Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5)

by Dean C. Moore

  Suzie Six-Toes removed the blindfold to behold her “treasure” and made a sour face.

  She flopped down on the cement floor. Ermies gave her all the time she needed to strategize her next move, in no mood to lose her. She was the closest thing to a mother the rest of the kids had.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dyspepsia ambushed Frumpley in the hall on his way to the kitchen. “I’m desperate to get a promotion, Frumpley. You’ve got to help me out. I’ve been here six years, show some mercy.” She held out the aux d’ouvres tray in her hand, bowed politely, and smiled at the ghosts attending the gala some centuries back, when the Harding estate was a good deal younger. Frumpley frowned and stood more erect, as if the little incident had lent him all the additional spine he needed to brush her off.

  “No one is going to give a promotion to someone who sees ghosts, Dyspepsia. Just accept it. Any of the mongrel dogs roaming the estate would more likely see a promotion to head of household before you.” He strutted off without an ounce of remorse or apology.

  Damn that orthodox, by-the-book codger, she thought.

  ***

  Irene, in the middle of cooking for Lady Harding, stopped to stare at the contraption atop her butcher block table. Her hair was frazzled, nearly as much as her nerves. The air was steaming hot, with all the ovens working at full capacity, even before she opened her mouth to add to all the hot air, prompting her to keep her comments brief. “What is it?”

  Suzie Six-Toes sheepishly shrugged her shoulders. A complement of six of the serving staff had gathered around the table.

  “A sales person who has no idea what she’s selling,” Frumpley commented wryly. “We haven’t seen that approach before.”

  Thornton said, “Rumfeld is always boasting he can fix anything. The blowhard. I say we sic him on this. When he proves useless before the task, we can use it as an excuse to fire him. Who’s with me, lads and lassies?”

  All hands went up.

  Irene aimed herself at Suzie. “I suppose I can give you some leftovers from the fridge.”

  “If I go back without money, mam,” Suzie said, “the master’ll put me to ravaging your gardens at night like a wild coyote, make me live off the land.”

  “With rhetoric like that,” Frumpley said, “I’m surprised she just didn’t bullshit her way through this sale with some convincing story as to the usefulness of this contraption.”

  Frumpley was one of the few around the table beyond sway of the girl’s charms, Irene noticed. Of course, he was in his sixties, if he was a day.

  “You heard the girl,” she said impatiently. “Empty your pockets, or I’ll see you all serving a twelve course meal tonight instead of the usual seven.”

  The six around the table dipped into their pockets to come out with a few farthings between them, not enough for a fresh doughnut. But they had to be careful not to attract her kind in this economy, or they’d be buzzing the backdoor entries like flies to raw, rotting meat. In addition, Irene ferreted out food for her from hiding places throughout the kitchen.

  “The rest of you back to your work!” Irene squawked. “And you, young lady, skedaddle on out of here.”

  ***

  Suzie found her way back into the forest closest to the castle. Ermies was checking out the battlefield with his binoculars.

  Suzie emptied the coins into Ermies’ hands when he took his eyes away from the field glasses.

  He juggled the coins. “Lucky for you, I misplaced my ledger, so I don’t know how much I’m losing on this pitiful transaction.”

  “From now on, everything gets recorded up here,” he said, tapping his noggin. “Better I lose track of the odd item than I lose track of them all.”

  “You sure this all-out assault on the castle isn’t ill-timed?” Bespellion said, spread out stealthily on the ground beside Ermies, checking the field with his own opera glasses.

  “We’re just testing the enemy’s defenses. The all-out assault will come later.”

  “So we’re still intelligence gathering. Excellent. I need more information to refine my profiling.”

