by D R Lowrey
This was Nigel’s first visit to the brightly lit emporium, which resembled what he imagined a modern art gallery to be like. The only objects that weren’t white or shiny were the scrumptious goods themselves. Say what you will about Stanley, the man knew his away around a crust. His current offerings were built around a Van Gogh theme. The blueberry pie version of Starry Night looked good enough to frame. Assorted cherry tarts presented as discarded ears challenged consumers to reexamine societal taboos.
“Nigel, old man,” shouted a familiar voice, interrupting Nigel’s contemplation of a Van Gogh self-portrait rendered in cheesecake form.
He turned to see the approaching Stanley in his baker’s whites, looking surprisingly mobile. Not only was Stanley uncharacteristically animated, but his hairline was on the move, having un-receded several inches down the forehead in a magical reversal of a longtime trend. The sprouts occupying these former wastelands must have had deep roots extending to a previously unexploited reservoir of auburn. Stanley’s face appeared to have been ironed, or buffed, or steamed, or worked over in some heavy-handed way. Below this rigid, plasticine hide lurked a smile struggling to present itself. It was clear that Stanley had found his place in the world. And that place, when not producing pies, was next to Cam Logan at the cosmetic surgeon’s office.
“What brings you in?” asked Stanley.
“A bit of business, actually. I’ve been put in charge of a wedding, and I thought you might provide the desserts.”
“A wedding? So Annie’s got you planning weddings, has she? I might have thought it.”
Eager to disavow the notion of a dominant wife, Nigel replied, “No, no, no. I’ve taken the position of butler at the Sandoval place, and as part of my official duties, I’m making arrangements for a wedding to be held there.”
“The Sandoval place?” asked a surprised Stanley.
“That’s right. The old golf course.”
“I gotcha. When’s the soiree?”
“Friday.”
Stanley cocked his head, rolling his eyes back to the sector of his brain that had the calendars. “Friday? Today’s Tuesday. That’s not much time.”
“I understand that. It’s a small affair, maybe a dozen. I don’t expect much. Just some choice pieces from your usual batch would be sufficient. I’ll let you decide.”
“I’m supplying a cake for a boy’s birthday on Friday. I can double it up.”
“Fine. Whatever you have will be wonderful, I’m sure.”
“You said you’re working at the Sandoval place?” Stanley’s eyes exhibited a strange concern, as if working at the Sandoval place came with a curse.
But what did Nigel know? With so little bendable skin, Stanley’s face was hard to read. “Yes. Started yesterday. Probably not the best day to start.”
“No?”
“Happened to be a dead body lying about. As a butler, I have to take care of dead bodies. Not many people know that about butlers.”
Stanley’s jaw dropped. A goose egg, should one have been available, could have been inserted into his mouth without touching lip. After a moment, the jaw regained its form. “Dead? Are you sure?”
“Well, I hope so. Else the autopsy will be a fright.”
“Anyone we know?”
“No. A drifter, perhaps.”
“Do they know who killed him?” asked Stanley in a low voice, as if the cherry tarts had ears.
“Who killed him? Let’s not jump to any conclusions. My money is on natural causes. Not that I know about these things, but I saw no signs of a struggle, unless you count the toad.”
Stanley wore a faraway look, like a baker in a hot air balloon. “Makes one think, doesn’t it?”
“Does it? About what? Toads?”
“Here today, gone tomorrow. That sort of thing.”
“Right,” said Nigel, not realizing they’d veered philosophic. “You always surprise me, Stanley. I mean, when I talk to you, I never expect anything, and yet, there’s always something. Hidden depths.”
“Hidden what?”
“Depths.”
“Oh,” said Stanley, as if his balloon had just scraped a mountain top. Reestablishing a foothold on the terra firma, he added, “Listen, how would you and Annie like to come out to our place some evening? We’re practically neighbors. We have a place out there.”
“So I’ve heard. I’m sure Annie would love to meet Cam. Text me. We’ll set something up.”
