by D R Lowrey
“That evening.”
“So, that evening, while your eyes were bandaged, you received the letter. How did you read the letter?”
“A guy in our platoon, Jester, read it to me.”
“Chester read it to you?”
“No, Jester. With a J. He read it to me.”
Nigel was beginning to put some pieces together. “This Jester with a J, what kind of a chap was he?”
“Jester was a cutup. You know the type, a wiseass. Always blabbering insults, trying to trick you, playing practical jokes. He’d do anything to put one over on you. Honestly, if we’d a taken a vote for someone to go on a suicide mission, he’d have won. What a Bozo. He knew better than to mess with me, though. I made sure of that.”
“Did you?”
“I’d have none of his foolishness. I was too smart for him. What’s all this talk about Jester? What’s he got to do with anything?”
“Oh, nothing, I suppose,” said Nigel slipping the brown piece of paper into his jacket pocket. “Nothing at all. You best forget about Jester.”
“I have forgot about him. It’s that English bastard I think about. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with my fingernails sunk deep into my pillow,” he said, holding up his knotted hands like a pair of talons. “I’ve got hold of his liver. I can see that sorry English wretch, wherever he is, screaming ’til his lungs pop. Nighttime is the only time I feel any pleasure.”
“Gracious,” said Nigel. “Maybe you should try knitting. They say it relaxes the soul.”
“My soul is a burning cesspool of insatiable hate. Knitting, huh? I like those big needles.”
“Perhaps knitting’s not your thing. A quiet game of solitaire before bedtime might improve your sleep.”
“I do my best work while sleeping. There’s nothing I can’t disembowel in my sleep. You’re bunking here tonight?”
“That was the plan.”
“My advice: sleep with your eyes open.”
“Not a problem,” said Nigel, meaning the part about eyes open. “You said you were hungry. How long has it been since you ate?”
“Seems like forever. I don’t keep track. If there’s no food, I just chew on my own blackened soul. Vengeance can keep you alive, you know.”
“Certainly, but your own blackened soul tends to be high in free radicals. I’ll see if I can’t pop down and find you something more nutritious.”
“And pudding. I want pudding.”
“Of course you do. A nice pudding made from the liver of an Englishman. Mmmmm, wouldn’t that be nice? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Butler’s Business
As it was ten in the morning, the inmates of Asylum Sandoval had rolled themselves out of bed and infested the common areas. In the lounge area to one side of the staircase, the newly returned Mr. Sandoval, in his donated wardrobe, looked less vagrant-like and refreshingly chipper for one who’d passed the night in a tree. His spirits were likely bolstered by the warmth of his daughters, Esmerelda and Stefanie, enclosing him like bookends on the Louis XIV loveseat.
Esmerelda was not Mr. Sandoval’s biological offspring but had arrived as part of a package deal when he married Abuelita five decades earlier. By every other account, however, she was his daughter. Essie believed their surprisingly coincidental returns signified some grand cosmic jubilee, her personal Age of Aquarius. She could hardly keep herself corked.
Stefanie, the daughter of the current Mr. and Mrs. Sandoval, had a less romantic view. She put no stock in cosmic coincidences, or in her father’s tales. Either he was lying or, as his stoved-in head seemed to indicate, addlebrained. Whichever, he had obviously run out of things to fail at, given up, and boomeranged home. But faults and failures aside, she was overjoyed to have him back. The trio now filled the atrium with choruses from their shared childhood songbook.
Annie had left for the day, but her mother haunted the estate like a gas leak. She floated about the place in her improvised turban and massive sunglasses, watching, listening, and not engaging. Rooms went silent and then empty when she entered—the same effect had she been a meandering skunk.
Mrs. Sandoval, sitting alone in her office, thumbed through a magazine while waiting for the clock to strike twelve. The hour from eleven to noon was her longest—the jittery interval between caffeine buzz and tequila fortifiers when unexpected things often occurred.
