THE SPELLMANS STRIKE AGAIN

by Lisa Lutz

  “I heard you had information for me,” I said, once Rae was out of the room.

  “I thought we talked about this already.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Friends don’t talk to friends as if they’re meeting in a parking lot in the middle of the night to exchange top-secret information.”

  “Some friends do. We could be friends like that.”

  “I don’t want to be friends like that.”

  “What if I do?” I said.

  “Parking lots are cold this time of year.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Why so hostile, Isabel?”

  “You pulled a bait and switch.”

  “How so?”

  “You told Rae you had information for me. Where is it? I don’t see it anywhere,” I said, scanning the room for emphasis.

  “Drink your drink, Isabel, and then you’ll get your information.”

  I drank my drink and glared at Henry. I slammed my glass on the table, indicating a second drink was in order. He obliged, even though he was stingy with the bourbon, the way all moderate drinkers are.

  “Now,” he said. “Tell me about your day. Or would you prefer we chat in the alley using code names?”

  My day had been dull, but Henry hung on every word. Eventually I pried that bit of information out of him.

  “I’ve been here long enough,” I said. “What have you got for me?”

  “Tonight’s a full moon,” Henry replied.

  “And?”

  “You should stop and take a look at it. That’s all.”

  I punched Henry in the arm and left.

  THE SNOWBALL EFFECT

  My cheap screenwriter client had only one assignment for me: pick up his ex–writing partner’s trash and see what she was writing and whether her writing was getting her anywhere.

  Spellman Investigations keeps a schedule of the city’s sanitation collection in order to organize our garbology assignments. The law is simple. If the trash is left out for collection, we can confiscate it, search it, and use it however we see fit. However, if the garbage is kept behind a fence or along the side of the house or in a garage, it’s not legal to take. So, late at night or in the predawn morning (and who wants to get up that early—unless you’re a sanitation worker?)1 are the only times to get your hands on someone else’s trash.

  After Henry’s place, I drove over to Shana’s residence and parked out front to case the neighborhood. It was ten P.M. and I wanted a few more lights on the street to fade before I took a look in the trash bins perched outside her residence. She lived in a three-unit building—not as easy as a single-family home, but also not as nightmarish as a high-rise, which can make garbology one of the worst jobs in the PI playbook.

  A half hour later, I pulled a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves from my aptly named glove compartment and exited my vehicle. The key to a safe and subtle garbology is a simple grab-and-walk. You pull the most promising bags and deal with the sorting at a later time. Garbology often involves a good news/bad news scenario. For example, the client doesn’t recycle, but the client also doesn’t own a shredder. In that case, you’re stuck going through rank garbage, but at least the paperwork is in one piece. Shana, on the one hand, was an ardent recycler, or at least her building was deeply into the cause. The smell from their compost bin almost flattened me on the spot (and I’ve been doing this for twenty years), but their recycling contained three lightweight bags of fluff with the unmistakable airiness of shredded paper, which is generally the worst news of all.

  I swiftly grasped three bags in my hand, popped the trunk of my car, and took a visual sweep of the neighborhood to make sure that I wasn’t made by any nosy neighbor. The coast was clear and I headed home.

  Piecing together angel-hair strips of paper is a job I usually leave for Rae. But since she was otherwise occupied and the economy had left us with no choice but to let go of most of our support staff, I had no alternative but to tackle this hideous puzzle on my own.

  Four hours later, I’d managed to assemble one inch of one page of a script and had connected approximately ten two-or-three-strip matches on the coffee table. I took a shower and went to bed, hoping that I wouldn’t continue reassembling screenplays in my dreams.

  I awoke an hour later when Connor came home. I heard him mumble, “Bloody ’ell,” which he mumbles a lot, and then I heard a noise that sounded like the rustling of papers. Although, at first I didn’t recognize the sound. At least I didn’t recognize it until it was too late.

  I got out of bed and walked into the living room.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, when what I should have done was race across the room and throw myself on top of the coffee table.

