by D R Lowrey
“What lady?” asked Nigel.
“That turbaned lady with the dark glasses. The one that looks like Mother Satan. I’m sorry, but she scares me.”
This, from a man who had once fought off a jaguar with a fish. Nigel understood. “It’s quite all right. She scares me too.”
“Thank you for understanding,” said Mr. Sandoval.
“Here are your provisions,” said Nigel, handing him the folded pile of tissues.
“You don’t have a roll?” asked Mr. Sandoval.
“Sadly, not tonight,” said Nigel.
“Mr. Sandoval,” said Annie.
Nigel’s ears stood on edge. Unless Annie had a spare roll of toilet paper up her nightshirt, addressing Mr. Sandoval meant nothing but trouble.
“Nigel was telling me,” Annie continued, “that you possess a map of some kind.”
“A map, ma’am?” said Mr. Sandoval.
Nigel, facing Mr. Sandoval with his back to Annie, began a series of hand gestures intended to advise Mr. Sandoval to withhold certain information.
Mr. Sandoval, having some familiarity with the sign language of Amazonia, gave Nigel the thumbs-up, likely thinking the butler was wishing him well with his bathroom adventure.
“A map,” repeated Annie. “He said you may have a map on your body.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Sandoval. “You must mean that treasure map tattooed on my back. Now I remember. Mr. Nigel saw it earlier today.”
“Can you show it to me?” asked Annie.
“Do you have any tattoos, ma’am?” said Mr. Sandoval, implying interest in a game of you-show-me-yours, I’ll-show-you-mine.
“No, afraid not,” said Annie.
“Now, now, now,” interjected Nigel. “It’s entirely premature to mention maps, or treasure.”
As if the word “treasure” had been some secret code, the closet door burst open like a failed dam, spilling the liquified Mrs. Sandoval into the room. Mrs. Sandoval’s robe—unencumbered as it was by belt, clasps, or buttons—fluttered behind her as she bounded out of the closet with outspread arms. Below the flapping robe, for all to see, was the undernetting that served little purpose but to keep Mrs. Sandoval herself from flapping. In her exuberant escape, she hopped on Nigel’s protective covering, pulling the comforter to the floor.
While Mrs. Sandoval engulfed the awestruck Mr. Sandoval, Annie launched herself into Nigel’s personal space with quite a different attitude.
And there they stood, the four of them: Mr. Sandoval in his silken PJs, Mrs. Sandoval in her melon net, Nigel in his socks and tighty-whities, and Annie in her tank top.
“Pssssst.”
Annie looked at Nigel.
Nigel looked at Mrs. Sandoval.
Mrs. Sandoval looked at Mr. Sandoval.
Mr. Sandoval looked at Annie.
When all that looking yielded nothing, they tried again, shifting one person to the right. After several iterations, the group shrugged.
“Psssssst.” It came from behind the door.
As the four stood looking, the door creaked opened.
“Where the hell is my toilet paper?” said a craggy voice from a helmeted head. Upon seeing the miscreants, Grumps’s eyes widened. “What the hell? Ya’ll having a party, and no one invited me? Damn! How often does this happen?”
****
Grumps left Nigel’s room properly equipped for his important business. The Sandovals, man and wife, had comported themselves more like distant cousins. Not anymore. They left the room like a pair of naughty teenage lovers determined to make up for lost time after being grounded for twenty years. Annie was the last to go, but she did not go easily.
To Nigel’s great consternation, Annie had fallen ass over tits for one of those ridiculous conspiracy theories. Somehow during the night’s activities, she’d gotten it in her head that Mrs. Sandoval was more than just an employer. Of course, he challenged this assumption, vigorously.
“Absurd,” said Nigel. “Unfounded, illogical, unsubstantiated, ludicrous, balderdash.”
“Balderdash?” said Annie in a tone that would make a balder dash if balders were capable of such.
“And poppycock, and anything else you can think of that means rubbish. What possible evidence do you have for these outlandish suppositions?”