Skimming an article on “How to Satisfy Your Man in 27 Easy Steps,” she became afflicted with a sudden chill. Looking up with a start, she glimpsed an enormous pair of sunglasses topped by a turban just as they vaporized like a sinister mist. Mrs. Sandoval spasmed in fits and starts as if a handful of her heartbeats had just been stolen. Shaking, she returned to her article, but could not remember what step she was on.
“Completed my move,” said Nigel, injecting his head through the threshold.
Mrs. Sandoval popped six inches out of her seat while ripping step fifteen from her magazine.
“My word!” she shouted. “Aren’t you butlers supposed to announce yourselves? Scared the living daylights out of me.”
Nigel retreated from the doorway for a second approach. “Ahem. I’ve completed my move,” he said. “The gentleman I am to bunk with, do you have a schedule for him?”
“What kind of schedule?”
“I assume he eats. Goes out. Talks to people. I assume.”
“Gastrick took care of that. It was his responsibility. Gastrick’s gone.”
“Indeed he is. The gentleman, Grumps I believe he’s called, is still here. He requires looking after.”
“See that he is.”
“Yes, ma’am. I will see to it, then.” Nigel turned to leave.
“Wait, Mr. Nigel.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You’ve talked to that Jack Watt, have you not?”
“Yes, ma’am. A good chap. Quite a cheery sort. As an unnamed poet once said, ‘He floats with winged sandals above life’s catastrophes.’”
“I didn’t know he hung around with poets, but his poet friend had him dead on.” Mrs. Sandoval rubbed her forehead as if it were cramped.
“You don’t approve of him, madam?”
“I approve of him very much. As you say, he’s a cheery sort. It’s just that ….” She struggled to find the words. It was all very well that Abuelita had found some sap to marry, but having met the sunny Mr. Watt, Mrs. Sandoval seemed conflicted.
Nigel understood. The thought of that buoyant man being shackled to the glum Abuelita was enough to stir up the bats in anyone’s belly. She feared the winged vermin might loiter if Mr. Watt wasn’t warned, scared off, or tied to the bumper of a truck heading to a faraway state.
Nigel, noting Mrs. Sandoval’s anguish, interceded. “I understand your distress, madam. I myself have had similar misgivings.”
“What should we do?”
“Nothing,” said Nigel.
“Nothing?” asked Mrs. Sandoval.
“Nothing. I believe things will work out in the end.”
“How?”
“Has this Mr. Watt eyes to see with?”
“He does.”
“Ears to hear with?”
“Those too.”
“Legs to run with?”
“Two, I believe.”
“There you have it. Everything he needs. I suggest letting nature take its course.”
“So, you think when he sees Abuelita for who she is, he’ll run for the hills?”
“Wouldn’t anyone?”
“Maybe you’re right. Let’s hope for your sake it works. One more thing before you go, Mr. Nigel. Could you remind me again, who is that ghastly woman creeping around in a turban and sunglasses?”
Nigel was wondering when the howling would begin. One day seemed about right. “That would be Annie’s mother.”
“Annie, that private investigating lady?”
“Yes, madam.”
“And how long is she to stay? That m
other, I mean.”
“Until her home repairs are complete. I don’t have a date.”
“Is there anything we can do for her? I mean, to get her out of here sooner?”
“Not that I am aware of, madam.”
“I’ll tell you, Mr. Nigel. Bringing that lady here is a blot on your record. I mean, I don’t mind having guests, but that lady is like some kind of walking momento mori. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, madam, I understand completely. She makes one contemplate a dreadful death and an afterlife of twisted, never-ending misery.”
“Spot on, Mr. Nigel. So you’ve noticed it too?”
“I dare say, the woman was put on this earth for no other purpose.”
“She doesn’t even speak. Is she dumb?”
“No, madam. Unfortunately, she is not.”
Mrs. Sandoval shivered. “I might not feel so unsettled if she just said something.”
“Respectfully, I would disagree. I have heard her speak. Her words, should she choose to communicate, are prone to rankle,” said Nigel. “Or worse.”
