by Lisa Lutz
“Did you dial the number?”
“No,” I replied.
Phil Vitus clearly thought I was holding out on him, because he slowed down again.
“What kind of crazy game are you playing?” I asked.
“Tell me the truth. Did you dial the number?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“What happened?” Phil asked.
I could feel the car slowing again, so I spoke quickly. As long as I talked and answered questions, my taxi driver had a lead foot. “I dialed the number from his phone. A woman answered and said, ‘Hey, baby.’ Then I hung up. She dialed back, but I let the call go to Jack’s voice mail.”
“Jack’s your boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you and Jack been together?”
“Two years.”
“How did you meet?”
“He picked me up in a bar.”
“What was his line?”
“Excuse me?”
“What was his pickup line?”
“‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’”
“You’re lying.”
“How do you know?” I found it intriguing that he singled out one particular lie in a library of them.
“You don’t look like such a nice girl.”
“I’m not.”
“So, what did he say?”
“‘Can I buy you a drink?’”
“You’re that easy?”
“Yep.”
“Did you sleep with him on the first date?”
“You’re crossing a line here, buddy. I got your license number. Do you want me to report you?”
“Let’s skip ahead two years.”
The Town Car headed west on Fell Street and moved into the center lane.
“I think he’s going into the park,” I said. “Hang back.”
The taxi driver let a few more vehicles cut in the lane and then the queries continued.
“Cut to two years later and you find a suspicious number on his cell. Do you know who this woman is?”
“I’m almost positive she’s his dental hygienist.”
“What does she look like?”
“Blond, big boobs. The standard package. I think he’s going to the museum,” I said. “Follow them into the turnaround.”
The Town Car pulled to a stop in front of the de Young.
“Is Jack an art lover?”
“Why not?” I replied.
Mr. Slayter, all fifty-eight years of his well-groomed, moneyed self, stepped out of his Town Car. My taxi driver took one brief glance at him and then one good, long look at the thirty-four-year-old woman in a wrinkled shirt, blue jeans, and a sweater that had an obvious hole in the front. I won’t even mention how my hair looked that day. “That’s not your boyfriend,” Phil Vitus said, finally realizing that he had lost the game.
“What tipped you off?” I asked.
“Men like that don’t date women like you.”
The meter read $11.80. I gave him twelve.
“Keep the change,” I said as I got out of the taxi.
THE PORTRAIT OF DORA MAAR
Museums are expensive. You probably know that already. I toyed with the idea of waiting until Edward Slayter had soaked up all the culture he could get and needed a coffee in the café or something. But I was ready to talk to him and thought that a museum approach was more practical than accosting him in the park.
Even in the middle of a workday, the de Young was swarming with sweaty tourists. A Picasso exhibit on loan from France was drawing in record crowds. Slayter, I assumed, was there for the same reason. Mr. Slayter, in many ways, was a perfect surveillance subject. He was over six feet, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair—easy to spot in a crowd. He was also the only suit in a sea of cotton-wear and baseball caps.
He stood in front of a painting of a woman. I clocked him. Five minutes, staring at one piece. A woman with two eyes and two noses. I stood watch behind him as he stared intently. Then I approached the placard on the wall and read that it was a portrait of Picasso’s lover. I’m no art expert, but it looked to me like he couldn’t figure her out. I wondered if Edward felt that way about his wife. Was she an enigma or a threat or neither? I wondered if he still loved her. Did she stray because she was being neglected, or did she never have any intention of being faithful? Did she marry Slayter just for his money, or was it merely a perk?
I had followed the man for months but couldn’t tell you what kind of man he was. Until I knew that, I could only plan one step at a time. I found some open space next to Mr. Slayter and held my gaze on the Picasso painting. Once I was sure he noticed my presence, I spoke.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“What don’t you get?”
“All of it, to be honest,” I whispered.
“Then what are you doing here?” Slayter whispered back.
“My boyfriend thinks I need more culture.”1
“How does it make you feel?”
“I think he should keep some opinions to himself.”
“I meant how does the painting make you feel?”
“I’m not very in touch with my emotions. How do you feel?”
“Unnerved.”
“Do you think that’s what Picasso was going for?”
“I wasn’t talking about the painting. I meant you.”
“I wasn’t going for that either.”
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“For the art.”
“No, really, why are you here?”
“I think we need to talk.”
Slayter wouldn’t talk until after he had his fill of the exhibit, so I remained in his company and got a bit of an education. After we’d traveled through the entire exhibit, Slayter looked at the program and insisted on circling back to the portrait of Dora Maar. “This is what I came here to see,” he said.
“I know,” I replied. “And you already saw it.”
“In France, twenty years ago.”
“And here, an hour ago,” I said.
Slayter returned his gaze to the painting and took a deep breath. “I think I need a cup of coffee,” he said.
