by D R Lowrey
****
Having seen Grumps back to bed, Nigel returned to his room, removed his clothes, and fell immediately into his deepest slumber…for at least a minute. A dishearteningly familiar sound poked him in the ears.
“Psssssst, psssssst.”
The sound came from outside his door.
“Pssssssst, psssssst.”
Not again. This particular edition sounded different—moister, more rounded, less sizzly, like an oceangoing raft punctured at the waterline by a marlin.
“Pssssssst, psssssst.”
Nigel was a patient man, but these pssssssts in the night were beginning to wear. He got up and placed his ear to the door.
“Pssssssst, pssssssst.”
“Stop pssssssting around,” whispered Nigel. “Get to the point.”
“Won’t you open up and let me in? It’s been so long,” said a voice that purred like a kitten after lapping up her saucer of tequila.
“Go away,” said a pssssssted-off Nigel.
“No. Not goin’ away,” whispered the voice. “I’m staying right here. It’s been twenty years with no wifely attention. Open that door or I’ll scream.”
If Nigel’s tolerance for pssssssts in the night was limited, his tolerance for screams was practically nil. He unbolted the door to admit a wobbly Mrs. Sandoval, shut the door behind her, and flicked on the lights.
The drunk-eyed Mrs. Sandoval stood like a statue—a statue with outstretched hands holding a bottle of cognac in one and two snifter glasses in the other. She wore a flannel robe that provided full cover when closed. It was not closed. The open robe revealed an interior garment that, in another life, would be swaddling melons in a supermarket.
A dumbfounded Nigel, exposed as he was to new aspects of his employer, stood unaware of his own vulnerabilities. As Mrs. Sandoval’s eyelids crept northward over her swaying pupils, those vulnerabilities came to light in vivid, if blurred, detail. The flabbergasted Mrs. Sandoval gazed at the dumbfounded Nigel, and vice versa.
Mrs. Sandoval, having expected an open-armed greeting from her long-lost husband was, for the moment, so stricken by the sight of her out-of-place and out-of-dress butler that the sparsity of her own attire had hardly crossed her mind.
Similarly, Nigel, having been roused out of bed and coerced into opening the door by his matronly boss wrapped in cheesecloth had not, as yet, considered his own lack of attire.
The two parties stood gaping for precisely the amount of time it takes a cognac bottle to fall from a traumatized hand to a carpeted floor. The dull impact jolted the two oglers back to a consciousness they had hoped was a bad dream.
Having suddenly realized she’d left the drapes open, Mrs. Sandoval dropped to a crouch and pulled tight on every swath of flannel she could get a hand on.
Nigel, with nothing to ogle, felt a chill. Not the kind of chill induced by low temperatures, but rather, the kind of chill induced by standing in front of one’s employer outfitted in tighty-whities and a pair of dress socks. A hop, skip, and a jump placed the underweared Nigel behind the bed. On the trip over, he managed to snag a comforter.
“Whattaya doin’ in this room?” asked Mrs. Sandoval.
Not only did Nigel hear her words, he saw and smelled them billowing forth like tequila vapor smoke signals. “What are you doing in this room?” he asked.
“My husband was s’posed to be here. Whattaya done with him?”
“He’s rooming with Grumps. I introduced them.”
“Why’d ya do that?”
“To foster friendship and goodwill.”
“With old Grumps? I don’t b’lieve it.”
“Really,” said Nigel. “That, and avoiding carnage.”
“From Grumps? He’s ninety-six years old.”
“His body may be ninety-six, but his black heart holds the passion of a twenty-year-old Jack the Ripper.”
“We need to get Valdy outta there.”
“You needn’t worry. Grumps craves the blood of an Englishman. Mr. Sandoval, on the other hand, is like a fraternity brother—Order of the Cleft Skulls, Fish Chapter. They’re probably working on secret handshakes as we speak.”
“Well, if Valdy’s not gonna be here, then I oughtta leave. Unless… Do you like cognac, Mr. Nigel?”
