by Lisa Lutz
1. There was that one time I took the validation when I found street parking and sold it to some guy I met in the elevator bank. A parking attendant ratted me out.
2. As I mentioned earlier, Damien had a dreadful time managing the unruly food item and most of it landed on his lap.
3. Note to men: You will never hear “His hair color looked so natural” unless it actually is natural, and then nobody needs to say it.
4. I’m not sure what I was supposed to find.
5. My best friend and partner in crime for many years. We’d lost touch recently.
6. Goldfish.
7. A.k.a. Grammy Spellman
NO SNITCH IZZY
At home I was minding my own business when David called to beckon me upstairs.
“No way,” I said. How stupid did he think I was?
“Max is here. He’d like to talk to you.”
“Who is Max?”
“Claire’s dad. Remember, the father of the kid you watched the other day?”
“And I need to talk to him for what reason?”
“Izzy, get upstairs. It’s not a trap.”
I entered their house through the back door, which is only steps away from my front door.
I overheard Maggie say, “Now remember, Claire, be on your worst behavior today.”
“I’m not sure you have the right action plan,” Max said.
The girls were playing with their disproportionately shaped dolls and the adults were in the kitchen drinking beer. I helped myself to one from the fridge and uncapped it on the corner of the counter.
“Why can’t you do that stuff in front of Sydney?” David said.
“What’s up?” I asked. It was safe to assume that I was to be reprimanded for something. It’s not like I taught Claire the alphabet when she was in my charge.
“My daughter keeps calling me a snitch,” Max said.
“Are you?” I asked.
“Izzy,” David said, “this isn’t an inquisition. Max just wants to understand the origin of Claire’s new catchphrase.”
“We were eating cookies the other day,” Max said, “and I told her she could have two. Then when I wasn’t looking she stole a third cookie.”
“Smart girl.”
“I called her on it and then she starting saying, ‘Don’t be a snitch, Daddy. Don’t be a snitch.’ ”
From the next room Claire echoed the sentiment.
“My work here is done,” I said.
“Did you have the snitch talk with Claire?” David asked.
Meanwhile, Maggie was doubled over, laughing convulsively, trying to keep her beer from expelling through her nose. To Max’s credit, he didn’t appear extremely perturbed and I could see him flush at the ridiculousness of the conversation.
Since I was indeed responsible for this nonsense, I decided to come clean.
“I did briefly touch on the topic of snitching, but with Sydney, not Claire. I gave the girls some cookies.” I would rather not get into how many.1 “Apparently Claire took one more than was allowed and Sydney ratted her out. I said to Sydney, ‘Don’t be a snitch.’ For the record, this isn’t the first time I’ve had the snitch talk with Sydney and it’s not sticking. Apparently the essence of the lesson was lost on your daughter.”
“They’re too young, Isabel, to understand the concept of snitching,” David said.
“I didn’t know that. You’re always telling me how smart children are,” I said. “I thought I was imparting some valuable wisdom. And I think we should all remember that I was duped into babysitting in the first place.”
“Once again,” David said, “we apologize. But, you know, most aunties would jump at the chance to spend quality time with their niece.”
“You can always call Rae.”
“We’re going to barbecue,” David said. “Want to stay for dinner?”
“Are the kids staying?”
“Yes, Izzy.”
“I think I’ll pass,” I said.
I have had many meals with Sydney and at almost every one she throws a tantrum so spectacular, you wonder if she’s doing permanent damage to your eardrums.
“Nice to see you again, Max,” I said. “You have a lovely daughter. She’s much nicer than my niece, has no royal aspirations, and doesn’t have a peanut allergy.2
“Good-bye, snitches,” I said to the girls.
Sydney said, “No Izzy.”
Claire said, “Izzy stay.”
“Anyone want to swap kids? Just an idea.”
• • •
I decided to drop by Slayter’s place while children were running amok overhead. As I left my apartment, an old Dodge pickup truck was idling across the street. Two males sat in the front seat, looking at what appeared to be David and Maggie’s residence.
I stood in the middle of the sidewalk and made eye contact.
“You Maggie? You the lawyer?”
I stepped under the light of the streetlamp so they’d get a better look at my face. I’d rather they identified me than my sister-in-law. The driver had a tattoo on his neck. If he wasn’t an ex-con, he would be someday, assuming he got out.
“What can I do for you?”
“Bitch, thought you were a defense attorney.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“You’re talking to too many people.”
I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and the guy with the tattoos peeled out. Never got his license plate number.
• • •
I wouldn’t say that I make a habit of unannounced visits, but it certainly wasn’t unprecedented.
From the front door I could hear jazz playing inside, a male voice holding forth—Edward’s—and a woman’s laughter adding another layer to the soundtrack. It sounded like a date. Most people would have left then and there, but Edward and I have an understanding.