Of course, Annie, the former police detective, was expert at providing evidence, and she did so with painstaking thoroughness. Her case rested on these basic facts: (a) Mrs. Sandoval was in Nigel’s room at 2:00 a.m. concurrently with (b) a bottle of cognac and two cognac glasses; (c) Nigel was in a state of near undress, (d) Mrs. Sandoval was in a state of near undress, (e) Mrs. Sandoval was hiding in a closet, and (f) as she was leaving, Mrs. Sandoval said to Nigel, “Remember what I told you,” as she did that “skin the carrot” thing with her fingers while glaring at Annie.
Nigel sat quietly for the testimony. After Annie rested her case, he noticed that his eyes blinked more than usual.
“Well?” said Annie. “Don’t just sit there blinking your eyes. Say something.”
“Is that all you got?” asked Nigel.
“Is that all I’ve got?”
While awaiting his wife’s reply, Nigel recognized that he’d tweaked one of those nerves with direct ties to the powder keg.
“I see your point, but you’ve got it all wrong. It was all a matter of circumstance. As a matter of fact, everyone involved had the noblest intentions. Mrs. Sandoval wanted only to reconnect, so to speak, with her long-lost husband. She came to the wrong room because I moved her husband to Grumps’s quarters so that the two might establish a brotherhood based on their shared experience of fish-based head trauma. Mr. Sandoval arrived on a mission to help a friend avoid a hygienic catastrophe. And you? You apparently came to make life miserable for your do-gooder husband. If you persist with this evil fantasy that me and Mrs. Sandoval were, eh, playing a game of hide the bishop, you go right ahead, but let me say this. I will never, ever have a passionate interest in a woman whose name begins with Mrs. Not going to happen. If that lady came to my room looking for sex, she was going to leave disappointed, because when it comes to that sort of thing, the only one I’ll be disappointing is my wife. Now, Mrs. Blandwater-Cummings, the ball is in your court. You may stay here if you fancy a quick disappointment, or you may leave.”
Annie opted to leave, but not out of anger. Rather, she wished to be back in her room when Mother woke up—one of those mysterious rules of etiquette between a daughter and her dragon mama. Nigel’s speech had effectively pinched the fuse just short of ignition.
Relieved he was, but still haunted throughout the night by pssssssts, as if his brain had sprung leaks. Despite the sleep-deprived torment, sleeping in was not an option. Today everything had to come together for tomorrow’s wedding. The tent and furniture were to arrive, the flowers would be delivered, the minister and the photographer would be briefed, and the dress would be fitted. Was there a chance all these things would go as planned? Any of them?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A Heart-to-Heart
Breakfast was not a catered affair at the Sandoval estate, but Nigel spent a good half-hour moving various items from the kitchen to the adjoining buffet court. As might be expected, few guests were astir at the seven o’clock hour. Decanting the milk, he received a call from a person representing the minister he’d booked as the wedding’s officiant. One might have expected a secretary. If the voice belonged to a secretary, it was one who’d weathered a long career boxing on the undercards.
“Dis da man what booked Rev’rend Bilcher for da wedding tomorrow?”
“Yes, I had him booked for a three o’clock ceremony,” said Nigel.
“He won’t make it.”
“He won’t? Why not?”
“A accident.”
“Oh, dear. I hope no one was injured.”
“Not dat kind of a accident. An incident might be a better description. He’s gonna be away awhile.”
“I had paid a deposit in a
dvance.”
“Really? How much?”
“A hundred dollars.”
“You don’t say. Dat explains where he got da money. We thought he was flat broke, but now we know.”
“You’ll send my deposit back?”
“Naw. The rev’ would have to do that, but he ain’t gonna be available.”
“But if services are not rendered, you have to return the money.”
“Naw, buddy. I ain’t gotta do nothin’. It’s Rev’rend Bilcher who oughtta return your money, but he ain’t gonna be available. If I was you, I’d write off that hunnerd as a charitable contribution.”
“A contribution to what?”
“The Rev’rend Bilcher Housing Fund.”
“Is that an accredited charity?”
“Not likely, but I can tell you, your hunnerd dollars has contributed mightily to the good reverend having a roof over his head and food in his tummy for da next six months. Dat ain’t no lie.”
