Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (41 page)

Wednesday, January 11
2300 hrs

Bernie used to work and play with my Uncle Ray. They shared a common love of booze, poker, and loose women. When Bernie decided to get engaged to his ex-Vegas-showgirl sweetheart, Daisy Doolittle,
¹
Bernie offered his apartment to me as a sublet, which he admitted was because he wasn’t sure the November-December relationship would last. He packed his things and moved to Carson City. I wrote Bernie a check for eight hundred dollars a month and Bernie wrote his landlord a check for seven hundred. Our entire relationship consisted of rare telephone calls during which I would inform him that something in the apartment was not working, and then he would pass the information on to the landlord and I would make myself scarce as repairs were made.

I hadn’t laid eyes on the retired lieutenant for two years. That’s when he’d handed me a set of keys and said, “I hope you get as lucky in here as I did.” It never occurred to me that Bernie had kept a set of those same keys. But he had.

It was eleven
P.M
. when I heard someone fumbling outside my door and the sound of a key entering my lock. I looked through the peephole and caught the top of a bald head—not a bald head I immediately recognized. Just as the deadbolt unlocked, I locked it. A moment later the deadbolt was unlocked again and I locked it, this time running for the phone before I landed back by the door to lock it again. I was about to dial 911 when Bernie figured out that someone was on the other side of the lock.

“Isabel, is that you?” he asked in a sloppy drunk slur.

“Bernie?” I replied.

“Open up,” he said, lightly smacking the door with the palm of his hand.

I looked through the peephole, just to be sure. It was Bernie all right, but an aged, bloated, ruddy-faced version of his former self. Not that his former self was anything to write home about—on the contrary. I reluctantly unlocked the door, knowing for certain that my life (or at least my immediate future) had taken a turn for the worse. I knew, even before Bernie took one step into the apartment, that he was moving in with me. I knew that my one-bedroom, eight-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment
²
was no more.

Bernie stumbled inside, leaving two suitcases in the foyer. See? This did not look good. Then it got worse. He threw his arms around me and pulled me into a tight bear hug.

“Isabel, am I glad to see you.”

“Bernie? What are you doing here?” I said, trying to twist out of the embrace. On any normal occasion I would have been unhappy to see Bernie. But on this night I was especially unhappy. You see, I had spent the previous two evenings on a stakeout, clocking in maybe five hours of sleep total. This kind of overtime goes against Spellman Investigations’s policies, but we were low on manpower and, needing the cash, I volunteered. My point is that I needed to sleep in a bad way. I didn’t need to be consoling Bernie Peterson.

My intruder took me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye.

“She broke my heart,” he said with a kind of soap opera, over-the-top delivery.

“What happened?” I asked, out of politeness, not genuine curiosity.

“I caught her with the gardener.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Well, he wasn’t the gardener. He was my best friend. We used to play poker and go to the track together.”

“So why’d you say he was the gardener?” I asked, now curious.

“He had an electric lawn mower. Sometimes he’d just come by and mow the lawn for us. But Donnie wasn’t doing me any favors. And he wasn’t mowing the lawn, either. ‘The grass grows fast in the desert,’ my ass.”

Bernie continued rambling on. I had a hard time following him. I think in that last sentence Bernie was quoting his cuckolder, but I can’t be sure.

“Where were you when Donnie was doing Daisy?”
³

“Carson City is just outside of the strip. I was at a casino, the track, what difference does it make? You got anything to drink?”

“There’s beer in the fridge,” I said.

Bernie took off his coat, grabbed a beer, walked over to the couch, and pulled up the cushions.

“I can’t remember. Does this thing open up?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, and only then did it really sink in that Bernie was staying the night (and many nights thereafter).

“I’m going to go to bed,” I said, not only because I was exhausted but because I knew I had to stake my claim.

“Go ahead. Make yourself at home.
⁴
I’ll be just fine,” Bernie replied, trying to gain my pity and perhaps my ear.

I grabbed some blankets and towels from the closet, left them out for Bernie, and locked myself in the bedroom.

The lock prevented Bernie’s entrance into my room for a midnight chat. It did not lock out the parade of noises over the next eight hours that made even a moment of REM sleep impossible. First there was the AMC Western, starring Jimmy Stewart and John Wayne,
⁵
played at full volume, not because Bernie is hard of hearing, but I suspect to drown out the sounds of his sobbing. The second track on the Bernie playlist was sobbing, as a solo act, muffled as if he was crying into a pillow. (If you think I’m insensitive, let me explain something: If I offered a shoulder for Bernie to cry on, he’d cry on my shoulder, then cop a feel. I don’t know this man well, but I know him well enough.) Third was forty-five minutes of nose-blowing and mumbling encouraging words to himself: “You can handle this. You’re a tough guy. You’ll find another broad in no time.” I paid attention to this part, since it provided the exact script to comfort Bernie in future, daylight hours. Certainly the words one says to comfort oneself are most likely the precise words one wants to hear in one’s time of need. The fourth track on the album could have used some editing. It was four hours of snoring. And the closing number? The clanking of pots and pans and the sizzling of bacon grease.

