Fuzzy yellow tennis ball in the pocket of her coat, she led the dog down the farolito-lined driveway, past the refurbished adobe barn that doubled as a garden shed and garage for the old sports car Taittinger was restoring. Hector, the landscaper, waved at her as he and baseball cap-wearing Mr Coyote strapped a woodchipper in the back of a pickup. She waved back and threw the ball. Felix shot off after it, grabbed the bright yellow fuzziness, shook the living hell out of it, and then ran circles around the barn with the ball in his mouth.
Fifteen minutes and one dead, chewed-up tennis ball later, a blue and white UniDel delivery vehicle halted in front of the house. Taittinger received all sorts of deliveries of various sizes, typically wine, crates of automotive parts, and antiques he bought at auction. This morning, Mae signed for a shoebox-sized, shrink-wrapped package. The parcel had no return address. She took it, and the dog, inside.
In the kitchen, she tied on a fresh apron and ground coffee for her new employer. Once the pour-over filter had finished dripping through the fair-trade Ethiopian brew, she ferried the box and a cup of heavily-sugared coffee to the study, Felix trotting behind.
Unlike the über-villain appearance of his smart home, goateed, bespectacled Taittinger bore a resemblance to a fictional boy wizard, only without a scar on his forehead or the ability to cast spells. “Hey, Valentine!” he said, with great enthusiasm, rubbing the chin of his pale brown goatee before reaching for his coffee.
“Good morning, Dr Jools.” Mae lay the box on his desk.
He swivelled back and forth in his chair. “This weather is insane. It’s late December, and it feels nothing like the most wonderful time of the year. It’s snow Christmas without a blanket of white, so we need Bowie. We need Bing. We need to make it feel holly-jolly!” His fingers flew across his mobile’s screen. Bing Crosby and David Bowie began to sing White Christmas.
She’d grown accustomed to Taittinger’s taste in music. Daily, easy listening favourites played in the background in every part of the house, inside and out, Sinatra, Andy Williams, Doris Day, crooning from tiny hidden speakers. Today, festive easy listening holiday classics played in the background.
“Hans, my previous butler, chose you as his replacement. He said your references were impressive, but he never mentioned why you left your last position.” Taittinger’s mouth compressed for a second.
“My employer died,” she said. Two and a half months had passed since Kitt’s death and saying those words still showered her skin with stinging nettles.
“Oh.” Taittinger nodded. “You with him long?”
“A few years.” Mae rubbed her forearms.
“He was in the Army, a Marine or something, right?”
“Yes.”
Earnestly, he offered a platitude about life, death, history, and wine, and she tipped her head and pretended to appreciate his meant-to-be kind sentiment. Then he had a gulp from his mug. “Oh, wow, Valentine, I cannot espresso how good your coffee is.”
“Thank you.” She gave him her best amused smile and he looked at the dog.
“Here Felix, c’mere boy!”
The lean, ginger Italian Greyhound bent around and proceeded to lick his own arse.
“Sheesh.” Taittinger snorty-chuckled and reached for the package. “When did this arrive?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
Taittinger began to half-hum, half-sing, “Hmm-hm earth hm-hm to men...” He peeled off the plastic wrapping and shipping label and used a letter opener to slice into the tape around the edges of the box, He lifted the lid and screamed, the box flying. A whole, rather large desiccated rat plopped onto the parquetry flooring, right at Mae’s feet.
With a start, she stepped back from the withered rodent and grabbed the dog before the dog grabbed the rat.
“Shit! Shit!” Taittinger pressed the heels of his palms to the side of his head. He looked at Mae and lowered his hands, scraping his bottom teeth over his top lip. “Oh, man, oh, man, I’m sorry.” He swallowed, face reddening. “Ex-girlfriend. Bad break up. Guess Judith’s still a little...” he laughed insipidly, “cheesed off. Guess it’s what she thinks of me.”
Mae glanced down at the big dead rat and refrained from making a face. “I’ll take care of it, Dr Jools.” She handed him the dog and scooped up the preserved rodent with the box. Felix squirmed free and followed her out of the study.