He did like cognac, but under the circumstances, he preferred sleep. And if not sleep, pants. “That bottle should be saved for your husband, don’t you think?”
“You’re funny, Mr. Nigel. You know I got lots of bottles.”
“I’m talking about that one. The one you brought. That one’s for your husband.”
“You’re too smart. You’re not mad at me, are you?”
“Of course not. Why would I be?”
“You can’t blame a woman for wanting to be with her husband, can you? Especially after twenty looooong years.”
“No, you can’t blame a woman for wanting to be with her husband any more than you can blame a husband for wanting to be with a woman,” said Nigel. “I’m not sure that came out right.”
“I saw you today with that detective woman.”
“How unfortunate for you.”
“Mr. Nigel, lemme give you some advice. What’s your wife’s name?”
“Annie.”
“Annie? The same as that detective woman? That’s a coincidence.”
“Isn’t it?” said Nigel. He thought of fessing up that she was the wife, but he needed to starve the conversation, not feed it.
“I’m sure your Annie is a won’erful girl. I don’t know what she sees in you, but there must be somethin’. Anyway, my advice is to stay away from that detective lady.”
“Stay away?”
“Yep. Stay away. She’s bad news for someone like you. Bad news. Wanna know why? I’ll tell ya. She’s young. She’s smart. She’s good lookin’. She’s good. You don’t want somebody like that.”
“Are you sure?”
“No! A girl like that wants a man that’s…eh…smart, and eh…intelligent…and…eh…what’s the word I want?”
“Bright?”
“Dashing! She wants a smart, intelligent, dashing man. And that,” she said, steadying herself for a big point, “is not you.”
Nigel was confused. Not about the words. They were clear enough. But, unless a seven-foot man was standing to his immediate left, the point didn’t quit register. Mrs. Sandoval then squinted and dragged her wavering pointer across Nigel’s face before also implicating an invisible dwarf to his right.
“You go home to that little Annie,” she continued. “That’s your best bet, even if she hates you.”
“Sound advice,” said Nigel, hoping she was wrapping up.
“Absotively. Sure ya don’t want some cognac?”
“Pssssst, pssssst,” came a sound from the direction of the door.
“Was that you?” asked Nigel.
“Wasn’t me,” said Mrs. Sandoval.
“You’re sure one of your parts isn’t leaking?”
“I know when I’m leaking. Ain’t me, I tell ya.”
“Psssssst, pssssst.”
“Well, someone’s leaking,” said Nigel.
“Psssssst, I know you’re in there, Nigel. Open up. Let me in.”
“Who’s that?” whispered Mrs. Sandoval.
“Don’t know,” said Nigel, knowing all too well.
Under most circumstances, Nigel would have relished a wee hour visit from the wife. This was not one of those circumstances. He gathered the comforter around himself and made his way to the door, which had a well-defined grease smudge indicating where to place his ear.
“Psssssst. Nigel, open up. What’s taking you so long?” said the voice behind the door.
“Sorry. Waking up. Give me a minute. Need to put something away,” whispered Nigel. “Hold on. I’ll be right there.”
Nigel had every intention of showing Mrs. Sandoval the window, but when he turned around, she was gone. Disappeared. Vanished like a crumpet in the night. Understanding that mediocre m
inds think alike, he looked toward the window for signs of a quick exit, such as curtains flapping in the breeze. Nope. No breeze. No curtains. Venetian blinds, undisturbed.
“Are you going to open up, or do I have to bust this door down?” said the voice from beyond.
“On my way, dear,” said Nigel, scanning the room a final time for telltale signs of the desperate housewife. Seeing none, he opened the door and pulled his wife through. “What a surprise! An unexpected surprise. The most surprising kind.”
“What are you wearing?” said Annie. “It’s like hugging a sleeping bag. Makes me want to climb inside.”
“Is that right?” said Nigel. “Planning to stay awhile?”
Annie held up a bottle of prosecco. “Maybe I will. I couldn’t sleep. Mom snores awfully.”
“Really? Does fire come out?”
“You know she sleeps with her eyes open? Creepy.”
