by D R Lowrey
“That’s reassuring for you. I wasn’t there,” said Nigel. “I’m sorry if you missed me, but my understanding was that evenings are my own.”
“Your understanding is correct. Had a good dinner, I trust?”
“Exquisite. Roast quail, delectable. I could have eaten a dozen. Ever had it? Quail? If you should ever get the chance… And the dessert! Some French thingummy with pancakes and berries and a blowtorch. Absolute heaven—”
“Do you know what we had?” asked Mrs. Sandoval.
“I believe Lysette mentioned pizza.”
“Pizza! Yes, we had pizza, Mr. Nigel. That is what we had, from Domino’s, I believe.”
“Excellent. Tasty?”
“Abuelita had the trots.”
“Prefers that to pizza, does she?”
“She had the pizza, Mr. Nigel. First, she had the pizza, and then later, she had the trots. It always happens that way. It is why we do not serve pizza in this house. Do you understand?”
“I think so, but let me read it back just in case. Abuelita doesn’t care for pizza. She prefers trots. Got it.”
“No, you don’t got it,” said Mrs. Sandoval. “When I say the trots, I mean the runs. I’m trying to be lady-like. Diarrhea, Mr. Nigel. Abuelita loves pizza, but when she eats pizza, she gets diarrhea. Now, do you understand?”
“I do, I do. I don’t wish to pry, but has she ever considered giving pizza a pass, considering how it…eh…passes?”
“She can’t help herself. She loves pizza and refuses to believe it’s the cause of her discomfort. She’ll always blame something else. That’s why we must not have pizza in this house, understood?”
“Yes, sorry about that, m’lady. Now I know.”
“We employ a cook so that we have home-cooked meals according to our preferences. As the butler, it is your responsibility to see it through accordingly. Is that clear?”
“Exceedingly clear, m’lady.”
Nigel was now employing a technique known to veteran butlers as lady-spreading. Not as diabolical as it sounds, lady-spreading was the practice of strategically sprinkling one’s conversation with the word “lady” in its various forms when addressing troublesome female clients. The word possessed a subliminal power to soothe and disarm, especially when applied liberally by British butlers working in North America. Ladling out the “ladies” was the butler’s equivalent of twisting a lad’s ear and saying, “Act like you been somewhere.”
“Good. Let’s have no more screwups,” said Mrs. Sandoval. “Now, where do we stand regarding the wedding preparations?”
“Uh, dessert catering, check. A tent for the outside ceremony, check.”
“You have a minister?”
“I have a suggestion. I still need to call.”
“Don’t get one of those religious types. They’ll spend an hour trying to convert us. The bride and groom have 175 years between ’em. They don’t have time for that sort of thing.”
“No, m’lady. An irreligious minister. Should not be difficult.”
“What about alcohol?”
“For the minister?”
“No. For me—I mean, for everyone. What’s your booze plan?”
“Not given it much thought. Have you any suggestions?”
“A margarita fountain. Of course, there should be champagne. Someone might want beer, so a keg, I suppose. And tequila shots. There must be tequila shots. Just make sure we have enough to go around, and someone to serve. And flower arrangements, you’ll need to take care of that. And a photographer—nothing too expensive. These are old people. They don’t like to look at themselves, nor do we. Oh! And the wedding dress. Have you bought it?”
“The wedding dress? Uh, Stefanie was looking into that. I’ll get a status.”
“And the groom’s suit. You need to make sure the groom’s outfit matches up appropriately with the bridal gown.”
“I see. Something in crushed velvet, maybe purple,” said Nigel. He wouldn’t say it, but considering Abuelita’s taste in wedding gowns, chaps over bare buttocks might be appropriate groom-wear.
“Don’t be silly. Purple at a wedding? Ridiculous.”
“If you say so, m’lady.”
“And you’ll need to check that the rings are sorted out, and a best man, and someone to give away the bride.”
“Who would that be?”