“Worse than rankle?”
“Much worse. I would postulate that engaging her in conversation could have far-reaching repercussions. I would strongly advise against it. Perhaps I should warn the others.”
“Do that, Mr. Nigel. For everyone’s sake, warn the others.”
Nigel made his way to the kitchen where Lysette was preparing the day’s lunch. He stood at her side admiring the dishes in various stages of completion.
“Have you made a food tray for Grumps?” he asked.
“If someone orders a tray, I’ll make one.”
“So no one has ordered a tray?”
“Not since Gastrick been gone.”
“Did you wonder if Grumps was being fed?”
“I wondered if he even existed,” said Lysette. “I’ve heard of someone named Grumps, but I ain’t never seen no one named Grumps. Is there such a person?”
“In fact, there is. And he must be pretty hungry. How long has Gastrick been gone? Three months? That’s a long time to live off the drippings of one’s own blackened soul. He must have been eating something.”
“I don’t know nothing.”
Nigel did not wish to discuss it further. The police already had their snoot up his drawers for one murder. If Grumps expired in the night, he didn’t want to leave a trail of incriminating conversations. “What do you have that I can take to him now? He could be on the verge of starvation. He’s not the kind you could tell by looking.”
“We running short as it is, what with all these extra people. You could take him your lunch.”
“Fine. I’ll put together the tray. From now on, could you put together a tray every day for lunch and dinner? I’ll see that you’re compensated.”
“You know you will.”
Nigel prepared a tray from Lysette’s offerings and poured a glass of juice. He was about to wheel the tray out on a cart when a loathsome sound tore through the silence.
“Where’s my fiancé?” cackled Abuelita from the atrium. “Where’s he gone to? Where’s that damned fiancé?”
Wheeling the cart out of the kitchen, Nigel spotted Abuelita, center atrium, spinning around in her wheelchair. The girls, Mr. Sandoval, and Mrs. Sandoval across the way, held up their palms in the universal gesture for “How-the-hell-should-I-know?”
“If you can wait a couple minutes,” said Nigel, “I’ll help track him down.”
“If he’s skipped out, I’ll track him down myself and skin that sucker alive,” said Abuelita. “With my fingernails.”
Nigel pushed the cart quickly toward the elevator only to freeze as Annie’s mother, conjured up by Abuelita’s declarations of violence, materialized at the base of the stairs. The turbaned wraith stood like a statue except for a tongue, strangely unforked, moistening her lips. Nigel averted his eyes. Giving a wide berth, he pushed the cart past the menacing mother-in-law and into the elevator.
As the elevator doors opened, the grandfather clock sounded the first of twelve gongs. He reached Grumps’s room as the opening chords of “Tequila!” played, followed by Mrs. Sandoval expressing her relief in the form of a Tarzan yell. Critically needed in two places at once, he served Grumps first based on proximity and starvation. Fortunately, once he deposited the food tray and fixed the TV to receive a signal, Grumps was eager for Nigel to leave the room.
“Tequila!” shouted Mrs. Sandoval as Nigel landed on the first floor.
Nigel hustled to the liquor locker for the desired beverages and glassware.
“Get the lead out, bonehead,” shouted Abuelita as Nigel reached the cabinet. “Tequila!” she wailed.
Nigel considered tossing the bottle directly into the restless mob, allowing them to chew off the top and trade open mouth gulps to their hearts’ content. Only his butler’s training held him back.
As he was prearranging the shot glasses, a lady’s shoe came flying into the formation.
“Tequila!” shouted Abuelita, waving her remaining shoe over her head.
“Coming, m’lady,” said Nigel.
While reassembling the shot glasses into neat formation, he noticed a movement on the back lawn. Such activity in the light of day was unlikely from any of the current residents. Pulling back the sheer curtains, Nigel saw Abuelita’s missing fiancé. The condemned man marched about in the manner of a mechanical toy soldier before stopping to place hands on hips as if lost.
