by D R Lowrey
“Maybe this is not the best discussion for us.”
“You brought it up.”
“Not my intention, I assure you. I was just inquiring as to your previous marriages.”
“Is that what you came for?” Strange as it may have seemed, Jack Watt still had a twinkle in his eye and a chuckle in his voice.
“Not particularly, but that’s where the conversation went. What would you like to talk about?”
“I was out here alone, which might indicate talking wasn’t on my agenda. I’m here to commune with nature and meditate.”
“Meditation! Now that’s something we could talk about. How did you get into meditation?”
“It was recommended to me.”
“I see. Who recommended it to you?”
“The warden was the first one. Then there was the psychiatrist. Then there was my fourth wife.”
That was a lot of information for one statement. Nigel wasn’t sure where to begin. “Your fourth wife?” he said, working in reverse order.
“That’s when I finally took it up. After my fourth wife.”
“After your fourth wife recommended it, you started meditating?”
“Not immediately. Later. By then, I would have tried anything.”
“So, meditation has helped?”
“Has it ever. The jitters stopped. The impulses died down. The voices went away. What a difference. I wholeheartedly recommend it. You seem like the type could use it.”
“Doesn’t work for me. I get queasy.”
“That’s what I said until I hit rock bottom and got serious about it. You just haven’t hit rock bottom yet. I sense you’re not far away, though.”
“Nice to know. That reminds me, I know you aren’t involved, but that detective wants to question you about the dead body.”
“No can do, pardner. Talking to a cop would be a trigger. Could undo years of anti-anxiety therapy. If they want to talk to me, they’ll have to arrest me. Besides, from what I understand, they already know who did it.”
“And who would that be?”
“You’re asking me? I thought the butler knew all. Don’t expect me to spread any rumors. Not my thing. I’ll just say this, watch out for that bottom, pal. It’s rocky down there.”
Being warned about rocky bottoms by someone facing a future with Abuelita did not comfort Nigel in the least. “I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe we should go to the house now. I hear Abuelita is ready to try on her wedding dress. She might want your opinion.”
“That’s bad luck, isn’t it, to see your gal in her dress before the wedding? I don’t put much stock in superstitions, but maybe this time I’ll adhere.”
This guy’s strategy seemed to be to avoid the bride as much as possible before the wedding. When considering his marriage partner, Nigel had to admit the plan had appeal. Taking a different angle, he said, “If it’s not too much of an imposition, may I ask what brings you two together for these solemn vows? I don’t mean to pry, but you two don’t seem to be diving headlong into each other’s moistened eyes, if you get my drift. Or have I missed something?”
“You’re asking if we’re in love?”
“Or at least finishing each other’s sentences.”
“There’s all kinds of reasons to get married. True love might be the worst of them.”
“A fascinating opinion.”
“My dad never married for love, but he was the envy of every man in the state. He married my mother, his first wife, sometime before I was born. I barely knew my mother. She died when I was very young, on Valentine’s Day, from food poisoning traced to chocolates. Very rare.”
“It must have been a shock.”
“Those who saw the look on her face said it was. She was not a pretty woman, but she came from a rich family. Her daddy owned trains. Rumor had it that he protected his daughter from cruel taunts by keeping her hidden. This was untrue. He just kept her away from the tracks so she wouldn’t stop the trains.
“My dad, to hear him tell it, was the handsomest boy in Oklahoma. Of course, he was from Texas, but he sometimes crossed the border where the competition was weaker. He had his choice of any young maiden in the territory. Based on unspoken practical considerations, he chose for his wife the homely, spinster daughter of the state’s wealthiest railroad magnate. By most accounts—Dad’s in particular—my father was a kind and faithful husband for three years. And then, when I was four, Mom passed away from the toxic bonbons.
“Dad was so grief-stricken that he used hundred-dollar bills to wipe his tears, and when the tears had dried, he used the same bills to light cigars. He never let good money go to waste. For six weeks, Father grieved, and on the seventh, he inherited. On the eighth, he remarried. His first marriage had been subject to unseemly insinuations that he was a gold digger, that he had married an aged, homely woman solely for money. He proved these conjectures baseless with the unveiling of his second wife, a penniless, but awesomely attractive young girl.