  ***

  Bespellion’s comment reminded Ermies how desperate he was to keep Bespellion out of the FBI’s clutches, for fear if they pulled in the lad, they’d fire their own profilers. The kid was absolutely devastating, even when working with the slightest shred of information. No trifling point, considering this was going to be a complex operation. A huge number of staff was facing them on the Harding side of the line, all well-seasoned, hardened troops, who could push back onslaughts of far more polished operators than he had at his disposal. That meant they were down to surefire sneakiness and slippery methods even a card sharp would be woe to resort to in the midst of fellow professionals.

  “You’re up, old man,” Ermies said to Rupert, the grand veteran of show and stage Armageddon had recruited from the closed-down Orpheus Theater. The codger scurried up the trench with surprisingly youthful grace, determined to hit his mark on cue.

  He stood on the road as the 1930s convertible limousine drove toward him. As it neared, Rupert popped his purple umbrella that matched his purple suit, and levitated before the car. He hung in midair as the driver braked and both he and the passengers stared at the magician in awe. Then, when the driver let up on the accelerator to get closer to him to scrutinize the mirage more closely, Rupert drifted a fixed distance from the car.

  Before they could figure out the nature of the trick, Rupert drifted down to the vehicle, bowed before Lady Harding in the backseat. “Perhaps you would allow me to entertain your guests at your next gala. I assure you this is the smallest, least interesting of my tricks.”

  Lady Harding’s mother, Ernestina Chadwick, vigorously clapped Rupert, giggling like a silly five year old. “A perfectly marvelous idea, pending the rest of the audition, of course.”

  “We just let some people go,” Lady Harding protested. “It wouldn’t look right. Besides, I don’t need any more apparitions. I get all I need from a bottle of brandy.”

  “We have to show up the McKinsey’s, who continue to outdo our galas.”

  “We’re not throwing any more parties, mother. The price of oil is down, if only temporarily, and we’re oil people nowadays. Try us when the price of oil goes back up,” she said deferentially to Rupert, who bowed and retreated, saying no more.

  Ermies, overhearing the exchange from the gulley at the side of the road, camouflaged by the overhanging tree branches, scored this as a win. How long could the price of oil be down? A couple weeks, tops. He was already drooling at the possibilities. The old man’s tricks were expensive to stage, and elaborate to concoct. He could use the couple weeks to help him get everything together. The payoff would be worth it. Royalty paid out the ass for the bragging rights of hosting the best gala in town.

  Rupert finished waiting for the car to disappear around the bend before hurrying back into the woods.

  “Who’s next?” Ermies said. “I see the valet struggling with the trunks at the front door.”

  Bespellion checked his list. “Rake is kind of brutish. We could send him in as the helper to the valet, perfect for heavy-lifting.”

  “Brilliant.” Ermies turned to Rake. “Well, hurry, lad, time’s a wasting. He’s not going to stand struggling with those suitcases forever.”

  ***

  Rake rode the bumper of the next car to breeze by. He added his own suitcase to the luggage strapped to the back of the vintage vehicle. With any luck, the passengers were more unannounced guests, with all this baggage to offload. The hard top sedan with a small high-riding rear wind-shield made it easy for Rake to conceal himself, his outfit as black as the sedan itself.

  When the car stopped, without being asked, he undid the straps fastening the grips and unloaded them as if he were already on staff. When the valet spotted him, he was taken back, but he was busy greeting the Grimleys. He ushered them into the house, eager to get back to Rake before he made a mess of the suitcases, perhaps confusi
ng both parties’ luggage. As insurance against this inevitability, the valet gave the grips the once over before heading inside the house with the guests.

  By the time he returned, Rake made sure the suitcases were thoroughly confused.

  “Who the hell are you?” Winsome demanded. “You won’t be the first to pretend to be on staff, hoping there’s too many of us to keep track of everyone.”

  “Rake, sir. I work for the Gastons. I’m afraid I’m a little… challenged, sir. You have to watch me like a hawk, so Lord Gaston says. But I’m very strong. Run the grips up the stairs for you?” he said, picking up two as if they were balloons. He really didn’t have to say anything more. The wheels in the valet’s mind were turning so fast they were smoking. The valet, arthritic and feeble, couldn’t budge any of the other grips, as he tried to pick them up. “What would it take to steal you away from the Gastons?”