When seven
A.M
. rolled around, I had not slept for even the briefest moment, which brought me to approximately eighty hours of being awake versus five hours of being asleep in the past three days. I put on my bathrobe and entered the living/dining room.

“Morning, roomie,” Bernie said, looking up at me with a theatrical look that read like I’m-broken-hearted-but-I’m-not-going-to-let-it-show. It all felt like a desperate plea for attention.

My complexion must have whitened over my final sleepless night.

“You didn’t sleep well, either?” Bernie asked sympathetically, as if here was yet another thing we had in common. I stumbled into the kitchen chair and demanded coffee. Thankfully Bernie was in a serving mood, so I refrained from telling him all the violent fantasies I’d had about him during my previous sleepless night.

Unable to find the will to do anything, I drank Bernie’s coffee (weak), ate his eggs (runny), bacon (undercooked), and toast (burnt), and listened to what I hoped would be the final track of the Bernie album. The breakup story was told in excruciating detail. I have yet to discover a single individual who can relay the events that facilitated the end of a relationship without getting into the minutiae. Why can’t people keep it simple? (See appendix.)

Since repeating the minutiae to complain about the minutiae would be silly, really, I’ll simply provide you with a brief excerpt from Bernie’s saga:

“On our second date, I took her to the Red Lobster. I said, ‘Order anything on the menu.’ And she did. She ordered the lobster. That was the kind of woman she was. And she ordered two cocktails. First a Manhattan and then a gin and tonic, and then we shared a bottle of wine. I said, you know, maybe you shouldn’t mix your drinks. But she could handle it. Yeah, she could drink me under the table…Then when dessert rolled around we agreed to split it…”

What I’m trying to convey is that I was in hell, or at least the closest to hell that my everyday life had yet to take me (since Rae’s “vacation,” that is). I managed to extricate myself from Bernie’s needy conversation and drove to my parents’ house/office to try to get some work done.

My dad was alone in the office when I arrived. “What happened to you?” he asked.

“Bernie,” I replied, unable to summon the energy to form a complete sentence.

“Care to elaborate?” Dad said.

“No. Where’s Mom?”

“At the dentist.”
⁶

“Huh,” I said, and then sat down behind my desk. I stared at a stack of papers in front of me and thought they looked soft, like a pillow. I rested my head and closed my eyes.

“The hard drive crashed last night,” Dad said, interrupting what might have become a very nice nap.

“Well, that’s why you have backups.”

“Everything is backed up except yesterday’s work. You need to retype the Wilson surveillance report.”

Three hours later, I had completed two pages of the thirty-page report, in between involuntary catnaps. My mother entered the office just as my head was about to hit the desk again.

“Isabel, are you hungover?” Mom asked. “You were supposed to go home and straight to bed last night.”

“I’m not hungover,” I said, suddenly aware that my head seemed to weigh more than it used to.

“What’s wrong with you?” she said, when she finally got a look at my face.

“Bernie’s back. He watches Westerns, he cries, he snores, he thinks we’re roommates.”

“Go take a nap in the guest room.”

“I need to finish typing this. Unless you want to type it for me?”

“I can’t read your writing, Izzy. I’m sorry. And the report is due today. Go outside, get some sun, and I’ll make you some strong coffee.”

I don’t have any recollection of walking outside, sitting down on the porch, and going to sleep in a patch of sun on the concrete, but that must have been what happened, since I woke up to find Subject, John Brown, sitting by my side.

“Isabel? Isabel? Are you okay?” Subject was gently shaking my shoulder. I slowly sat up and shook off my dizziness.

“I’m fine. Just seriously deep sleprived.”

Then David pulled his brand-new Mercedes into the driveway and got out of the car, looking like a movie star, as he always does. Having not previously met our new neighbor, David looked at us quizzically.

“Hi,” David said, taking in the full effect of my drowsiness. “Everything all right?”

Subject got to his feet and held out his hand. “Hi, I’m John. I just moved in next door.”

“I’m David, Izzy’s brother.”

“I—uh—just saw Isabel out cold on the front porch. I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

“If I had a dime for every time I found her that way, I could buy you a steak.”

Subject simply stared at my brother, not understanding the jab.

“More like a cappuccino,” I said, sounding sloppy drunk.