“My dad and his new wife traveled in different social circles, occupying different homes on the same block. They maintained an active married life, however, with regular get-togethers at his place on Tuesday and Saturday nights. Then came the year 1968, arriving like a thunderbolt just as 1967 petered out.
“First, there was the Great Collapse—a devastating financial event not widely known outside the family circle. My father had staked the family fortune on the Raiders to upset the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl II. Sounds like folly today, but Father had it on good authority that Bart Starr, Green Bay’s quarterback, had lost three of his best fingers and his second-best thumb due to frostbite. The account may have been overstated given that Starr completed 54 percent of his passes. The family wealth disappeared overnight.
“As if that weren’t enough, several months later, the wife died in a tragic accident involving a mechanical failure during a scenic drive on a mountain road. My dad, driving at the time, escaped death in a most miraculous fashion. His car door spontaneously popped open as he was, according to his own eyewitness account, pushed gently outward by a mysterious force as the steering wheel came off in his hands. My father, an otherwise irreligious man, declared his salvation a purposeful act by the Holy Hand of God. This went down well with the community police chief, a deacon in the local chapter of the Church of the Holy Rollers. My father, so appreciative of the officer’s kind assistance, sold the wife’s house and donated the proceeds to the police chief’s church fund.”
“Money well spent, I’m sure,” said Nigel.
“A lesser man would have been crushed by such events, but not dear old Dad. Defying all expectations, he married an attractive, age-appropriate, self-made rich woman. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, they lived harmoniously for the next four years until Father’s head tragically collided with a frying pan as it was being held in his wife’s hand. It was the final tragedy in father’s life until six years later when, at a fish market, he slipped on a jellied eel and slid into a vat of boiling kelp.”
“That was a life,” said Nigel, summing it up.
“I owe so much to the man.”
“Really? How so?”
“Well, you know what they say, ‘Like father, like son.’”
“I’ve heard that, but what does it mean, really? I mean, to you?”
“The father sets the path. The son, willingly or unwillingly, has no choice but to follow. Isn’t that what it means to you?”
It could not have been more chillingly explained. Nigel appreciated this little heart-to-heart but was experiencing more than his usual share of unease—an unease shared with Catholic priests of the New Jersey dioceses when taking confession from their most generous benefactors. While feeling no personal peril, he was not so sanguine about Abuelita’s prospects. A strange case, Abuelita. The most generous appraisal from the most desperate matchmaker would not have certified her better than third-rate goods on the marriage market, yet homicidal fiancés formed a line outside her door. Karma, Nige
l supposed.
Despite the past abuse, Nigel understood a butler’s duty to protect his client no matter how scaly a creature she was. But what could he do without appearing insubordinate? Giving a frying pan as a wedding gift might be misinterpreted. Restoring her access to firearms could result in immense collateral damage. What to do? His heart fluttered, and then, an idea.
“I’ve been meaning to bring up a rather delicate issue,” said Nigel. “Perhaps now is a good time.”
“Shoot,” said Jack Watt.
“Abuelita, though she may appear as tough as boot leather—”
“Doesn’t she? The other day, I swear I heard her thigh bone snap. I don’t think she even noticed.”
“Yeah. That happens. As I was saying, she may seem like a tough old broad, but she is actually quite weak.”
“Really? Like how?”
“Her heart. It has a condition. It must not be exposed to excitement of any kind.”
“But snapping bones are okay?”
“Bones are bones, she has a bunch of them, but only one heart, and it’s weak. Any exciting, stimulating, or physically assertive experiences could be dangerous, resulting in instant heart failure. You must be very careful not to excite her.”
“You talking honeymoon stuff?”
“Precisely. Honeymoon stuff—the worst thing imaginable. She should not be encouraged to even think about the honeymoon stuff. I recommend staying completely away from her after the wedding.”
