The Butler Defective

by D R Lowrey

  Still, as he entered his room, Nigel found the sense of failure hard to shake. Most of his expensive butler’s training had yet to be utilized. The section on mixing drinks had come in handy, but not much else.

  However, just because he had lost the war didn’t mean he hadn’t won a few battles. He had gained experience in administering to the needs of the random dead, learned how to operate a mini-excavator, and was now an expert on how not to install a gas water heater. The week had not been a complete disaster.

  One skill Nigel had learned in butler’s school was how to pack a suitcase. Walking into his closet to retrieve his bag, he noticed something peculiar. The fridge-like case that had housed the ancient pair of boots was empty and the front glass had been shattered. This was strange for several reasons. The boots were among the least practical pieces of footwear in the closet. Their leather appeared hard and brittle, and the stitching looked as if it might pop at the slightest pressure. Besides that, they weren’t even fashionable.

  Earlier that morning, Nigel had noticed nothing amiss. The glass shards scattered on the floor would have been hard to miss walking around in his stockinged feet. Who in the house besides Gastrick, former butler and eccentric collector of antique footwear, would have wanted the dilapidated boots? The estate had plenty of loose screws rolling about, but none that Nigel would match to this particular nut. Be that as it may, someone now had a new pair of very old boots.

  Nigel’s instinct was to report the missing boots. But upon reflection, he saw no upside to involving himself in another brouhaha for which he’d likely be blamed. He cleaned up the glass and resolved to remain silent. Discovering missing boots would be someone else’s affair. As he bent to dump the shards into a rubbish bin, something in the darkest corner of the closet caught his eye. A shiver shimmied down his spine. He saw a gun. Not just any gun, but an assault rifle with a cylinder attached to the barrel. A cylinder of golf ball-sized dimensions like the one he’d seen aimed at his forehead earlier that day.

  How many assault rifles are fitted for shooting golf balls? Had Nigel been asked that question twenty-four hours earlier, he would have said none and considered the questioner a silly drip. But, after encountering his second of the day, Nigel concluded it must be a thing. What a sheltered life he’d led.

  He retreated from the closet, sat down on the foot of the bed, and thought about what it all meant. Not a thing came to mind before he noticed himself, across the room, looking at himself. This should not have been news given there was a large mirror in his direct line of sight. However, he appeared to be looking at himself through an orderly collection of letters, words, and paragraphs. Nigel stopped thinking for a moment and took to reading. The message, written in bold letters—the only kind possible when written in lipstick—read:

  Don’t try to find me. You won’t. I’m gone. The good life awaits.

  Sorry for any damage done. If I wanted to kill, would have used bullets. Then I would hit what I aimed for. Ha ha!

  Tell Stanley he wasn’t the absolute worst. The bakery is all his. He’s a lucky SOB. Not the parting gift I’d planned.

  Take care of my sweet Zuela.

  Cam Logan

  P.S. Thanks for the gifts.

  So, there it is, thought Nigel. The suicide note without the suicide.

  It had to have been written very recently. Cam could still be nearby—in the house, even. Dashed odd behavior, breaking into a house to trade a golf ball-shooting assault rifle for a pair of old boots. Then again, it was just the kind of thing Cam Logan might do.

  Nigel reread the message, provoking a new set of questions. Who is Zuela? A daughter? A pet name for her gun?

  Nigel’s thoughts on the matter were interrupted by an odd yowl. He didn’t think it was his stomach, though it sounded about that close. He sat perfectly still.

  A faint sound of breathing tweaked his nerve fibers in a discomforting way. Then a low growl turned his bones to butter.

  Hold on! thought Nigel.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Nigel Changes His Spots

  The residents and visitors milled about the entrance hall, reasoning out the day’s events and, more joyfully, assigning blame. As one might expect, the leopard’s share was dumped upon Nigel, the banished butler. His collection of misdeeds had been so gleefully recounted that most in the room never expected to see his face again. Surely such a man, even one of constrained intelligence, would see the benefit of shimmying down a drainpipe in the dark of night and disappearing under a manhole cover.

