THE SPELLMANS STRIKE AGAIN

by Lisa Lutz

  “Hi, Isabel,” Gerard said nonchalantly as he departed.

  After he left, my mother whispered, “Recently divorced.”

  “So?” I replied.

  “So, I’m thinking he should be your first lawyer date,” Mom casually replied.

  “Mom, I have a boyfriend. I’m not going to go on dates with other men.”

  “I think you are,” Mom replied. “I know it was a long time ago, sweetie, but I don’t think we need the events of Prom Night 1994 to see the light of day. Do you?”

  “You wouldn’t,” I replied.

  “I would,” Mom answered. “I’ve been holding on to this nugget for Rae’s entire lifetime, just waiting for the perfect opportunity.”

  My mom’s threat must have drained the color from my face.

  “You could use some blush,” she added, scrounging through her purse.

  I swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump in my throat. While blackmail is standard fare in the Spellman household, most of my misdeeds had already been exposed. Honestly, I had almost forgotten about this one. And this one was probably the worst of all.

  Mom put some color on my cheeks while I batted her hand away. Then she gave me the lowdown on my impending meeting.

  “Remember, Izzy. This is important. Mr. Winslow has been our client for seven years. He might be suffering from the early stages of dementia—it’s really hard to tell with him. But he is always polite, usually serves some food and drink at meetings, and he always pays his bill on time. Don’t fuck this up, sweetie.”

  I arrived at Mr. Franklin Winslow’s obscene mansion in Pacific Heights at precisely twelve fifteen P.M. I pulled into his driveway, delighting in one of those rare occasions when parking is not a challenge.

  I was greeted at the door by the wary housekeeper, Mrs. Elizabeth Enright. Only Enright and the absent valet, Mason Graves, have been in Mr. Winslow’s employment for more than eleven months. The housekeeper had logged five years and the valet eight—relatively brief employments considering how old Mr. Winslow is and how long he has resided at that residence. His previous valet had been with him since he was in his early thirties and died at the ripe old age of eighty-five. I gathered it was a crushing loss, but one that was tempered by his employment of Mason Graves, whom I gathered had been a solid replacement.

  Judging purely by the scowl on her face, the housekeeper wasn’t pleased to see me. Since that’s a phenomenon I’m not unfamiliar with, I wasn’t offended. Otherwise I might have taken issue with the scones she served, which I’m pretty certain were scrounged from the back of the freezer and probably baked when I was still in my twenties. In the interest of full disclosure, I ate them anyway because I was starving.

  I waited fifteen minutes for Mr. Winslow to make an appearance, which was just enough time to take the edge off my hunger and catch Mrs. Enright peering in on me surreptitiously, although not that surreptitiously, since I spotted her.

  Mr. Winslow was old, as I expected, and dressed in a mismatch of evening wear, business clothes, and something that I can only assume is called a smoking jacket, but my familiarity with that fashion statement was limited to stoned viewings of Masterpiece Theatre (or maybe it was parodies of Masterpiece Theatre from reruns of The Muppet Show). One could hardly call me an expert, is my point. Aside from Mr. Winslow’s complicated, mismatched ensemble, I would discover other incongruities to fill the time.

  As Winslow descended his circular staircase, I got to my feet out of courtesy. He was tall and slim and seemed to be gray all over, including his clothes. I estimated his age to be in the midseventies, but his gait was that of a much younger man. Some might say he was in sore need of a haircut, but I couldn’t decide if that was his foppish style or negligent grooming. He was too thin and I found myself considering that I’d lose my appetite too if a rude woman were serving me stale scones all the time. But he didn’t exactly look malnourished, just Peter O’Toole, I’d-rather-have-a-drink thin, and Mr. Winslow’s posture was exquisite. But then I think English people haven’t taken to slouching the way North Americans have.1

  When Winslow finally reached me, he said, “My dear, a pleasure to see you,” and then he kissed my hand, looked me up and down, and wrinkled his brow. “You look so young and big and well fed.”