“Reptiles do that, I’ve heard.”
Annie led Nigel to the bed where the two sat down. “I saw you earlier put Mr. Sandoval in with Grumps, so I knew I’d find you here,” she said.
“You saw me?” said Nigel. “I didn’t see you.”
“I’m a detective, remember?”
“I do recall, so what have you detected lately?” Nigel could hardly keep his extremities from bouncing, shaking, or trembling. The intoxicated Mrs. Sandoval, in a scarcely clothed state, lurked nearby, and he needed to get one of these women out of his room. For now, he’d keep the conversation going until something came to mind.
“That fiancé of Abuelita’s is up to no good,” said Annie. “I don’t know what yet, but he’s got something in mind that doesn’t involve a wedding.”
“Abuelita has the worst luck with fiancés. Damages my faith in the internet. It’s a shame, a sweet girl like that living alone. She needs a nice husband. The kind that can take a whuppin’. Maybe it’ll work out for the best.”
“Another thing,” said Annie. “Different topic, but that Cam Logan/electric eel thing bothers me.”
“Bothers you? I should say it bothered me. I spent forty bucks on hair relaxers.”
“Cam’s story about her aquarium keeper putting it in the lagoon without her knowledge—not credible.”
“Do Cam Logan and credible belong in the same sentence? Take Stanley. What’s she doing with him? Unless the answer is footstool—not credible. And that hair of hers, it sparkles. What is that? My Dad had a bowling ball that looked like that, but hair? Not credible.”
“You’re right—nothing credible. It’s impossible to know what to believe about her.”
Nigel offered no comment, hoping Annie would detect a conversation run dry and say something like, “Just a thought. Must be running along.”
She said nothing like that. Rather, she unleashed the kind of smile Nigel saw far too rarely.
He returned a smile of his own, the kind that said, “Cards?”
Annie looked down at her bottle of prosecco, and then, with a slow, deliberate motion, brought her head up to unleash a side-eye so smoldering it needed an ashtray underneath it.
Nigel hated to extinguish the flame, but the situation had grown far too combustible. “You know what I discovered today?”
“What?” she said, turning the side-eye into a snide-eye.
“Mr. Sandoval has a poison dart frog.”
“What? A living poison dart frog?”
“A living, pet poison dart frog, just like the one in the dead guy’s throat.”
“How is that possible? Isn’t that extremely dangerous?”
“Not according to him. Dart frogs are only poisonous if they eat ants. No ants, no poison. He said all his South American buddies had these dart frogs on no-ant diets.”
“Interesting.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” A pause ensued that Nigel rushed to fill. “Indeed, but what about the killer? That detective thinks I did it. If we don’t solve the case, he’s going to roast me on a spit.”
“Let him. That two-bit Colum-boob is a dumpster fire. As long as he’s chasing your ass, he’s out of the way. You just keep your nose clean so he doesn’t have anything to pick at,” she said, tweaking Nigel’s nose with a forefinger. Annie’s expression changed from playful to perplexed. “What is this?”
“What is what?”
“There’s something under my foot,” she said, reaching downward. “It’s a fancy glass.”
“Indeed,” said Nigel, wondering what had become of its owner.
“Have you been drinking on the sly?”
“Not me. This is Gastrick’s old room. You can find all kinds of surprising things in here.”
“But it smells of alcohol,” said Annie.
“Does it? That’s from yesterday. Yesterday there was alcohol. I recall now. Yesterday there was drinking, of course.”
“Smells fresh. Doesn’t smell like from yesterday.”
“Did I say yesterday? It’s been a long day. No, I meant earlier today. When I helped Mr. Sandoval move, he had a bottle of cognac. He had a snort in a snorter, or I should say a snift in a snifter. I remember now. He neglected to take his glass. I guess he’ll have to snift straight from the bottle. Him and Grumps are probably all snifted out by now.”
“Is that the bottle?” said Annie, pointing to a bottle of Remy Martin on the floor by the nightstand.
This was getting out of control. What next? A melon bag? “Did I tell you that Mr. Sandoval has a map?” he said, desperate to deflect. He hadn’t wanted to mention the map, but circumstances had forced it out of him.
