The Butler Defective

by D R Lowrey

  “Very well.”

  “One more thing, Mr. Nigel. I want the funeral completed sooner rather than later. Make it on Monday.”

  “On Monday? Today is Sunday, m’lady.”

  “Yes, so I’ve given you an extra day. Use it wisely.”

  ****

  With half its population combing the countryside for the stray Mr. Sandoval, the old country club settled into an uncharacteristic serenity. Nigel took advantage of the break by settling into the study’s overstuffed executive chair for a few winks. One, maybe two, was all he got before being awoken by the sound of a doorbell. He ran to the peephole and was disappointed to see not a dead body, but a living detective.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Nigel.

  “You needn’t sound so disappointed. You have at least one more day of freedom. Tomorrow may be a different story, but today I’m only here to acquire some technical details.”

  “Let’s get on with it then. I’m expecting a body.”

  “You’re expecting somebody?”

  “Not somebody. A body. The dead guy.”

  “The body of Emilio Anguilero?”

  “If that’s the dead guy, then yeah.”

  “That’s what the casket is for?”

  “Look at you! And no one thought you could be a detective. You’ve earned your trench coat today.”

  “Never mind the wisecracks,” said the detective as he stepped forward to enter. “I’ve got a few questions for you.”

  If Nigel was to be the party of the second part in this conversation, he saw no need for the party of the first to enter the house. They were conversing just fine where they stood with the detective outside and Nigel filling the space between the doors. “Ask away. A lot of good it’ll do you. I’m innocent, I tell you.”

  “I’m guessing you take a large shirt and about a thirty-four inseam pants. That about right?”

  “Right enough.”

  “You prefer orange or stripes?”

  “I don’t believe that’s something you need to know.”

  “Your hat size would be what? About seven and a quarter?”

  “I don’t know my hat size. What is this anyway? You buying me an outfit for Christmas?”

  “Not me, but the penal system likes to know things in advance.”

  “The penal system? You need to clean those ears, Bub. I told you before, I’m innocent.”

  “Well, just in case, they like to have things in order,” said the slimy detective, clearly enjoying the moment.

  “When do prisoners get to wear hats, anyway?”

  “Not a hat, precisely. More like a cap. It’s only for a certain class of prisoner. What’s your favorite food?”

  “What? Now you’re planning my Christmas banquet?”

  “Mr. Blandwater-Cummings, you can’t be so naive. These cases take a long time. They drag out. I’m as optimistic as the next guy, but this Christmas is out of the question. I mean, even for the world’s fastest murder conviction, capital cases are granted automatic appeal. We’re talking two years, minimum.”

  “Oh, now I get it,” said Nigel. He had grown tired of playing the part of annoyed butler. With his employer off the premises, he could drop the veil and act like what he really was—an irate wrongly accused murder suspect. “This is harassment. This is trespassing. Are you going to leave peaceably, or do I need to call the cops?”

  “Call the cops? That’s rich, Mr. Blandwater-Cummings. That’s rich. Call the National Guard as well, why don’t you? How about the French Foreign Legion? How about—”

  Had Nigel carried about his person a flatulent toad, he’d have used it to cork that blabbering mouth. Being a toad short, he kicked the detective in the shin.

  The blabbering stopped.

  For one glorious moment, Nigel reveled in the sweet silence of stunned stupefaction. Then he slammed the door.

  If the detective was shocked, Nigel was hardly less so. Applying a fast-moving toe to the shin of the law was not just un-butler-like, it was un-Nigel-like. An unholy array of invectives began filtering through the door. They produced in Nigel a warm self-satisfaction, like that experienced after performing a good deed or eating fine chocolate.

  With the screaming detective safely partitioned, Nigel turned to more urgent matters. He needed an officiant for the funeral and decided to contact Reverend Bilcher, his no-show for the wedding. Though unlikely to be available, Nigel had already paid a deposit. Perhaps he could get something for his money.

  “Could I please speak to the Reverend Bilcher?”

  “He gone. Ain’t comin’ back.”

  “Is there someone working in his place? Perhaps someone from his organization?”

