by D R Lowrey
“Now, now,” said Stefanie. “Go easy on Nigel. This whole episode is as much a testament to Jack’s storytelling ability as it is to Mr. Nigel’s gullibility.”
“It’s a monument to both,” said the detective. “A shame we don’t have the video. Remember that snake fight? Remember the video, him and that anaconda?” The detective bent forward and put his hands on his knees. His rubbery face turned crimson as his body convulsed. Had he been in a restaurant, alarmed diners would have lined up to apply the Heimlich.
“Everyone, everyone,” said Mrs. Sandoval, trying to instill order within the rollicking mob. She’d jumped the gun, though, and had to pause for a snort, followed by a titter, and then a guffaw. Over time, she regained control of her diaphragm, wiped a tear from her eye, and announced, “Let’s get back to business. It serves no one’s interest to antagonize the butler. We knew when we hired him, he was no Sherlock Holmes.”
“No, but I bet you didn’t think you were hiring Elmer Fudd?” said the veiled sphinx.
Once the latest round of hysterics died down, Jack Watt turned to Nigel. “I’m sorry, old man. Me and the missus played what you might call a practical joke. That little memoir about all those unfortunate wives was right out of a dark comedy. She thought you wouldn’t catch on for at least another week. To your credit, you forced it out of us. Congratulations.”
Have your jollies, thought Nigel. The shoe will soon be down the other throat.
A sweaty policeman entered the house and walked directly to the detective who struggled to straighten up from his laughter-induced abdominal cramps.
“Excellent,” said the detective. “You’ve come to tell me she’s been captured.”
“Not exactly,” said the breathless cop.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A Cat Out of the Bag
“You’re not going to tell me she’s still on the loose, are you?” asked the detective. “Of course, you’re not. You’d make us all look like fools if that’s what you came here for. A lone middle-aged woman in the woods stands no chance against the concentrated will of the entire Tonkawa County Sheriff’s Department. None at all. Now, what did you want to tell me?”
The officer spent a moment examining the ceiling before resetting his gaze on his own fingernails.
“Well, I’m waiting,” said the detective. “What’s the good news?”
“The suspect is…not…completely captured at this time.”
“Not completely captured? What? You’ve got hold of her leg? What does this mean, ‘not completely captured’?”
“We found a bracelet, sir.”
“Uggggh,” said the detective with a good bit of vibrato applied by his quivering clenched fists. “So, this aged female country singer, minus a bracelet, has vanished. Slipped away. And, I might add, with a treasure map.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that treasure map,” said Nigel.
“Why not? Are you saying the map you gave her is not genuine?”
“Oh, it’s genuine all right, but—”
“I need to know about that map,” said the detective. “What was on it, where you got it, and what’s significant about it? I need to know.”
“I’m glad you asked,” said Nigel. “However, this information needs a public airing. If you’ll hold on to those horses of yours, all will be revealed soon enough. First, I need to administer a few doses of the old elixir.” He stepped to the front of the room and thunked two shot glasses together to draw attention.
Thunk. Thunk.
“Everyone, please. Please listen up, everyone. The bar will shortly close. If you’d like another shot, or two, or three, place your orders. I’ll see that you’re all nicely placated before we reconvene this little get-together in the garage for an important announcement.”
“The garage? Did you buy a car?” asked Stefanie.
“Is this some kind of joke?” asked Stefanie’s husband.
“You better not be trying to pull a fast one,” said the detective.
“No, no, and don’t be ridiculous,” replied Nigel. “If any of you don’t wish to go and hear this fabulous news, then by all means remain behind. No doubt you will hear about it ad nauseum from your more adventuresome colleagues. Your absence will be your own regret—”
“Blah, blah, blah. We hear you. Shut up and get to pouring so we can get this thing over with,” said Abuelita.
For a few serene moments, all the incessant blather was displaced by the melodious clamor of drinks being ordered, the gentle chug of bottles being drained, and the convulsive gulp of throats chokin’ em down before last call.