  “Thank you,” I hesitantly replied, since “What are you getting at?” would have sounded unprofessional.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Mr. Winslow said, waving me back into my chair. “You’ve done something different with your hair.”

  I hadn’t, but it’s best not to argue with clients, especially on the first meeting. “Something. I’ve definitely done something with it.”

  “Well, it’s a pleasure seeing you again, Olivia,” Mr. Winslow said, and then I solved my very first mystery of the day.

  “Mr. Winslow,” I interrupted. “I’m Is-a-bel Spellman, Albert and Olivia’s daugh-ter.”

  Mr. Winslow stared at me for an uncomfortably long time, shook his head sadly as if fighting tears, and said, “I couldn’t find my glasses this morning.”

  “They’re on top of your head,” I replied.

  Mr. Winslow relocated his glasses and took me in one more time.

  “I see it now. You are not Olivia. Your mother is a very beautiful woman.”

  He said it plainly, not rudely, but sometimes the content is more relevant than the delivery.

  “I hope you’re not disappointed,” I replied, insulted but holding it in. “I believe my mother told you that I would be meeting you today.”

  “Without Mason, I’m afraid that my entire life is in disarray.”

  Mrs. Enright hovered with more tea. Mr. Winslow waved her away with a look of distrust and suggested we move into his study, where our meeting could be more private. I suddenly realized why my mom enjoyed these Winslow meetings so much. It was like briefly inhabiting a life-sized game of Clue.

  Mr. Winslow has employed Spellman Investigations throughout the years to investigate bad domestic help so that he can clean house with a clear conscience. The problem is he’s always cleaning house, with the exception of his absent valet, Mason, and Mrs. Enright. No other current employee had lasted longer than a year, which meant that no one—other than Mason, the unspoken head of the household—fully understood how to keep this compound running. And now the house, the staff, and its owner had found themselves living in a state of chaos. Although I have discovered that chaos is relative. Nothing in Winslow’s home seemed amiss to me besides Winslow himself.

  Ultimately, my client’s primary problem was the absence of his not-so-longtime “gentleman’s gentleman,” Mason Graves. Recently Mason’s mother had taken ill and Mason had to return home to England for a few months to care for her. In the meantime, Mr. Winslow was sharing his home with a furtive housekeeper and a handful of strangers.

  When it came down to it, Mr. Winslow wanted me to find him a temporary valet, but not just any valet: a valet/spy who could make sure that the support staff wasn’t plotting against him at every turn and that the house and the man of the house were kept in working order. When I left Mr. Winslow’s home, I had just the valet in mind. I also had two messages on my voice mail, followed by a text message that read: “If the heat doesn’t kill me, the boredom will.” I decided I should save a life before tackling my next line of business.

  PHONE CALL

  FROM THE EDGE #17

  One of my best friends is old—like, really old. And you could say we have nothing in common except a mutual interest in keeping me out of jail. He was my pro bono attorney. I’d met him on a random surveillance and he later helped with some pesky harassment charges. Once the case was closed, we started having lunch. Then I had his driver’s license revoked and then I persuaded Morty to move to Florida against all his wishes, since it was the only thing that would keep his marriage (a long and solid one at that) together. If you look at just the bullet points, I guess I don’t sound like the kind of friend you’d want on your side. If you want more informa
tion, you know what you need to do.

  Three months earlier, Morty had moved to Miami. As with our previous lunches, we rarely went more than a week without having some form of communication. I should note, however, that in the dozens of conversations we’d had so far, I hadn’t heard any bright lights mentioned about his recent move other than the blazing bright light of the sun, which still doesn’t shine as much as you’d think, what with the rain and humidity.

  Our conversation on this day went something like this:

  ME: When did you learn to text-message?

  MORTY: What else am I supposed to do here?

  ME: I’m so proud of you.