  “Dis is Breadbox, the good pastor’s partner in crime, youse might say, but let’s keep dat to ourselves. What you need?”

  Nigel recognized the voice, though he’d not previously heard the name. The man’s speech patterns—think Bugs Bunny after a pistol-whipping from Elmer Fudd—suggested he’d had a career as a prizefighter in Brooklyn, or possibly the Bronx. The nickname, Breadbox, implied a propensity for attacking the midsection. His opponents, Nigel inferred, had gone for the head and enjoyed considerable success.

  “Well, Breadbox, we talked earlier about a wedding the reverend was unable to officiate.”

  “I remembers you. You from New England.”

  “Not New England. Just England.”

  “One of dem places, yow, sure. If ya want your money back, ya gotta call the reverend, but he ain’t answerin’.”

  “Yes. Cheers. What I’m calling about now is that I have a funeral to produce and need an officiant. I wondered if he had an affiliate who could fill in.”

  “I could do dat.”

  “You, Breadbox?”

  “I done funerals before. There was Jimmy Three-Nostrils. I did his just before they never found him again. And then there was Knuckles Houlihan. He had two services, the one I did for the boys and the other one in dat church for his wetsack wife. That church had the service without no body. How you figure a funeral with no body? A miracle, I guess. Dat’s the church for ya. This gonna be in a church?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I don’t do no church services. Too restrictin’. And then I did a funeral for Crossfire Callo. That was some service.”

  “Why? What did you do for Crossfire?”

  “Well, I was readin’ dat t’ing, you know, what they call it where you say da nice t’ings?”

  “A eulogy?”

  “Dat’s right. I was readin’ dat oology, and all hell broke loose. People there didn’t like me sayin’ nice t’ings about Crossfire. My philosophy is once a guy got whacked, you say nice t’ings. Don’t matter no more ’cause they ain’t around to get the swellhead. But these people—musta been friends and relatives of people what got whacked by Crossfire—and there was a lot of ’em, I mean, Crossfire was a great guy, but he was messy, ya know. That’s why they called him Crossfire. Anyways, I was just sayin’ a few good words and these people take a ’ception—”

  “Excuse me, you said ‘the people take a cepshun?’”

  “Yea, you know, they took a ’ception. They didn’t like the nice t’ings. Anyway, there was practically a brawl right there in the cemetery. I had to knock out a few guys before order was restored. Fortunately, there was about a hunnerd cops there. They always took an interest in whatever Crossfire was doin’. I’m pretty good at keepin’ order, myself. I ain’t afraid to knock a few heads, if the situation calls for it. Ya think there’ll be any roughhousin’ at this funeral? I get extra for bodyguard work.”

  “No, I expect this funeral to be quick and nonconfrontational.”

  “Closed box?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Da box, will it be closed so’s you can’t see the stiff?”

  “We may have it open.”

  “Really? I never done one like dat. In my experience, da body’s pretty chewed up. How’d da mug die?”

  “Blunt for
ce trauma to the head. A ball-peen hammer, I’ve been told.”

  “Chief,” said Breadbox, adopting the tone of a drill instructor after being shot in the foot by one of his recruits. “You serious? Whacked with a ball-peen hammer to the nugget, and you’re goin’ wit’ an open box? Dat is twisted. You seen this stiff yo’self?”

  “Yes, I saw him just after death.”

  “And he looked okay? I mean his head wasn’t crack-a-noodle-do’d?”

  “No, I didn’t even see blood.”

  “Dat’s peculiar. Don’t sound like no ball-peen hammer I ever knew.”

  “Interesting you should say that. My wife suggested the injuries were not consistent with a ball-peen hammer.”

  “Far be it from me to crawl into your private life but sounds like dat wife knows what she’s talkin’ about when it comes to busted up heads. I never seen no ball-peen hammered noggin, but I seen a hand…and a knee…and a elbow. In my humble opinion, a ball-peen hammer injury to the head is not consistent with da proper application of an open-box funeral. No, it ain’t.”

  “I’ll take that as expert advice. So, Breadbox, can I count on you to say a few words on the dead man’s behalf?”