“A map of what?”
“Well, kind of map-like, possibly.”
“A map of what?”
“It might be moles.”
“Moles? He has a map of moles?”
“I mean, the map might not be a map, but rather, a collection of, you know, map-like moles, or spots, or blemishes, or freckles. Maybe ticks. I didn’t look that close. It looked kind of like a map, but I need to check it again later…in case something moves.”
“So, this map is on his body?”
“I guess it would be, wouldn’t it? That’s usually where the moles are.”
“What makes you think it’s a map?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. I’m just sort of halfway thinking it might be a map. Not sure yet. It’s an imagination thing, like looking at clouds. You know, where one person just sees clouds, another sees a unicorn slurping a smoothie while another sees garden nymphs sponging down Albert Einstein. Anyways, just thought I’d mention it for future reference.”
“Pssssst.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sleepless Night, Fitful Morning
“Did you hear something?” said Annie.
“Probably a mosquito,” said Nigel, hoping it might buzz away.
“Sounded like a leak.”
“They do that, mosquitos, so I’ve been told.”
“Pssssst.”
“There it is again,” said Annie. “Was it you?”
Nigel peaked inside his quilted wrapper. “Thankfully not. Probably a passing snake.”
“Snakes do that when they pass?”
“Depends on what they had for dinner,” said Nigel. He hoped it wasn’t Mrs. Sandoval from somewhere inside the room. In her state, one would think she’d have been pssssst out already.
“Pssssst.”
“It’s coming from the hallway,” said Annie.
“Good. Let them pssssst in the hallway to their heart’s content.”
“Psssssst.”
“It’s at your door,” said Annie. “You better see who it is.”
“All right. For no one but you, dear,” said Nigel, arranging his comforter like a bloated toga. He made his way to the door, placing his ear in the usual spot. “Who is it?” he whispered.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Nigel,” said the hallway prowler, “but we’ve run out of toilet paper.”
“Is that you, Mr. Sandoval?”
“Yes, it’s me
, Mr. Nigel.”
“How are things, Mr. Sandoval?”
“We’ve run out of toilet paper.”
“Aside from that, all good?”
“We need toilet paper.”
“You’ve been out rolling houses, haven’t you? I told you two to behave.”
“No, Mr. Nigel, we haven’t. We just need a roll of toilet paper.”
“I’ll see what I can do. You’ll not waste it foolishly, will you?”
“No, Mr. Nigel. We wouldn’t,” pleaded Mr. Sandoval. “Could you hurry, please? Grumps is waiting.”
Surprising, thought Nigel. Grumps didn’t seem like the waiting type.
“Okay, Mr. Sandoval. You wait there, and I’ll fetch you some.”
Nigel had a decision to make. Behind door number one lay a closet he suspected of harboring extra toilet rolls. Behind door number two was a bathroom containing toilet paper, if not extra rolls. Behind either door lurked a possible fiasco in the form of a sloshed and netted Mrs. Sandoval. Relying on simple logic for his toilet paper search, Nigel went with number two. He took a deep breath and waved to his wife on the way in. Annie, perched center-bed like the final tart on the dessert tray, raised an eyebrow as if to suggest the night was still young.
Nigel felt the night growing old and more crotchety than any night had a right to. He knocked on the bathroom door before barging in, then closed the door behind him. To his great relief, no one was waiting to greet him. To his chagrin, neither were spare rolls of toilet paper. While unspooling a kindly number of sheets from the one available roll, discordant male and female voices arose from without. Distinct words could not be pulled from the general squawkery, but he expected the worst because that was the kind of night it was.
The commotion ceased when Nigel entered the room. Annie, still sitting center-bed, was now wrapped in a sheet. She looked like Mount Fuji sprouting a head. In an opposite corner stood Mr. Sandoval, stoop-shouldered in satiny pajamas, addressing a wall.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Nigel. I didn’t know you had company. I waited outside, but that lady was coming. I didn’t want to be seen.”
