“Yes, Mulligan?”
“Sir, I have a Dr. Littlefield’s office on the phone and they’d like to speak to you in person.”
Shackleford nodded. “Figured.” He stood and placed the book on the side table. Roger followed him out of the library and next door to the upstairs parlor, where Shackleford picked up the telephone tucked into an out-of-the-way alcove that Roger hadn’t noticed in his previous—and brief—forays into the room. “Shackleford.” He listened for a few moments. “Yes, I understand.” He nodded a couple of times. “Very well. Good-bye.” He looked at Roger. “You’ll want to make sure the Bentley will start. We’re going for a drive tomorrow.”
“I have calls in to three other doctors, sir.”
Shackleford shook his head. “It’ll be Littlefield. I know her already. Solid physician. Good doctor. Well connected when it comes to the politics and I trust her.”
“The Bentley, sir?”
“Yes. Why? You have a driver’s license, I presume?”
“I do, sir, but I confess to being intimidated by taking any of those vehicles out. They’re classics, sir.”
Shackleford gave a short laugh. “They’re just vehicles, Mulligan. Nice cars. Old cars, but ultimately merely something to use. Tools. They’ll be fine.”
Roger gave him a short bow. “Very good, sir.”
Shackleford nodded. “Good man.”
“Anything else, sir?”
Shackleford shook his head. “Carry on, Mulligan.”
Roger went back downstairs and hung up the receiver there before heading for the key safe to retrieve the Bentley’s keys. It was one thing to know a quarter-million dollars’ worth of vehicles sat parked in the garage, and quite another to consider taking one of the museum pieces out onto the rough streets of the city. Still, the old man had a point. A car is just a tool—even if an expensive one.
He went into the garage and opened the bay door in front of the Bentley. The car itself sat unlocked. Roger slid into the lush leather interior and slipped the key into the ignition. He kept trying to convince himself it was just a car, but he had a sense of surrealism about the situation—sitting in a classic wearing a butler’s uniform and turning the key.
The engine caught on the first spin and rumbled to life. Roger checked the controls and let the engine warm up a little. He pressed his foot on the brake, pulled the emergency brake off, and pushed the gear-shift into drive. The heavy vehicle rolled out into the afternoon sunlight. He had often heard of cars being described as boats but had never driven a large vehicle before. The Bentley felt like an ocean liner compared to the midsize cars he’d driven.
He stopped the car, shifted it into park, and took a deep breath. “Just a car.” He shook his hands in the air in an attempt to relax the tension in his wrists, then shut the vehicle off, taking the key. Looking around the cabin, he spotted a very modern-looking small plastic box clipped to the dash. He pressed the only button and in the rearview mirror saw the garage door lower. He got out of the car, locking the door behind him, and went back into the house.
He knocked on the library door before entering. “Mr. Shackleford?”
“Yes, Mulligan?”
“I’d like to take the Bentley for a quick spin around the block to familiarize myself with the vehicle. Will you need anything while I’m gone, sir?”
Shackleford shook his head. “Excellent idea. I’ll be fine, Mulligan. Carry on.”
Roger left him, closing the door and returning to the car. He walked all around it, looking it over for any dings or scratches in the paint. He saw no flaws in the perfect finish and wondered if the pixies cared for the vehicle or if there was some other kind of sprite that dealt with the vehicles.
He took his place behind the wheel and fired the engine. “Just a car,” he said, putting it in gear. The vehicle rolled down the tarmac, the power steering making it feel a little floaty until Roger adjusted to its assistance. He turned into the alley, letting the engine’s idle speed carry it to the first intersection. He stopped and looked both ways before pulling out onto the street, overcompensating a bit on the turn but going slowly enough that it didn’t matter. He rolled up to the next stop sign and took another right onto the street that ran in front of Shackleford House. Midday traffic was not particularly heavy but he still had to deal with other vehicles—both parked and moving. He forced himself to relax his grip, letting the heavy engine roll the car along at a comfortably sedate city speed.
He drove several blocks along the street, practicing his stops at each of the intersections, before making another right onto a side street and picking up the alley once more to close the loop. By the time he got back to the tarmac behind the house, he felt much more at ease. He pressed the button and maneuvered the car to back into the garage while the door rose. The overactive power steering still made the car feel like it was floating, so occasionally he overcompensated, but he managed to get the thing backed into place without hitting the garage. He shut it off and took a deep breath.
“I can do this,” he said.
He got out, closed the garage door, and returned the keys to the safe, and then checked in with Shackleford.
“I’m back, sir.”
“How’d it go, Mulligan?”
“I’m glad I gave it a spin, sir. It handles a little differently than my recent vehicles.”
Shackleford nodded. “Perkins hated that car. I think that’s why he kept one of his own.”
“It’s a lovely vehicle, sir. A work of art.”
Shackleford shrugged. “In its own way, I suppose. Tell me, Mulligan, what would you suggest?”
“As a vehicle, sir?”
“Yes. It does little good to have these museum pieces when I could have something a bit more practical and still travel in comfort.” He looked up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at Roger. “If you had your choice of car to drive me around in, what would it be?”