  MORTY: Don’t be. It took me a total of fifteen hours to figure it out. I actually timed myself so the next time Gabe tries to get me to learn some of this new cockamamie technology, I’ll have evidence that it’s not the best use of my last days here on earth.

  ME: When did you start counting in days?

  MORTY: Since my doctor pointed out that I’m already nine years past the average male lifespan.

  ME: Morty, I’m going to start ignoring your calls if you keep talking like this.

  [Sound of teeth-sucking.]

  ME: Would you stop that!

  MORTY: You can hear that?

  ME: Yeah, Morty. Teeth-sucking isn’t like rolling your eyes. It can be heard over phone lines.

  [Long pause.]

  ME: You’re rolling your eyes now, aren’t you?

  MORTY: They don’t roll like they used to.

  ME: I doubt I’d even see it through those Coke-bottle glasses of yours.

  MORTY: Still with that Irish guy?

  ME: Yes. Can we change the subject?

  MORTY: You’re always changing that subject.

  ME: Because you always ask as if you’re surprised.

  MORTY: I am.

  ME: So how’s life at Sleepy Palms?1

  MORTY: They’re dropping like flies here.

  ME: Do you suspect foul play?

  MORTY: It’s almost always the cancer or the ticker.

  ME: Just say “cancer.” You don’t have to say “the cancer.”

  MORTY: What are you, a doctor?

  ME: No. But I know that you don’t need to insert an article before the word “cancer.”

  MORTY: When did you become a linguist?

  ME: I’m just giving you some helpful advice so your new friends don’t make fun of you.

  MORTY: I don’t have any new friends, but if I did, they’d say “the cancer” too.

  ME: Forget it.

  MORTY: Forgotten.

  ME: How’s the Northern California vacation plan coming along?

  MORTY: It could be better. Ruthy thinks I’m going to go AWOL, so we’re still negotiating.

  ME: You wouldn’t do that to her, would you?

  [Dead silence.]

  ME: Would you?

  MORTY: Speaking of the devil. Ruthy just got home from the market. I got to help her with the bags. Or should I just say “bags”? “I got to help her with bags”? That doesn’t sound right.

  ME: Good-bye, Morty.

  UNDERCOVER BUTLER

  I was halfway across the bridge when my phone call with Morty ended, just in time for me to phone my friend Len and warn him about my impending arrival.

  “Hello,” he answered, having no idea that this phone call was going to change his entire life—or at least his immediate life and bank account.

  “Isabel here. I have a proposition for you.”

  “Oh, Isabel, why is it that all your propositions are either illegal, ethically questionable, or at the very least offensive?”1

  “Are you still an unemployed actor?”

  “Are you implying that unemployed actors have no right to integrity?”

  “No. I was merely making sure you weren’t busy, because I have an acting job for you.”

  “You have an acting job for me?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Do I get to keep my clothes on?” Len asked skeptically.

  “Oh, yes. In fact, formal wear will be mandatory.”

  • • •

  I was across the bridge and at Len and his lover Christopher’s Oakland loft in an hour (although it should have taken only forty-five minutes). Christopher had just returned home from work; he’s a decorator at a tiny firm in the city. Like Len, Christopher was once an actor (they met at ACT), but reality set in, which included news from his wealthy mother in England that she would no longer be supporting their “habit,” as she liked to call it. On the surface Len and Christopher are quite similar—black, lean, handsome, with impeccable taste and manners. But their backgrounds could not be more different. Christopher was brought up in the English boarding school system and his childhood home had wings. Len, by contrast, lived in the San Francisco projects on and off and was once a drug dealer (by financial necessity more than choice).

  Len, aka Leonard Williams, and I met in high school. Our relationship began, like so many of mine, with a secret. I accidentally discovered that Len was gay and kept it to myself. The longer the secret remained a secret, the more Len realized that he could trust me. Other than the secret, we had nothing in common. This seems like a fragile beginning for any relationship, but for whatever reason it stuck. Even as Len grew to become a respectable member of society and my maturity level flatlined, we remained friends. Eventually his secret came out. (Did it ever.)

