by D R Lowrey
“Strangle it?” said a horrified Stanley.
“Like you’ve never strangled before,” said Nigel. “Put it down, man. It’s got to be done.”
“I’m not sure I can do it.”
“Of course you can do it. Let ’em know that when you slapped that thing together, superheroes never crossed your mind.”
“Is that right?”
“It’s got to be right. Superheroes aren’t your vibe. You wouldn’t know a superhero if it flew out your arse. Just remember that.”
Stanley nodded, horizontally at first, then at Nigel’s prompting, vertically.
“Great. Superheroes? Not your thing. Play dumb. If anyone can do it, Stanley, you can.” Nigel led the baker into the dining room at a brisk trot. “Everyone,” he announced to the table of cake-starved diners, “it is my pleasure to announce the arrival of Mr. Stanley Dillard, the baker-artiste of this exquisite cake. Questions have been raised regarding this fabulous cake’s moderne design. I’m sure Stanley would be happy to answer any and all inquiries regarding this unique dessert. Without further ado, I give you the great Stanley.”
Stanley took a half step sideways and froze in place. Somehow, he had detected the presence of his shrouded ex-wife. The effect was that of a deer on a railroad track caught in the headlights of two trains, one from each direction.
“What inspired you to make such a cake?” asked Stefanie’s husband.
“Inspired?” squeaked Stanley, sounding like a mouse having an awkward puberty.
“Surely you must have been influenced by something,” said Stefanie’s husband. “What was it?”
Stanley felt something cold pierce his heart. His ex-wife had just skewered a kung pao chicken bit with her fork.
“The Hall of Justice,” blurted Stanley between stabbing pains in his chest.
Nigel made a coughing sound, which he coupled with a rooster kick to Stanley’s ankle.
Stanley hopped to one side and shivered a bit. “But no superheroes,” he exclaimed. “Superheroes were the farthest thing from my mind when I slapped that thing together.”
“The Hall of Justice, but no superheroes?” said Stefanie’s husband. “Does that make sense?”
“Superheroes are not my vibe,” said Stanley, looking to Nigel. “I wouldn’t know a superhero if it flew out my arse.”
“Flew out your what?” said Mrs. Sandoval.
“Arse,” murmured Stanley.
“What does that mean?”
Stanley didn’t know. He knew nothing about what superheroes typically flew out of. His confidence was ebbing fast.
The doorbell rang.
“Excellent,” said Nigel, making a line for the door any bee would be proud of.
Opening the door, a surprised Nigel said, “Good evening, Cam!”
As usual, she looked amazing for a woman of her years—skin stretched and puffed, makeup finely stenciled, hair sparkling like glitter-flaked fiberglass.
Nigel wanted to swab a finger on her skin to see if it returned with a buttercream frosting flavor.
“Where’s that man?” said Cam, pushing herself into the entry hall.
“We have several on the premises. Is there a particular one you wish to see?”
Cam spun around. Her casual dress would have been a favorite in the closet of most women, and certain men. Her outsized gestures hinted that she’d come to the party well-primed. The open bottle of wine in her right hand reinforced the notion.
“That baker, baker, caker, maker. You know who.”
“You certainly would have received an invite had we known of your interest,” said Nigel. “Would you like to congratulate the lucky couple?”
“Lucky couple of what?”
“The newlyweds. We’ve just had a wedding.”
“That’s why Stanley is here, is it? I came to get him. This is no place for him.”
“I see. I believe he’s in the dining room with the wedding party. Wouldn’t you like to join us? We’re about to have cake. I’m sure the guests would be thrilled to meet you.”
“Would they? They must live boring lives.” Cam took a swig from the bottle of her foot wine. She widened her eyes while wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “Is that for the wedding?” she said, nodding at the casket.
“Of course,” said Nigel. “Why not?”
“Cool. Anyone in there?”
“No, ma’am, but we’re expecting a body any time now.”
“Dead?”
“Quite.”
“That’s good, but I’m not waitin’ for him. Where’s Stanley? Got to get him outta here. Weddings, dead people. There’s a cop car out there.” Cam took a swig of her wine and then yelled, “Stanley!”