“How would I know? I’m not the one arranging this thing. That’s your job, Mr. Nigel.”
“Of course, m’lady. I will see to all the arrangements.”
“And one more thing, Mr. Nigel.”
Nigel shuddered.
“The dead man that appeared in our garden the other day, the one you’re arranging a funeral for…” Mrs. Sandoval waited for Nigel to acknowledge.
“Yes, I recall the dead man. Go on.”
Mrs. Sandoval leaned in and lowered her voice. “Do you, by any chance know who killed him?”
“No, m’lady. Haven’t a clue.”
“Are you sure?”
“The last time I checked with myself, I had no theory. Why do you ask?”
“That detective here yesterday thinks you did it.”
“What? I assure you I did not!”
“Well, he talked to everyone, and he seems pretty certain it was you.”
“Did he say that?”
“He didn’t stand up and yell ‘The butler did it,’ but it was pretty clear to everyone that he thinks the butler did it.”
Nigel had certainly felt accused during his interrogation, and Abuelita’s little tirade hadn’t helped his cause, but he figured he was just one of many bushes being beaten by this bungling detective. Rubberface seemed the type to accuse everyone of everything. Learning that he was murder suspect number one, with no number two, was a shock like that of an electric eel, but different.
“Why does he think that?” said Nigel.
“I’m sure the reasons will be described in the indictment.”
“Indictment?”
“Wouldn’t that be the next step? I’m not so familiar with these things, but the detective talked about an indictment.”
“But what evidence does he have, m’lady?”
“You’re getting yourself worked up, Mr. Nigel. You need to relax. You said you didn’t do it, and I, for one, hope that’s true. Just answer one question for me, and then we can forget all about this unfortunate conversation.”
“What’s that?”
“Suppose you did kill a man on this property—I’m not saying you did, but just for grins, let’s suppose, suppose you killed a man on this property—would you be clever enough to get away with it? I mean, you wouldn’t leave behind clues, would you?”
“What kind of question is that?” said Nigel. “Why would you ask such a thing, m’lady?”
“Mr. Nigel, understand it’s my fervent hope that you had nothing to do with this murder. But, if on the outside chance you did, I would hope you would have proceeded with all due discretion. Murder or no murder, I have a household to run. I don’t need to tell you about that nutty business with our last butler. To have two butlers in a row hauled away on murder-related charges would severely damage our reputation among prospective future butlers.”
“Your reputation?”
“Yes, our reputation. You have no idea how hard it is to find a butler in a place like New Antigua, Texas. This is not the big city with butlers on every street corner. No, it’s almost impossible to find a proper butler in this town. Between you and me, it’s the reason you’re working here.”
“I’m glad to know I have your confidence.”
“You do have my confidence, Mr. Nigel. Believe me, whatever you say stays between the two of us if it might in any way prove damaging to the Sandoval reputation. You have my assurance.”
“How very reassuring, m’lady,” Nigel said, wiping sweat from his downcast brow.
“You bet. From the first time we met, Mr. Nigel, I felt you were sly. You have that kind of face. And the more I’ve gotten to know you, the
more I feel that way. I believe that no matter what you may have done, you’ll not be found guilty. I’m comforted by that.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“One more thing before you go,” said Mrs. Sandoval.
“Yes, m’lady,” said Nigel, as his will to live dribbled from his pores.
“You need to move.”
“Move?”
“You’ll need to move out of Gastrick’s old room to make way for Mr. Sandoval. He slept in a tree last night.”
“Which tree?”
“I hardly think it matters which tree, since none of our trees have beds. You can move in with Grumps for the time being.”
“With Grumps?” said Nigel, trying to recall such a person.
“You know, Gastrick’s uncle. The guy you’ve been delivering food to. There’s a sofa in that room. You’ll bunk there.”
“Yes, m’lady. I’ll get on that straight away.”
Gastrick had once mentioned something about an aged uncle. As for delivering food to him, that was a new one. Nevertheless, a sweaty Nigel turned to face the perilous day.