  “If dat means dollars in my pocket, sure. What do you know about da man?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. Nobody does.”

  “Poifect. Dat’s the way I like it. An open field to ex-cise my poetic instindts. You can count on me, Chief.”

  Just as Nigel concluded terms and conditions with the eloquent Breadbox, the doorbell did what doorbells do. The opened door revealed a significantly overdressed man flicking a smoking cigarette butt at a passing butterfly.

  “Oh, Mr. Sandoval?” he said, unbending himself while wafting away the smoke. “May I express our sincere condolences? We have come to deliver your dear, departed loved one.” The man handed Nigel a card. “Chip’s the name.”

  “I am not Mr. Sandoval. I’m the butler, Nigel. I’ll accept delivery. You can cut the condolences. The body is neither dear nor a loved one to anyone in this house. He just happened to wander by and expire on the lawn.”

  “Very well. Is Mr. Sandoval or Mrs. Sandoval home? We’ll need someone to identify the body.”

  “No, Mr. Sandoval is not home. He’s been lost in the woods since yesterday, and Mrs. Sandoval is out looking for him.”

  “I see. Would you be able to sign off on delivery?”

  “Yes. I thought I made that clear. You’ve been in this business too long, Chip. You’re taking on the characteristics of your freight.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s customary to get a signature from someone listed on the invoice. Where are we to place the deceased?”

  “Right there,” said Nigel, pointing. “In the casket, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we cannot place the body inside the casket. We can place the body beside the casket, if that’s okay?”

  “Why would that be okay? If you can place the body beside the casket, surely you can place the body in the casket. Saves you from bending over.”

  “Our invoice lists a 5-1-3, delivery of embalmed remains,” said undertaker Chip, raising the document. “That is, placing the body in supplied containment, at a place specified by the accepting party within restrictions hereby specified, yadda, yadda, yadda,” he said, lowering said document. “Placing a body in a casket would require a 5-2-5, that’s mortuarial staging. That’s an extra service.”

  “Could you put the body on top of the casket?”

  “Yes sir, we can do that.”

  “So, if I ask you to put it on top of the casket and then I opened the casket, the body ends up in the casket, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, technically, no. Under a 5-1-3, the body is to be delivered in the supplied containment carton. Respectfully, sir, I don’t think you want the supplied containment carton placed in your lovely casket. Ruins the effect.”

  “Picture this, Chip. You and your partner there are lifting the supplied containment carton to be placed on top of the casket, which, circumstantially, has just been opened. Suddenly, you stumble—maybe because I’ve kicked you in the googlies if that helps—and oops, the body rolls out of the supplied containment carton and into the casket. Do you see how something like that might happen, Chip?” Nigel patted the back of Chip’s shoulder because Chip seemed the type to appreciate a pat on the back of the shoulder.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Chip. “It’s no skin off my nose. I mean, it’s as easy one way as another. But if we do what you want off the record, so to speak, it would just be a body dump. No staging of any kind. You would be responsible for that.”

  “Of course, absolutely. But at least the body would be in the casket where it belongs.”

  “You’ll need to sign this delivery form stating that we performed our work as specified. You can’t complain about the delivery once you’ve signed this form. It’s a release that states we delivered as per our orders and your guidance. Is that understood?”

  “Sure, no problem. Just put the body in the casket,” said Nigel, signing Chip’s document on the dotted line.

  “Very good,” said Chip, patting Nigel on the back of the shoulder even though Nigel wasn’t one to appreciate a pat on the back of the shoulder. “Open up the casket, and we’ll bring in the departed.”

  Chip yelled to his colleague in the van, “Orloff, we’re ready for the body. It’s a casket dump.”

  The two men soon wheeled in a heavy-duty cardboard container that they parked alongside the casket.

  “Nice casket,” said young Orloff. “Thirty-two-ounce brushed copper, Regency hardware, by Elysium-Hope, I believe.”

  “Enough of the showroom talk,” said the more businesslike Chip. “Ready? One-two-three, dump.”

  The two lifted and twisted the carton until the body rolled into the casket with a thump-de-thump.