  “What ta hell is this mess? It smells like rubbish!” he said.

  “It is rubbish,” I said. “Don’t touch it!”

  I watched as Connor swept his hand across the table, sliding my paper puzzle into a paper bag.

  “You’re going to pay for that,” I said in my most villainous voice.

  Connor pulled a quarter out of his pocket and tossed it at me.

  “Will that do?” he asked.

  I threw the quarter back at him, aiming for his eye. He ducked.

  “That was four hours of hard labor you just extinguished with a sweep of a hand! I charge seventy-five dollars an hour. You figure it out.”

  “Why? Because ya can’t?” he shouted back.

  “I want my three hundred dollars!” I said. Loudly.

  “Then I guess I’ll be starting a tab for you at the bar. We’ll call it even in, say, a week’s time.”

  I scanned the room looking for something to throw. My brain was too tired for any comeback more sophisticated than “You’re a dead man.” Besides, I’ve found these empty threats carry no weight. Now, a pet rock, on the other hand . . .

  I was angry, but I was also tired and devastated by the idea that I would have to spend another four hours trying to reassemble some obnoxious feel-good movie that had done nothing but make me feel bad. I did what any tough, self-reliant, overburdened, sleep-deprived, seasoned investigator would do: I cried. And, to my delight, I discovered tears were the weapon of choice against Connor. Better than any pet rock known to man.

  “Ah, no, Isabel, pleeease don’ cry,” he said in his most soothing and thick accent. He put his arms around me and walked me back to bed.

  A few hours later, Pratt’s stupid puzzle nagged at my subconscious. I woke, returned to the living room, and began the painstaking task of reuniting the slices of screenplay. After an hour at task, Connor woke up, turned on the overhead light, and joined me on the couch.

  “When I was a lad, I had a knack for any kind of puzzle,” he said, carefully sliding shreds of paper out of the bag of recycling.

  I kissed Connor on the cheek and for the next two hours we worked in silence and ended up right back where I started. Although this time, we taped the matching strips together. Then we returned to bed and slept through the morning.

  The next afternoon, I phoned Pratt and explained that Shana was shredding the scripts and that in keeping with his budget, the best I could do was pick up the confetti and deliver it to him.

  Jeremy said that he liked puzzles. If only I’d known that the night before.

  RULE #28—MANDATORY SUNDAY-NIGHT FAMILY DINNERS

  AUTHOR: ALBERT SPELLMAN

  VETOES: NONE (UNDER DIRECT THREAT BY MY MOTHER)

  Rule #28 originally started as mandatory individual lunches with Dad but shifted when I pointed out that there was something utterly pathetic about essentially offering your children the choice between having lunch with you or taking out the trash for a week. While I didn’t necessarily want every Sunday night ad infinitum to be ruled by a meal with my immediate relatives, I figured it was the kind of event I could occasionally miss since other parties could make up for my absence. Besides, Connor worked Sunday nights anyway.

  Dad wasted no time in initiating Rule
#28. In retrospect, one could view the meal as a collision of varying agendas. My father wanted quality family time. My mother needed information on David’s big blonde. David wanted my mother to take a cooking class. Maggie encouraged another camping trip. I wanted more wine. And Rae, Rae wanted to free Schmidt. In fact, she made T-shirts. Navy-blue cotton with yellow felt letters spelling out her slogan.

  At this point in the evening, I slipped into the office, grabbed the digital recorder, and turned it on. Sometimes it just makes me feel better if I have hard evidence.

  [Partial transcript reads as follows:]

  RAE: I need everyone to wear their shirt whenever it’s appropriate. Obviously, it’s not mandatory when you’re in court, Maggie, but if you go for a jog that’s perfect. It gets the word out. In fact, if everyone could take up jogging, I really think that would help our cause.

  ISABEL: My shirt looks different than the other shirts.

  RAE: That’s because yours was the test shirt.

