Authors: Lisa Lutz
Enright replenished her soda at the concession counter and then indulged in a warm pretzel. She had clearly planned ahead, checking her watch, taking the escalator up two floors, and finding her next two-hour vacation. The second film was a bromantic comedy. If you are unfamiliar with the newest film genre since the mockumentary, it’s essentially a buddy film that emphasizes heterosexual man-love.
1
Enright enjoyed the second film as much as the first. I skipped the third film when I learned it was about a talking dog, figuring that six-plus hours in a multiplex would be her limit. I went to a café until the film let out.
As I predicted, Enright’s movie marathon ended after the third feature. I watched her from a bus bench across the street as she exited the unusually ornate building. I picked up the tail as she began walking south down Van Ness. She turned left on Eddy Street and entered the Civic Center, where there’s a weekly farmer’s market. For an hour she tasted samples of fresh produce and purchased an assortment of locally grown items, and then, when her shopping was complete, she casually walked up to Jones Street and entered Mason Graves’s building.
I’m going to use the defense that I was distracted by other matters. For instance, being locked in a file room overnight, warring fake accents, disinterred doorknobs, and my new obsession with justice for Demetrius. My original instincts were correct; I simply didn’t follow through. Libby Graves, the real Mason’s mother, is the one and only Elizabeth Enright, housekeeper to Mr. Franklin Winslow. She was also a human being with unusual responsibilities who may or may not have participated in a carefully calculated con against an extremely wealthy man. Either way, she had to be dealt with. She was certainly in on Harvey’s con, but I had to find out the extent of her involvement and deal with her appropriately. If I went to the cops and they decided to press charges, she could go to prison. And if she went to prison, who would look out for her son?
I knocked on the real Mason Graves’s door. “Libby” opened it. The relaxed expression that a day of leisure had imparted vanished the moment she saw me. I felt like a cruel intruder, learning her secrets, taking her away from the few moments of her life that she could enjoy.
“I don’t want trouble,” I said. “But I know too much to let this thing go.”
Libby silently invited me into the kitchen, where Mason was eating milk and cookies. He waved a friendly hello. His mother started coffee brewing. Once our cups were in hand, we negotiated a deal that would keep Mason in sandwiches, Harvey off the streets, and Libby in her current employment. As it turns out, Enright is her maiden name, and she was committing no real crime beyond allowing her nephew to take on her son’s clean identity.
In case you’re curious, I didn’t tell my parents the whole story. They like to keep their cases out of the gray area. You serve the client and the client only. But I lived so many years of my life in that land where rules exist only to be broken that I still sympathize with those who can’t seem to follow them all, including the law breakers. I was one of them once. I guess, if you think about it, I still am. I know that a world of people ignoring absolutes could create a society that cannot function, but I am so sure of my ideals that I make this choice. If, one day, I notice the world slipping and feel that I am truly part of it, I’ll snap back in line. Until then, this is how I’m going to play the game.
The final phase of the Winslow story is almost complete. After a dozen interviews, Len found number thirteen, his lucky charm. The replacement to the temporary replacement for the man previously known as Mason Graves would be Arthur Hawkins. Hawkins has been a valet for forty years, since his midtwenties. His sole reference was the family of Gregory Normington, who employed Hawkins for forty years. Only the death of his employer could have ended their relationship. Since Mr. Hawkins was still in good health and all of his records checked out, Len finally agreed to leave his employment with Mr. Winslow. In turn, Christopher agreed to move to New York.
That’s not quite the end of that story. There will be a good-bye party to attend. But I’ll get to that. Later.
I
f ever there was a dinner to turn you off dinners for good, the next time the Spellmans congregated was that kind of occasion. I shouldn’t even mention the food, since it was only a part of the peripheral nightmare, but it seems worth mentioning nonetheless. My father’s cholesterol and blood pressure had begun to creep up again, noted after his last doctor’s appointment. My mother, according to character, pulled out her health-nut whip and cracked down. The evening’s repast consisted of a faux meatloaf made primarily out of bulgur wheat, lentils, and oats. A side salad of beets and Swiss chard rounded out the meal.