Nigel unlatched the French doors with the intent of asking the doomed man if he’d like a snort. At the first sound of doors unlatching, the man looked up, froze like a statue caught scratching himself, and then hoofed it. To where, who knew? But once he’d decided to go, he went.
A shoe whizzed past Nigel’s nose, through the opened door, and out onto the back deck.
“Tequila!” shouted Abuelita. “The next thing I throw will have a blade on it.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Evidence Piles Up
Having pacified the thirsty natives and knocked out a lunch of crackers and Vienna sausages, Nigel raced to the front door to answer a ringing bell. Standing before him was Winjack, the rubber-faced police detective.
“You?” asked the detective. “Still here?”
“Why would I not be?” replied Nigel.
“I had an inkling you might have been fired by now.”
“It’s just my third day on the job.”
“Congratulations. You’ve got staying power, but the week is still young.”
“Yes, but growing older by the minute. How can I help you?”
“I would like you to round up all the residents. I have breaking news regarding the dead man.”
“Breaking news? Is he not dead?”
“Of course he’s dead.”
“For a minute, I thought you had a story worth hearing. Nevertheless, I shall rally the inmates.” Nigel opened the door wide, allowing the detective to follow him in. Stepping to the center of the atrium, Nigel formed his hands into a megaphone. “Everyone!” he yelled. “Hear ye, hear ye. Inspector Detector is back. He thinks he has news. Rally around, boys and girls. Come one, come all. Step right up. Don’t be late. Last one in is a rotten egg.”
The residents, who had been centered around the liquor cabinet, reshuffled themselves to encircle the atrium.
“Everyone,” announced Nigel. “This here detective has returned claiming he has important information on that unfortunate incident involving a cadaver—”
“What unfortunate incident was that?” asked Mrs. Sandoval.
“The cadaver,” said Nigel.
“What about it?”
“It was in the garden.”
“Yes, the cadaver in the garden. What was the unfortunate incident?”
“The unfortunate incident was there being a cadaver in the garden.”
“We know that already. When you said there was an unfortunate incident involving the cadaver, I thought it must have disappeared, or exploded, or
caused a traffic accident. The fact that it was in our garden isn’t so unfortunate. If you want unfortunate, imagine how that man felt when he became a cadaver.”
The detective nodded his head as if he understood.
“Very well,” said Nigel. “Let’s show the detective how civilized we can be. Indulge him with all the attention you can muster. No throwing of objects before he’s finished. I yield the floor to Detective Winjack.”
“Thank you,” said the detective. “A surprisingly gracious introduction given your precarious legal situation.” He removed a notepad from his trench coat and began reading, “Approximately 9:00 a.m. last Monday morning, an unidentified dead body was reported on this property—blah, blah, blah. In the oral cavity of the deceased was found a toad of a type not known to be injurious to humans. Upon removal of this toad, a frog was found farther down the cavity. This frog was summarily identified as one of the poison dart varieties native to South America. These animals are highly toxic to humans. However, a preliminary toxicology report indicates the man did not die of poisoning from this animal.” He closed his notebook.
“So, the frog was not a poison dart frog,” Nigel proclaimed.
“The frog was a poison dart frog,” said the detective.
“Are you telling us that poison dart frogs are safe to consume?” said Nigel.
“I would not recommend consuming a poison dart frog,” said the detective. “However, preliminary tests indicate that this particular poison dart frog was not poisonous.”
“I see,” crowed Nigel, pacing in front of the crowd. “Yet you maintain that a murder was committed. Are you suggesting the murder weapon was a non-poisonous poison dart frog administered as an asphyxiant?”
“Are you nuts?” said the detective.
Sensing a moment, Nigel faced the detective with an upturned finger. “Detective, when you found a toad in this man’s mouth, you said he died from a poison toad, then you said he didn’t. Then you found a poison dart frog in his throat and said he died from a poison dart frog. Now you say he didn’t. What next? A salamander in his stomach? Your credibility is ebbing, Detective Winjack, Ebbing. So what actually killed this man, Detective, a blow to the head?”