“Oh, Mr. Nigel?”
What other torture might be unleashed? “Yes, m’lady?”
“I like what you’ve done with your hair. Is that a perm?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Man Who’s Figured Things Out
Reluctantly, Nigel packed his things and made his way to the quarters of the mysterious ancient one known as Grumps. He knocked on the door.
“Rrrrrghhh?” came a reply.
Taking that as an invite, Nigel eased the door open and poked his head in. An elderly man sat in a cushiony chair hunched over a portable tray table. In the far corner of the room, a television displayed a message indicating no signal available. Nigel couldn’t see much of the man’s face as it was shielded beneath an olive-green army helmet.
“Hello,” said Nigel. “I’m to be rooming with you.”
“You bring my dinner?” growled the man.
“Not on this trip, but as soon as I park my bag, I can get you something.”
“You better if you want to stay in this room. My nephew stopped bringing my dinner. What’s wrong with that kid?”
Of course, the nephew in question was the former butler who’d been in jail the past three months facing multiple charges, including conspiracy to commit murder. News traveled slow in certain parts of the Sandoval residence.
“I think from now on, I’ll be looking after your dining needs,” said Nigel.
“Where’s my nephew?”
“I believe he’s away for a while.”
“Who are you, and why do you think you can stay in my room? Nobody asked me.”
“Sorry about that. There’s a bit of a housing shortage, so Mrs. Sandoval assigned me to this room. Temporarily, you understand. As soon as the crises abates, out I go. I promise to be as unobtrusive as possible.”
“You ain’t planning to sleep in my bed, are you?” asked Grumps, staring at the dead TV. He had not, as yet, bothered to glance in Nigel’s direction.
“No, no, I’ll be fine on the sofa,” said Nigel.
“Good. I don’t want you in my bed. You look the type to have bedbugs, or crabs—”
“Rest assured, I don’t have—”
“Hair lice, ticks, fleas, tapeworms. I don’t need that stuff.”
“Goodness, no. Absolutely, I—”
“Stay off my bed.”
“For sure,” said Nigel. He would not bother to ask how Grumps got his name.
“Where you from?” Grumps asked, directing a squint that communicated where he should go. “You got a funny way of talking.”
“I’m from England. Surrey, to be precise.”
“England! I might of know’d it. It was an Englander stole my girl back in WW2. Why, if I had my old flamethrower, I’d torch your ass right where you sit.”
“That sounds a bit harsh. Let me say that on behalf of English people everywhere, I apologize for the action of the dastard who stole your sweetheart. The depth of your grudge speaks volumes about what a very special girl she must have been,” countered Nigel, ever the diplomat.
“Not really. She had bad teeth and pasty skin. They were like that, those British broads, but it gave guys like me hope. Those gals back home wouldn’t give a sad sack like me the time of day, but those limey birds suffered from bad vision and poor taste—just the kind of roadkill made to order for a horndog GI like myself. And they loved the chocolate. They’d do anything for it. An-E-thing.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Just ask your mom,” spouted the man. He then lowered his voice and his head. “She was the love of my life, but it all came crashing down. It was on a Tuesday. Tuesdays were never good on the battlefield, but this one was particularly objectionable. Actually, it may have been a Wednesday. Wednesdays weren’t good neither. Anyway, on that terrible Wednesday, or maybe Thursday, after a full day of chasing Jerries, I received the letter that would forever change my life.”
“A Dear John letter from your English sweetheart?” interjected Nigel.
“You heard this before?” asked Grumps. A tear would have been rolling down his cheek if he hadn’t run dry back in the fifties.
“No, but I feel as though I have.”
“She wrote me this letter,” he said, pulling a folded, brownish slip of paper from a nearby shelf.
“You’ve kept the letter all this time?” asked Nigel. “That is amazing. How did you manage to save it?”
“Through the rest of the war I kept the letter in the bottom of my boot.”