  “They don’t know I’m here, sir. I stowed away on back of this car, hoping to find a new home. They don’t treat me real well. Always making fun of me.”

  “That’s shameful. I’ll pay you out of my wages, if you’ll settle for less, and I’ll treat you special.”

  “I am special!” Rake beamed. “We’ll keep me out of sight, sir, so they think I just ran away. I did it before.”

  The valet said, “Follow me.”

  ***

  “Looks like we’re in,” Ermies said, spying the exchange between Rake and the valet through his field glasses. “Penetration on a strictly exploratory mission. Truly unprecedented. You folks look well poised to earn your keep.” He nodded at the remaining actors from the Orpheus. They smiled appreciatively.

  ***

  Lady Harding spotted Rake running up the stairs with the suitcases, the valet riding the electric chair in an effort to keep up with him. Winsome arrested the chair’s movement, and lowered himself back toward Lady Harding. Answering her astonished expression, Winsome said in a hushed voice, “He’s slow. Have to watch him like a hawk.”

  “Wonderful,” Lady Harding said. “We could use a mentally handicapped person in the roster to show the other families how charitable we are to the less fortunate. I’ll increase your wage to minimize your out-of-pocket expenses—once oil prices are back up.”

  “Most appreciated, ma’am,” Winsome said, nodding.

  “He’s more than just slow, I hope?”

  Winsome was left no choice but to prevaricate. “He suffers from chronic flatulence, ma’am. A real geyser.”

  “Marvelous. We’ll teach him to serve the Grimley’s their dinner. You think you can train him by this evening?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This just gets better and better. Can you just imagine the scandal? They’ll be lining up for dinner invitations just to be gassed, so they can bitch from here to San Diego over what an ordeal dinner was.”

  “I’ve always been impressed by your ability to consistently win the gala wars, mam.”

  “It is a forte,” Lady Harding said, fluffing her hair.

  As she disappeared into an adjoining room, Winsome sighed. “I suppose Irene can keep him on a gas-producing diet for the duration. Poor lad. The price of gainful employment, these days. A damn shame.” He set the chair in motion. Half way up the bannister, he waved at Rake, waiting patiently for him at the top of the stairs.

  Winsome managed to climb out of the chair with Rake’s help. “I’d say you were heaven sent, young man. Not a day too soon.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He considered letting Rake in on his scheme to gasify him, but then thought better of it. The lad might not be high-functioning enough to process the scam. Besides, when Winsome overlooked the matter, Rake would feel even more loved in ways the Grimley’s could never match. Not to mention, he wouldn’t be thinking of leaving their employ anytime soon for fear of who else would put up with his awful affliction. Sealing the deal for both of them.

  ***

  “What’s that sound?”

  Thank God, judging from how she was turning around on herself, the poor girl’s echo-location wasn’t the best. “Agitated stomach, mam.”

  At the latest onslaught of cooing sounds she felt compelled to issue advice. “You should attend to that. No good to eat too fast.”

  The minute Aggie, one of the maids, had finished showing Rake his servant’s quarters and departed, he hoisted his suitcase off the bed, and ran up the nearest stairwell.

  Once on the roof, he opened the trunk, and set out his cages of homing pigeons.

  He scribbled out a quick note on Lady Harding and Winsome for Ermies to help with the fine tuning of product sales, strapped it to the leg of one of the pigeons, and released the bird.

  Off it flew.

  ***

  Winsome’s eyes darted about the kitchen to see if anyone else was in earshot. Finally he said in a conspiratorial tone, “I need your help with the new apprentice valet.”

  “And I could use some help with this cheese cake,” Irene huffed, rolling the dough for the pie crust by hand.

