent. I vacuum and change lightbulbs and take out the trash and stuff.”

  “If you need money, where do you get it?”

  “My mom cooks for me once a week and always makes sure I have sandwich money, and Harvey pays my rent.”

  “What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Libby Graves.”

  There went one theory. I was really hoping he’d say Mrs. Enright.

  “Do you know where Harvey is?”

  “He took a vacation. He needed to go away,” he said.

  “Yes. He did. Where did he tell you he was going?”

  “My memory isn’t very good.”

  “Mason, do you have any other relatives in the area?”

  “No. Just my mom and Harvey. My dad died a long time ago.”

  “I see. When’s the last time you heard from Harvey?”

  “Maybe a week ago,” Mason replied. “He’ll be home in a few months and then we can go back to our weekly card game.”

  I took out my card and handed it to the real Mason. “In the meantime, if you need something, give me a call.”

  Mason read the card. “Izzy Ellmanspay?”

  “Oops. Sorry. That’s the wrong card.”

  I handed him the one with my real name on it and said my good-bye.

  Sometimes you just want a bad guy to be a bad guy. Someone you can take down alone. Harvey Grunderman came with an extra two hundred and fifty pounds of responsibility. I couldn’t close the case the way I planned—with a police report. Something else had to be done.

  I drove directly to the Winslow home after my Tenderloin visit. In any metropolitan demographic, the sharp contrast between the social strata can be alarming, but in San Francisco, within five minutes you’re in a whole new world. My brief meeting with Mason Graves shot me with a strong dose of sadness. I wanted to sneak one of Mr. Winslow’s pricy rugs out of his home, hock it on eBay, and leave the cash on Graves’s doorstep. One fancy rug could buy a whole lot of sandwiches.

  Len greeted me at the door.

  “Ms. Spellman, why the long face?” he asked, shaking me into an entirely different world.

  “Long day. That’s all.”

  “But it’s only just begun. Do you have news?” Len asked. And if you’re wondering, no, he still hadn’t lost his ridiculous accent.

  “Case closed,” I said.

  “Did you find Mason?”

  “Yes. His real name is Harvey Grunderman and he’s currently doing time for neglecting to pay child support. I suspect his employment here was a long con on Mr. Winslow. Please have your employer contact his attorneys and make sure that if there are any stipulations in his will for Mason Graves that they be retracted. That’s all I want you to tell Mr. Winslow. I will deal with Grunderman myself.”

  “I knew that butler was no good from the start,” Len said.

  “I’d like you to help Mr. Winslow interview for a new valet. We’ll do a thorough background check on each one and hopefully he won’t run into any problems in the future. I need to remind you that your time here is coming to an end.”

  “What if I wished to stay on?” Len asked.

  “You want to talk in that voice for the next decade?”

  “It wouldn’t bother me in the slightest.”

  “How are things at home?” I asked.

  “The same.”

  “Listen carefully, Len. This gig is over in a few weeks. You need to move on, and you and Christopher should have a long talk about whatever domestic war is going on here. Got it?”

  “Sometimes, Isabel, you are so tiresome.”

  You know who else found me tiresome? Harvey Grunderman. I drove two hours to Folsom Prison for a personal meeting. Physically, Grunderman was average in every way. Approximately five foot ten, brown hair, brown eyes, even features, no scars or tattoos. He was the perfect physical specimen for a criminal: impossible to describe beyond his averageness. The one thing that set him apart was his overly dignified bearing. He sat straight up, looked you right in the eye, was well groomed, and spoke clearly, though he didn’t waste the accent on me. Harvey had the look of civility, even in the orange uniform. That said, there was definitely something uncivil about the look he gave me when I informed him that his services would no longer be required in the Winslow home. (Once he was released, of course.)

  I then informed Harvey that I would hold off on having Winslow press charges so long as I saw that he was continuing to take care of his cousin, the real Mason Graves.

  Harvey tried to play on my sympathies.

  “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for Mason,” Harvey said in a plain American accent.

  “Sell that story to someone else. I’m glad to hear that you decided to break character for your prison time. I think it was a wise decision.”

  “I’m not so bad,” Harvey said, still trying to defend his actions. “I bet you and me aren’t so different.”

  “Trust me. We are. In fact, I’ve encountered very few people I have things in common with. Listen carefully, Mr. Grunderman: I’ll be watching you. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  THE GIFT OF PROBATION

  I didn’t want Rae to do time, even in a juvenile facility. She would be destroyed within days. While her will is spectacularly stubborn, her body could withstand only so much abuse. And she would be the ultimate target in an environment where brawn wins out. However, I made it clear that I wanted her to get some serious probation time, and I wanted this infraction on her record. Of course, in a few months it would be expunged, but I needed payback. I think I got it.

