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
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
Similar Books