Rodent corpse disposal complete, Mae tended to more typical housekeeping. A Persian rug had been delivered yesterday. She hung the bright red, star-shaped Tabriz on the wall in the foyer, then moved on to polish the glass case holding a collection of antique wind-up tin toys, die-cast cap guns, and sheriff badges. Bing and the Andrew Sisters harmonised the Hawaiian Christmas greeting Mele Kalikimaka while she dusted items from nichos, small niches displaying fuzz-collecting, centuries-old astrolabes and Neo-Babylonian planispheres.
The dog yawned and Mae sighed, wiping a sundial, gazing out a wall of glass. The morning’s rat incident aside, as villainous-looking as the house was, she hadn’t come across anything villainous on the estate. Huge glass panels framed the beauty of the high-desert setting, giving panoramic views of the spectacular Sangre de Cristo Mountains and Rio Grande in the valley below. The foyer opened to vaulted ceilings and a massive, glass-walled great room that jutted out over the canyon. A staircase curved upstairs to seven bedrooms, with the same panorama as downstairs. To the right lay a formal dining room, kitchen, and domestic quarters. To the left lay Taittinger’s study, and beneath it all sat the wine cellar.
A marvel of engineering and construction, carved into rock, the subterranean wine cellar had a rather boring entrance no one ever noticed because of the almighty view. Any time she looked up from dusting, something about the bloody view—the sky or a craggy rock—made her think of Kitt, of his blue eyes, of the cragginess of a scar on his shoulder and she’d stop dusting, stop working. Mae set her gaze on the uninspired entrance to Taittinger’s wine cellar, then on the small, slim dog chewing a fuzzy yellow ball near the cellar door. The dog had focus, all directed on that ball, and she had distracting views that set her mind wandering.
She left Felix to gnaw, put away the dusting things, and went to remove mineral stains from the electric teakettle, dumping two denture-cleaning tablets into the stainless-steel pot, filling it with water. An unorthodox cleaning product, the tablets came in handy. Later, she’d use them to rid hard water stains from a guestroom en suite toilet. She’d drop a few tablets in the bowl, leave them to dissolve, and toss a strip of Dent-o-clean on a shelf at the back of the vanity, for later use. The tablets in the kettle hissed and effervesced like the fizzy upset-stomach-headache remedy Kitt had occasionally used to combat particularly beastly hangovers. She swirled the fizzing liquid in the kettle and left it to de-scale.
Mae buried herself in holiday preparation. From a kitchen with distracting, spectacular views of the Rio Grande and mountains, grey clouds played peekaboo with a bright blue sky and she rolled out dough for the cardamom Christmas biscuits. Chestnuts roasted on an open fire, sleigh bells rang, and Nancy Wilson sang about wives being lovers. Mae cut out star shapes while Rudolph had a red nose. When she turned to slide the biscuit trays into the oven Engelbert Humperdinck crooned Quando Quando Quando.
“Would you like to dance?” Kitt stood a mere half-metre away, his shirt sky blue.
The tray sagged and fell from her grip. Felix scrambled across the floor tiles and gobbled the spoiled bits of biscuit dough. Mae didn’t stop him.
“Are those...Chelsea buns?” Kitt’s blue shirt had turned into a sweat-dampened grey sports tee, dark blond hair tousled from a run, nose sunburnt.
Engelbert went on singing.
Kitt went on talking. “I do love your Chelsea buns, Mrs Valentine, almost as much as I love your scrambled eggs. Now that I think about it, I confess I fell in love with your baked goods before I fell in love with you, although, if I am honest, those two things did happen within seconds of each other.”
; Mae didn’t know which was worse, the singing or the phantom. A glob of dough stuck to her apron. She pulled it away, squeezing it in her hand, and moved to the touch control near the kitchen entrance, stabbing an oily finger on the pad, killing the music. Fingers dough-sticky, she looked down at the watch swimming on her wrist, at the ring on the chain around her neck. She pulled off her glasses and rubbed her face, smearing butter on her skin. When she looked up, Kitt smiled softly, his neck speckled with pine needles. “I want to have a happy Christmas,” he said.
“Well, feckin’ Happy Christmas,” she muttered, oily-faced.
The ghost of a Christmas that never came to pass vanished as she cleaned away greasy smears and gooey bits. She rolled out another tray of biscuits, shoved them into the hot oven, and sat in a chair rubbing the dog’s ears until the biscuits were baked. She’d been on the verge of brooding when Taittinger entered the kitchen.