  So, imagine the surprise when, through this nest of venom-spitting vipers, Nigel zoomed past on his way out. He did not say “hello,” “good night,” or “au revoir.” Opening his mouth to speak would have created extra drag.

  “What the blazes was that?” asked Mrs. Sandoval.

  “It looked like that butler, but I wouldn’t have thought he could move like that,” said Stefanie’s husband.

  “Maybe he set himself aflame,” said Jack Watt. “Did anyone notice if his hair was on fire?”

  “Hair on fire doesn’t make you run like that,” said the fire-tested mother-in-law.

  “I’m sure that was Mr. Nigel,” said Mrs. Sandoval. “But what was that thing running after him?”

  “You mean that leopard?” asked Stefanie.

  “A leopard?” asked Mrs. Sandoval. “Wouldn’t that be a coincidence!”

  The detective, who’d just belly-laughed his way through fifteen minutes of Nigel/leopard-inspired ridicule, felt the need to weigh in. “I’m no expert in these matters, but I do not believe that was a leopard. Too small.”

  “A young leopard?” asked Esmerelda.

  “Don’t think so,” said the detective.

  “A cheetah?” asked Stefanie.

  “Had the beast been a cheetah, the butler would have been brought down before he reached the door, and the animal would have been feasting on his liver by now. No, the animal in question was not as fast as a cheetah. This animal would require several hundred more feet before bringing down its butler prey. My guess is a serval.”

  The spirited chatter had the usual effect on Stanley. Like one of those insects that mimic desiccated leaves or tree bark, he faded into his surroundings. However, had anyone taken the time to examine the mouth parts of this wallpaper stain, they’d have seen movement—a sure indicator that Stanley had something to say, if only to himself.

  “Not likely a serval,” he mind-muttered. The number of large, spotted cats with leashes and rhinestone-studded collars in greater New Antigua had to be somewhat limited. But Stanley knew of one such animal, and that animal was an ocelot. Not being absolutely certain that this ocelot was that ocelot, he remained silent. He had already used more than his allotment of words for the day.

  “Excuse me,” said Stefanie, “before we discuss the animal’s taxonomy, I would point out that it was last seen chasing Nigel out of the house. According to the detective, Nigel might be fighting for his liver by now. Shouldn’t we intervene in some way?”

  “I would not think a full-grown human would be regarded by an animal of that size as food,” said the detective.

  “How about as sport?” suggested mother-in-law.

  “Blake,” shouted the detective to his uniformed partner. “Go out there and see if you can find that cat before it kills someone.”

  “Out there?” asked Blake, nodding toward the front door open to the dark cat-infested night. He put a hand on his sidearm and looked back at the detective before looking down at his own feet.

  “Yes, of course, out there. Don’t dawdle. Find that animal!”

  “How?” asked Blake.

  “It’s a cat, Blake. Make some cat noises or mouse noises, and see if she comes. If not, listen for a growl.”

  “Or a man screaming,” said Abuelita.

  Mr. Sandoval walked up and put a hand on the officer’s shoulder. “Watch your back, son. Them jungle cats like to sneak up on you. They’re masters of the concealed am
bush. Mind your neck. They can smell blood coursing through the jugular.”

  “You’ve seen this type of cat?” asked the officer, buttoning his shirt collar.

  “Seen? No. You don’t see a jungle cat. At least, not until he’s got his claws in you and he’s biting your nose off. If you still have your eyes, that’s when you’ll see him.”

  The officer, feeling his prominent nose, did not appear terribly appreciative of the advice.

  Jack Watt stepped in to calm the officer. “You just do your job, son. My old friend is just trying to throw a scare into you.”

  “Ha ha,” said the policeman. “I get it. Making stuff up to scare the policeman.”

  “I didn’t say anything about making stuff up,” said Jack. “I said he’s trying to throw a scare into you. He’s doing you a favor. You’re about to enter the cat’s world. You need all the adrenalin you can get.”

