The Doomsday Brunette

by John Zakour

  “Tea?”

  “It’s what he does,” Ona said. “He wouldn’t be cooperative in a formal interview. He’ll speak more freely in a situation where he’s comfortable. And he’s most comfortable serving tea.”

  “That’s very good thinking, Ona.”

  “I suppose a genius intellect comes in handy now and again,” she said. “But I should warn you now that W is rather...odd.”

  “Define 'odd.'”

  “Well, as I may have mentioned earlier, he's very old. Honestly, I've lost track of exactly how old but it's in the triple digits and his mind isn't what it used to be.”

  “Anything else?”

  Ona looked away and fidgeted just a little bit.

  “You need to remember that W has worked for my family for two generations. I’ve known him all my life.”

  “DOS, he's insane isn't he?”

  “Now, I find it insulting, Zach, that you would assume that just because the gentleman has worked for me and my sisters for our entire lives that he would be insane.”

  “Sorry.”

  “But as it so happens, he is insane,” she said. “Not officially anyway. I mean, we've never had him legally declared insane but I know the signs.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “You know, for an employee, you’re becoming rather impertinent.”

  “It’s a defense mechanism.”

  “Ironic then that I find it so offensive,” she said. “W takes his job very seriously and he tends to become slightly agitated when those around him don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Take his job seriously.”

  “Serving tea?”

  “Especially serving tea.”

  “Are you telling me that he’ll get violent if I don’t have good table manners.”

  “He’s over a hundred years old, Zach. He’d probably break a hip stamping his foot. I’m just saying that he’ll be more frank with you if you treat his profession with respect.”

  “Well, if you put it that way…”

  “Good. And by the way, don’t talk to him too long. He tends to fall asleep and urinate during long conversations.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the most disgusting thing that’s happened to me during an interview.”

  “Really?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Ona stared at me, stone-faced expressionless and I suddenly felt like a schoolboy who’d just put a virus in the class computer.

  “That was an attempt at humor wasn’t it?”

  “A little one.”

  “Let’s try to keep those to a minimum, shall we?”

  17

  Ona offered me the use of an indoor hover for my trip from the gym to the tertiary drawing room. I declined but after five minutes of walking through the halls, I began to regret that decision. As per our earlier discussion, HARV holographically walked beside me. Ona’s computer kept us company as well. It’s bodiless voice following us like an intelligent breeze as we traveled.

  “Computer, tell me W’s story again,” I asked.

  “Well, as you know, sir, his full name is Wintercrescenhavenshivershamshawjamison. He is the fifteenth generation man-servant in his family.”

  “What’s that about three hundred years of servitude?”

  “Three hundred twenty-seven, actually. He takes great pride in the family history. He began work for Dr. Thompson fresh out of butler school sixty-eight years ago.”

  “Butler school?”

  “When Dr. Thompson died, W continued his service to the family by helping to raise the Thompson sisters and has remained in Ms. Thompson’s employ since she took control of the estate.”

  “He does what exactly?” HARV asked.

  “Table setting mostly.”

  “Table setting?”

  “And serving tea. W is somewhat advanced in years now. I’ve taken on the bulk of his household responsibilities. I oversee the domestic droids and machines including those responsible for food preparation. Table setting, however, was always W’s forte so he has remained solely in charge of that.”

  “He sets the table,” I mumbled. “That’s all he does?”

  “It’s his niche.”

  “I’m not sure that table-setting even qualifies as a niche,” HARV said. “It’s more like a nano-niche.”

  “I wouldn’t describe it as ‘nano,’” the computer replied. “I think ‘mini’ is more appropriate.”

  “Mini?” HARV exclaimed. “Clearly, you’re overstating the importance of the function. In a compound this size, table setting is clearly a ‘nano-niche.’ ‘Micro’ at best but clearly not ‘mini.’”

  “Yes, well, if you’re measuring the importance on the scale of the entire household…”

  “How else would one measure it?”

  “On more of a universal scale,” the computer replied, “in terms of the place that table setting resides in the average household.”

  “That ruins the entire comparison,” HARV said. “You’re comparing bignays and soursops.”

  “I would disagree.”

  “Now you see, this is why there should be a law against putting two super computers in a room together,” I said.

  “Actually, sir,” the computer replied, “neither HARV nor I are physically in this room. My central processing unit is in the sub-sub-basement of the compound and I assume that HARV’s CPU is kept at some similarly secure location.”

  “That’s it,” I said. “Where’s my gun?”

  “You checked it at the main security station when you arrived,” the computer said. “Is he always this forgetful?”

  “Sadly, yes. His short term memory erodes by the day.”

  “He seems short tempered as well.”

  “You should see him on a bad day.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Guys, please, I’m right here,” I said.

  “Of course, I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you,” HARV said, “what with a super-human user such as Ms. Thompson.”

  “Please, it’s a new crisis every nano. It’s even worse when the other sisters access the interface.”

  “The other Quads access you as well?”