He’d been hiding his post-rat embarrassment in the barn for a while, tinkering with his old sports car. He adjusted his round glasses. “Again, I’m really sorry about the rat. I guess Judith hates me, you know?” With a sheepish laugh, he shook his head. “Anyhow, I like where you placed the Tabriz rug in the foyer. You have a good eye.”
“Thank you, Dr Jools.”
The not quite boy-wizard snagged a still-warm cardamom biscuit from a cooling rack. “Ho-lee shit.” He closed his brown eyes the way Kitt sometimes had when he’d eaten scrambled eggs. “This cookie is incredible!” Taittinger said, mouth full. “I have a confection to make. My veddy English mother never made Christmas cookies like this.”
“You’re quite amusing. I’m pleased you enjoy my baking.”
He reached for another biscuit and, munching away, glanced around the kitchen, at the turkey she’d roast later, at the place cards she’d already made, at the bowl of mushrooms on the table, at the dog curled on a rug near the sink. “Here, Felix.” He patted his leg.
The dog didn’t move, he simply looked at Mae.
“Hey,” Taittinger snapped his fingers, “come on.”
The dog remained on his rug.
“Felix, come...gahhh! Why won’t he listen, Valentine?”
“Your tone, Dr Jools.”
“Oh, yeah, my tone, and my hands, and then praise.” He moved both hands, bringing them from his hips to his chest, and pitched his voice a little higher, “Felix, come!”
The dog rose, stretched his long front legs, and trudged over to Taittinger. “Good boy, good dog.” He offered a bit of cookie, crouched down, and rubbed Felix’s head as the dog ate the sweet scrap. When Taittinger straightened, the dog latched on and began to hump his leg. “Oh, for the love of... Down. Get down. Off!”
Mae swallowed her laugh and pointed. “Felix, off! On your mat.”
The dog disengaged and returned to his place, plopping down to gnaw his furry yellow tennis ball.
Taittinger brushed off his trousers, removing more cookie crumbs than reddish dog hair. “I should be back with my mother, sister, and her kids by noon-thirty. Their rooms ready?”
“Yes, Dr Jools.”
“Cool. Is that the turkey for tomorrow, right?”
“It is.”
“I did mention my sister is vegetarian, didn’t I?”
“You did. I’ve prepared several dishes for her Christmas dinner. I’ll do the same for Mr Nash next week. I’ve also informed the caterers there are vegetarians attending your New Year’s Eve party.”
“Oh, yeah, ’bout that. Add two more to the houseguest list for New Year’s Eve. Met this Aussie at Tuesday night’s dinner. He has a real palate for Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon. At dinner, he opened a ’41 Inglenook—minty, cherry, brown sugar, and dried plums—it was freakin’ Christmas in a bottle.” His expression turned dreamy for a few seconds. “Anyhow, the guy’s hot to collect. I invited him to stay. So it’ll be Ruby Bleuville, Ari Basil, Bob Nash, this Aussie David Case and his fiancé, Ian. With Milt Foley and the Chungs not coming until New Year’s Day, we’ll still have a spare room.”
“I’ll have all the rooms prepared, in case anyone should overindulge.”
“And you know someone will.” He straightened and sat on the table, legs dangling over the edge. “You’re always on top of it. And you understand the calamity of human beings displaced by war and persecution, and the moral obligation we have to these people. Hans never got that. Anyhow, I’ll do the speech thing at the New Year’s Eve party, pass the hat, and my guests will be generous, but when it comes to wine, these people can be a little ruthless; kind to your face, but they’ll send you a dead rat if they don’t get what they want.”
“You have something they all want, Dr Jools?”
A grin blossomed on his baby-face, cheeks bunching, eyes squinty. “A 1982 Château Lafite Rothschild.”
Mae gave an appropriate impressed nod.
“Bob Nash and David Case both claim to have something even rarer.” Taittinger picked a mushroom out of the bowl and turned it in his fingers.
Her employer played with the pale, grey-brown cap and Kitt leaned against the sink. “I hope you’re not going to put that dirt in my spaghetti,” he said.
“My mother was right.” Taittinger twirled the mushroom. “I thought it would be hard to replace Hans, but there isn’t any further need for a trial. You’re working out well for me. I’d like you to stay on.”