“Completely away? Maybe you haven’t noticed, but she seems to be—how to put it delicately—hot to trot on all the honeymoon stuff. Why is she so eager if it might kill her?”
“Oh, she doesn’t know. And this is crucial—she must not know. A shock like that could…could stop her heart. And you know what they say.”
“What do they say?”
“Stop the heart, and…and the rest stops too…and quick.”
“They say that?”
“Some do.”
Jack Watt pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. “So, you mean, even after the wedding, I’m not to—”
“No! Absolutely not,” said Nigel, feeling he’d formulated a deal-breaker.
“How about—”
“No, no, no, not that either. Far too risky. And you must keep the secret. In fact, it’s better if you don’t even talk to her after the wedding.”
“Let me get this straight. After the wedding, I should stay away from her, not talk to her, and no honeymoon hoopla. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“You got it.”
“Okay.”
“You mean you’re good with that?”
“Sure. Why not?” Jack Watt registered a disappointment equivalent to a schoolboy’s upon learning the cafeteria had run out of creamed spinach.
“It’s a rather extreme request,” said Nigel. “I dare say, most bridegrooms presented with such a revelation the day before the wedding might have a rethink. Do you need some time—maybe an hour to mill it over?”
“No, don’t think so.”
“Are you sure? You might be in shock. Sit down and take a deep breath.”
“I am sitting.”
“Most men in your situation would be lying down, or more likely, running away. You could do that, you know, run away.”
“But most men are not marrying a special girl like my little hen.”
“No, they most assuredly are not.”
Nigel’s creamed spinach analogy had been a good one, but there was always that one kid who went for the goop. The pathologically obliging Jack Watt seemed intent on having his creamed spinach, though for what purpose? The wedding was going ahead as planned.
“Well, then, is there anything I can do to make your separation more tolerable?” asked Nigel. “Reading materials, perhaps?”
“Nope. I’ll be fine,” said Jack Watt, before reconsidering. “There is one thing.”
“What is that?”
“She’s going to be all over me once the ceremony is done. If you can do something to keep her away, it’d be a big help.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Explosive Preparations
Nigel would have preferred to catch a comfy spot on the undercarriage of a train bound for Saskatchewan, but out of a sense of duty, he legged it back to the Sandoval house of horrors. As much as Abuelita wanted her Jack, Nigel left him perched on his stump to exorcise those voices from within. He approached the house feeling sadly demolished. He had held high hopes for Jack Watt, a fellow sane person within the crazy Sandoval constellation. Nigel had envisioned a future with the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder, nudging each other’s ribcages and suppressing chuckles while observing the antics of the inmates. Such merriment seemed unlikely if Jack proved to be, as Nigel suspected, one in a long line of serial spouse-killers.
Still, Nigel hoped they could remain friends. After all, besides having an uncommon (for the Sandoval environs) level of lucidity, they were also both under suspicion for murder. These ugly conjectures, for the time being, were more of the embarrassing gas leak variety. But, should they condense into something more offensive, could one have a more valuable friend than Jack Watt, who’d been around this kind of thing all his life? Probably not, as long as you weren’t his wife.
Nigel had not yet traversed the atrium before being accosted by the half-sisters, Stefanie and Esmerelda. A trailing whir alerted him to search for open manholes, haystacks, or portals to a new dimension.
“What do you think?” asked Stefanie, stepping aside to expose Nigel full-on to the most gruesome spectacle he’d ever had the displeasure to witness.
Abuelita’s pruny face contorted into a jack-o’-lantern smile, derived, it seemed, from some twisted satisfaction at being repackaged in red satin and black lace.
Confronted with such an abomination, Nigel rocked back on his heels.
Abuelita looked all the world like a crypt-keeping saloon girl from a Wild West horror show. Her gown’s plunging neckline left large tracts of long-neglected wastelands exposed to vulnerable retinas.
He averted his eyes, but what he had seen could not be unseen. “You look like you’re ready for…eh…a dance,” said the horrified Nigel.