Roger pondered for a moment. “I’d pick something inconspicuous, sir. Something with a bit of weight to it but not a car people would notice in traffic. A midsize sedan. Even a modern luxury car would blend in more than those classic vehicles, sir.”
“Do some research, Mulligan. Bring me three choices. Something you’d be more comfortable driving.”
Roger gave his Jeeves bow. “Of course, sir. Would there be anything else, sir?”
Shackleford shook his head, his attention already falling back to his book. “Not at the moment, Perkins.”
Roger left and headed back to his afternoon routine for a Monday—collecting the dry cleaning in preparation for Tuesday’s pickup.
* * *
Roger had just finished his warm up stretches when Molly jogged up to the foot of the tarmac.
“Ready?” she asked.
He joined her in an easy lope and they headed down the alley. The previous day’s weather had deteriorated to a dull overcast, threatening rain or at least a drizzle. Neither of them spoke. Roger’s kept imagining all the ways the Bentley could come to an unfortunate end at his hands, leaving him to wonder what kind of vehicle he might recommend.
At the halfway mark, Molly broke the silence. “Heavy thoughts this morning?”
“Car trouble,” Roger said.
“That sucks. Broken down?”
Roger laughed. “Embarrassment of riches, rather. I have to recommend a new car for my boss.”
“What’s he drive?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s for his chauffeur to drive him in.”
“Terrible problem to have.” She laughed.
“I’m probably making too much of it. A new car to him is petty cash.”
“So, your basic Lincoln? Cadillac?” she asked.
“He’s got a classic Cadillac limo. One of the old ones from the 60s. I’m thinking something a little less conspicuous.”
“Have you noticed how many luxury cars are out there? You could blend in with a Beemer these days.”
“I’ll do some more resear
ch,” he said.
“What do you do, anyway?” she asked. “Besides buy new cars for your boss?”
He glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes, suddenly a bit self-conscious about his position. “You’ll laugh.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she said, grinning at him.
“I’m a butler.”
She gave him a quick glance, her eyes wide. “No shit?”
“Yeah. I work at Shackleford House.”
“Why would I laugh at that?” she asked.
“How many butlers do you know?”
“Just you, now, but it’s awesome. Do you have a cutaway and everything?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, but I just wear a suit, mostly. The fancy dress is for special occasions. Every house has its own rules. Mr. Shackleford is not the most demanding.”
“So you take care of the house and manage the staff and polish the silver and ‘Dinner is served’ and all that?” The questions tumbled out of her and the grin stretched all the way across her face.
“Well, I’m the only staff. It’s just Mr. Shackleford and me. I do polish the silver, but I also serve as cook and chauffeur and all that.”
“So you have to pick a new car for you to drive? Instead of the Caddy? What’s wrong with the Caddy?”
“It’s a classic. Probably worth more than I am, even with my life insurance. I’d feel terrible if anything happened to it, running him to the bank or something.”
She shrugged. “I can see that. A new car wouldn’t be the same? How much are you worth?”
He laughed. “I could get a new car repaired. Take it to the dealer and have done with it. The Caddy? Maybe. The Bentley? Not a chance.”
“Oh, shut up. A Bentley?”
Roger came to the sudden realization that he’d said too much. “Yeah.”
She shook her head. “I can see why you want something less ostentatious.”
“What do you do?” he asked, trying to turn the conversation around.
“Photography,” she said, giving him a sideways glance. “Portraits mostly.”
“Not a starving artist, then?” he asked.
She snorted. “It’s hardly a garret, but no. If I had to support myself with my camera, it’d be a hard row to hoe. Revenue from investments.” She glanced at him. “You can laugh. It’s okay.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“Cliché? Rich girl playing at artist?”
“Are you rich?” He asked, glancing at her.
“I’m not Bentley rich, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said, grinning back at him. “It’s an expensive condo, but it’s still a condo.”
“None of my business,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Naw. ’S okay. I started it.” They ran for a few more yards. “In real life I’m a CNA.”
“Not photographer?” Roger asked.
“CNA is what I do for pocket money. Photographer is my dream.”
Roger grinned. “I can understand that.”
The threatening skies released a heavy mist that collected on their faces and turned their clothing soggy. Roger focused on his running.
“Do you like it?” she asked. “Being a butler?” She glanced at him. “You don’t have to answer. I’m just trying not to think about being wet.”
He chuckled. “I’ve only been doing it for a few months, but yeah. I like it. You like taking pictures?”
She sighed. “I like taking pictures but ...” She glanced at him. “Honestly, I just fool around with it. My parents keep sending me rich friends who want me to take family photos. Boring, line them up in their designer clothes against some mansion in the burbs, photos. Or hubby wants a ‘bedroom shoot’ of his wife. Or ... fill in the blank. Every lame-ass excuse you can think of.”
“Why do it?” he asked.
“Well, it pays for my equipment. Keeps my parents happy that I’m doing something ‘arty.’”
“You’re a CNA. That’s not good enough?”
She shrugged.”
“What would you want to do if you could do anything?”