  “That’s one down, one to go,” said Chip. “To the chariot, Orloff.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Nigel.

  “No wait-a-minutes,” said undertaker Chip. “You signed and that’s final.”

  “I signed for delivery of a body, but not this body.”

  “What?”

  “I was not expecting an old lady in a blue dress. My corpse was a male, last time I checked.”

  “You checked?” said Orloff.

  “Not anatomically, no, but he wasn’t wearing lipstick or a wig.”

  “Crap!” said Chip. “Lesson learned. Always match the box to the address. This could have been bad.”

  “I consider it bad already,” said Nigel.

  “No problem. Nobody’s been buried yet. We just put this body back in its box and get yours out here. We’ll get ’er done lickety-split.”

  Despite the undertaker’s glowing optimism, poor Mrs. Steif—her name in life if they’d tagged her right—proved not so willing to reinhabit her carton. One suspected she might have been a crusty old soul, for even as a lifeless shell she put up a fight. But back in her box she went, though in a condition—disheveled wig, bent glasses, and smeared lipstick—she wouldn’t have been caught dead in, had she been alive.

  Chip and Orloff returned with a body reassuringly tagged as “No name—male.” This was more like it. The two body couriers plopped corpse number two into the casket, this time landing with a da-thump-a-dump.

  Though reassured by a familiar face, a different issue soon diverted Nigel’s attention. “Wait a minute. Where’re his clothes?” he asked.

  “Did someone pay for clothes?” asked Chip.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Did someone bring clothes to the funeral home?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “In that case, he doesn’t have any.”

  “He did have clothes. I saw them. He didn’t die naked.”

  “He can’t be buried in those clothes. Wouldn’t be legal. Those clothes had to be destroyed.”

  “But he can’t be buried like this. Look at him. For God’s sake
, he’s in a sheet.”

  “Shroud,” said Orloff.

  “Fine, a shroud. Is this how you operate? Just dump the body in a shroud and leave?”

  “No, it isn’t how we operate. It’s what you asked for. If you would like a mortician to help with body prep, you can call the number on my card. That’s the best I can do.”

  “But the funeral is tomorrow at noon. Would they have time?”

  “Not likely. Maybe someone else.”

  While Chip and Nigel squabbled over the cadaver’s scant wardrobe, Orloff entertained himself by giving No-Name Male the once-over.

  “How’d this man die?” said Orloff.

  “Blunt force trauma,” said Nigel. “A ball-peen hammer to the head.”

  “A ball-peen hammer?” asked Orloff. “Naw, I wouldn’t think. I had an uncle done in with a ball peen. His skull was like a jigsaw puzzle.”

  Two days ago, Nigel hadn’t known what a ball-peen hammer was. Now it seemed that ball-peen hammers ranked even higher than fish for blunt instrument assaults. “You had an uncle killed with a ball-peen hammer? How often does that sort of thing happen?” he asked.

  “The mob,” said Orloff. “The ball-peen hammer is an old classic. But this guy, no. He took a hit, but not by a ball peen.”

  “You’re the third person to say that,” said Nigel. “What do you think he was hit by?”

  “Couldn’t say, but the mark here indicates something with some texture to it.”

  “Orloff here is studying forensics,” said Chip. “This job gives him a chance to practice his art. He should tell you about that murder case he helped solve. Guy had a gash in his head that turned out to be from a ninety-pound sturgeon. Can you believe the guy was whacked by a fish?”

  Nigel, having little time to engage in fish stories, ushered the two toward Mrs. Steif’s destination.

  ****

  Nigel found dressing a dead body to be more pleasant than a conversation with the mother-in-law, but less pleasant than being shocked by an eel. The cadaver seemed as averse to being dressed as Nigel was to dressing it. The two made a bad team, but eventually came to an arrangement.

  Having finished the task, Nigel took a moment to reflect on his tumultuous first year as a butler. Of course, with 359 days yet to go, the year might yet smooth itself out, but it had, in his mind, irrevocably earned its tumultuous stripes. The lingering question was whether it might yet plummet to the ranks of horrific or grisly.