“Right,” David replied. “Is Mom home?”

“She’s in the office.”

David waved at our new neighbor and smacked me on the head as he went through the door.

“Nice guy,” Subject said, politely.

“Total asshole,” I responded.

Ten seconds of awkward silence followed, during which time I started to fall asleep again and leaned my head on Subject’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” I said, waking up.

“It’s okay,” he replied, and smiled. Yes, Joseph Cotten in
Shadow of a Doubt.
Although I was too exhausted to really consider any doubts at the moment. I was simply blinded by Subject’s considerable attractiveness.

“You seem nice,” I said.

“I am nice,” he replied.

“I think you should cook me dinner sometime.”

The previous statement was along the same lines as drunken misconduct, which sleep deprivation often mimics. It never could have occurred under sober circumstances. However, at that very moment I was briefly thankful to Bernie. John Brown responded without hesitation.

“Okay,” he said, and to be sure I didn’t ruin the moment, I got up and went directly inside.

In a month’s time I would be wholly ensconced in my primary obsession, the investigation of John Brown. But as I mentioned earlier, suspicious behavior must have been in the air. That afternoon I drew up my second report.

“Olivia Spellman”

I entered the Spellman house a few minutes after my brother. To the left of the foyer is the living room, your standard middle-class fare, with a brown couch, a television, and a slightly worn easy chair (a relic from my Uncle Ray). The living room leads to the dining room, which consists of a large mahogany table and chairs and a credenza. The dining room leads to a somewhat cramped kitchen with an even more cramped dining nook. On the right side of the foyer is the door to the office, which has another door that leads downstairs to the basement, where my father used to interrogate me for my crimes in my youth. Upon entry, the main staircase confronts you, which takes you to the main bedrooms and the attic apartment (my old home), now the guest room. Although I can’t remember the last time my family had any guests.

From the foyer, I could vaguely overhear my brother talking to our mother in the kitchen. Even from a distance I could hear that their voices were filled with tension. Eavesdropping is a great skill all the Spellmans possess, but especially the second generation. From the foyer of the house, I can tell you where any sound emanates from. I climbed the stairs to the second landing and listened in on their private conversation.

“I know you’re following me,” David said to my mother.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, David.”

“Mom, I saw you last night.”

“You’re just paranoid, sweetie,” my mother replied, not sounding pleasant at all.

“It’s an invasion of privacy, Mom. Would you like it if I started following you around?”

“I can’t imagine you’d have the time, David. But if you did, I wouldn’t mind. Although I’d suggest we have lunch more often, since it would be so convenient.”

“I’m not doing what you think I’m doing.”

“Really,” replied my mother. “Then why are you always looking over your shoulder?”

“It’s going to stop,
now,
” David said, in a tone more hostile than anything I ever mustered in my wayward youth. I briefly feared for his safety.

“Don’t ever talk to me like that again,” Mom coldly replied.

Then David stormed out of the house. I’d like to mention that in most households a thirty-four-year-old son getting into a spat with his mother would not be that unheard of. However, until the previous night’s dinner, I had never witnessed a serious conflict between those two. So, obviously, I wanted all the dirt. I picked my sleep-deprived body up off the stairs and headed into the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom,” I said.

Mom poured me a cup of coffee like it was medicine and said, “Drink this.”

I drank the unusually strong brew and asked the obvious question: “You sure there’s just coffee in here, Mom?”

“Would I drug my own child?”

“With Ritalin, you might.”

Mom shrugged her shoulders, not disagreeing with me.

“What’s up with you and David?” I asked while I was still awake and had the chance.

“Nothing.”

“I just heard you fighting, Mom.”

“Isabel, it’s none of your business.”

“Come on. Spill it. David was always your favorite.”

“No, Rae has always been my favorite. But good news, sweetie, you’re now in second place.”

Mom patted me on the head and darted out of the room before I had a chance to respond or continue the discussion. I would have to learn the truth through some other method besides talking.

Later that afternoon, after I plodded through the surveillance report, Henry Stone called with his usual request. After two days in the hospital, he had been released with a clean bill of health. He had recovered at home for a few more days, refusing to answer his door when Rae showed up. But now that he was back at work, she was impossible to escape.

“Hello?”

“Isabel, it’s Henry. Please get her out of here.”

“Are you calling for a Rae extraction?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you?” Henry replied, taken aback by my easy response. My usual MO involves some kind of stalling tactic.

I entered Henry’s office to find Rae in her usual spot—the brown leather chair across from his desk. She was holding up the picture side of her Spanish language flashcards.

As much as I found the unusual behavior around me intriguing, it was nice to know that some things stayed precisely the same.