  “Right.” The cop took two steps for the door before turning around. “Anyone want to come along?”

  The night air, heavy and still, became heavier and stiller. The chirping crickets became sitting-on-their-hands crickets.

  After the officer trudged out the door to shouts of “Good luck,” and “Show no fear,” the conversation turned to Nigel’s fate. The inmates, with Annie abstaining, had split into three philosophic camps.

  Camp one discussed, sometimes in heated debate, the feeding habits of predatory cats. Despite a healthy give and take on the subject, the group united in their belief that Nigel would eventually turn up, in pieces, across disparate locations, over an extended period of time. These were the realists.

  Camp number two advanced variations on a theory that Nigel would have escaped being eaten but was never to be heard from again. They speculated that he would rendezvous at some predetermined location with the murderous Cam Logan, whereupon the two would run away together to live the remainder of their lives in the perpetual torment of each other’s company. These were the romantics.

  Camp number three believed that Nigel, having failed his every endeavor in spectacularly public fashion, would take the hint and withdraw from polite society, spending the rest of his days as a hobo, an illegal migrant to Mexico, or a telemarketer. These were the existentialists.

  In the end, the three camps agreed to disagree about Nigel’s fate and turned instead to guzzling champagne. Imagine, then, their collective dismay when Nigel strolled through the front door accompanied by a large, spotted cat. Those who were seated stood up. Those who were standing, leaned back. Annie, seated on the second step of the stairs, stayed put. All of them gaped, fishlike, at the unmauled butler and his fish-eating cat.

  Nigel, noting the champagne flutes, said, “I see you haven’t missed me too much.”

  Mrs. Sandoval, a devout existentialist, wobbled forth. “We didn’t expect you back…so soon, I mean.”

  “Out for a walk,” said Nigel. He felt a strange power over the gathered cabal. A power not unlike what a large cat must feel when walking into a dinner party uninvited. He stepped forward, noticing as he did that the crowd stepped back.

  “You…you found the leopard,” said Esmerelda. “What a lovely little leopard.”

  Mrs. Sandoval turned to Stefanie’s husband. “You said the leopard was made up. That looks pretty real to me.”

  “That’s no leopard,” said Stefanie’s husband, resorting to technicalities.

  “Shhhhhhh!” said Nigel. “I wouldn’t say that in front of her. She has aspirations.”

  “As I said before,” interjected the detective, “I believe what we have here is a serval.”

  “Not a serval,” said Stanley. “This is an ocelot. I recognize this animal. It belongs to Cam.”

  “You’re just telling us now?” asked the detective.

  “I wasn’t sure before. I didn’t get a good look. This is the cat all right.”

  “Stanley is correct,” said Nigel. “Her name is Zuela, Zuela the ocelot. Cam Logan left her here hoping she would find a good home. She also left her weapon. In exchange for it, I believe she may have taken a few items.”

  “How do you know this?” asked the detective, stroking his mustache as if he had one.

  “I saw the gun myself. Cam left a note upstairs on a mirror.”

  “She might still be in the house then,” said the detective. “We need to search the house and vicinity.”

  “I suppose you should,” said Nigel. “I don’t expect you’ll find her.”

  “Did she say where she was going?” asked Stanley.

  “You’re not thinking of going after her, are you, Stanley?”

  “She needs help. She may be ill, mentally ill.”

  “She doesn’t need your help, Stanley. As a matter of fact, she left a message for you.”

  “She did?”

  “Of sorts. She said you weren’t the worst.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir. ‘Not the absolute worst’ were her exact words.”

  “Ha!” said Stanley’s ex, the swaddled dragon. “If that’s the case, she must have been with some real losers!”

  “Well,” said Nigel, “Cam may have been a murderer, a thief, a deceiver, a profligate, and a con, but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t Stanley’s worst, either.”

  Stanley and Nigel exchanged fist bumps while the veiled dragon hissed like a goose laying a pineapple.