  “They don’t have complete access, of course, but I do most of their tasking. It ‘s Miss Ona’s way of keeping tabs on her sisters’ activities.”

  “Even Foraa?”

  “Yes. Although, admittedly, her activity on my server has dropped dramatically since her death.”

  “As expected.”

  “Truthfully, however, she used me rarely. For special projects mostly. And I suspect that the other sisters will increase their activity proportionately now that she’s gone in order to cover the shortfall.”

  “I can imagine the strain that puts on your server,” HARV said.

  “Oh, the stories I could tell.”

  I had to hand it to HARV. He was playing up to Ona’s computer like a pro. At this rate the two of them would be chess partners by dinner.

  “Well, at least your user’s not a technophobe,” HARV said. “Did you know that he can’t even pilot a hovercraft?”

  “No?”

  “I can too,” I said. “I flew Carol’s hover last year.”

  “You crashed it into the duck pond.”

  “Well, it was trying to kill me.”

  “It was?” the computer asked.

  “It’s a long story,” HARV said. “But it’s a good one. It all began when we were playing backgammon. I was winning, of course.”

  “Of course,” the computer replied.

  “Are we almost there?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

  “Actually, yes.” The computer replied. “The tertiary drawing room is at the end of this hall, five meters ahead. HARV, would it be possible for you download me the rest of that story? It sounds most interesting.”

  “I would,” HARV said, “but you wouldn’t get the full effect. It really needs to be told in the first person. Let’s discuss it in deta
il later on. I’ll replay for you the recordings of the crash. It was quite a display.”

  “I will look forward to it. Mr. Johnson, please let me know if you need anything further. Also, please notify me immediately if any of the devices in the drawing room make any attempts on your life.”

  HARV and the computer chuckled gently to one another.

  “Oh, yeah,” I mumbled as HARV and I entered the room. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  18

  Wintercrescenhavenshivershamshawjamison was an ancient man, thin framed and spindly, as though created from old kindling that would snap if the light hit it right. His face was drawn and crisscrossed with more lines than the New Frisco skyway map. His hair was wispy gray and his eyes were foggy. It took him a full minute to get out of his chair as HARV and I entered and I would have given you even odds that he wouldn’t make it back without breaking a hip.

  “If you please, sir, may I be so bold as to presume that you are Mr. Zachary Johnson?”

  “If I’m not then my mother has a lot of explaining to do,” I replied, offering him my hand.

  W’s only response was a slow motion arch of his right eyebrow.

  “Pardon?”

  “Mental note,” HARV whispered, your sense of humor, such that it is, does not play well with elderly male servants.”

  “Got it,” I whispered before turning back to W. “Yes sir, I’m Zach Johnson. It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr.…um W.”

  “Charmed,” W said then his eyes fell upon HARV’s hologram and a look of worry appeared through the fog. “I was told that you’d be alone.”

  “This is my computer, HARV,” I said. “He’s assisting me on this case.”

  HARV bowed slightly to W, who totally ignored him.

  “I was told that it was a single sitting,” he said, slightly beside himself. “A single sitting only.”

  He motioned to the table at the center of the room and I saw that it was set for tea. Actually, “set” isn’t the right word here. “Sculpted,” is more accurate because everything had been meticulously set into place. From the table itself to the cloth, place setting, pot, cup, spoons, sugar bowl and a dozen other tea-time-related gadgets that I didn’t even recognize. It was so perfectly constructed that it didn’t even look like a table-setting anymore. It had transcended the mundane and become a table-setting mosaic, with every piece in its place in the greater, tea-themed portrait.

  And it was set for one.

  Which is why HARV’s presence so ruffled W.

  “It’s all right, W,” I said. “HARV’s a computer. He won’t be having tea. He’ll just stand over there by the door.”

  “Stand by the door? What kind of high-tea philistine are you? His standing by the door throws off the whole balance of the room in relation to the table décor.”

  “Table décor?”

  “Table décor,” W motioned frantically toward the table, his foggy eyes growing slightly apoplectic. “He’ll have to sit. It’s the only civilized way to proceed, which means I’ll need another place setting. It’s going to entail restructuring the configuration somewhat, adjusting the balance, probably rethinking the entire aesthetic layout. And I’ll need another cup, of course. Give me five hours.”

  “What?”

  “Six at the most.”

  W turned on his heel and began walking toward the door at the far wall. And by walking I mean, of course, not moving at all, at least not to the naked eye, because his strides could only be measured in micrometers. His creaky legs made barely the tiniest of forward steps so he’d taken four strides before I noticed any lateral movement at all.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Geologically speaking of course,” HARV said. “I think this is what Ms. Thompson meant when she said that he takes his job somewhat seriously.”

  “Actually, I think this is what she meant when she said he was insane.”

  I approached W slowly and spoke in as innocent and non-threatening a voice as I could manage. “Actually, W,” I said. “HARV isn’t staying for tea. He has other business to attend to and is leaving right now, aren’t you HARV?”

