Heads You Lose Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  Acknowledgements

  ALSO BY LISA LUTZ

  The Spellman Files

  Curse of the Spellmans

  Revenge of the Spellmans

  The Spellmans Strike Again

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

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  Copyright © 2011 by Spellman Enterprises, Inc., and Hard Way, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lutz, Lisa.

  Heads you lose / Lisa Lutz and David Hayward.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-48652-8

  1. Novelists—Fiction. 2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 3. Authorship—Fiction.

  I. Hayward, David, date. II. Title.

  PS3612.U897H

  813’.6—dc22

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  While the authors have made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the authors assume any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Jerry and Linda

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  Dear Reader:

  In the spring of 2009, the New York Times–bestselling crime novelist Lisa Lutz decided to collaborate on a murder mystery with a longtime friend (and ex-boyfriend), freelance editor and poet David Hayward.

  The practical workings of the collaboration were as follows: Lutz would write the first chapter and all odd-numbered chapters thereafter. Hayward would write the even ones. They would not outline or discuss what they were working on. Each author would read the other’s chapter “blind.” Neither author was allowed to undo a plot development established by the other.

  A few details about the presentation of the text warrant explanation: The footnotes within each chapter are comments made by the reading author. The authors also exchanged brief messages when a chapter was completed; these appear at the end of each chapter. The authors’ initial messages to each other about the potential project are presented on the pages immediately following this Editor’s Note.

  Lutz told me she saw the project as an experiment, a challenge—a new way of writing that might spur creativity to higher levels. I leave it to you to judge the results.

  For reasons that will become obvious, both authors refused to come together to revise their work. I present it to you in its original form. While unorthodox in structure, it is nevertheless a novel. It just happens to tell more stories than either author intended.

  Signed,

  The Editor

  Dave,

  I just finished the first chapter of a new novel—a real crime novel with a dead body and all—and I thought of you. And not in the way you might expect.

  I’ll cut to the chase: What would you say about making a go of another collaboration? And, no, I have not recently suffered a head injury. There’s just something about this project that makes me feel like two heads might be better than one.

  I know what you’re thinking. Yes, our last attempt at collaboration, The Fop, was an epic disaster. A monthlong volcano of insults followed by a few years of complete silence qualifies, yes? Sometimes I don’t know how we survived it (not to mention several other battles). But this is, what, thirteen years later? We’re older, wiser, and probably too tired to fight with that level of vigor.

  And maybe The Fop was doomed from the start. When it came down to writing it in the sober light of day, it might not have been the bulletproof idea it seemed over pitchers of beer at the Kilowatt. The story of a double-agent valet hiding behind the identity of his moronic yet flamboyant master is basically a B-movie version of Jeeves and Wooster. (Although, honestly, I still think there’s something there. It just wasn’t our fate to realize the vision.)

  More importantly, we were writing that thing in the same room. Facial expressions can ratchet up an already stressful experience. I also think it’s worth mentioning that this was back in your poetry days, and frankly, your touches of poignancy and high-art references were severely out of place in a broadly comic, mainstream undertaking.

  Really, I accept equal blame for it. I had no patience and was often quite rude. Let me just offer up an overall mea culpa. But forget about The Fop. This is not The Fop. This is an as-yet-untitled crime novel that I think has some potential.

  Okay, time to address the other elephant in the room. I know you’re still bitter about you-know-what. It’s true, in the very beginning, you helped brainstorm a few character details and offered some valuable footwear consultation. But it was always my screenplay, not a joint venture. And after the brutal struggles over The Fop, did you really expect me to ask you to collaborate again? Still, I know you felt betrayed, especially since The Fop went nowhere and my solo project got made (even if it did go straight to video). But that’s all in the past. This is my olive branch to you. Maybe I’m a sucker for unfinished business, but I still believe we have some creative symbiosis.

  If you’re game, let me know and I’ll send you the first chapter along with a few minor stipulations. If not, no offense taken. I’m sure I can find some other ex-poet interested in slumming it in the world of mainstream fiction.

  Best,

  Lisa

  Lisa,
<
br />   And hello to you, too. A word or two of personal greeting would have been nice—after all, it’s been a few months since I saw you at Frank’s. But I guess the businesslike approach is part of your strategy for this new project. I think I get it.