“Walk this way, please,” said Nigel, ushering the wobbly singer toward the dining hall. “Everyone, may I have your attention, please?” he announced. “I would like to introduce Ms. Cam Logan.”
Reactions varied throughout the room.
Cam, the consummate professional, raised a hand to her forehead in the manner of a salute. Finding that she held a bottle in her saluting hand came as an unpleasant surprise. She swayed a bit before recovering sufficiently to take a swig. “Pleased to meet you all, but I’m just here to haul away the baker,” she said.
“You can stay for cake, if you like,” said Stefanie. “I’m a fan of your music.”
“If you insist,” said Cam, waiting for people to insist.
“Please do,” said Mrs. Sandoval. “It’s too bad our former butler isn’t here to meet you. He had a poster of you in his room.”
“Did he? Wonderful. Where is he?”
“He’s in jail, awaiting trial for attempted murder,” said Mrs. Sandoval.
“Wonderful. If you give me his name, I’ll send him a shaving kit. Or maybe I should send him a shivving kit. Hah!” The reaction was muted given the relative lack of ex-cons on the guest list. “Don’t y’all know a joke when I make one?”
By now, Stanley had placed the bride and groom figurines artfully between the Hall of Justice structure and the buttercream reflecting pool.
“That’s your wedding cake? Whose idea was that?” said Cam. “That there’s the Hall of Justice.”
“No, no,” said Nigel. “Not the Hall of Justice. This is the Heavenly Temple of Marital Bliss, isn’t it, Stanley?” He looked around, but Stanley had vanished.
“Who’s the lucky couple?” asked Cam.
Abuelita raised a bony finger while draining a flute of champagne.
Jack Watt, having just returned from a stint in the pantry to pull out some hair, halted in the doorway when he saw Cam Logan. He had the look of someone noticing his afternoon picnic had been joined by a rampaging elephant.
“Speaking of the lucky couple, here’s our groom,” said Mrs. Sandoval, nodding toward a thunderstruck Jack Watt.
Upon seeing him, Cam Logan tilted her head like a cocker spaniel hearing a cricket. She righted her melon and began squinting. “Mack? Is it Mack?” she said.
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else, I’m afraid. The name’s Watt, Jack Watt.”
“Don’t I know you?” said Cam.
“Have you been to Cincinnati?” said Jack.
“Yes.”
“Is it nice? I’ve heard a lot about their botanical gardens.”
“South America. Was it South America? Years ago?”
“Sorry, does not ring a bell. I don’t get out much, but I believe I’d remember meeting you. You are?”
“Cam Logan. The singer, Cam Logan.”
“The singer, Cam Logan? Is there a dancer as well?”
“I am the Cam Logan.”
“The Cam Logan. Now I’m impressed. I’m Jack Watt, but I’m not the Jack Watt. One of scads, I presume.”
“I’m not sure I like your attitude,” said Cam, taking a swig of foot wine.
“Would you get a load of that! She doesn’t like his attitude,” spouted the mummy dragon, uncoiling for the first time this evening.
/> Stanley’s ex, the veiled menace, had sat dormant while Stanley’s current girlfriend was paraded in with metaphorical trumpets. But dormant doesn’t mean idle. She was an expert at brewing a pestilential atmosphere, and she appeared ready for a cloudburst.
Stanley must have seen it coming and had already taken cover. He had prayed that Cam Logan and his ex would never cross paths, but here they were, two of the world’s most formidable vipers within striking distance. He’d felt his end was near, and it was. In his current fetal position, he could practically kiss his end goodbye.
“And you are?” said Cam Logan. “Let me guess, Mata Hairy?”
“Listen to this woozy warbler,” said the veiled dragon. “Keep it up, slut, and we’ll find out what you’re made of from the inside out. I’ll tell you what I think. Under that bag of pickled skin, you got some botox, some silicone, a gallon of alcohol, and there must be formaldehyde. What you ain’t got is talent.”