When Rae came downstairs, she was wearing her
FREE SCHMIDT!
shirt. I was wearing
JUSTICE 4 MERRI-WEATHER.
We’d each tried to get the unit to represent our respective causes, but since the last family meal the unit had agreed to remain mostly impartial, which meant Dad wore Merri-weather (because he had more bulk to carry the letters) and Mom wore Schmidt.
Rae circled the kitchen, crinkled her nose, and asked, “What’s for dinner?” But then she immediately retracted the question, went into the living room, and turned on the television.
When David and Maggie arrived, I pulled my brother aside and said, “I’m going to reveal everything over dinner. Just back me up.”
“How about you just tell me first?” David suggested.
“Nah. It’s more dramatic my way.”
I then grabbed the digital recorder from the office to ensure we had an archive of the evening’s proceedings. I think you’ll agree it was an event worth archiving.
When the meal was served and explained, because it required explaining, the mood of the table darkened. Please note that whenever anyone asked for the “meat” loaf, finger quotes were used.
[Partial transcript reads as follows:]
OLIVIA
: Anyone who feels like complaining about the meal should keep it to himself.
DAVID
: I have no interest in talking about the food.
RAE
: What’s there to say, really? I think in juvie I could get a tastier meal than this.
ISABEL
: You spent one night. You’re no expert.
OLIVIA
: You haven’t even tasted it yet.
RAE
: Most of what we taste is directly connected to our sense of smell. I can smell.
ISABEL
: Where’s Fred? I miss him already.
ALBERT
: We invited him, didn’t we?
RAE
: Yes, but I caught him on the way over and told him to save himself. He’s getting a slice at Village Pizzeria.
MAGGIE
: Oh my god. That sounds so good.
[The serving dishes are soberly passed around the table. A long silence ensues.]
ALBERT
: Does anyone have news they’d like to share?
ISABEL
: I think you do, Dad. And Mom.
[The unit exchanges eye contact.]
ALBERT
: Well, I’m sure something of interest happened this week.
OLIVIA
: I think Rae and Maggie have news to share about Schmidt.
RAE
: In two weeks Schmidt will be a free man. How are things working out between you and Merriweather?
MAGGIE
: Rae, it’s not a competition.
DAVID
: Tonight, I’d like to shelve the Schmidt-Merriweather rivalry, if that’s all right with everyone.
ISABEL
: Fine by me.
OLIVIA
: But you have to admit, David, that freeing an innocent man is big news.
DAVID
: You know what else I think is big news? Items vanishing from your home and you doing nothing about it.
ISABEL
: More like suspicious news.
DAVID
: Agreed. Mom, Dad, do you know where your doorknobs are?
[I observe another one of the unit’s telepathic exchanges. Rae stares down at her plate of food and actually tries to eat the “meat” loaf.]
OLIVIA
: Oh, they’re around here somewhere.
[Dad, too, focuses his whole attention on his inedible meal and dives in with unnatural speed.]
ISABEL
: I know where they are. Mom and Dad, would you like me to tell you? Or maybe it would be better if Rae told you.
[You’ve never seen bad food consumed at such a clip.]
RAE
: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
ISABEL
: Oh, so you don’t remember burying over half a dozen doorknobs, a couple light fixtures, a sink handle, and one towel rod in David’s backyard? She told David she was planting perennials; David was stupid enough to buy that excuse—
DAVID
: Yes, I was stupid enough to believe my sister wanted to do something nice for me.
ALBERT
: Olivia, you’ve outdone yourself with this “meat” loaf.
OLIVIA
: No need to be rude, Al. You’re the one who can’t keep his cholesterol down.
ALBERT
: Like it’s my fault.
OLIVIA
: Losing a few pounds might improve matters.
ALBERT
: I’m so tired of naturally thin people thinking they have all the answers.