“The safest place,” said Nigel.
“I pretended the letter was her face. All across Germany I stepped on it. Even when others collapsed, I had the incentive to take that extra step. When I got home, I took the letter out. It had once smelled of perfume, but no more. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I ran it over several times with my uncle’s tractor.”
“And the letter survived?”
“Of course it survived. That’s it right there, moron,” he said, pounding a finger on the fragile brown paper. “But after a few more years of keeping it in the bottom of my shoe, my anger started to weaken. Sometime during the Kennedy administration, I realized my wrath had been misplaced. The letter was not the enemy and never had been. All that butt-clenching anger, that molar-crunching rage—it was fun, but it was getting me nowhere. After splitting a tooth while chewing on some barbed wire, it came to me that I’d been wasting my energy.”
“Good for you. Didn’t let it get the best of you.”
“Absolutely not. It could have, you know. I was in the danger zone. But I discovered my mistake before destroying myself over what? A silly letter.”
“Exactly.”
“No, it wasn’t the letter that deserved my hate, but that rat-faced little Brit, Milton, and all the other rat-faced little Brits like him. That’s who deserved my hate. I can’t tell you what a revelation it was when that light went on. A new lease on hate. A hate so rich and pure, it was like hating for the very first time. My rage bubbled and boiled anew.”
“Did you consider seeking help?”
“For what? I never felt so alive. I didn’t eat for three years. Not in the conventional sense. I subsisted off the bitter drippings of my own blackened soul. The only way my animus could have been assuaged was to find that Milton and desecrate his body in ways Jeffrey Dahmer only dreamed of.”
“Did you look for him?” said Nigel, his knees pumping like pistons.
“No way. The only way to keep the hatred percolating was to stay in my room and brood. If I’d gone out into the world, who knows what would’ve happened? I might have lost that bitter fire. Then where would I be?”
“I don’t know. Not bitter? Did you ever think of finding a new girlfriend?”
“I ask you, what girl would want a guy self-consumed with barely contained rage that threatened to explode at any minute? Certainly not the sweet, well-adjusted girls I f
avor.”
“I see your point.”
“No. Once I got that letter, my fate was sealed. I would never again find that perfect combination of homeliness and desperation combined with an ingratiating laugh and insatiable desire for chocolate. She was made for me and I for her, my one and only.”
“May I read the letter?” asked Nigel.
“You can, but only to yourself. I can’t bear to hear it again. I don’t even want to see your lips move, understand?”
“I’ll try,” said Nigel.
The brittle, brown, sweat-infused paper carried an aroma slightly akin to Cam’s foot wine. Nigel made low humming noises as his eyes progressed down the page.
“No humming noises,” growled Grumps. “It’s far too painful to hear humming inspired by that letter.”
“Sorry,” replied Nigel. He finished the letter and turned it over to see if there might be more—a PS, perhaps. “So, your girlfriend was named Wilhelmina?”
“That’s right, the most elegant name in the English language. No need to rub it in. Is that your game?”
“No, just checking,” said Nigel. “Tell me, Grumps, if I may call you Grumps, when was the last time you read this letter?”
“That’d be February of ’45. It was cold as hell.”
“So, you read it then, but haven’t read it since?”
“That’s right. That’s what started the downhill slide. What are you getting at?”
“Were you a good reader? I mean like a fifth- or sixth-grade level? Literate, I mean?”
“I was all right.”
“So, you received this letter, and you sat down, and you read it?”
“It didn’t happen exactly that way. See, we’d been fighting the Jerries since morning, and just before we called it a day, this mortar round lands right smack-dab in front of me. Fortunately, I was on the other side of this little brick wall. That wall probably saved my life, though I’ve often cursed it. Anyway, the wall protected my body from the blast, but the explosion threw a cloud of masonry dust right into my face. I was blinded. They put a bandage over my eyes and led me back to camp. It was three or four days before I could take that bandage off and see again.”
“And you received the letter later that day?”