  And we did almost have something with The Fop, didn’t we? Clear away the romantic debris—and maybe the last half-hour of every writing session—and it really might have worked. I still laugh every time I think of the ski lodge scene (after he retrieves the monocle). Can you name a funnier movie sequence in the past decade? I can’t.

  But yeah, communication was never our strong suit. For example, the news that you considered The Fop a “broadly comic, mainstream undertaking” would have been useful in 1997. If I’d known we were aiming that low, I would have punched up the crotch gags, and maybe the last thirteen years would have gone differently for me. But let’s leave all that in the past. I’m sorry, too.

  I had a good laugh about my supposed bitterness over being shut out of your straight-to-video success. (Coincidentally, that’s exactly as many laughs as I experienced watching the film.) A sliver of the money would have been nice, but you’re right: That thing was all yours. I’m happy it led to better things for you. I’m over it. Let’s not mention it again.

  I don’t know what your “minor” stipulations might be, but I have only one, and it’s major: If we do this and it sells, we split the money down the middle. Given our history—not to mention your lifelong obsession with butlers and other menservants—I think this can work only if we approach it as equals. I realize you’re the “name” here, but if I didn’t have something you wanted, I figure you wouldn’t be asking me.

  If you agree to that, I’m game. And hopefully not in the hunting sense.

  Dave

  Dave,

  I can handle the fifty-fifty split, but only with a couple of sensible amendments. First, I get top billing, since you agree that I’m the “name” author. Second, you may not discuss any aspect of our collaboration with our mutual acquaintances.

  My final stipulation is that you simply correct my spelling and grammar, rather than mock me for it. You know what I’ve discovered in the world of publishing? Copy editors. They’re totally awesome and they never insult me.

  I just want to mention two more things: (1) Most people secretly wish they had a butler. I simply have the courage to openly voice my desire. (2) Read your description of The Fop. How was it not obvious we were talking about a broad comedy? I’m hoping the first chapter will make the tone of this story unmistakable, but if you’re confused, please ask. Don’t try to create a new genre.

  So let’s get started.

  Lisa

  Untitled

  LISA LUTZ

  with DAVID HAYWARD

  CHAPTER 1

  Paul flipped the coin and Lacey called tails. It was heads. Had the quarter made one more half-flip, who knows how differently things might have turned out? Paul could let things go; Lacey couldn’t. But there’s no point in thinking about what might have happened. Lacey lost the coin toss, so this is how the story goes.

  Thursday was trash night. Lacey and Paul Hansen, grown siblings living under the same roof, had evolved tools for resolving simple disputes. In their childhood, they’d resort to wrestling matches or the slap game. But ever since their parents died, Paul had refused to engage in any physical altercation with his sister. Now that they were in their late twenties, the coin toss was the judge and jury in their household. Lacey grabbed her coat and slipped on her boots. She pulled the trash from the pantry and stepped out into the crisp California night. The sky was almost clotted with stars. She dumped the trash and dragged the bin down the long driveway and deposited it on the curb.

  When she turned to look back at their house, a modest rambler lonely among acres of forest, all she could see was one dim light in the living room and the flicker of a television set. Paul was always watching TV. During the day, their home appeared ordinary and peaceful, if not a little weather-worn. A paint job wouldn’t hurt. Though Mercer (pop. 1,280) was only a few miles away, it felt like they lived in the middle of nowhere. No other homes could be seen from their doorstep. As children they’d played in the forest that abutted their backyard, creating the footpaths that now guided them through the once-impenetrable terrain. Lacey had thought it was the most beautiful place in the world. Not anymore.

  Now she mostly thought about how she would escape. Some days she pictured herself as far away as Italy. Other times she thought San Francisco would suffice. From there she could still keep a close watch on her brother. After their parents’ death, she was the only real family he had. Even Aunt Gwen was gone, retired to Canada. And when Paul came back from college, his life didn’t exactly fill up with friends. She stayed for him, she told herself. As far as Lacey could tell, Paul didn’t want to go anywhere. He could see the entire world on the Travel Channel—what was the point of buying a plane ticket? Lacey no longer cared where she went as long as it wasn’t Mercer. One day soon, this town would be a distant memory.

