The Butler Defective

by D R Lowrey

  “That’ll be enough, Dodds. Don’t make me report this to the captain.”

  Dodds and his snickering partner accepted the rebuke and left to conduct their business.

  Meanwhile, Grumps’s helmeted head twitched on its stalk like a nesting emu sensing a dingo. Once he’d located the faux British cop, he glared at the officer as if he’d just made off with one of his eggs.

  “He’s a Brit,” said Grumps under his breath. “I heard British. British, British, British.” So agitated was he that poetry spouted from his lips, “Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.” One could see his veins popping to the surface as they plumped with rage hormones. Within minutes, his muscle capacity doubled to half that of an average healthy man.

  The crowd knew something was up when Grumps repeatedly pounded a shot glass on his helmet, producing a sound like one of those boxing bells being struck by a shot glass.

  “Errrrrgh,” said Grumps.

  Anyone looking into his face would have known that “Errrrrgh” meant “My name is Inigo Montoya,” or words to that effect.

  Grumps rose to his feet, tottering for a moment until the blood caught up to his brain. His upper lip curled skyward, exposing where a sharp, fearsome canine tooth once was. His chest heaved outward as rejuvenating air rushed in to compete for space with the indigenous mucus. His blood raced through rock-rimmed arteries. “Errrrrgh,” he repeated for clarification.

  The rustle of clothing, the creak and pop of aged joints, and then, a sharp, metallic thunk followed by a clankity-clank-clank, were the sounds of a ninety-some-year-old man on the attack. The target of this orgiastic rampage remained unscathed, untouched, and unaware, having been twenty-five feet away at rampage start and twenty feet away at rampage end. The assault had been foiled when Grumps’s left heel held its ground against Grumps’s right foot. While his feet fought to a stalemate, the remainder of Grumps fell forward like a slow-motion tree. His helmet (head inside) collided with the sofa’s polished oak armrest before spilling onto the marble floor (head not inside). The crowd, their heads having snapped to the sound of metal on wood, were treated to the sight of a nonagenarian collapsing very gently onto an octogenarian.

  The most calamitous impact of Grumps’s fall was borne by the helmet, which may have saved his life. The rest of the action took place in relative slow motion as Grumps creaked downward one rusty part at a time, onto the soft, cushiony Abuelita. The words soft and cushiony had not been applied to Abuelita for decades, but on this occasion, they fit. Her improvised padded suit came in handy a second time by protecting the colliding bodies from the many bony protuberances on both sides. An embarrassed Grumps was helped off Abuelita and carried to a distant chair for his own protection.

  Seeing this painful episode, Nigel wondered if it wasn’t time for an intervention. The news would be harsh, the impact possibly severe. Could his fluttering heart take it? Not the kind of thing to face without a bracer.

  Nigel gulped down a couple of stiff ones and dove right in. Kneeling beside the gore-starved old man while studiously avoiding eye contact, he said, “Grumps, I think there is something you should know.”

  “He’s British, isn’t he? You gonna to tell me he’s special forces or something? Doesn’t matter. I’m ready.”

  “Nothing like that. I’m sorry to disillusion you, but that man is not British.”

  “I heard him talk. I know the accent when I hear it. He’s pure limey.”

  “Sorry, he’s not. He was putting on an accent, and not a very convincing one at that. All over the map, he was. Cockney, Queen’s English, the South, the North, a total mess. Putting that aside for the moment, let’s talk about your old girlfriend.”

  “Raquel?”

  “There was a Raquel?”

  “Who you talking about?”

  “Wilhelmina, your old English girlfriend. The stuff of dreams.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Go as far as you like. She’s your girlfriend.”

  “Aahh,” said Grumps with a faraway look in his eyes.

  Nigel found it disconcerting to see a fifteen-year-old’s inquisitive passions staring back through a ninety-five-year-old’s eyes.