I bought Mr. Slayter a coffee from the café and at his insistence, we took it to the botanical gardens. It felt odd meeting with the subject of the investigation where I first met the client. Although the two days couldn’t have been more distinct. I met Margaret under the glare of an unusually bright sun. The day with Slayter was so thick with fog that you could see a dusting of mist covering all the leaves.
“Are you warm enough?” Mr. Slayter asked. “I could give you my coat.”
“I’m fine,” I replied.
“Do we know each other?”
“That’s an odd question,” I replied.
“It is, isn’t it? But I don’t know if we do or not.”
“You have Alzheimer’s,” I said.
“I do.”
“How long have you known?”
“I was diagnosed just over a month or so ago, if memory serves me, and, well, it doesn’t.”
“Have you told your wife?”
“No. That I am sure of. How do you know I have a wife?”
“You’re wearing a ring.”
“Ah, yes.”
“But that’s not how I know.”
“I think I would remember you if we had met,” Slayter said.
“I’m a private investigator.”
“I would certainly remember that.”
“Your wife hired me to follow you.”
Slayter turned to me and smiled. “You’ve been following me?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“For how long?”
“Two months.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“I’m good.”
“Or I’m not terribly observant.”
“I prefer the way I’m looking at it,” I said.
“Tell me, why did my wife hire you? Does she suspect me of ad
ultery?”
“I’m not sure she suspects you of anything.”
“I take it you never caught me in an illicit act?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” I replied.
“These days, I’m not so sure.”
“My job was to keep tabs on you. Nothing else.”
“Why?”
“Do you have a prenup?”
“Of course,” Mr. Slayter replied.
“Is there an infidelity clause?”
“Yes.”
“I believe your wife is having an affair and hired me to surveil you on days she was with her lover so that she wouldn’t be caught in a lie. She never wanted to know anything more than your current location and when you would be heading home.”
“I see. Do you have evidence of her affair?”
“Here’s where the story gets a little more complicated.”
“And I was thinking it was complicated enough,” Edward replied.
“Does your wife have a brother?”
“You mean Adam?”
“Yes, Adam.”
“What about him?”
“There’s no good way to tell you this, but Adam Cooper is Margaret’s ex-husband, not her brother.”
Like a true businessman, Mr. Slayter contained his emotions. I saw only a flicker of surprise and maybe sadness cross his face. “This coffee isn’t doing it for me anymore,” he said. “I think I’d like to get a drink. Do you know a place around here?”
I know a place around anywhere. Mr. Slayter and I retired to a nearby Irish watering hole. I assumed it was a bit low-rent for him, but he didn’t seem to mind. He removed his tie, stuck it in his pocket, and ordered a Guinness. I was certain by then that Mr. Slayter was merely an innocent, but wealthy, bystander. I explained to him that it appeared to be mere chance that we were separately hired by Margaret and Adam, to fulfill each of their wanton agendas. I wasn’t clear on his wife’s plan, but I was fairly certain that Adam wanted documentation of an affair to blackmail Margaret. I asked Mr. Slayter if they had given money to Adam in the past.
Mr. Slayter had indeed invested in a number of failed businesses until last year, when he decided to cease entering into any monetary deals with his “in-law.” I asked how much he invested over the years and Slayter estimated over a hundred thousand dollars. He said that when he decided to cut Adam off, Margaret was in complete agreement and had thanked him for all the help he had provided for her brother in the past.
After we drained our first beers, I was about to order another round when my cell phone buzzed.
It was a text from Mrs. Slayter.
“She’d like to know where you are,” I said. “Where are you?”
“Tell her I’m in a bar with a young woman.”
“Are you sure you want me to do that?”
“I insist,” he said.
I texted the line. She promptly texted back.
“She wants me to describe her.”
“Tall, brunette, late twenties,2 a little rough around the edges, but attractive.”
I texted the “tall, brunette” part and substituted a more accurate age.
Take pictures, she texted back.
Can’t. Lighting is impossible. Will try when they surface.
I closed my phone and returned my attention to Mr. Slayter.
“I’ve given you the facts. Now the question is: What do you want to do?”
“I suppose I should get divorced.”
“You’re sure that’s what you want?” I asked.
“Ah, you’re thinking that an unfaithful spouse might be better than no spouse as I drift into oblivion. Is that it?”
“No, that’s not what I was thinking. But I have just given you quite a bit of information. You might want to think it over for a day or two and see how you want to proceed.”
“Perhaps you’re right. But before I proceed, I need to know one thing: Do you have documentation of the affair?”
“I do. But there is a matter we need to discuss.”
“How much?”
“Huh?”
“How much money do you want?”
“I don’t want your money.”
“What do you want?”
“Mostly, I don’t want my father to disown me.”