  “He’s mentally challenged,” Winsome said under his breath.

  “Is he now? Should fit right in. If we can get all the clowns on staff to march in line, we can spearhead the queen’s next jubilee.”

  “I need you to give him gas. Copious amounts of gas,” Winsome whispered.

  “I will not!” she said. She brushed her hair off her face with the back of her hand, marking herself with powder in the process, like an Indian warrior preparing for battle.

  “I’m afraid Lady Harding insists. She intends to damage her relationship with the Grimley’s beyond all repair.”

  “And what about my cooking? The aromas matter.”

  “Has to be better than ever,” Winsome said, switching to political mode. Fast-talking was a bit of a forte for anyone who had made it as far as he had in the house hierarchy. “Otherwise, there won’t be much point in ruining the sublime experience. Besides, something has to hold them in their chairs and keep them from running out of the room.”

  “Suppose I could use a challenge.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “The madam needs you to help serve dinner tonight,” Winsome said.

  “Okay,” Rake said nervously, the thought of learning a new task enough to trigger a personal crisis. He twitched his right eyebrow, and rotated his thumb incessantly. He added some annoying throat-clearing sounds for good measure as he took in the intimidating dining room.

  “Let’s practice it together,” Winsome said, finding his best paternal voice. Rake could tell playing the kindly old man was more of a reach for him.

  “We always serve food and drinks from the left, and clear from the right.” He demonstrated, allowed Rake to ape his actions, and follow with the glasses behind him, as he set the plates down. Then he reversed direction to sweep the table of both items.

  “We always serve food and drinks from the left, and clear from the right,” Rake repeated stupidly in an “earnest” effort to commit the phrase to memory.

  Winsome appeared confident he was getting the hang of it, and moved on to the next lesson.

  “Plates are served all at once, and cleared all at once, so courses come out together.”

  Rake repeated the instructions verbatim: “Plates are served all at once, and cleared all at once, so courses come out together.” Again. Again. Winsome’s kindly smile was turning into a pained mask-like expression. Rake nodded, indicating he thought he had this, even if he couldn’t convey a lot of confidence.

  “One more thing. If the sheikh turns up, you never serve him food with the left hand. You never handle it with the left hand at all.”

  Rake pretended to look entirely undone by the latest instructions.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll practice with real food before the help in the kitchen. You can serve us lunch.”

  “Are they all nice like you?” Rake asked.

  “No. But don’t you worry about the ones full of piss and vinegar. They never last. Lady H
arding insists on a happy household.” Mumbling more to himself, he added, “She figures she’s enough of a handful.”

  Winsome tidied up Rake, flattened his collar, tightened the knot in his tie. “Now, remember, whenever you’re hungry, you have Irene fix you up something.”

  ***

  Rake watched Irene sneak a chocolate from one of her hiding places, pretending not to notice. He observed she had “pick me ups” stashed all about the kitchen.

  When prompted by Irene, finally, Rake served select staff their meals in the kitchen. They sat still and breathless, their roving eyes tracking his movements the only sign of life on their faces.

  “Can we move yet?” Aggie said, her soprano’s pitch good for little but shattering the eardrums. It disoriented everyone around her better than a burglar alarm.

  “It’s too challenging getting plates and glasses around moving hands,” Thornton hissed. “One step at a time.”

  “I still think this is ridiculous,” Minerva complained to Thornton, seated beside her. As he turned to reply they both found a plate shoved between them.

  She corrected Rake. “You’re not supposed to come between two people talking with a plate of food,” she said, her tone scolding yet strangely more civil. She was beginning to get the picture. “Honestly, it’s not that difficult,” she mumbled more to herself.

  “I get why Thornton is playing so nice,” Irene said, making sure to keep her body stiff as a board to keep from reaching to interfere with Rake’s lesson. “Finally, someone he doesn’t have to compete against climbing the help-hierarchy at the Harding house.”