The entire troupe—healthy, walking wounded, wheelchair-bound, and stumbling inebriates—toddled out to the garage. Nigel led the way, gobbling up the pavement with large, jaunty steps while cradling two pails filled with ice, stemware, and bottles of champagne.
The trailing parade of hostages included the estate’s three original ladies and the men they were legally bound to; Annie and her mother; the detective and his two accompanying deputies; and Stanley, Essie, and Grumps. Not attending was Breadbox, who had slipped away earlier to fulfill his commitment to meet a man who owed another man. He would miss that appointment, however, owing to his detainment by the sheriff’s deputies. This had nothing to do with the day’s exertions, but was, rather, a matter of routine for both the department and for Breadbox.
Once in the garage, the fourteen captives formed themselves into a disorderly semicircle in the space previously occupied by the excavator. Nigel assumed a position as the ringmaster just in front of his precious artifact.
The pot, that dark, inscrutable enigma, seemed to speak to him like ye olde Excaliber spoke to Arthur. “I’m yours,” it whispered. “Take me!”
“Okay!” replied Nigel, though silently and not in so many words.
“Did you say something?” said Stefanie.
“No, absolutely not,” said Nigel.
“I saw your lips move.”
“Just warming up,” said Nigel, raising his hands to signal an announcement. “I want to thank you all for making the trip over. I believe you will find it more than worth your effort.”
“What effort?” howled Abuelita.
“Easy for you to say,” said the hobbled dragon lady. “You were pushed here in a wheelchair.”
“Damn right!” said Mrs. Sandoval. “I had to stagger here all by myself.”
“We are gathered this evening,” continued Nigel, “for an auspicious announcement.”
“What’s he say?” said Abuelita.
“Something to do with ostriches,” said Esmerelda.
“No,” said Stefanie. “I think he means something crazy.”
“Let me rephrase,” said Nigel. “I am here to make a propitious announcement.”
“Phfffft,” phffffted Abuelita. “He’s making up words.”
“He means good news,” said Annie, turning to Nigel. “Plain English, por favor.”
“Por fav-what?” said Nigel.
“Talk,” said Annie.
“Right-ho. Thanks for the translation,” said Nigel. “I’ve gathered you here tonight for what may turn out to be an exciting, possibly even life-shaking presentation. Not to overplay the moment, but not since the opening of Al Capone’s vault—”
“Al Capone had a vault?” asked Stefanie.
“Yes, he did. They opened it.”
“What was in it?”
“Not important right now. Let’s skip past—”
“This Al Capone character,” said the detective. “Is he the same Al Capone that used to sell life insurance?”
“Let’s forget I mentioned Al Capone, shall we?” said Nigel.
“Now I remember who Al Capone was,” said Grumps. “Why are we talking about Al Capone?”
“We aren’t,” said Nigel. “Before relating this momentous proclamation, I feel it necessary to share some of the recent history that brought us to this point.”
“Oh, God. Did he say history?” ask
ed Esmerelda.
“Crap on the history. Just tell us what the hell is going on,” crowed Abuelita.
“My leg was aching, but after listening to him, it’s my head,” said the mummy Mother.
“I’ll make this short,” said Nigel. “As you are all aware, this afternoon’s assailant held a particular predilection for a certain map.”
“I wasn’t aware,” said Abuelita.
“Most of you were aware—”
“What’s a predilection?” asked Abuelita.
“The assailant desired a certain map,” continued Nigel. “I appeased that assailant by providing her with the map in question. You might well ask yourselves, how did I come to have this map.”
“I asked you that twenty minutes ago,” said the detective. “You’re stealing my questions.”
“I will now answer your question. I got the map through serendipity.”
“Sarah who?” asked Esmerelda.
“Sarah Niponny,” said Stefanie. “Is she still around? I thought she must be dead.”
“Not dead,” said Mrs. Sandoval.
“You’ve seen her?” said Stefanie.
“No,” said Mrs. Sandoval.