  OLIVIA: Since we haven’t done this in a while, I made turkey tonight.

  DAVID: [loud sigh]

  OLIVIA: Do you have a problem, mister?

  DAVID: No, it’s just that your turkey is usually extremely dry.

  OLIVIA: Why don’t you taste the food before you start complaining about it?

  ALBERT: I have an idea: Why don’t we go around the table and share something about our week with each other?

  RAE: I’ll start.

  ISABEL: We all know what you’ve been up to.

  RAE: This week I helped Maggie research the wrongful conviction of Levi Schmidt. Maggie is in the process of filing an appeal. We could use some more help, however. I mean, a man’s life is on the line. Would anyone here like to help free Schmidt?

  ISABEL: I’ll wear the shirt. What more do you want?

  DAVID: I’ve been helping, Rae. I do a little free legal research on the side. I just don’t go around announcing it to everyone.

  RAE: Why not?

  ISABEL: Okay, my turn.

  RAE: I wasn’t done.

  MAGGIE: Rae, your help with Levi’s case has been invaluable. But we all have other work that we need to attend to as well.

  RAE: How can anyone think about work when a man is rotting away in a prison cell for a crime he didn’t commit?

  OLIVIA: Speaking of work, David, how is your job hunt coming along?

  DAVID: I’m not actively looking for work, Mom. I’m still trying to figure out what areas of the law I want to pursue. I’m pretty sure I’d like to stay away from corporate.

  OLIVIA: So what have you been doing with your time?

  DAVID: This and that.

  OLIVIA: Just give me a picture of your typical day. How about Wednesday, for example?

  DAVID: I don’t know. I went for a jog. I picked up a new kerosene lamp for our next camping trip.

  MAGGIE: Do you guys want to come?

  RAE: Never again.

  ISABEL: I’m busy.

  ALBERT: I could be talked into it.

  MAGGIE: Ouch. David, that hurt.1

  DAVID: [quietly to Maggie] We agreed not to invite anyone.

  OLIVIA: So what were you doing Wednesday afternoon?

  DAVID: I don’t know, Mom. I don’t keep a surveillance report on myself. I admit that I’m leading a life of leisure. However, after ten years of an eighty-hour workweek, I think I deserve a break.

  OLIVIA: I’m sorry, David. My question came out wrong. I think you should take all the time in the world to figure out your career. I’m more interested in your hobbies.

  DAVID: I don’t have that many hobbies.

  ALBERT: Since you have so much free time, you must come to my yoga class with me.

  ISABEL: I just lost my appetite.

  The evening came to its merciful end when a horn honked outside.

  Rae cleared her plate and said, “That’s my ride. Am I excused?”

  I could only assume it was Logan Engle behind the wheel, so I asked the obvious question: “Is he your boyfriend or your driver?”

  “Why can’t he be both?” Rae replied.

  Once Rae departed, I was the next guest to make a beeline for the door, in part because Maggie was too polite to leave my parents’ house with a sink full of dirty dishes. I thought I’d made a silent escape, but my mother caught up with me so we could have a private chat.

  She brushed a strand of hair off my face.

  “Are you getting enough sleep, sweetie?”

  “Enough,” I replied.

  “Are you happy?”

  “Enough,” I replied.

  Mom studied my face and then said, “You’re getting dark circles. You want me to buy you some eye cream?”

  “No. Is there anything else?”

  “I want to know who the big blonde is. Get on it.”

  “Good night, Mom.”

  UNDERCOVER BUTLER #2

  The following week I dropped by the Winslow residence to check on Mr. Leonard. However, Christopher answered the door, in the same three-piece Masterpiece Theatre getup.

  “Christopher, what are you doing here?” I said when he appeared before me.

  Christopher glanced over his shoulder and said, “Shhhh.” Then he took me by the arm and dragged me into the drawing room. “Just call me Mr. Leonard,” he said quietly.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Len had an audition. I insisted that he go to it and so I figured a substitute for one day wouldn’t be a problem. When I arrived I was going to explain the situation to Mr. Winslow, but he apparently can’t tell us apart.”

