THE SPELLMANS STRIKE AGAIN

by Lisa Lutz

  “Got it,” I replied. But Henry was still blocking the door. “Friends let friends leave when they want to,” I explained.

  Henry moved from the door. I was halfway out when I realized that Henry had another piece of information I could use.

  “Since we’re friends,” I said, “and friends give up dirt on other friends, who honked the horn that sent Rae running?”

  “Rae’s got a new boyfriend. Logan Engle.”

  “Blech. I hate that name,” I said.

  “So do I,” Henry replied.

  And then I finally made my escape.

  RULE #26

  Back at headquarters, two weeks after the unfortunate camping trip, my mother watched me as I seconded Rae’s veto of Dad’s “family book club” rule (Rule #25).

  “I’d use discretion with those, if I were you,” said Mom. “You only have five total and you’re already three down.”

  “There’s no way I’m getting trapped in mandatory yoga [Rule #23—vetoed], lunchtime power walks [Rule #24—vetoed], and now a family book club. I’d rather just take out the trash every week.”

  “Can you do me a personal favor and agree to something your dad suggests? He’s starting to get miffed that everyone’s nixing his ideas.”

  “If he comes up with something reasonable, I’ll consider it,” I replied.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Then, as if to provide a punitive incentive for future agreeability, my mother planted another rule on the board.

  Rule #26—Isabel wears a dress to work once a week

  “Huh?” I said, squinting at the board. Then I got to my feet and vetoed the rule.

  My mom turned to me and smiled smugly.

  “Remember,” she said. “You need two vetoes. The odds of finding someone to waste a veto on a rule that only affects you are slim.”

  “I’d scale back on the bullying, Mom. One day, it might come back to haunt you.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Mom asked, bemused.

  “Whatever you want to call it,” I replied.

  “How adorable.”

  Work silence followed (we do indeed do some work along with the interpersonal war games). Mom returned to her billing input and I ran a series of background checks on employee applicants for our main corporate employer, Zylor Corp.

  Then the phone rang. My mother looked at the clock and said, “It’s for you.”

  I eyed her suspiciously but picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Isabel, It’s Gerard . . . Mitchell.”

  “Oh, hi.”

  Gerard was the client who saw me in my underwear the other day. Remember? Well, I do. He’s a lawyer with McClatchy and Spring. My dad has done work with their firm for years now and has always been their primary liaison.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  “Can you meet me for a drink later this week?”

  “I guess so. Do you want my dad to come?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Well, normally you meet with my dad.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Silence.

  “This isn’t that kind of drink,” Gerard said.

  “What kind of drink is it?”

  “The more social kind.”

  “Huh,” I replied.

  “It’s my understanding you have a quota to fill. You already know me and I’m fairly harmless. What do you say?”

  Long, awkward silence followed while I glared at my mother and she smiled back with cheery delight.

  “Isabel, are you there?” Gerard said.

  “Yes,” I said, responding only to the most recent question but inadvertently agreeing to the date.

  “Great. Thursday. Eight P.M. Top of the Mark.”

  “How about a more low-key place?”

  Gerard cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “The site has been predetermined.”

  “Unbelievable,” I said. “I hope she’s giving you a hell of a discount.”

  “She is.”

  Knowing I had no other options, I reluctantly replied, “See you Thursday.”

  I turned to my mother to engage her in some kind of bitter stare-off, but she refused to meet my gaze.

  “We had an understanding,” she said, staring at her computer screen. “I’m merely facilitating.”

  “I get it. But why does it feel like you’re always facilitating more with me than with your other children?” I asked.

  Then my mother looked up and smiled wickedly.

  “Not true. There’s a big blonde whom I saw leaving your brother’s house last Wednesday at four P.M. sharp. I’d love to know who she is, and based on my track record of accusing your brother of certain things,1 I’m uncomfortable looking into this matter on my own. Can I interest you in a reciprocal negotiation?”

  “What’s your offer?” I asked.