The hardware store was across town from Stanley’s bakery, a five-minute drive. The choice of model for the water heater was critical, a decision which, if badly made, would sabotage the entire operation. Most units on display were quickly deemed unsuitable, but one was the perfect fit. It fit in the back seat of Nigel’s car. Perfect.
Having loaded up the heater, associated parts, and most of the tools he’d need, Nigel steeled himself for the installation by thinking of old St. George. That dragon-slaying saint had been a boyhood favorite of his and, after meeting his mother-in-law, an inspiration. Something about gas heaters and mother-in-laws had rekindled memories of the ancient hero and his fire-breathing foe.
“Hello, Mother,” said St. Nigel to the dragon. “I heard you were in need of a water heater. I’m here to install you a new one.” He unleashed a forty-watt smile, hoping she might detect the good cheer and hold back on the flames.
“You? You’re going to install the hot water heater? You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“Not in the slightest, Mother dearest. I’m packin’ a heater, and I’m here to install it. Just lead the way—”
She did not lead the way. She guarded the door as if he’d waved a foreclosure notice in her face. “What makes you think you can install a water heater? You may be a lot of things, Michael—“
“Nigel.”
“Nigel, but handy isn’t one of them. That’s good, honest work—stuff you wouldn’t know about. Before you polluted his mind, my husband did work like that. He had know-how. He was a pipe fitter.”
Such a vituperative comment, especially one ending with the words pipe fitter, deserved a snappy comeback. Nigel would have one in a couple of days, but for now, he needed to install a water heater with minimal discord. “Okay, suit yourself. I’m sure you can call around to find a crew of burly installers ready to help out a lone female for a hefty price. You know how pipe fitters are.”
“The hot water tank is this way, up in the attic.”
Much to Nigel’s surprise, placing the new water heater went quickly with a minimal amount of interference and abuse. The mother-in-law’s combative spirit had been somewhat blunted by the physical toll of pushing the water heater up to the attic. Conversely, Nigel’s enthusiasm soared as he watched the water heater reach its destination coincident with his mother-in-law’s near-collapse from exhaustion.
Despite a few variances from the YouTube video, the installation went like clockwork. In no time, a fine new gas hot water heater had been signed, sealed, and installed. Nigel felt so good about the job he’d done that he bought a second set of identical parts and went to work at his own place. Two water heater replacements in one day would certainly impress Annie.
Talk about your brownie points, absolutely.
By four o’clock, Nigel had finished his second installation and tucked himself into the Lazy Boy to luxuriate in his own accomplishments. He was exhausted, but it came from a good place—a place he hadn’t accessed much lately, where good, honest work could be flaunted for a personal advantage.
As his mind drifted into the clouds, his eyelids crept downward into the shuttered position that had eluded him the night before. He settled into an initial stage of sleep when, to his annoyance, an explosion occurred. He had the sensation of levitating for a split second before dropping with a thud into the chair. He didn’t know the source of the calamity, but he knew where to look.
He rushed to the pull-down ladder leading up to the attic. The ladder did not need to be pulled down because just to one side, in the
ceiling, was a large hole to be known henceforth as Hole A. Looking through Hole A, Nigel saw a lovely blue sky dusted with altocumulus clouds. Such a sight would not be possible without the roof having a significant perforation, hereinafter known as Hole B. He felt certain that neither Hole A nor Hole B had been present when he was installing the gas water heater.
Ah, the gas water heater, thought Nigel.
It should have been somewhere in his line of sight between holes A and B. It was not. He looked down at the floor. Could his home have fallen victim to an untimely meteorite strike or falling aircraft debris?
The lack of scattered metal parts or flaming stones suggested not.
Those scoundrels! thought Nigel. They sold me a defective water heater!
He had read somewhere that in such instances, one should remove one’s self from the premises, so he grabbed his cell phone and headed out the front door.