“I know who you are. You’re Stanley’s old bitch. Let me put it to you straight. Stanley is a sorry pimple of a man, a lump of slime, a zit on my ass. And,” she paused for a chug of foot wine, “he’s ten times the man you deserve. Of course, that makes him one-tenth the man I deserve. But, hey, sometimes a girl needs a man to twist a heel into. If anyone should know that, it’s you.”
“I know about that too,” interjected Abuelita without choosing sides. “There’s just a couple of things men are good for, and that’s one of them.”
Hearing this exchange, Stanley felt the door to his love life slamming shut…ten years later than it should have.
“You listen to me, you polyester pimp muffin,” said the dragon. “I gave that sorry-ass piece of whale blubber the wife he deserved. If he wants to be with you, then you clearly don’t know how to properly torture the lumptard. My suggestion: Tie him up and sing to him. No auto-tune, just the hits. That ought to shrivel whatever manhood he’s got left.”
“What are you laughing at?” said Cam to the detective.
“I love a good cat fight,” said the detective, his face flapping from side to side as he wiped away tears of mirth.
“Yeah? I make cat food out of types like you.”
“You should not threaten an officer of the law.”
“You? An officer of the law? Where’s that no-good boyfriend of mine? Stanley, get out here.”
“Maybe he’s run away,” said Jack Watt. “I would.”
Quite an admission, considering what Jack had not run away from.
Cam lifted up the tablecloth and shouted, “Stanley, come out from under that table. I know you’re there. I can hear you sniveling. Time to go home. There’s an acid bath and a salt rub waiting for you. If you don’t snap to it, I’ll leave you to that invisible woman.”
Cam Logan left the premises holding Stanley by the ear.
“That woman knows how to treat a man,” said Esmerelda.
“Wedding chapel cake? Anyone?” offered Nigel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Fit for a Funeral
Nigel awoke feeling a certain measure of accomplishment at having done so. Yesterday’s wedding with vows properly exchanged and no fatalities, he decided, was cause for self-congratulation. After three days of butlering the Sandovals, Nigel had become an expert at finding bright sides.
He sauntered into Mrs. Sandoval’s office the next morning to be received by the top of her head. “Ahem,” he announced.
Mrs. Sandoval elevated the coconut. The rims of her eyes matched her scarlet Mountie jacket. “Mr. Nigel, you were told not to serve pizza in this house, were you not?”
“Yes, I was. But the circumstances merited special consideration.”
“By circumstances, I assume you mean Abuelita’s wedding. A special circumstance, yes, but a circumstance that should have absolutely precluded the serving of pizza. Abuelita spent last night—her honeymoon night—alone, welded to a toilet, blowing out her colon. Her new husband was not allowed within two rooms of her.”
“I bet he didn’t complain.”
“What kind of remark is that?” said Mrs. Sandoval, knowing full well what kind of remark it was. “Your time here, Mr. Nigel, has been eventful in the worst possible ways. I don’t see how you can continue to work here. If I don’t see a marked improvement by the end of the month, you will be dismissed. I’m letting you know now so you can adjust…or prepare. Do you understand?”
“There is something I should tell you, m’lady.”
“Make it good news. Is it good news? I need good news. Does it involve a resignation?”
“No, not at this time. It involves Abuelita’s husband. I suspect he may be an assassin.”
Mrs. Sandoval fell back in her chair with enough force to cause her Mountie hat to slide off the back of her head. “What? Another one? Are you kidding? What’s the story this time?”
“His father had a somewhat checkered history, wives dying in odd ways at opportune times. I’m afraid the son has not fallen far from the family tree. He bears watching.”
“And how do you know this?”
“He told me.”
“He told you? Don’t people keep this sort of thing to themselves? How does that even come up in a conversation? ‘Nice weather we’re having. Dear old dad would have loved it. He was a wife-killer, by the way.’ Was that pretty much how it went?”
“Not entirely, m’lady. The important thing is to keep Jack and Abuelita apart until we can ascertain his true intentions. I managed to do it last night, but we have to stay vigilant.”
“Wouldn’t it have been better to bring this up before the wedding? I mean, how long can you keep a newly married couple apart?”