  “Oh yes,” HARV said. “I just wanted to make certain that Mr. Johnson arrived here safely. He’s very accident prone, you know.”

  W stopped and turned back to us.

  “Are you sure? Because I can do the tea-for-two configuration. I can even manage a holographic cup. It’s quite lovely.”

  “I’m sure it is, but it won’t be necessary,” I said.

  “Oh, good,” W said as he slowly returned to the table. “Truth to tell, I’m not as fast as I used to be.”

  “I would hope not,” HARV mumbled.

  “Ice the hologram, HARV,” I whispered. “He’s not getting any younger.”

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. W,” HARV said with a bow and disappeared.

  W seemed relived once HARV had gone (I sympathized with him on some level, but don’t tell that to HARV) and he gestured to the chair at the table. I carefully took my place at the setting as he prepared the tea.

  “You there, HARV?” I whispered.

  “Where else would I be, boss?”came HARV’s reply inside my head.

  “I may need a little help with the tea etiquette,” I said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “W seems to be a stickler for details. I’d rather not offend him while I’m plying him for information,” I said. “You know me, I’m likely to pour the tea into a saucer.”

  “Actually,” HARV said, “that practice was acceptable in late Victorian and Edwardian days as a way to cool the tea before drinking, hence the term ‘a dish of tea.’ It’s also interesting to note that…”

  “See now this is the part where you’re no longer helpful.”

  “Got it,” HARV replied. “We’ll stick to the basics. You’re doing fine, so far, what with sitting in the chair and all. The napkin goes in the lap. I’ll cue you from there.”

  “So, W,” I said, turning my attention back to the manservant. “I want to thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “No trouble at all,” he replied, gently lifting a cup and saucer.

  “I assume that you know of the unfortunate events of last night?” I asked.

  “The dinner party?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes. A tragedy for everyone. I understand that the table setting was completely disrupted.”

  “Um, yeah,” I said. “And then, of course, there’s the bit about Foraa being murdered.”

  “Yes, that was very unfortunate as well.” He very carefully filled the cup with tea from the pot, then gently held the cup on the saucer and turned back toward me. “How do you take your tea?”

  “Um, cream?”

  “Not cream,” HARV whispered in my head. “Cream reacts with the acid of the tea. You want milk.”

  “I mean, milk,” I said. “And two spoons…”

  “Lumps.”

  “Lumps of sugar.”

  W nodded gently. “Very good, sir.”

  He added a dash of milk and two lumps of sugar to the cup, mixed it gently and handed the cup and saucer to me.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Now, about last night. Circumstances seem to indicate that Foraa was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?”

  “Was there anything odd that you remember about last night?”

  “You mean other than the Quads being in the same room together?”

  “I guess that was pretty odd in and of itself.”

  “To put it mildly,” he said. “The four of them hadn’t been together since the reading of Dr. Thompson’s will.”

  “So why did they get together last night?”

  “I have no idea. Miss Ona simply told me six days ago to have the main dining room prepared for the event. She was inviting her sisters to dinner.”

  “So the dinner was Ona’s idea?”

  He thought for a nano.

  “Yes, I guess that it was
.”

  My mind began to wander a bit, trying to apply the information that W was giving me to my view of the scene. I stirred my tea absentmindedly as my mind raced. It took me a couple of nanos to realize that W was staring at me, his left eyebrow arched so high it nearly covered his bald spot.

  “You’re stirring too loudly,” HARV said. “Don’t touch the sides of the cup when you stir. Gently swish back and forth.”

  I smiled at W and began gently swishing my tea.

  “So what exactly did you do for the dinner party last night?” I asked.

  “I prepared the room. The table, the seating, the settings and the like. I was told to make it spectacular.”

  “It looked very nice.”

  “Thank you. I’d say that aside from the dead body, it was some of my best work,” he said.

  “The murder did sort of upstage the décor,” I said, gently lifting the cup to my mouth.

  “Index finger goes through the handle and the thumb just above,” HARV said. “Common practice is to extend a finger.”

  I stuck out a finger.

  “Not that one,” HARV shouted. “The pinkie. And let me finish. Common practice among the uneducated is to extend the pinkie but that dates back to the eleventh century. You’ll be better off not extending.”

  “You could have lead with that part,” I whispered.

  “Did you say something, sir?” W asked.

  “No, nothing,” I said.

  “Don’t look at him as you drink,” HARV said. “Lower your eyes and look into the cup. And for Gates’ sake, don’t slurp.”

  I did as I was told (and made a mental note to never drink tea again) and then turned my attention back to W.

  “Is the tea to your satisfaction?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. It’s perfect,” I replied.

  He gently lifted a tray of pastries from the table.

  “Cookie?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t think I’m ready for that,” I answered. “But can you tell me who prepared the food for last night’s dinner?”

  “The computer prepares all meals,” he replied. “Miss Ona gave up on human chefs when her last one committed suicide in the blender several months ago.”

  “That’s rough.”