  “As far as I like?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Because she’s not mine,” said Grumps. He held up two clenched, bloodless fists. “She left me for an Englishman.” His hands trembled and his teeth chattered. “Errrrrgh.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ll try to let this cat out easy, but I’m not sure I can without a few scratches. I want you to keep in mind that I am merely a messenger. I’m not Wilhelmina, or Milton, or Chester—”

  “Jester?”

  “Right, Jester. I’m not any of those people. Keep that in mind, okay?”

  “Got it. You’re you. Check.”

  Nigel felt he should ease into the conversation. “So, how are you feeling, Grumps?”

  “What kind of a question is that?” asked Grumps. “You gonna talk about the weather next?”

  “Fine. I’ll get straight to the point. Remember the letter?”

  “What letter?”

  “The one from Wilhelmina.”

  “Wilhelmina sent lots of letters.”

  “Yes. Specifically, the one you carried around in your shoe for years. The one you had up in your room. The one I read.”

  “Oh, that letter.”

  “Yes, that letter. You told me that you had never actually read that letter.”

  “Jester read it to me.”

  “Right, Jester, the practical joker. By any chance, do you know where Jester lives these days?”

  “No. Do we need Jester?”

  “It’d be great to have him in the dungeon for game night, but no, we don’t need Jester. You see, when Jester read that letter to you…” Nigel paused for a moment, and continued, “…well, he didn’t.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Read the letter to you.”

  “Yes, he did. I heard him.”

  “No. What he said was not what was in the letter.”

  “What did he say?”

  “You know, about Wilhelmina finding another man. The letter didn’t say that.”

  “It didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “What about the part about not wanting to see me anymore?”

  “Nope. Not in the letter.”

  “What about the part about her moving to Scotland to be a salmon rancher?”

  “Was that in there?” asked a puzzled Nigel.

  “That’s what I’m asking.”

  “No. That wasn’t in there either.”

  “Did the letter say she wanted to see me again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dang,” said Grumps, indicating a certain disappointment at wasting seventy of his best years. “Did the letter say she would be waiting for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dang. Do you think there’s a chance she might still be waiting for me?”

  “No.”

  “Dang. In the letter, did she call me Biscuit?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never liked being called Biscuit. Why the hell would she call me Biscuit?”

  “In Britain, a biscuit is a cookie.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s not so bad, then, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Did she sign her name with a little heart over the i?”

  “I can read the letter to you, if you like?”

  Grumps knew that even if Nigel read the letter to him, it wouldn’t answer his question. The old man had a blank stare, as if watching his last seventy years unfold blank frame by blank frame. He sighed, stuck a finger in his left ear, and twisted. He didn’t know what else to do. “No. I don’t think so. I think I’m over it,” he said, peering into the middle distance. “That whole hatin
g thing was, quite honestly, starting to bring me down. Gave me heartburn at night. Such an outlook might not be the healthiest thing in the world.”

  Nigel could see the man churning through deep, existential thoughts. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I need to get me one of those iPhones,” said Grumps. “You know about Tinder?”

  Nigel sensed a man on the road to recovery. Released from the singular, all-consuming hate that had hardened him for so many years, a transformation was taking place right before Nigel’s eyes. The creased and folded skin of Grumps’s face, reminiscent of low-quality papier-mâché spread thinly over the cracked hide of a rhinoceros, appeared to soften as if some merciful fairy had sprinkled it with fairy dust. Before Nigel could ask, “What’s Tinder?” an infectious cough swept across the room.

  “Stop that,” yelled Abuelita. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She coughed while waving her arms through a white, smoky cloud.

  “Sorry,” said Stanley. “I was just shaking out my baker’s hat. I didn’t realize it was covered in powder.”

  “What is that?” said Stephanie.

  “Powdered sugar, I think,” said Stanley, licking his finger. “Mixed with a bit of grave dust.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A Penny Drops on Stanley

  Mrs. Sandoval propped up the foam-wrapped Abuelita, coughed for a spell, and ordered Nigel to fetch the tequila.