“It may not be so difficult. I’ve already talked to Jack about it. He’s amenable.”
“You talked to Jack about it? You talked to Jack, the supposed murderer? You suggested he stay away from the victim for a while, and he agreed? Does that not strike you as being surprisingly cooperative for a murderer? I may have the wrong impression, but I think of murderers as strong-willed, unaccommodating types. You’re telling me we’ve been blessed to have an obliging one?”
“He thinks Abuelita has a heart condition. I’ve warned him against placing her in an excitative state.”
“Oh, now I understand. The murderer has been kind enough to refrain from any activities that might lead to the victim’s death. Immensely thoughtful. How lucky we are to have such a well-behaved killer join the family. Aren’t we lucky?”
“I’ll keep a close eye on him.”
“If you think I’ll sleep better knowing that you—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Esmerelda, poking her head into the office. “Does anyone know where Papa is?”
“I haven’t seen him today,” said Mrs. Sandoval. “How about you, Mr. Nigel? Have you seen Mr. Sandoval?”
“No. I ran into him—”
“Ran into him?” said an alarmed Mrs. Sandoval.
“Figuratively speaking. I encountered Mr. Sandoval yesterday walking down the drive about an hour before the wedding. He was seeking a quiet outdoor venue suitable for draining a flask. I have not seen him since.”
“I’m worried,” said Esmerelda. “His brain isn’t completely right, you know. He has lapses. The other day he asked me if I’d seen his llama.”
“Did you check with Grumps?” asked Nigel. “They were rooming together.”
“He was no help. Kept talking about some Englishman by the name of Disgusting Stink-Breath Weasel-Face. Said if he got his hands on the guy, he would rip out his small intestines, fashion them into a noose, and hang the little snot-nosed Limey until his lying British eyes popped out of their sunken British sockets. I have a feeling he was talking about you, Mr. Nigel.”
“Sunken sockets? What does he mean by that?”
Esmerelda shrugged. “We’ve got to find Papa. He’s not altogether well. He may have roamed jungles for twenty years, but he’s not equipped for a place like modern-day New Antigua. He doesn’t even G
oogle!”
“Very well,” huffed Mrs. Sandoval. “Who’s available for a search party? There’s me, there’s you—”
“There’s me,” volunteered Nigel.
“There’s that detective lady. She might be useful. Not her mother, though. Too creepy. Abuelita and Grumps are of no value.”
“There’s me,” said Nigel.
“There’s Jack Watt,” continued Mrs. Sandoval. “But he doesn’t know his way around town. Besides, Mr. Nigel seems to think he’s a murderer.”
“Should we notify the police?” said Esmerelda.
“Let’s leave that to Mr. Nigel.” Mrs. Sandoval turned to Nigel. “Please call that detective that’s been hanging around. You two have so much to talk about anyway. Let him know that Valdy has disappeared and we’d like him back. You can also present your latest murderous husband theory, if it makes you happy. The fact that you’ll be explaining it while not stuck in a doggie door at 2:00 a.m. might lend your story a certain gravitas. Some form of evidence might help as well.”
“I will notify the detective of Mr. Sandoval’s disappearance.”
“One other thing, Mr. Nigel.”
“Yes?”
“The body should arrive this afternoon.”
“The body, m’lady?”
“The body, the dead body, the one to be buried. It arrives this afternoon. Take care of it.”
“Take care of it, ma’am?”
“Of course, take care of it. You’re the butler. You should know what to do with a cadaver. You went to a school, didn’t you?”
“Yes, m’lady, a butler’s academy. Mortuary services were, somehow, absent from the curriculum. Nevertheless, while you’re scouring the countryside for Mr. Sandoval, I shall bone up on the subject. Who will be making the delivery?”
“I don’t remember who. They shouldn’t be hard to identify. They’ll be carrying a dead body. Let them in.”
“Do you have a preferred location for storing a dead body, m’lady?”
“Gracious, Mr. Nigel. There’s an empty casket sitting in the middle of the entrance hall. I suggest you use that.”