I rang the doorbell three times. I heard my boss’s clipped footsteps approach. When he swung open the door, he was unpleasantly surprised and visually verified that he was on a date. Edward has a date uniform—a crisp, white shirt unbuttoned to show off his even tan, and he wears loafers instead of the cap-toe oxfords that he prefers for work. Also, he wears cologne. Only on dates; never at work.
“Isabel,” he said. “This isn’t a good time.”
“Entertaining,” I said, brushing past him. It wasn’t a question.
Inside I found a very attractive and fit woman in her early forties. Her hair was highlighted to give the impression of blondness and her face was three shades paler than her legs. She appeared more than startled to see me and got to her feet defensively when I entered the dining room. To her, I could have been anyone. Edward’s daughter, an ex-girlfriend, his minister.
Edward cleared his throat. “Lenore, I’d like you to meet Isabel, my niece. She was in the neighborhood and thought she’d drop by.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking Lenore’s hand. She had that lady grip, like a dead fish. I always consider it a bad omen. “Uncle Ed, can I talk to you privately?”
Edward took my arm with a tight squeeze and led me down the hallway into his office. Inside, he shut the door, which is reliably soundproof.
“Please tell me she’s a hooker,” I said.
“Your timing is atrocious,” he said.
“I pride myself on that. Don’t high-end hookers usually retire by that age and then become madams?”
“Don’t be indecent.”
“Where did you meet her?” I asked.
“At the tennis club.”
“How convenient. Does she have references?”
“Sheldon introduced us. I believe she’s friendly with his ex-wife.”
Sheldon Meyers is an old and dear friend of Edward’s and one of the three major shareholders of Slayter Industries, along with Edward and Willard Slavinsky. I was sure he wouldn’t go out of his way to set Edward up with a gold-digger, but I’ve noticed that rich old men aren’t very good at spotting them.
“And h
ow long has Sheldon known her?”
Slayter avoided eye contact to avoid the question.
“Edward, we discussed this. Any time you date a new woman, you have to let me vet her completely. There’s too much at risk.”
Slayter’s ex-wife was, in essence, a con artist who had positioned herself to make a lot of money off of her marriage. Slayter’s medical condition makes him even more vulnerable, and we have had many discussions about how to proceed should he find himself in any romantic entanglements.
“It’s unseemly to pry into the life of someone you’ve just met.”
“What if she finds out?” I said. “She could use it to blackmail you.”
“You have such a bleak view of the world,” Edward said.
“It’s not bleak, it’s cautious.” It’s actually bleak, these days.
Edward played with his collar, as if he were Rodney Dangerfield loosening his red tie.
“Where’s Ethan, by the way?”
“I put him up in one of the corporate apartments. My housekeeper threatened to quit if he stayed.”
“Does everyone get an apartment?”
“I was having a lovely evening, Isabel.”
I took a pad of paper off of his desk. “Give me her name and address and I’ll let you close the deal.”
“You’re so crude.”
Edward reluctantly jotted down Lenore Parker’s information and passed me the slip of paper.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” I said on my way out of the office.
“Was there a purpose to your visit?” Edward asked as an afterthought.
“I was going to debrief you on Divine Strategies. But mostly I was avoiding a playdate.”
From the foyer, I shouted my adieu to Lenore.
“Sorry to interrupt your evening. Nice meeting you.”
“I hope our next visit isn’t so brief,” Lenore politely lied.
“Me too,” I said.
• • •
Thursday afternoon, I returned to the Spellman compound, which was abandoned except for D.
When my parents are in the house, there’s an ineffable energy, a vibration. You always know where they are. You’d think snoops would have more stealth, but my parents, especially, seem to have lead feet when they’re at home. My point is, within a few minutes of arriving at Spellman Central, I could sense that the unit was out.
“Where is everyone?” I asked D.
“Your parents left around ten and Vivien was here for an hour filling out her time sheets and then she got a call and left.”
On my desk was a stack of pleasantly surprising paperwork. My mother had entered all the time sheets and generated the client bills, a chore she hadn’t performed in over five months. On top of that was a check from someone named Marshall Greenblatt for two thousand dollars.
“Have you seen Rae?” I asked.
“She was in this morning to drop off the check.”
“Do you know anything about this Marshall Greenblatt?”
“She mentioned another case to Vivien, but I don’t know anything.”
“I think you know something.”
“I think the muffins are ready,” D said, strolling into the kitchen.
I followed him to see if I could extract any more information or at least get a muffin out of it.
“D, I don’t have eyes in the back of my head and I’m not here all of the time. If something is going on that I need to know about, I would appreciate it if you told me.”
“Do you know what happens to snitches in prison?” D asked.
“I don’t know, but this isn’t prison. So those rules don’t apply here. Out of curiosity, what does happen to snitches? Do they get their tongues cut out?”
“It was more of a rhetorical question. I don’t want to get into it.”
“Then you shouldn’t have brought it up. Do we understand each other? This is not prison.”
“Muffin?”