  Nigel wondered what had taken so long. He had big news to spill, and it was building inside him like water behind a dam. But big news wasn’t a thing to be released in drips and drops. No, he wanted big and splashy, a veritable tsunami of glad tidings. To get those floodgates opened good and proper, strong lubricant was needed

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Nigel. “Coming right up. I’ll bring the bottle and glasses, and some champagne.”

  “Champagne? Have you lost your marbles?” said Mrs. Sandoval.

  “I’ve had a premonition that we shall need it.”

  Nigel sauntered to the liquor cabinet, narrowly avoiding a collision with the detective on the way. Rubberface had taken to pacing again and didn’t seem to care whose foot he tripped over in the process. He had much to think about, the detective, but an afternoon spent in a hole with no room to pace seemed to have mucked up the works. The works were double-stepping now.

  Before Nigel had poured the first drink, Mrs. Sandoval, appearing underserved and overwrought, blurted out, “I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand, Mrs. Sandoval?” asked the detective.

  “What just happened? Why was Cam Logan shooting at us with golf balls? What’s this about a map? I feel like I’m in some third-rate mystery novel. Fourth-rate, maybe. This is my home. I should understand what happens in my own home, shouldn’t I?”

  “I will fill you in on the details after conducting some important police business.” The detective turned to Stanley. “You are under arrest for the murder of Emilio Anguilero. You have—”

  “Wait a minute,” interrupted Annie. “You’re arresting him?”

  “We all heard his confession. It is my duty to arrest him.”

  “Not if he didn’t commit the murder. How can you possibly arrest him after what we just witnessed?”

  “We witnessed a crime, Miss. That does not discharge me from my duties as a detective in a murder case. If you would be kind enough to refrain from these outbursts, I will conduct my arrest.”

  “If you do, you’ll be making a fool of yourself.”

  “Indeed,” announced Nigel, popping open a bottle from the cart he’d loaded up with a dozen shot glasses and two ice buckets cradling champagne bottles. “Tequila, anyone? Everyone?” He’d hoped the previous discussion had been settled but, judging by the looks from the detective and Annie, it appeared not.

  “The only thing Stanley confessed to,” said Annie, “was shoving a man.”

  “He confessed to the killing,” said the detective.

  “A couple days ago you said that man, Anguilero, died of a blow from a ball-peen hammer. How does shoving someone comport with death by a ball-peen hammer?”

  “Good point!” said Nigel, handing Annie a shot glass of tequila.

  The detective pumped himself up, gathering hot air to expel in Annie’s general direction, one might assume. “As the suspect himself explained, he pushed and the man fell backward. It would seem evident that the man’s injury occurred when he fell onto an object.”

  “A ball-peen hammer, was it?” asked a smiling Nigel.

  “The hammer was a working assumption. It could have been a rock.”

  “It was not a rock,” said Annie.

  “Oh, no?”

  “No. He did not fall on an object. As the suspect explained, the man rose again after falling, before falling a second time. This second fall, the suspect says, may have been accompanied by a blast. I assure you, it was. Anguilero was killed by a strike from behind. By a golf ball, Detective Winjack. He was struck with a golf ball.”

  “Ha!” said the detective. “Your theory does not hold water. The death occurred at night, in the dark. Who plays golf in the dark? Not me.”

  “You play golf, Detective Winjack?” asked Nigel.

  “No, but if I did, I wouldn’t play in the dark. How could I find my balls?”

  “Detective, I don’t believe you could find your balls on a sunny day at noon if they were in your pants pocket…or thereabouts.” Nigel handed the detective a shot of tequila.

  “In this case, there would be no need to find a ball,” said Annie, downing her shot, “because no one was playing golf. Someone—I shouldn’t need to say who—was hiding in the shadows with a golf-ball-shooting rifle. A single shot from that rifle killed Anguilero.”