  “One more thing, Stanley. She also said that the bakery was all yours, debt-free.”

  “Cam always had a kind heart.” While Stanley rolled his eyes upward as if an angel sat on his forehead, the rest of the party exchanged sideward glances as if to say “What the devil is to be done with him?”

  “Well, Stanley,” said Nigel, “I don’t wish to tarnish that image. I mean, she has good qualities, I’m sure, but for the sake of balance, I’ll throw this out there. She tried to kill you. Twice.”

  “I never expected her to be perfect.”

  “Well, if you look at it that way, you weren’t disappointed,” said Nigel.

  The front room filled once more with policemen tasked with combing the far corners of the estate for any sign of Cam Logan. An inhuman scream sent them scurrying as a group toward the east wing. Not surprisingly, it was Abuelita.

  “She took it,” said Abuelita, transforming pain into anger.

  “Don’t upset yourself, dear,” said Jack Watt. “Whatever it is, we’ll replace it. What did she take?”

  “The photograph. It can’t be replaced. It can’t be.”

  “Maybe it can. A photograph of what?”

  “Me.”

  “A photo of you? I’m sure you have others. Why so upset?”

  “Not just me,” said Abuelita. “Me and the 1967 Dallas Cowboys, signed by every player and coach.”

  “Oh,” said Jack Watt. “That might be difficult to reproduce.”

  “No shit,” said Abuelita. “You don’t know what I had to do to get that picture.”

  “Really? What did you have to do?”

  Abuelita looked at him sternly. “There are things a husband should never ask his wife.”

  EPILOGUE

  Aftermath

  Several days passed before the Sandoval Estate was thoroughly cleansed of its police infestation. A more normal routine settled on the place, though the stress from a busy week of death, wedding, funeral, and assault had left its mark.

  Nigel’s mummy-in-law, the shrink-wrapped zombie, left even before her house had been rebuilt. The early departure was forced upon her by a pattern of physical threats—made by her toward Abuelita, and Abuelita toward her. This was sadly predictable, for in the face of grave danger, each of the ladies had performed a selfless act of courage to save the other. These complementary acts of virtuous heroism had created a sort of post-heroic stress disorder, diluting the black vitriol so integral to their self-identities. Not that they would admit it, but the two felt starkly alien stirrings of gratitude and humility. This created a discomforting internal dissonance, as if their dark acidic
blood had been infused with a dose of vanilla ice cream. In such a state, they could hardly stand themselves, much less each other. The other occupants of the house, it may be noted, never detected a difference.

  Mother-in-law left to stay with Annie at the newly repaired Annie-and-Nigel homestead, while he remained behind at the Sandoval Estate. He found it easier to face a revolving cast of lunatics than one barking mad mother-in-law. He’d wait until she cleared the premises to return home.

  Nigel’s firing had been temporary. Once Mrs. Sandoval surmised that his leopard story was more exaggeration than outright lie, she found a path to forgiveness. She cared far less about the species of cat than about having a butler for the Christmas eggnog season. Nigel’s rehiring did not come without a fight, however. He protested valiantly, assuring Mrs. Sandoval that, make-believe leopard aside, his past execution was a strong indicator of future performance. To illustrate, he reenacted his greatest hits and misses complete with sound effects and a small explosion. It was all for naught. Once Mrs. Sandoval learned that Nigel’s eggnog contained both bourbon and brandy, the rehire was assured.

  Of course, Abuelita vehemently disapproved. Jack Watt, on the other hand, looked forward to the sideshow. This was as close as they would ever come to agreeing on anything. Though no one had expected it, no one understood it and, like mayonnaise on scrambled eggs, no one wanted to think about it, the newlyweds got along fine. For reasons best left unprobed, the marriage worked for them. A contributing factor may have been Jack Watt’s acceptance of Nigel’s plea to dispense with any semblance of physical contact. In fact, Jack embraced the concept of celibacy with fervor. The entire household knew this because Abuelita would remind them several times per day, using her most colorful language.