“Then, how do you know she’s not dead?”
“She couldn’t be. Not if she’s handing out maps.”
“I mean to say,” clarified Nigel, “that I obtained the map through a purely inadvertent process—a happy accident, if you will. If I may proceed, the original map was in the form of a tattoo on Mr. Sandoval’s back—”
“Were you giving him a massage?” asked Stefanie.
“A massage? No, I wasn’t giving him a massage. Why would you think I was giving him a massage?”
“How else would you find his tattoo?”
“No,” said Esmerelda. “Mr. Nigel already said he got the map through Sarah Nipponny. It was Sarah who gave the massage that caused the happy accident. Sarah Nipponny then gave the map to Mr. Nigel. Is that what happened, Papa?”
“What?” said Mr. Sandoval.
“Everyone,” said Nigel, “let’s table this discussion for now. The history is not important.”
“I see,” croaked Abuelita. “He wants to give us a history lesson until inconvenient facts emerge. Suddenly, the history isn’t important. Where have we seen that before?”
“We’ve gotten sidetracked,” said Nigel.
“Cover-up!” shouted Abuelita.
“As I stated earlier,” said Nigel, “Mr. Sandoval had a tattoo on his back depicting a map. This map, one might assume based upon the strident efforts of various dark forces to obtain it, held valuable information. Our current understanding suggests that this Eel character, whom we buried today—”
“Not buried,” said Stefanie. “I’m not sure he’s even in the casket. He’s definitely not buried.”
“This soon to be buried Eel character died trying to pry loose the secrets from this map. His accomplice, the country singing star, Cam Logan—famous, beautiful—”
“What?” said Annie.
“…once attractive, rich—”
“Not rich,” said Annie.
“A fading beauty, declining wealth—”
“Broke,” said Annie. “More debt than most industrialized nations.”
“Let me rephrase,” said Nigel. “Cam Logan, this once mildly attractive, somewhat famous, soon-to-be destitute, has-been singer, threw everything away, including her sad-sack lover, Stanley, to get her manicured claws onto Mr. Sandoval’s back map. Why? What would the foot-wine-swilling Cam Logan want from Mr. Sandoval’s back map? Mr. Sandoval had wandered through the wilderness for two decades, oblivious to the ink on his back and the secrets that it held. What secrets? What could be of such import that it found itself inked onto an old man’s crusty back skin?”
“I wasn’t always old, you know,” said Mr. Sandoval, remembering a time when his back skin was quite supple.
“Through the many years, these secrets kept to themselves,” said Nigel. “Available only to those who had witnessed Mr. Sandoval take a shower or swim at the beach. This Eel character would have been just such a person.”
“You think he was watching me take showers?” asked Mr. Sandoval.
“He would have had the opportunity. Anyway, he knew of the map and believed it described the location of an object of great value. Perhaps he knew what was there, or perhaps he merely divined that it was valuable because its location was inked on a man’s body. Whichever, Eel would not live to find the treasure.”
“Cam Logan now has the map,” said the detective. “She could be digging it up at this very moment.”
“No, she could not,” said Nigel, “because, ladies and gentlemen, the treasure is right before your very eyes.” He moved to the side, revealing the black cauldron to all.
There followed what might be described as a stunned silence without the stunned part. Aside from the occasional pop of a craning neck, the audience remained respectfully silent for several seconds until a hushed murmur arose. The audience members, growing restless, conversed among themselves in whispers. Quiet they were, but not so quiet that anyone in the room had difficulty hearing them. Topics ranged from unfettered screws to the wringing, cracking, and busting of body parts. After another few seconds, an unpleasant voice sliced through the babble.
“I don’t see anything. Where is this treasure?” asked Stefanie’s husband.
“You don’t see it?” asked Nigel. “It’s right before your eyes. How could you not see it?”
“Where?” demanded Stefanie’s husband. “Is it behind that wrecking ball?”