  In the past, I’ve asked Len and Christopher to put their considerable acting skills to questionable uses, but this time my request was legitimate. I was offering real money and a true test of his craft. And from the looks of things, Len needed a break from his life of leisure.

  I found my old friend swathed in a luxurious bathrobe, being warmed by a cup of tea and an old Bette Davis movie on television. There was a scent of lavender in the air, as if a bath had recently been run, and I could catch the smudge of a face mask on the edge of his forehead. Len was clearly well rested, well groomed, and the picture of idle good health. Christopher, just home from work, observed the same particulars (using the set of detective skills that seem to come with any intimate relationship).

  The partner with the job instructed Len to get me a drink from the kitchen—the traditional domestic roles firmly in place, in part because one person had spent the day doing nothing at all. Len hopped to his feet, happy for the company and the diversion. Christopher got off his feet and looked at me with a note of pleading.

  “Tell me you’ve got a real job for him and not one of your nonsense, no-pay pranks.”1

  Once I’d provided a feature-length version of the assignment, both Len and Christopher were entirely on board, even though the job was Len’s alone.

  “Can I use my British accent?” Len asked.

  “Mr. Winslow was raised in London, so I wouldn’t use it unless it’s really good,” I cautioned him.

  Len turned to Christopher for his approval.

  “It’s good. We’ll have to determine which dialect would be the most appropriate, but I think you can pull it off.”

  I handed Len Mr. Winslow’s card with the time of his appointment and added my final instructions: “Remember, this is a full-time valet position, although you can come home at night. Don’t take it unless you’re up for it. The pay is fifty dollars an hour. Spend the weekend reading up on what modern valets do—don’t just watch a marathon of Jeeves and Wooster, okay? Your job is to take care of Mr. Winslow and keep an eye on the help. Make sure nothing is amiss; report to me every few days. If I drop by the house at some point to meet with Mr. Winslow, you don’t know me. Got it? You’re in there undercover.”

  “Anything else, boss?” Len asked with a wink.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Lose the soul patch.”

  “Thank god!” Christopher exclaimed, as if it was a long-fought battle and the victory was finally his.

  EX-BOYFRIEND #12

  Connor phoned me as I was crossing the bridge.

  “Where are ya?” he
said with a rough edge.

  I told him.

  “Where are ya headed?”

  “I thought I’d drop by the bar and surprise you.”

  “It’s not a surprise if ya do it almost every day.”

  “Well, would you like a different kind of surprise?” I said, not liking the tone in his voice.

  “For instance?”

  “Me changing the locks on my apartment,” I suggested.

  “Don’t you sass me after the day I’ve had,” Connor said, and for some reason I could pinpoint the exact source of his agitation.

  “Did my mother happen to drop by the bar today?”

  “She certainly did,” Connor replied. “And you, young lady, have some explaining to do.”

  An hour and a half later, and forty-five minutes into the explaining, the conversation hadn’t taken any turns, for better or for worse.

  “Let me get this straight,” Connor said. “You will be dating other men while you’re seeing me, but I’m not allowed to see other women.”

  “You’ve got the basic idea down,” I said, “but somehow when you say it, it sounds unreasonable.”

  “It is unreasonable!” Connor shouted.

  I should mention that since it was still early in the evening, Connor was the only bartender on shift and so our conversation was pretty much free entertainment for the regulars, primarily Clarence.

  “But they’re not real dates,” I calmly replied. “I don’t want to go on them either. But if I go, I think she’ll leave us alone for a while. At least that’s what she promised.”1

  “She didn’t leave me alone today,” he said.

  Excellent point, but I didn’t mention that.

  “Well, she thought if she broke the news to you, she could put a slant on things that would interfere with our relationship.”

  “I think you dating other men will interfere with our relationship as it is.”