Genuine Fraud(43)

“Scott,” he said, still mopping.

“You coming to the beach?” she had asked.

“Ha, no. I’m good here. I’m Imogen’s cleaner.” His accent was general American.

“Oh, I see.” Jule wondered if Imogen talked to the cleaner like a regular person, or if Scott was supposed to be invisible. She didn’t know what the codes of behavior were yet. “I’m Immie’s friend from high school.”

He didn’t say anything else.

Jule watched him for a bit. “You want a drink?” she asked. “There’s Coke and Diet Coke.”

“I should keep working. Imogen doesn’t like me to sit around.”

“She’s that tight?”

“She knows what she wants. I gotta respect that,” he said. “And she pays me.”

“But do you want a Coke?”

Scott got on his knees and sprayed cleaning fluid in the area underneath the dishwasher, where dirt collected. Then he scrubbed at it with a rough sponge. The muscles of his back shone with sweat. “She doesn’t pay me to take stuff out of her fridge,” he finally answered.

In later days, it became clear that Scott was not precisely supposed to be invisible, because he was in fact so decorative that nobody could possibly ignore his presence, but no one talked to him beyond a hello. Immie just said “hey” when she saw him, though her eyes tracked his body. Scott scrubbed the toilets and took out the trash and straightened up messes people left in the living room. Jule never offered him a Coke again.

The day Scott didn’t show up was a Friday. Friday mornings he usually cleaned the kitchen and bathrooms, then watered the lawn. He was out of the house by eleven a.m., so no one thought too much of his absence.

The next day, however, he didn’t show up, either. On Saturdays he cleaned the pool and did garden maintenance. Immie always left him cash for the previous week’s work on the kitchen counter. The cash was there as usual, but Scott never came.

Jule walked downstairs, dressed to work out. Brooke was sitting on the kitchen counter with a bowl of grapes. Forrest and Immie were eating granola with heavy cream and raspberries at the dining table. The sink was full of dishes. “Where’s the cleaner?” Brooke called into the dining room as Jule poured herself a glass of water.

“He’s annoyed with me,” answered Immie.

“I’m annoyed with him,” said Forrest.

“I’m annoyed, too,” called Brooke. “I want him to wash my grapes, strip down, and lick my whole body from head to toe. And yet he is still not doing that. He’s not even here. I don’t know what went wrong.”

“Very funny,” said Forrest.

“He’s everything I want in a guy,” said Brooke. “He’s built, he keeps his mouth shut, and unlike you”—she popped a grape in her mouth—“he does dishes.”

“I do dishes,” said Forrest.

Immie laughed. “You do like a single dish that you ate out of.”

Forrest blinked and went back to the previous topic. “Did you call him yet?”

“No. He wants a raise and I won’t give it to him,” Immie said smoothly, glancing up at Jule and meeting her eyes. “He’s fine, but he’s been late lots of times. I hate waking up to a messy kitchen.”

“Did you fire him?” asked Forrest.

“No.”

“After you talked about the raise, did he say he’d keep working here?”

“I think so. I’m not sure.” Immie stood up to clear her mug and bowl.

“How can you not be sure?”

“I thought so. But I guess he’s not,” Immie said from the kitchen.

“I’m calling him,” said Forrest.

“No, don’t.” She came back into the dining room.

“Why not?” Forrest picked up Immie’s phone. “We need a cleaner, and he already knows the job. Maybe there was a misunderstanding.”

“I said, don’t call him,” snapped Immie. “That’s my phone you’re holding, and it is not your house.”

Forrest put the phone down. He blinked again. “I’m being helpful,” he said.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You leave everything here to me,” Immie said. “I take care of the kitchen and the food and the cleaner and the shopping and the Wi-Fi. Now you’re annoyed when I’m not handling something the way you want it?”

“Imogen.”

“I’m not your effing housewife, Forrest,” she said. “That’s the opposite of what I am.”

Forrest went to his laptop. “What’s Scott’s last name?” he asked. “I think we should search his name and see if anyone’s complained about him, what his deal is. He must be listed on Yelp or something.”

“Cartwright,” said Immie, apparently willing to stop the argument. “But you’re not going to find him. He’s a Vineyard guy who does handyman stuff for cash. There won’t be a website.”

“Well, I can find out— Oh God.”

“What?”

“Scott Cartwright of Oak Bluffs?”

“Yes.”

“He’s dead.”