She wiped the water from her face with a swipe of her hand. “I don’t know,” she said. “Hell of a thing, huh? Thirty-five, still drifting?”
Roger snorted. “Join the club.”
“You’ve got a job,” she said. “What did you do before?”
“Unemployed for a few months. Hitting the bottom of my reserves when the butler thing happened.” He sighed. “EMT before that. Army before that.”
“You don’t have to answer my nosy questions.”
“It’s fine,” he said, shaking some of the water out of his eyes. “I’ll need to find a new job in a few months. My contract is only for a year.”
“Any plans?” she asked.
“Nope. I kinda like the butler gig, but how many butler jobs are there?”
She shrugged. “Maybe more than you think. It’s a rather specialized skill.”
“I looked up butler schools,” he said.
“No shit? There are butler schools?”
“Yeah. Mostly they look for people with hospitality management degrees.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” she said. “Would you be interested in that? EMT doesn’t quite match.”
“I’m better at biology than table settings, but I’m finding it relaxing in an odd way.” He shrugged. “Might not find it quite so attractive in a full house.”
“Can’t you renew your contract?”
“It was only for a year.” He paused, pondering how much he should say.
“What’s going to happen to Mr. Shackleford?”
“What makes you think something’s going to happen?”
“Logic. You have a short-term contract to take care of a single person. He’s probably old, clearly rich, and you’re being cagey.” She shrugged.
“Maybe nothing,” Roger said. “Maybe I’ll continue on with him but my contract is up next June.”
She snorted. “We’re a pair.” She glanced at him. “Come on. Sprint for the gate. Stretch it out, butler boy.” She took off running full out, the soles of her running shoes flinging water into the air.
He swallowed a laugh and tried to catch her but couldn’t make up the distance until she stopped at her gate, hands on hips and walking in circles to cool down.
“Good run,” she said, panting a little, a smile on her lips and water matting her hair against her head.
“Good run. See ya tomorrow.”
She turned to her gate as he walked by. “Street photographer,” she said.
“What’s stopping you?” he asked.
She shook her head and slipped through the gate, pulling it closed behind her, the latch snapping shut.
He shrugged and headed for the back door and his shower. He still had to make breakfast and come up with three new car suggestions for Shackleford. Perhaps while he cooked breakfast he’d do a little online car shopping.
Chapter 10
By the time Roger got Shackleford’s breakfast tray assembled, including going above and beyond by drying out the soggy paper with a clothes iron on Low, he had three solid choices for a new car. He knocked on the library door before entering. “Breakfast, sir.”
Shackleford looked up from his book—the wrong book again. Well, the other book. “Thank you, Perkins. Just leave it on the table.” He picked the book up again and started reading, or at least staring at the page.
“Is there anything else, sir?” He scanned the room, looking for anything out of place. The rolltop hid the computer. Shackleford’s primary reading material—the thick book with thin pages and tiny print—was nowhere to be seen.
Shackleford didn’t take his eyes off the page. “Mm? No. Nothing. Carry on, Perkins.”
Roger sighed and left the breakfast in its usual spot. He scanned again, spying the old man’s book tucked under one of the throw pillows in an easy chair. He left it there and went on with his morning routine—making Shackleford’s bed, picking up and hanging clothe
s that needed hanging, gathering any loose laundry and linens from the bath. He’d done it a hundred times before and found nothing out of place, yet the room seemed somehow wrong.
“Imagination,” he said, tucking the laundry under his arm in a tidy bundle. He’d dropped a stray sock on the stairs one morning and was embarrassed to find it when he returned for the breakfast tray later. He would have been mortified if Naomi Patching—or, worse, Fidelia Necket—had called and found it. He laughed at himself as he sorted the load into the washing machine, bemused by his own change in outlook since coming to Shackleford House. He piled the leftover laundry into a waiting basket, measured the detergent, and started the machine.
He went to the kitchen for a second cup of coffee while he waited for the appropriate hour to pick up the breakfast tray. His laptop still rested on the work table, so he opened it up and looked up the address for the doctor’s appointment. He wrote the street address in his notebook, and realized that he’d nearly filled it with various notes and tasks. He’d need a new one soon. That done, he pulled up the map and got directions to the office. The app found the street and address for him. “Modern technology,” he said. He zoomed in on the location and realized it was in a medical park on the west side of the city. The map provided names and specialties of other physicians in the area: a rheumatologist, an ophthalmologist, several dentists, and a collection of medical office buildings with names like “West Side Medical Group” and “West View Center for Internal Medicine.” He’d half expected to find Dr. Littlefield operating out of one of the classier brick townhouses along the “Ritzy Row” on the north end.
A mystery for another time. Roger noted the hour and closed his laptop. He tucked it under his arm and took it back to his quarters to recharge while he continued with the morning.
He found Shackleford still engrossed in his book, the breakfast tray untouched. “Sir? Was there something wrong with your breakfast?”
The old man looked up. “What? Oh, no, Perkins. Lovely, thank you for the bacon.” He stuck his nose back in the book.
The Wizard's Butler Page 18