  And one day, a coin toss wouldn’t decide Lacey’s destiny. It was a few hours to midnight (or prime time, as Paul called it) when Lacey heard the flies. She retraced her steps up the driveway and returned to the house to grab a flashlight. She tripped along the weeds and brush in their backyard, closing in on the stench. An animal must have died. Maybe a deer. But what would have killed a deer in the middle of their backyard? There was no hunting in these woods. Maybe the deer just died. Animals sometimes just die, like people, right? That’s what she was thinking up until the moment she realized it was a body, a human body.

  Her flashlight panned across the scene momentarily and she turned away. Just to make sure she saw what she thought she saw, she flashed the light on the body again, this time lingering on the head, or at least where the head should have been. She gagged. Then she decided she had seen enough. She ran full-speed back to the house.

  “We have a problem,” Lacey said to Paul, trying to sound calm and rational. She always liked people who were calm and rational, and adopted this persona whenever possible.

  “Can it wait until morning?” Paul replied, staring blankly at the TV screen. “My program is on.”

  Had Lacey been in an argumentative mood, she would have reminded Paul that “his program”—meaning any show he liked—was always on. This particular moment, his program involved men catching crabs in perilous conditions. Even Lacey liked this program.

  “No, it can’t wait,” Lacey said, trying to keep her voice even.

  “Can it wait fifteen minutes?” Paul asked, checking the clock.

  “No,” Lacey replied.

  “Almost anything can wait fifteen minutes.”

  “Not a house fire,” Lacey snapped.

  “Is the house on fire?” Paul asked.

  “No.”

  “Well then.”

  Lacey sat down on the couch next to Paul. She tapped her boot nervously on the hardwood floor—a habit of hers that could drive Paul to the brink of insanity. While the news could have waited fifteen minutes until Paul’s program was over, Lacey didn’t feel like waiting.

  “There’s a dead body in our backyard,” she said. “I’m going to call 911.”

  Lacey slowly got to her feet and walked over to the phone. She picked up the cordless, but before she could dial, Paul snatched it out of her hand.

  “Show me,” he said.

  “Well, he’s definitely dead,” Paul said.

  “Thanks for confirming my diagnosis,” Lacey replied. “Now what?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “That could take forever.”

  “Do you know him?” Paul asked.

  “He’s missing a head!” Lacey shouted. “How the fuck do I know if I know him or not?”

  “Good point.”

  Despite the cold air, a bead of sweat dripped down Paul’s forehead.

  “He smells,” Lacey said, fighting her gag reflex again.

  “
Agreed.”

  “Can we call the cops now?” Lacey asked. “I want him out of here.”

  “No, Lacey. We can’t call the cops,” Paul said, matter-of-factly.

  “Why not?”

  The reason was obvious, and on a normal day, a day when Lacey hadn’t discovered her first headless body, she wouldn’t have needed the reminder.

  “Think about it,” Paul said in his most condescending tone.

  “Oh … right,” Lacey sadly replied.

  They couldn’t call the cops because they couldn’t have the law nosing around their property, an unfortunate side effect of their business. Like so many in their line of work, Paul and Lacey had fallen into it. Paul had grown his first marijuana plant in high school, but he didn’t pursue it seriously until he came back from college short on savings and job opportunities. Five years later, the Hansens were a small but steady supplier. Lacey was interested in botany, but she never quite thought of herself as a pot grower. It was just something she was helping out with for now.

  “Why here?” Lacey asked, her calm and rational persona fading fast.

  “I don’t know,” Paul replied.

  “Is someone sending us a message?”

  “Still don’t know.”

  Despite the smell, the siblings stood at the grisly crime scene and took in the sight of the uninvited guest on their property. The body, flat on its back, had on work boots, old blue jeans (the kind that got old from wearing them and working in them and then washing them), a plaid work shirt, and another layer underneath. It was once white. Now it was covered in dirt and blood and who knows what else.

  “So what do we do?” Lacey asked, fighting back the urge to vomit.