“I would rather have my money back.”
“Yeah? Here’s what you do. In six months, maybe nine, you call this number. If he answers, ask for da money back.”
“He’ll give me a refund?”
“He probably won’t answer. Probably have a different number, maybe a different name, maybe a different state. But you can try.”
“I will be reporting this to the Better Business Bureau.”
“If that’s your thing, go right ahead. You be you. It’ll keep you outta trouble, keep you from doing anything rash. Take care, you.” He hung up.
Nigel had been up less than an hour and already his day was heading in reverse. Then Mother rolled in like a Mongol horde looking for plunder.
“Where’s the kiwi and the avocado?” said the turbaned fright.
“I don’t believe we have kiwi. There’s some guacamole dip in the refrigerator,” replied Nigel.
“I didn’t ask for guacamole. I asked for avocado. I’m not about to put guac on my face. How about papaya? Have any papaya, Nile?”
“No, no papaya. And the name’s Nigel.”
“Nigel, shmigel, no papaya, no avocado. What kind of place are you running here?”
“Not a smoothie shop, but we have apples, bananas, oranges, peaches, strawberries, pineapple, lemons, limes, and mango.”
“I need something for my face, not my stomach.”
Now he got the picture. Nigel sensed an opportunity to start healing old wounds. “If you’re looking for a fruit mask, I can whip one up in a snap. Butler’s training, you know.” Butler’s training had nothing to do with it, but Nigel had seen his wife make one. It was not rocket science. More like an opportunity to clear away overripe fruit.
“I’m skeptical, but you can give it a try, Nyland.”
“Coming right up. The name’s Nigel.”
After the disastrous water heater episode, any success would bolster his reputation. He pureed a mango, added a tub of blueberry fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt, dropped in half a banana too bruised to eat, and squeezed in some lemon juice. It came out thin, so he added some corn starch, and voila, a facial mask more than adequate for a dragon.
“Here you go, Mother dear,” said Nigel, handing her a dish of the stuff. “If this doesn’t work, nothing will.”
Even through the sunglasses, Nigel sensed Mother’s eyes revving themselves into burning lasers. He moved away before the killer rays got a lock. She grabbed a few edibles and left with her dish of fruity face de-ager.
Members of the household filtered in and out of the kitchen over the next hour, keeping Nigel busy with assorted cleanups and errands. The tent company arrived at nine to set up the tent and chairs. He walked the crew around to the garden area and instructed them as to the orientation and placement.
Near one corner of the tent was the hole that had been discovered last Monday along with the body. Not only was the hole and its dirt pile still present, but a twin hole with a twin dirt pile had materialized fifty feet away. Nigel scanned the surroundings for signs of a new body. The lack of one put a hole in the theory that the hole was an aborted attempt to dispose of the corpse. Regardless of their origins, both holes needed to be repaired before the wedding. It wouldn’t do to have holes lying in wait to break the legs of unsuspecting wedding goers. At least, not if he wasn’t allowed to pick and choose which legs.
By the time Nigel returned to the house, every inmate was up and about and wanting some service or another. Abuelita’s voice rose above all others as she had, once again, misplaced her fiancé.
“Where’s Jack? What’s happened to Jack?” she’d say. “Have you seen Jack? Has anyone seen my jackass fiancé?”
For two people on the verge of marriage and living in the same house, Jack Watt and Abuelita spent a surprising amount of time apart. Most couples, under such circumstances, attach themselves to each other’s hips and exhibit the kind of earnest affection that drives closest friends and dearest relatives to hide in closets. Not these two. Abuelita could not keep track of Jack Watt’s whereabouts. Jack Watt likely found this to be her most endearing quality. Stefanie, her of the AWOL husband, looked upon the separations as training. Nigel held out hope that Jack Watt had wised up and permanently decamped.
“I will see if I can find your precious Jack,” said Nigel. Wrangling wayward fiancés might not have been in his job description, but this was one task Nigel would be happy to fail at. What a relief that would be.