“See? The opposite of prison. Thank you. Ouch.” I probably should have waited for the muffin to cool and Demetrius probably should have waited to offer until the muffin cooled. “Do you know where my parents are?”
“I have no idea where Al and Olivia are,” D said assertively, which, in contrast to his lack of assertion about Rae’s activities, led me to believe he knew much more than what he was saying. At least about my sister.
Just then the doorbell rang. I opened the door.
“Fred Finkel, computer repairman, at your service,” Fred Finkel said.
Fred is Rae’s boyfriend. There are many things to recommend Fred. In fact, his only apparent flaw is his affection for my sister.
“Fred, nice to see you. What are you doing here?”
“I’m fixing your computers.”
“You can do that sort of thing?”
“I can do a lot of things,” he said.
“Be my guest,” I said, leading him into the office.
An hour later, Fred had a diagnosis.
“You’ve got the Remlu virus. I installed new antivirus software and defragmented all the computers. You should do that every month. Should be fine now.”
“What do I owe you?” I asked.
“Fifty for my time, and Rae said I couldn’t leave without the oatmeal cookies.”
Just then D entered the office and delivered a giant Tupperware container of cookies as if Fred had phoned in a preorder.
I wrote Fred a check and he and his cookies departed. I turned to D and asked the obvious question.
“Does my sister have something on you?”
“We have a mutually beneficial business arrangement,” D said.
• • •
Once again, the unit had been out all day and returned home sometime in the afternoon. Instead of loitering in the kitchen or dropping by the office to watch other people work, which they sometimes did for fun, and often included some schoolyard mockery, they went straight to their bedroom.
I removed my shoes and tiptoed up the stairs, hoping to catch a few scraps from their private conversation. I knelt down by their bedroom door and caught only a few phrases out of context.
“I didn’t like him,” Mom said. “I don’t think he knows what he’s talking about.”
“Now you’re the expert.”
“This is serious. It’s not something you take lightly.”
As I was shifting weight on my legs, the floorboards creaked.
“Is somebody out there?” my mother asked.
I stood up straight and knocked on their door.
“Come in,” said Dad.
“Hi,” I said.
“Good afternoon, Isabel. Did you see I left the billing for you?” my mother said.
“Yes. Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“I’ll take care of the payroll this evening,” Mom said.
“You will?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything wrong with working during the day, like normal people?”
“Are you suggesting that people who work a swing shift aren’t normal?”
“Is it that you don’t want to be in the office with me?” I asked.
“I think we’ve earned the right to make our own hours,” Mom said.
“Where were you this morning?”
Dad hoisted himself off the bed and escorted me out of their room.
“I need a nap,” he said. “Try to keep it down, if you don’t mind.”
He shut the door before I could make any further inquiries. While I was desperately in need of their help and grateful for it, their motivations didn’t sit right with me. It wasn’t a complete turnaround, but their sudden agreeability struck me as uncharacteristic. Considering the level our battle had reached, it seemed likely that they had a few more airstrikes to make.
And what the hell were they whispering about?
When I returned to my desk, I found a suspicious business card sitting atop the stack of suspicious paperwork. Despite the company name in our house design, it was
not company issued.
Spellman Investigations
Rae Spellman, Conflict Resolution Specialist
Instead of including the company phone number or address, the card contained Rae’s cell number and a PO box address in the Mission District.
As far as I knew, only one person had been in the office since I left.
I held up the card and said, “D, where did this come from?”
“I have no idea,” D said, not turning away from his computer monitor.
“You were the only person in this office since I left.”
“Maybe you didn’t see it the first time around,” D said.
“What is a conflict resolution specialist?”
“That is an interesting question,” D said. “Something worth pondering.”
I approached Vivien’s desk and looked for anything that was in plain view. I certainly wasn’t the type of employer who would go through an employee’s desk or read her e-mails (which are fair game in the corporate world), but it was absolutely my right to pick up the file folder labeled Greenblatt, Marshall (of two-thousand-dollar-check fame) and see what was inside.
I returned to my desk and perused the file, only to find myself more perplexed than when I didn’t have the data. The entire case file contained newspaper and magazine clippings of astrological forecasts for the last two weeks. It also included photocopies from books on astrology, summarizing the essential traits of each sign. Several sections were highlighted, with no discernible pattern. There was only one other piece of paper in the file, a page from a legal notepad, handwritten in Rae’s distinct script with a date from two weeks ago, the name Yvonne LaPlante, and the word Aquarius underlined three times below her name.
I showed the file to D.
“Does this make any sense to you?”
“No,” he calmly replied. “But nothing that girl does makes a whole lot of sense to me.”
As if on cue, Rae phoned the office.
“Now that I’m back in the fold, so to speak,” she said, “the company financials are a little more interesting to me. I’m concerned about your accounting system.”
I could hear the finger quotes around the word system over the phone line.
“What’s your concern?” I asked.
“Mom is under the impression that I have loaned the company money. She thinks we’re underwater.”