  “In the future, you can choose half of the lawyer dates on your own—all the even-numbered ones. In fact, any professional will do. I’m feeling generous. Of course I will need some evidence that the date has taken place, but I’m sure we can work something out.”

  “And what exactly do you want from me?”

  “Just tell me who that big blonde is. And if she’s cause for concern, take care of the situation, if you know what I mean.2 I like Maggie. I want her sticking around.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  STAKEOUT #1

  Henry’s information practically begged me to take a closer look at Dr. Darren Hurtt, brother-in-law of Rick Harkey. For three hours the following Monday morning, I sat in the foyer of a three-story office building, which also housed a dentist, a lawyer, a gastroenterologist, some kind of low-rent advertising company, and one general practitioner—Hurtt. I mentally tagged any individual who pressed the elevator button to the third floor and when that same person departed fifteen to twenty minutes later, I phoned my accomplice.

  ME: Subject is exiting the building now.

  ACCOMPLICE: He sure doesn’t look injured.

  ME: There’s also an advertising agency and a charitable operation on the third floor. His health might be impeccable.

  ACCOMPLICE: Can’t you park yourself on the third floor?

  ME: No. There’s no place to sit.

  ACCOMPLICE: Can’t you pretend you’re lost?

  ME: I can’t pretend to be lost for three hours in a twenty-foot-long hallway without being made.

  ACCOMPLICE: How are we spending quality time together if I’m in the car and you’re a hundred yards away?

  ME: It’s a shared activity.

  ACCOMPLICE: A boring activity at that.

  ME: I told you that surveillance is mostly sitting around waiting for people to do something. How did you think that would be exciting?

  ACCOMPLICE: I tot we’d both be sitting in the car tegeter makin’ out.

  ME: Oh, I see.

  ACCOMPLICE: Tat’s not gonna happen, is it?

  ME: Not right now. Sorry.

  I suppose now would be as good a time as any to reveal the identity of my accomplice: Connor O’Sullivan, Ex-boyfriend #12. His odd work hours and my relatively normal ones made quality time outside of a bar virtually impossible. I had hoped this job would bring us together, but most surveillance neophytes can’t hack the monotony of the work.

  While Connor crunched on the snack food I left in the car, a man in a neck brace entered the building. His pain was our gain. Spirits improved considerably at this vision of a possible lead.

  CONNOR: This bloke sure looks like a Dr. Hurtt patient to me. What an unfortunate name for a doctor.

  Two hours and only two more obviously injured subjects later, Connor and I called it quits, mostly because Connor said if I didn’t agree to quit, he would take off without me. We did, however, make out for fifteen minutes, while sort of pretending to be still on the job, although during that time no further l
eads were spotted. Probably because we weren’t really looking.

  I dropped Connor off at the bar and headed to the apartment, where I donned a navy-blue wraparound dress purchased by my mother (in honor of Rule #26) and a full-length overcoat, because in my experience wraparound dresses don’t stay wrapped around in the San Francisco wind. Then I drove to Mr. Winslow’s home to see how his new domestic help was working out.

  I pressed the doorbell, which sent chimes throughout the house. Within twenty seconds the massive oak door gracefully opened and I was greeted by a fopped-out, clean-shaven Len Williams in a gray three-piece suit topped off with a cravat.

  “Ms. Spellman, I presume,” Len said with a posh British accent.

  The new incarnation of Len was an assault on all my senses. “I should have had a drink before I came over here.”

  “Follow me, miss.”

  Len, not breaking character for a moment, escorted me into the drawing room.1

  “Mr. Winslow will be down shortly.”

  I stared at my transformed friend and swallowed hard. I’m sure my face was turning red from the internal struggle to stifle my laughter.

  “Can I get anything for you, Ms. Spellman?” Len said, remaining utterly and disturbingly professional.

  “A sedative, maybe.”

  I exhaled, dropped to the couch, and stared at the pattern on what I can only assume was an oriental rug that could have paid my college tuition if, say, I went to college.