As he walked down the street, Nigel noticed an unusual number of neighbors standing outside, looking back from where he had come. After putting a hundred or so paces between himself and the house, he turned to see what they were gawking at. In his front yard’s live oak tree, some fifteen feet up, sat the steaming wreckage of a new gas water heater, unnervingly similar to the one he had just installed.
Nigel felt as though he should call someone. Out of an abundance of caution, he dialed his mother-in-law to alert her to the minor possibility that she too might have been sold a defective water heater.
“Hello, M-M-Mother.”
“Hello. This must be Nigel.”
Nigel was thrown for a loop. The mother-in-law never called him by his actual name. Usually it was Nile, or Niland, or Bonehead. A slip of the tongue, perhaps.
“How are things going over there?” said Nigel.
“Things are fine here. I just got out of a warm shower, thanks to you.”
“Nothing unusual? No odd sounds or anything?”
“No, nothing unusual here. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, well, there was just something I wanted to mention about your new water heater—”
“Just a second while a light my cig—”
“Mother?”
Nigel heard a hollow sounding explosion followed by a noise like a cell phone impacting a solid object at high speed. There was also a scream, another scream, and then a yowl. While hard on the ears, he considered the screams and the yowls to be positive signs.
He hung up, dialed 911, and directed the operator to dispatch emergency vehicles to Mother’s address for an apparently defective gas water heater incident. Then, after noticing more than the usual amount of smoke enveloping his own home, Nigel redialed 911 and told the same operator, in a different voice, to dispatch a fire truck to his own address for a defective gas water heater incident.
When the operator mentioned that just moments before he had received a similar call for a different address, Nigel professed his incredulity. When the operator mentioned the two calls had come from the same phone, he made a series of static-like noises and hung up.
CHAPTER FOUR
Unwelcome Guests
Considering that it was just his second day on the job, Nigel entered the estate with a frightful amount of trepidation. It was quite a favor to ask of an employer, but every proposed alternative had been summarily squashed. So it was that he plodded toward Mrs. Sandoval’s office with Annie and her mother in tow. A little cheeriness from the pair would have bolstered his morale, if not his case. Bolstering, however, was not what they wanted to do for Nigel.
“Mrs. Sandoval, you are looking especially radiant today,” said Nigel, buttering the crumpet.
Dressed as a gaucho, she pushed up the brim of her wide-brimmed hat with a riding crop to get a look at the crowd invading her office. “You’ve brought visitors?”
“Yes. Let me introduce these two wonderful ladies. You’ve already met Annie, the top investigator at Sniffer’s Detective Agency.” Nigel had previously concealed that Annie and he were man and wife. He felt no compunction at present to set the record straight. The fewer the complications, the better. “She, of course, was instrumental in saving Abuelita’s life from that evil lawyer and your sinister butler, Gastrick.”
“Sinister, perhaps,” said Mrs. Sandoval. “But he knew his way around a cocktail.”
“Yes, but now you can enjoy your cocktails without speculating on their cyanide content?”
“He also knew how to steam a hat. What’s your point, Mr. Nigel?”
Nigel felt it best to plow forward. “Let me introduce this other fine lady. This is Annie’s mother, Kayda.”
Annie’s mother presented a particularly formidable visage, even for her, with a turban wrapped around most of her head to conceal a head of hair that had been incinerated in broad swaths by the inconvenient heat of a gas explosion. She also wore enormous dark sunglasses that hid a missing left eyebrow. Other than that, she was her usual dread-inducing self.
“Kayda. That’s an unusual name,” said Mrs. Sandoval.
“It means dragon in Korean,” spouted Nigel.
“You don’t look Korean,” said Mrs. Sandoval.
“I’m not. Nigel came up with that. My parents didn’t know Korean.”
“They obviously knew something,” said Nigel. “Now, if I may get back to business, I have a proposal. Annie here is not only a private investigator, but also a former policewoman with the Houston PD. She is well-versed in matters of security and defense. In other words, she’s handy to have around should a criminal element present itself.”