THE LAST SUPPER1
As Thanksgiving Day approached most work-related communications died down. Vivien reluctantly returned to the suburbs; Walter took two Valiums and got on a plane to St. Louis, where his elderly parents still resided; Edward Slayter endured one final, brutally uncomfortable feast day with several coworkers and the woman who will eventually be the former Mrs. Slayter. And I have no idea how Adam Cooper passed the time. Perhaps he was selling rubber turkeys in a makeshift storefront.
As for the rest of us, all I can say is that we survived. Demetrius and my mother slaved over the stove for two days straight, with Grammy Spellman keeping a close vigil and an almost sportscaster-like commentary. The only difference being that her comments would end with the upturned tone of a question.
You’re putting the pie crust in now?
Do you need an entire stick of butter for the mashed potatoes?
Are you sure you want to cook the turkey at one hundred and sixty degrees?
Oh, so you’re making pecan pie?2
What’s in the bottle?
D’s gift to Mom that day was politely answering all of Grammy’s questions, while Mom remained serene and mute, like a Buddhist monk.
I like to make the crusts the day before. You don’t sacrifice taste and it saves time.
One day a year, you can splurge.
Any higher and you risk a dry turkey.3
Yes. That’s what the pecans are for.
Aspirin.
Dad, as usual, sat on his ass and watched one football game after another, carrying on interactively with the TV; Maggie did the same, determined to set a proper example for her daughter. Between the two of them, they went through a six-pack of beer by two o’clock, at which point they started making not-so-friendly wagers on the game. Four beers after that, Dad and Maggie had actually started putting up their cars as collateral until I confiscated the beer and took them for a sobering-up stroll.
David, usually one to sit on the fence of gender roles—one eye on the kitchen, two on the game—this year had all three eyes on Sydney. He killed all of Thursday morning regaling my distracted niece with stories of the early settlers and lies about their friendly cohabitation with the Native Americans.
“Don’t forget to tell her about the blankets with the smallpox,” I said.
“She’s too young for that, Izzy,” David said, annoyed.
“She’s too young for American History 101,” I replied. “And yet you continue. What happened to counting and simple nouns? For instance, a yellow fruit that you peel from the top?”
“It’s three o’clock, Izzy,” David replied. “Aren’t you usually drunk and passed out on the couch by now?”
“I’m evolving,” I replied.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” David replied.
Previous holiday dinners—all of them, really—would eventually devolve into a series of one-on-one bouts, words flung like fists until one individual became the unspoken victor. Tonight, however, began peacefully enough—this being the first T-day with D playing dual roles as guest of honor and chef. The turkey was moist, the stuffing impeccable, the mashed potatoes every bit as good as Crack Mix, and, well, you get my drift. Food-wise it was one for the record books. So we ate ravenously and indulgently and when people are chewing, even the low-mannered Spellman variety, they don’t talk that much, which is a blessing. But at some point you need a breather and conversations begin. And that’s when the trouble started.
Grammy seemed to be taking notes on everyone’s food consumption during the meal and commented accordingly. That’s when most of the family began announcing their weight gain during the meal. The only individuals who refused to play were D, Maggie, and Grammy.
DAD: I am grateful to be alive and have all of the most important people in my life at this table. Mom?
GRAMMY: I am grateful for good health and this food we are about to eat and my new companion, Perdita.
DAD: FourPete.
GRAMMY: That’s no name for a dog.
DEMETRIUS: [interrupting to fend off argument] I am grateful for this fine food and the health of my new friends and family, and I am mostly grateful for being a free man.
ME: No one can follow that.
MOM: It’s not a competition, Isabel.
ME: I’m just saying, maybe we should leave it at that.
Then Sydney pointed at the mashed potatoes and said “banana.” Maggie suddenly caught Rae’s eye and gave her a look as sharp as a blade.
“I know,” Maggie said. “I know what you did.”
Black Friday was an aptly named day for Rae, who was required to pay not only her debt to society but also her debt to Sydney or Maggie and David. Once my sister-in-law got the lowdown on her sister-in-law’s vile experiments, she wanted her own payback. She also wanted a garden, which was now Rae’s domain. Maggie’s food hangover was spent in front of the computer with my sister as they worked on an interactive landscape design program. If there’s anything Rae hates more than vegetables, it’s vegetation. But the punishment did indeed fit the crime.
GOOD-BYE, WALTER
Soon after Walter’s return from Saint Louis, he called again. “I think I left the water running in the bathtub.”
“Do you take baths, Walter?”
“No. They’re disgusting. Swimming around in your own filth.”
“I didn’t think so. So how could you have left the water running?”
“I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling. Maybe somebody else did it.”
“But we changed the locks.”
“There are windows, and there are locksmiths and people who know how to pick locks. And I did have to give a key to my super.”
What originally motivated Walter to hire Spellman Investigations had morphed into something else. I was stalling, hoping to figure it out on my own and deal with it accordingly, but I had far too many other unsettled matters on my plate. It was time to stick this one in the dishwasher. I was certain Walter was sabotaging himself; what I didn’t know was why.