****
Nigel’s search for Abuelita’s missing fiancé left him feeling like a beekeeper searching for the queen of the hive. Everywhere he went, occupants scattered and buzzed, but with no sign of the royal prize. Having searched the house proper, he ascended to the attic where small round windows provided sweeping views in every direction. To the east, in the far distance, he spotted a lone figure of a man where one ought not to be.
A ten-minute hike put Nigel within shouting distance of the flighty fiancé. Jack Watt, surprisingly, had turned out to be a thoroughly likeable guy, one of those easygoing types supremely relaxed within his own skin. A skin that Abuelita was soon to bore herself permanently under like some aged blood-sucking tick. Why a guy with Jack’s charms would invite such a tragedy was beyond comprehension. What Jack needed was a nudge—a nudge away from a future of crushing anguish, hellish torment, and harrowing agony. Then again, maybe that’s what was missing in Jack’s life.
“Hey, there,” Nigel yelled to Jack, who was seated on a stump.
“Who goes there?”
“It’s me, Nigel, the butler. Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Watt, but your lady has become agitated. I think she’s a bit paranoid that you’ll slip into the woods never to return.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Jack Watt, spinning around on his stump. “Just need me some personal time. I’m a loner at heart, a lone wolf.”
“Understood. I’ve got a touch of the independent streak myself. Of course, I’m married, so the wife sets some limits.”
“Keeps you penned in, does she?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Nigel, gazing toward the horizon, beyond which, somewhere, free men were gallivanting. He wasn’t a smoker, but a drag would have been nice. He pulled up a blade of grass and placed it in his mouth. It tasted awful. Like grass. And dirt. “Actually, you’re pretty spot on. That’s me all right, a wolf in a cage. A lone, wild wolf yearning to be free. In a cage.” He stole a glance at Jack to see if he might have turned pale. Nothing. “But for me it’s worth it. I love my wife.”
“You’re a lucky wolf in a cage then,” said Jack.
“I hope you’re as lucky.” Nigel looked for signs of downcast. Nope. “I don’t know if Abuelita mentioned it, but she’s already lost one fiancé. That man went to jail before she could reel him in. It was just as well. He was planning to murder her. My point is that Abuelita suffers from paranoia when it comes to losing another. She gets a little antsy. She’ll want you around…all the time, if you know what I mean.”
“Not likely. I need my
space.” Jack Watt had a way of making even stark statements sound reasonable and fun.
“I’m totally with you on that, you bet,” said Nigel, rubbing the back of his own neck. “I hope I’m not being intrusive here, but it might be something you and Abuelita should discuss, this need to be alone. Just to make sure you’re on the same page, maybe you could have that discussion before the wedding…like this afternoon. A little discussion could save a lot of time and trouble on things like, oh, I don’t know…wedding arrangements. Why, just the other day, I heard about a husband and a wife on a fishing trip—”
“Did you and your wife have one of those discussions? About the cage and the wolf, I mean.”
“Oh, yes, a whole series of them. Best talks ever. You been married before, Jack?”
“Yep.”
“Good, so you know what I’m talking about. How did your previous marriage, eh, turn out, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Died.”
“Died? You mean your marriage died?”
“Wives. Wives died.”
Nigel’s instincts told him to steer away from what could be a sensitive subject. “Sorry to hear that. Maybe this time will turn out better.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, maybe this time your wife won’t die.”
“So, a divorce would be better? Or, better yet, I die?”
“No, of course not,” said Nigel, pulling up another blade of grass.
“Those are the only other options,” said Jack matter-of-factly.
“I just meant that you wouldn’t have to go through another grieving process.”
“To avoid that, I’d have to die first. Is that better?” Jack’s logic was unassailable.
But Nigel wasn’t finished. “You could die together,” he said.
“Together? Like what? A murder-suicide?”
“No, nothing like that. I mean, in your old age, after a life well spent, you die together, the two of you, in each other’s arms, while you’re both asleep. That’s what I had in mind.”
Jack Watt looked at Nigel as if a pig with wings had just squeezed itself out of his butt. “You’re a romantic, you know that?”