  “But why?” interrupted Mrs. Sandoval, coming up from shot number two. “Why were they on my property? I don’t know any of these people.”

  “I expect Stanley can explain,” said Annie, turning to Stanley, who was sitting on the second step of the staircase, peering through the railing like a convict.

  Stanley turned even whiter than usual. Now the center of attention, he clearly would have preferred to be back in a ditch. “I’m not sure I can. Cam set up the meeting. Why here? Because that’s where he was. My job was to show up and tell him he needed to find another girl.”

  “So, you told him that?” asked the detective.

  “I did. He laughed and threatened me with the poison frog. As I said before, I pushed him. He went down, and the frog jumped in his mouth. He got up and then went down again.”

  “From a golf ball to the back of the head,” said Annie.

  “I suppose,” said a forlorn Stanley. “My dear Cam. Poor, weak Cam felt she needed to protect me. She couldn’t help it. She chose me over him.”

  “Ha!” shouted Mother, ejecting the tiny nonword like a venom-soaked spitball.

  Eyes widened and jaws tightened all around. Those who had not yet availed themselves of a fortifier charged the liquor cart.

  Stretched out on the loveseat like a relaxing cobra, Mother continued. “Stanley, you blind little toad. Go out and have a look at the body in the casket. That man, dead as he’s been for the better part of a week, would still give a girl a better time than you. I’m sorry to break this distressing news—perhaps someone can fetch you a box of Kleenex—but that country-fried tart of yours was a bad shot when it counted. You know what I mean, Stanley?”

  Stanley’s face crumpled as if it had taken spit from a cobra. “I do not know what you mean.”

  “No, of course you don’t. Have a seat, Stanley. Brace yourself.”

  Stanley was already sitting, but he curled his hands around the stair rails.

  “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me,” said Stanley’s ex. Under the veil and sunglasses it was difficult to detect, but her voice suggested a twinkle in her eye. “What I mean, Stanley, is Cam missed. There, I said it. Now you know what the rest of us know. You were the target, Sta
nley. She was aiming at you. She wanted that man and his map—not you. You’re barely a man, and you have no map. The sooner you understand this the better. Your precious Cam was just a two-bit, third-rate country singer with bad aim. It pains me to say this, Stanley, but if she were any good with a golf ball gun, you would be in that box.”

  “The madwoman rants,” said Stanley, standing up. “Have you ever heard such a preposterous thing in your life? It makes no sense…does it?”

  “Care for a tequila shot?” asked Nigel. “Take two, on the house.”

  Stanley clamped his mouth shut as if he’d been offered brussels sprouts. He stepped off the stairs and lumbered toward the group to plead his case. “But we had a life together, me and Cam. That’s what she wanted. Not some carefree fling and a map. I must be right…right?”

  “Stanley, remember that little episode with the electric eel?” asked Annie.

  “The one her aquarist left behind?”

  “It wasn’t her aquarist left behind the eel, Stanley. Strange as it may seem, I think the eel was left behind by that guy called Eel, and it was intended for you. Remember, you were supposed to reach into the lagoon. When Nigel went in, murder plot number one was foiled.”

  “But Nigel survived.”

  “But that’s Nigel. Had you gone in, I suspect you’d have received a little something extra to make sure you didn’t.”

  “Shocking,” said Nigel.

  “Most likely,” said Annie.

  “But what about our life together?” said Stanley. “We had everything going, the bakery, the distillery, I made his and hers back scratchers. How could she just throw that away?”

  “Because of you, Stanley. There was you,” said Mother.

  “Stanley, you remember that giant warehouse with all the entertainment equipment?” asked Annie.

  “Of course. Cam’s toy box.”

  “Right. Cam’s toy box. How many husbands did Cam have?”

  “Six, I think.”

  “How many boyfriends?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “My point is that Cam is a woman with a short attention span. You were together how long? Four months?”