“Wrecking ball?” said Nigel, his voice quavering just a tad. “Is that what you think this is?”
“Well, I haven’t examined it, but from here I’d say it was a Phipps and Belson 800-lb. Micro-Destroyer Model 3C. They haven’t made those since the ’80s. It’d be a collector’s item, if people collected such things.”
“They don’t?” asked Nigel.
“Not worth the shipping costs,” said Stefanie’s husband. “Otherwise, I’d have kept ours. Got rid of it years ago. Buried it in some vacant lot. Now, where’s this great treasure?”
The question, it seemed to Nigel, had become fraught. He closed his eyes, hoping for the appearance of a magic portal he could disappear into. Had he been welcomed by a dapper gentleman in red offering a forever office job in a windowless cubicle between the breakroom and the bathroom, Nigel would have enlisted without hesitation. Of course, the minute he signed, the fountain pen—a gift from the tail of the man in red—would have burst into flames.
It all became academic, however, when Nigel opened his eyes to find no magic portal. Instead, he stared into a roomful of budding vigilantes. The impatient mob shuffled their feet, rubbed a few facial features, and practiced glaring. Skepticism, knee deep from the beginning, rose to the eyeballs. Nigel felt like the old Eskimo who, after walling himself into his igloo for the night, detects the stinky breath of a polar bear.
“W-when I said tr-treasure,” stuttered Nigel, “I didn’t mean to imply treasure in the conventional sense, necessarily.”
“Just what did you mean to imply?” asked Stephanie’s husband, loudly tapping his foot as if Nigel’s fingers were underneath.
Nigel detected a shift in the crowd’s demeanor. Impatience had given way to disappointment, frustration, and fury. He didn’t want to admit it, but he could see their point. They had been ushered out to the garage and wanted something for their effort. They deserved an explanation.
Why not be a man about this, he thought. Come clean and own up. What’s the worst that could happen? Dismemberment, disembowelment, disfigurement?
He decided not to dwell on the negative and thought back to the teachings of his butler mentor, Old Winpole, for pertinent pearls of wisdom. Unfortunately, the ’Pole had dropped plenty of pearls on serving up soups, but not so many on self-defense or evasive running.
“Well,” said Stefanie’s husband, “what did you mean to imply
by an unconventional treasure?”
A vision glared in Nigel’s head of himself being torn apart, which he found unpleasant. He looked at the crowd looking at him. Every eye, thirteen and a half pairs, brandished a carnivore’s glint. He recalled Old Winpole’s story about his difficult first week. How Nigel would have liked to make a trade. But then, a particularly feline recollection from old Winpole’s memoir exploded like a flash grenade inside his brain. As anyone who’s been within spitting distance of a flash grenade will tell you, they blind, stun, and disorient to beat the band. And that’s when they explode outside the skull. In Nigel’s case, blind, stun, and disorient were all to the good, allowing him to act without the distraction of thought.
“A leopard,” said Nigel. As soon as the words bounced back to his ears, he realized he’d taken a swing for the cheap seats.
“A what?” asked Stephanie’s husband, while the rest of the crowd mouthed the words.
“Leopard,” murmured Nigel, softening the initial pronouncement, which had seemed a bit stark.
Watching the crowd for their reaction, he noticed their mouths move. They looked like a choir hitting the first note of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The eyebrows too moved in unison, the interior portions sailing skyward while the eyes below widened. Abuelita’s brows moved to such an extent that a space appeared between the left and the right.
Nigel’s little gambit seemed to have paid off. The hypnotic spell of vengeance was broken. Invoking the image of a lovable, spotted cat had done the trick. The audience became less focused on removing his appendages and more focused on preserving their own.
“Unholster your weapon,” shouted the detective to his accompanying officers. “Be ready. He could pounce from any direction.”
“Everyone, form a tight circle with the women toward the center,” shouted Jack Watt. “Look toward the ceiling. Leopards are climbers. They attack from above.”
“I need a gun. Where’s my gun?” shouted Abuelita.