“Are you implying that we have a criminal element in this house?”
“No, not in the house, but possibly outside. Why, just the other day a stranger infiltrated the grounds.”
“Who?” said Mrs. Sandoval. She could be absentminded in the morning but was much better in the afternoons, between drinks two and four.
“The dead guy,” said Nigel. “That corpse in the garden. He infiltrated the grounds.”
“Do we need to worry about him? I mean, being dead and all?”
“Possibly not him, exactly, but someone else. If there’s one, there could be more. We don’t know what his intentions were. He may have been up to no good.”
“Absolutely he was up to no good. He died in our garden. That’s no good.”
“Precisely. You don’t want unknown persons wandering willy-nilly about the property and then dying. That’s why I propose Annie stay on the property for security. Just for a while, mind you.”
“You’re proposing we pay her for on-site, twenty-four-hour security. Is that it?”
“Somewhat, but not quite.”
Nigel hopped to the side, a response to the painful twisting of his backside flesh between Annie’s thumb and forefinger. Something in Mrs. Sandoval’s proposal had appealed to her, but he could not bring himself to charge his employer for a favor. Old Winpole wouldn’t have stood for it.
Safely out of pinching distance, Nigel continued. “You see, Annie has rather suddenly been placed in the market for housing. When I heard about her dilemma, I suggested she might find housing here in exchange for her service as a security officer. Kills two birds with one stone, you might say.”
“May I ask why she is in need of housing?”
“Gas water heater—a defective one. Damned thing exploded.”
“I see. And what about her mother?”
“Yes, of course. Annie’s mother, you see, also finds herself in need of housing on a short-term basis. She would be staying with Annie if not for that damned, defective, exploding gas water heater. My thought was that she could room here with Annie for the time being. She would be no trouble. She’s quite unassuming,” said Nigel, unconcerned, apparently, over the combustibility of his pants. “We could even put her to work cleaning, disinfecting…toilets and whatnot.” He shuffled sideways again, this time to avoid the steam escaping from Mother’s ears.
“I hate to be a thrower of wet towels, but two more people in the house, what with th
e upcoming wedding and the funeral, would be quite a burden.”
“You haven’t heard my full proposal,” said Nigel.
“I haven’t?”
“No, because I haven’t proposed it yet. I propose that I too reside on the premises for as long as Annie and her mother are here. I could room in Gastrick’s old quarters. You would, for the time being, have a live-in butler just as you had with Gastrick. I would deal with any extra messes caused by your temporary tenants. See how it all balances out?”
“Does it balance out?”
“With the wedding and the funeral coming up, I daresay, it will be useful to have me on site twenty-four seven.” Though somewhat un-butler-like, Nigel batted his eyelashes for added effect.
“You may have something there,” said Mrs. Sandoval, stroking her cheek with the riding crop. “Very well. Choose a room in the left wing and help the ladies get situated. Then, Mr. Nigel, I want a word with you.”
Nigel did his best obsequious bellhop routine while showing the ladies to their room. When they bemoaned the lack of a butler-skin rug on which to wipe their tired feet, he excused himself to return to Mrs. Sandoval’s office. While he didn’t relish a fresh one-on-one with his gaucho overseer, he was quite relieved to escape the cat-o’-nine-tails tongue-lashing by his better half and her noxious hell-demon mom.
“At your service, madam,” said Nigel, standing at attention in front of Mrs. Sandoval’s burled oak executive desk. “Perhaps I should apologize for springing my plan on you so suddenly, but—”
“Don’t bother about that now. We need to get busy. We’re expecting Abuelita’s fiancé this morning.”
“This morning?” repeated Nigel. “This whole marriage thing is charging forward like a runaway freight train. Is the groom to be staying here until the wedding?”
“Yes, he’ll go into the other spare bedroom. I’ll be away this morning, so you must take care of things.”