RAE
:
My
cholesterol is fine. Can I make myself some mac ’n’ cheese and go to my room?
ISABEL
: You are staying right there, you little convict, and explaining to the table why you were trying to bury this house in David’s backyard.
RAE
: Like I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.
DAVID
: Why, Rae? It doesn’t make any sense.
ISABEL
: Actually it does. Mom and Dad are planning on selling the house. They used the Lost Wednesday excuse to get us all out of here so they could consult with real estate agents and show it and do some home improvement. They fooled Rae for a while, but she lives here, so she figured it out. She started sabotaging the showings by stealing relevant household items to lower the house’s value and compromise any viewings. Most of the doorknobs and fixtures are antiques. I don’t know where she was hiding them at first, but eventually, she figured out a good place to store the mass of hardware.
MAGGIE
: Wow. You people really have your own way of doing things.
DAVID
: “You people?” We’re back to that again.
MAGGIE
: Nobody has a conversation in this family.
DAVID
: I think we’re having a conversation right now.
MAGGIE
: Now that the cat’s out of the bag …
ISABEL
: We’re going to have a civilized conversation right now, if for no other reason than to show Maggie that we’re capable of it.
[Long, long silence.]
DAVID
: Mom, Dad, is this true?
ALBERT
: [to Rae] Young lady, I want every single household item shined, cleaned, and returned to its place.
RAE
: If you even think about selling this house, I will handcuff myself to the pipes in the basement.
OLIVIA
: I guess you’ve never heard of bolt cutters, then.
RAE
: Excellent point. Perhaps more drastic measures will be taken.
ALBERT
: Enough with your empty threats.
RAE
: Now that Schmidt will be freed, there’s no need for those shirts. I wonder what would happen if I cut them up and flushed them down the toilet.
ALBERT
: Go to your room right now. If you do anything erratic, I swear to you, I will have you arrested on vandalism charges, and I will make sure you do some serious time in juvie. Got it?
[Rae glares at my father and doesn’t move.]
OLIVIA
: Rae, leave this table right now.
[Rae stomps up the stairs to her bedroom.]
DAVID
: Does anyone have Fred’s phone number?
ISABEL
: I do.
DAVID
: Call him. She needs company right now. I don’t trust her for one second.
ALBERT
: Me neither.
The dinner table quieted while I made the call to Fred. He seemed to understand where I was coming from. Maggie excused herself and used the restroom. She looked a bit green when she returned to the table.
My mother circled the table and brushed Maggie’s hair aside and kissed her on the cheek.
“Congratulations,” Mom said. “Do you want me to get you some ginger ale and saltines?”
“Yes,” Maggie replied.
My father also circled the table and offered Maggie a warm embrace.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“I didn’t know,” Dad replied cluelessly. “My wife told me.”
And then there was the silent standoff. Who would speak first? What was there to say? The lull was brief. There were too many opinions for anyone to keep quiet for too long.
“Why do you want to sell the house?” I asked as calmly as I could.
“Isabel, do have any idea what’s going on outside in the real world?” Dad asked.
“I get my news through the Internet. I’ve heard of the economy,” I replied snappishly. “Don’t try to twist this into a discussion about the gaping hole in my current-events knowledge. What’s the bottom line?”
“We’re selling the house as soon as we can get a decent price for it,” Mom said.
“No, you’re not,” David flatly replied, and that is when the lengthy negotiations began.
Here’s what you need to know: A third of my parents’ retirement was demolished in the stock market last year. They had already taken a second mortgage out on the house. They wanted to leave me a business that was free and clear of debt and now they were looking at potentially having to fund an Ivy League education for Rae. Business had been slow. Private investigative work, no matter how you spin it, is a luxury. It’s an easy thing to give up in a failing economy. Mom and Dad wanted to keep the secret as long as possible to avoid this exact drama. They had thought of everything, or so they thought, and this was the only answer. But they foolishly believed their children would sit back and agree to their terms. Of course, we didn’t.