“I am,” said Abuelita. “After the marrying. This here’s my wedding dress. It goes on hard, but it comes off easy. If you think this swings, you ought to see what I got for the honeymoon. It’s magic—it disappears.” She exploded with a cackle that also contained magic—it made the stomach try to digest itself.
“How are the arrangements going? Do you need any help?” asked Stefanie of the shaky Nigel.
“The minister canceled this morning. It’ll be difficult to find a replacement on such short notice.”
“I’ll do it,” said Esmerelda.
“You’ll find a minister?”
“I’ll be the minister. I’m ordained. I got papers and everything. I can do it.”
“I didn’t know you were a minister. What church?” asked a skeptical Nigel.
“The Church of Humming Moon and Singing Stars.”
“Ah, yes…and where would they be headquartered, this church?”
“Luna,” said Esmerelda. “Luna-by-the-Sea.”
“California, I take it.”
“Oklahoma. But it’s a church of the natural order. Their dominion knows no bounds. They operate in all quarters of the known and unknown universe. Even space! So much better than some county justice of the peace.”
“Well, if you’re legally qualified, then I’m all for it. One more thing off my list.”
“I need to prepare—remarks to write and herbs to burn. This will be so much fun.”
Sometimes it seemed as if Esmerelda had left as an angry, sullen eighteen-year-old and returned forty years later as an excitable sixteen-year-old.
“Take me outside,” said Abuelita. “I want to see the tent.”
The group had scarcely moved a yard before freezing at the sight of a deathly vision in turban and sunglasses advancing fr
om the back deck. Nigel peeled off to the right. The others, lacking a coherent escape plan, cowered in place.
As he bounded from the room, Nigel overheard Esmerelda say, “My god, what happened to your face?” Exploding out the back door, he heard a spine-withering, “What!”
The rapidly moving Nigel noted, out of the corner of his eye, the fully erected wedding tent. As he jogged past, he was joined by Tom, the amiable team foreman for Weddings-in-Tents. Tom, a burly veteran of two tours in Afghanistan, needed a sign-off to send the team home. It was a stroke of good fortune, then, for him to catch Nigel galloping through the area. Nigel scribbled on his clipboard while Tom ran alongside. Handing back the clipboard, Nigel veered toward the northwest, while the foreman, hearing a siren-like wail, dived belly first to the ground and covered his head.
Nigel recognized the unearthly wail as that of a demon in a sour mood. He sprinted north-by-northwest in search of a faraway stump to sit upon.
****
Nigel drove into town for his dinner rather than risk a chance meeting with the fire-breathing dragon-in-law. During his escape, he had caught only a glimpse of the wailing ghoul. That glimpse had been sufficient for him to see that visible portions of her fair complexion had shade-shifted toward something approximating raw hamburger meat. While one might speculate as to the catalyst for such a transformation, he chose not to. It wouldn’t matter because he was already certain that a fruit-based facial preparation had been assigned the blame. Looking on the bright side, no one had died. Actually, someone had. Scratch the bright side.
Returning to the estate, Nigel made his own inspection of the wedding tent. Inside, an assortment of cleanly arranged chairs and tables awaited tomorrow’s ceremony. He tried to envision tomorrow’s solemn proceedings, complete with flower arrangements, guests, minister (Esmerelda), and the saloon-succubus bride and her serial-killing groom wheeling/walking down the aisle.
Nigel felt a sense of accomplishment. A week earlier, he could not have imagined himself planning a wedding, but now, mere hours from the event, a sense of pride washed over him. But the pride in his head was counterbalanced by a less sanguine sense at his core that was harder to define. He had not been pregnant, but the distress in his gut suggested he might soon give birth to a colicky hedgehog baby. He hoped that wasn’t the case. Clearly, the impending marriage, which Nigel foresaw as a colossal catastrophe for all concerned, weighed on his mind. These thoughts he expelled from his head, choosing instead to revel in the satisfaction of knowing he’d done his part to make it all happen.