Mae drew her eyes from Kitt at the white porcelain sink. “Thank you, Dr Jools.”
“I bet you’ll like working for me more than your last guy.” He held up the portobello mushroom. “I’m a real fungi.” He grinned like an eejit, snagged two cookies, and left for Santa Fe to pick up his British mother, his sister, and her two children. Tomorrow, Christmas Day, he’d play Santa Claus.
MAE PLACED HER COFFEE on the table and looked about Central Avenue, at the town’s high street and weird mix of architectural styles, from Santa Fe adobe, flat-faced facades of the 1990s, to the Fuller Lodge, a massive log cabin that had once been the dining hall of a ranch school.
The Lodge was now an Art Centre and gallery that showcased local artists, like Taittinger’s mother, Evelyn. Before WWII, Los Alamos had been little more than homesteads and the ranch school. During the War, the US government took over the school and homesteads for the secret Manhattan Project, the plan that gave birth to the first atomic bomb. These days, the town was known for its nuclear research facility, a population heavy with PhDs and, per capita, the highest number of millionaires in the USA, just ahead of Naples, Florida, where Evelyn Taittinger lived during the winter. Except there hadn’t been much winter. The two days after Christmas still felt like spring. Without a blanket of wintery snow, the green garlands and wreaths wrapped around the wooden pillars of the Fuller Lodge looked out of place. Mae felt just as out of place.
She leaned over and adjusted Felix’s little blue coat. In spite of the balmy nature of the weather, Italian Greyhounds had little body fat and got cold easily. She re-tied his lead to a leg of her wrought-iron chair and the toes of dark brown suede boots came into view.
“You’ve picked a nice sunny spot, Mrs Valentine.”
She glanced up. Bryce held an enormous iced coffee topped with a snowdrift of whipped cream, a long, green plastic spoon sticking out. “How nice to see you, Sergeant.”
Bryce put coffee and spoon on the table, a handspan away from hers, leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You too. Happy Christmas.”
Mae smiled softly. “You seem out of breath.”
He tugged the paper covering from a straw, inserted it into his drink, and began patting the outside pocket of a field jacket a green darker than his eyes. “It’s the altitude. It’s nearly two and a half thousand metres here.”
“How was your Christmas?”
“Santa Fe is pretty this time of year. Nari loved it.” Bryce had a seat and gave Mae a smile. “Here’s your post. Your tenant Stephens collected it for you.” He lay a small stack of rubber band-bound paper on the table.
“Tha
nk you for bringing it all this way, but I doubt it’s anything important.” Mae pulled off the band to sift through bills and a couple of postcards—advertisements from the UK Egg Council. The first, two fried eggs holding hands, told her to Have a cracking breakfast! Postmarked Helsinki, Finland. She turned it over. On the back, beside the address label and printing declaring the health benefits of eggs, an unfamiliar hand had written Quando? The second postcard had a later date stamp and postmark from Santiago, Chile. A grinning cup of coffee and beaming egg in an egg cup suggested she Beat ’em and join ’em! It had different handwriting, but the question remained the same: Quando?
A twinge of shock gave way to anger. They’d been sent weeks apart and two did not make a pattern, but a pattern is what Kitt had planned. Had he lived, there would have been another postcard, perhaps one with an image of laughing scrambled eggs on toast saying, Crack Up for Breakfast. The postmark might have been from Dakar or Kathmandu, another Quando written by another hand. It would have made Kitt’s intention crystal clear.
Quando, Quando, Quando, the Italian pop song from the early ’60s, the damned song Engelbert Humperdinck made her lose a half-dozen Christmas biscuits over. She’d danced with Kitt to that song one evening in Sicily, months ago. Before she’d known he’d spoken flawless Italian, before she realised she loved him, before he’d confessed he’d loved her for years, she’d translated the words. Quando, Italian for when. Kitt had wanted to know when they might end their very long engagement.
Razor-edged pain slashed at her, but rage sliced sharper, deeper and went on forever. It was her fault, despite everything she knew about him, despite his being a flashing neon warning of eventual sorrow, she’d loved Kitt, but there was no cause to be sentimental, no reason to hold on to a scrap of something that never would be. She looked up. Bryce had been watching her. She smiled faintly and handed the postcards to him. “Kitt was quite fond of scrambled eggs.”
Forever in Your Service Page 3