  “What about the housekeeper?”

  “It’s her day off.”

  “This makes me uncomfortable,” I said.

  “Why? Because a white man can’t tell two brothers apart or because of the deception angle?”

  “Both,” I replied. “You didn’t think to come clean at any point?”

  “Well, it seemed easier this way. I do suspect that he needs new glasses. When I asked him when was the last time he saw an eye doctor, he couldn’t recall. Also, I did a bit more digging. Hope you don’t mind. I’m afraid Len is taking more to the part of butler than that of investigator. You know, some days I think he could do this full-time. That’s why I insisted he go to the audition today. I refuse to have a life partner who spends his days pretending to be on a BBC show.”

  “So far Len has given me nothing; have you got anything that I can use?”

  “You could check Mr. Winslow’s driver, Bill Cosgrove. Len described his eating habits to me. He hovers over his food protectively and is a little jumpy.”

  “That means?” I asked.

  “Haven’t you watched Oz? He’s probably done time. Hold on, I’ll get you his employee file. I found where Winslow keeps his records. I will say that the driver seems to have gone legit. Neither Len nor I have noticed anything amiss.”

  Christopher climbed the stairs two at a time and I followed him into a small room that was clearly designated office space for “the help.”

  “We already know about Cosgrove’s record. It was for a minor drug charge twenty years ago. But good work. If you found the employee records in a day, what has Mr. Leonard been doing?”

  “He’s been reorganizing Mr. Winslow’s closets and taking him shopping for more suitable attire.”

  “What about investigating?” I asked.

  Christopher sighed and said, “Len thinks Mr. Winslow’s only problem was his previous valet. He believes it would be for the best if Mason Graves never returned.”

  “Has anyone heard from him yet?”

  “No.”

  “Did Len get a copy of those e-mails for me?”

  Christopher pulled an envelope out of the desk drawer.

  “I printed out the three e-mails I could find on Winslow’s computer. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about them. I’m still looking for Mason’s employee file. You want his Social Security number, right?”

  At this point I was wishing I’d give
n the job to Christopher. At least he had his priorities straight.

  “Also in the envelope,” said Christopher, “is a copy of Winslow’s will. But it’s dated 1998, so I’m not sure if it’s the latest version. Len needs to get Winslow to check on that. I read through this will and there’s nothing out of the ordinary in it.”

  A quiet beep sounded somewhere on Christopher’s body. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

  “What’s that?”

  “Len is bringing Mr. Winslow into the twenty-first century. They purchased cell phones last week. And now, instead of shouting or using the bell or fumbling with the intercom, Mr. Winslow sends a polite and subtle text message. Len programmed it for him so all he needs to do is press a button on his cell phone.”

  Christopher read his message and looked up at me.

  “I’m needed now. I suggest you call Len later and remind him about his primary responsibilities.”

  Christopher spoke with a sharp edge that indicated his problem with Len wasn’t left at the office, so to speak.

  “Everything all right at home?” I asked.

  “When actors perform, there’s usually a time limit involved. Once they leave the stage, they have to return to some semblance of their real selves. Len is already speaking with the accent at home, in constant formal attire, and, well, I’d rather not mention what he does with his pinkie when he sips tea. And don’t get me started on that ridiculously expensive Gucci smoking jacket that he purchased. First of all, if he’s going to go all Method-actor on me, he should know that the help doesn’t wear smoking jackets, even when they are off duty.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about this, Christopher,” I said. “I’ll try to straighten things out, once I do a little research on these latest employee records.”

  “Thank you, Isabel. Anything that will speed this investigation along would be greatly appreciated. Must run. It’s tea time.”

  Christopher gave me a kiss on the cheek and told me to let myself out. What he did next, I couldn’t tell you. But I was picturing him serving tea and scones. I was feeling hungry and maybe just a little bit offended that I wasn’t invited to stay.