  “I think chamomile tea is in order,” Len deadpanned.

  I turned to him, checked for witnesses, and said, “You need to stay out of the room while I meet with Mr. Winslow. I can barely look at you,” I said.

  “Whatever you wish, Ms. Spellman.”

  “I’ll call you tonight for a report,” I whispered.

  Len nodded his head once and exited.

  Mr. Winslow entered the room five minutes later, exactly the amount of time it took me to move beyond my urge to double over in a fit of hysterical laughter. I got to my feet and shook Mr. Winslow’s hand. His appearance, his mood, and the placement of his glasses had improved since our meeting a week back.

  “Ms. Spellman, a pleasure as always. Please sit down,” he said, waving me into the nearest seat.

  “How is everything working out?” I asked.

  “Mr. Leonard is a godsend,” Winslow replied.

  I coughed to get over the shock of hearing Len referred to as Mr. Leonard. It had a nice ring to it. I decided I would call my friend “Mr. Leonard” for the rest of his days or as long as my joke endurance lasted.

  Mr. Leonard, whose posture had improved considerably in the past week, entered the room with a quiet knock and put a plate of cookies and tea on the table.

  I immediately ate a cookie, mostly out of curiosity. It was good and tasted like it had been baked this year.

  “This one has such an appetite,” Mr. Winslow said to Mr. Leonard.

  “Indeed,” Mr. Leonard replied.

  The discussion of my appetite squashed it, so I drank the tea that Mr. Leonard served.

  “Will that be all?” Mr. Leonard said to his other boss.2

  “Yes. Thank you,” Mr. Winslow replied graciously.

  I could bore you with the details of the perfectly brewed tea and the polite conversation that accompanied it, but suffice it to say Mr. Winslow believed Mr. Leonard was a benefit to his home and his welfare. I asked my host if he had any particular employees of which he was in doubt and he said that was not the sort of thing he kept track of. Mason was far more vigilant in that regard and kept the details to himself to avoid upsetting Mr. Winslow. I asked for Mason’s current contact information, but my client was at a loss for how he would even begin to find it. He did say that he’d received some “letters on the computer”3 since his departure and he would try to locate them at his earliest convenience.

  I drank my tea, ate one more cookie when Winslow wasn’t looking, and departed, catching one final glimpse of my friend Mr. Leonard, who said, “Until next time, Ms. Spellman.”

  Next Time

  After twelve hours of his undercover butlering, I phoned Mr. Leonard for his report. He refused to shake the accent, which I assumed he did to annoy either me or Christopher, but later I would learn otherwise. Anyway, for the proper effect you should imagine this conversation between me and Sir John Gielgud in Arthur.

  MR. LEONARD: Good evening, Ms. Isabel.

  ME: You can lose the accent now.

  MR. LEONARD: I’d rather not. I prefer the Method approach.

  ME: Great. What have you got for me, Mr. Leonard?

  MR. LEONARD: I can tell you that the house was a complete disaster until I got there. That Mason Graves was thoroughly disorganized and had absolutely no idea how to keep his employer looking respectable. Until I arrived, Mr. Winslow dressed himself like a blind man tossed into a closet of clothes that might have been appropriate in the sixties. It was shameful.

  ME: Do you have any opinions on anything beyond Winslow’s closet?

  MR. LEONARD: For instance?

  ME: What do you make of the rest of the staff?

  MR. LEONARD: I believe the driver is doing a fine job. At least he keeps the cars in order and seems to obey the laws of traffic. I have not taken to Mrs. Enright, the head housekeeper, I have to admit. But how can you like someone who clearly despises you? I haven’t been loathed with that kind of passion since I stole the part of Sam in Athol Fugard’s Master Harold . . . and the Boys from Derek Miller.

  ME: You know that reference was totally lost on me.

  MR. LEONARD: Yes, I do. You need more culture.

  ME: Do me a favor and make sure Mr. Winslow finds those e-mails that Graves sent him. Also, find out who his lawyer is. I’m curious about the state of his will.