  The entire family, including the auxiliary members, Maggie and Henry, attended Rae’s hearing.

  The Honorable Judge Walter Groggins conducted the proceedings. I found great delight in the stern gaze he held on my sister. Even I would have wilted under that stare. Judge Groggins read Rae’s verdict: guilty of false imprisonment, which, for an adult, can carry a term of three to five years. The DA met with Henry, the arresting officers, and my parents and negotiated a fair punishment for the act. While I could have filed a civil claim against my sister, my parents had derailed that option by granting my three punitive wishes against Rae (one of which had yet to be realized). And when Judge Groggins read the terms of her probation, it was like a fourth wish had been granted:

  “Until the age of eighteen, you will volunteer fifteen hours a week at Greenfields, a community organic garden that donates produce to charitable organizations throughout the county.”

  For some people, gardening is a soothing, fun, spiritually nourishing activity. For my sister, who has never met a vegetable she liked, it would be hell on earth. Hard labor, patience, dirt, produce—all things she loathes—and now she would be spending over 13 percent1 of her waking hours learning how to make things she hated grow. If that isn’t justice, I don’t know what is.

  Rae looked as if she might cry or try to make a run for it across the border. Mom and Dad just seemed relieved that the ordeal was over. Maggie and David kept to themselves, whispering whatever it is that they whispered. Those two could have their secrets so long as they stayed together.

  Henry walked me to the door.

  “How do you feel about the outcome?”

  I turned to Henry. “I could kiss the person who came up with the organic gardening idea.”

  “Good to know.”

  I phoned Morty from the parking lot of the courthouse and shared my exciting news. The conversation was brief, however, since the movers were at their Florida condo and he was trying to have a conversation with me while dodging large pieces of furniture.

  ME: What’s your ETA?

  MORTY: I had a pastrami sandwich on rye today.

  ME: Huh?

  MORTY: How many lamps do I need?

  ME: I can’t answer that question for you, Morty.

  MORTY: Izzele, are you there?

  ME: Yes.

  MOR
TY: What were we talking about? There’s lots of noise here.

  ME: Pastrami sandwiches and lamps.

  MORTY: Speaking of pastrami, I want to go to Moishe’s the second I arrive. Make a reservation.

  ME: They don’t take reservations.

  MORTY: Make one anyway.

  ME: Fine. Morty, when are you arriving?

  MORTY: Watch out. I only got the two feet.

  ME: When are you arriving?

  MORTY: What day is it?

  ME: You should know what day it is.

  MORTY: What difference does it make?

  ME: It’s Tuesday.

  MORTY: I’ll be in Frisco Thursday next week.

  ME: Don’t call it Frisco. Only tourists do that.

  MORTY: Stop telling me how to talk. I’ve been doing it a lot longer than you.

  ME: Doesn’t make you better at it.

  MORTY: See you Thursday in the Frisco, Isabel.

  ME: Bye, Morty.

  FREE SOMEBODY ALREADY

  The Schmidt case moved forward with the speed of light—at least that’s how it seemed in comparison to the Merriweather case. The DNA results proved that the unidentified blood found on the victim and the skin particles found under the victim’s fingernails did not match the DNA of Levi Schmidt. That DNA belonged to someone else, someone who conveniently was already in the system. His name was Jesse Harper, and he was currently doing a ten-year stint in San Quentin for rape.

  Armed with this information, Maggie filed an immediate writ of habeas corpus.1 While the evidence was compelling, the DA wanted a confession out of Jesse Harper to seal the deal, and that confession would take weeks of negotiation. Still, Rae was hopeful, which had the unfortunate side effect of taking the edge off her gardening work.

  As for Demetrius, I knew from the start his case wouldn’t be so easy. I just didn’t realize how not easy it would be. I presented what I believed was an irrefutable argument to Maggie, beginning with the absence of convincing physical evidence. If he’d murdered a woman, shouldn’t he have had her blood all over him? If he was foolish enough to keep her television, how could he be so crafty as to hide a murder weapon so well that it was never discovered? There was also the ten-year-old witness, who saw a man who showed no signs of having just committed murder casually leave Ms. Collins’s home. Aside from all that, Demetrius didn’t have a single violent crime on his record. Nothing pointed to murder. But having no evidence pointing to a murder suspect isn’t incontrovertible evidence that the suspect did not commit the murder. Once Demetrius was incarcerated, the burden of proof fell back on the defense. Turns out that my case hinged on circumstantial logic. And you can’t free a man just because it makes sense.