  MR. LEONARD: I will take care of these matters promptly.

  ME: Is there anyone in the house that you find suspicious?

  MR. LEONARD: Not yet. I suspect everyone was afraid of Mason. At least that seems to be the case since I can barely get any of the staff to talk to me and whenever I enter a room, all conversations are hushed and the parties hustle back to work.

  ME: Why is that?

  MR. LEONARD: I don’t know. It’s simply the roles that have been established. But they fear me. I’m like the evil foreman on a construction site or something.

  ME: Well, don’t let all that power go to your head.

  LEN:4 Speaking of fear, did you tell Mr. Winslow I was a brother?

  ME: Um, I don’t think it came up. Why?

  LEN: Well, when I first met him in the driveway of the estate, he reached for his wallet as if he were going to hand it over.

  ME: That must have been awkward.

  LEN: We laugh about it now. I’ll be in touch, Ms. Spellman.

  MANDATORY

  LAWYER DATE #1

  After hours of brainstorming, my mother and I could find no other way to verify my lawyer dates (and confirm that I was not deliberately sabotaging them) other than through digital recordings. Unfortunately, this is against the law in California (unless both parties consent, and that would be hard to explain on any first date), and so once my mother listened to the tape and verified that a date in fact occurred, we would destroy the evidence. My point is, don’t tell anyone about this. It’s illegal, but it’s not like I’m going to use the recordings in a legal proceeding; I’m simply complying with the intractable demands of my mother. Not that meeting these demands precluded subterfuge. Oh no, there would be subterfuge, all right.

  The purpose of the recordings was to prove that the “dates” had the feel of dates—the uncomfortable, bio-swapping, dead-silent, ice-clinking, dread-filled feel of a date. As far as I could tell, I only had to be myself to bring about all that and more.

  Since my first mandatory date was with a known entity—a valued client who had spent enough time with my parents to know that a few tools in their shed needed replacement, and one who was getting a discount for his troubles—h
e was a soft target. The others, I should mention now, were a trickier bunch.

  After the initial pleasantries (if you don’t know what pleasantries are—I didn’t for years—they’re the “Hello, how are you doing,” ordering-drinks part of the introductions), I pulled the tape recorder from my pocket and showed it to Gerard.

  “I need to record this for proof,” I said.

  “Seriously?” Gerard replied.

  “She needs evidence. Otherwise she’ll accuse me of deliberate sabotage or bribery.”

  “Bribery?”

  “You know, like I offer you twenty bucks or an extra 10 percent off future work if you just tell my mother that we had drinks and a few laughs, but I’m not the girl for you, which is what you’re going to tell her anyway.”

  “I’m confused, Isabel.”

  “Cards on the table, Gerard.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “I have a boyfriend. My mother loathes him. If I date two lawyers a month, she leaves him alone.”1

  “If you don’t?”

  “She calls the INS, the IRS, any governmental organization with three letters, and then, if that doesn’t work, she drops by the bar—”

  “The bar?”

  “He’s a bartender.”

  “I see.”

  “She drops by his bar with empty threats, which don’t seem empty to people who are not well acquainted with her.”

  “I guess I should be glad she works for me,” Gerard said, appearing mildly stunned and a little bit tired.

  Gerard drained his martini; I turned on the digital recorder once I got his nod of approval.

  [Partial transcript reads as follows:]

  ISABEL: So, Gerard, tell me about yourself.

  GERARD: What do you want to know?

  ISABEL: Tell me everything. I want to know everything there is to know about you.

  GERARD: Waiter, can I get another drink?

  WAITER: Ma’am, would you like another?

  ISABEL: Yes, and make that the last time you call me “ma’am.”

  [Long pause.]

  ISABEL: Go on, Gerard. Tell me your life story.

  GERARD: Two parents. One sister. Primary school. College. Law school. Lawyer. Married. No children. Divorced. Still lawyer.