The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

Roger looked down at the bacon still on the plate. “You haven’t eaten a thing, sir. Aren’t you hungry?”

  Shackleford shook his head without looking up. “Not right now, Perkins, thank you. Carry on.”

  “Sir, I should remind you that you have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon at 2:30. We’ll need to leave by 1:45 to arrive on time.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Perkins. Fetch me when it’s time to go, would you?”

  “Sir—”

  Shackleford’s head jerked up and he glared at Roger. “What is it now, Perkins? I’m really rather busy.” He bit the words off, one at a time.

  “Would you care for some breakfast, sir?” Roger asked.

  “I’ve had my breakfast, Perkins. Thank you. It was delicious.” He paused and tilted his head just the tiniest of fractions to the side. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really need to finish my research.”

  Roger gave his little bow. “Of course, sir.” Roger picked up the tray and left. In the kitchen he scraped the plate into the trash and took care of the dirty dishes by stacking them in the dishwasher. He closed the dishwasher a little too hard and scowled. He didn’t know what to do about any of it—the room, his flare-up, and an imminent doctor appointment.

  The laundry dingled and he pressed everything to the back of his mind. “At least I can handle that,” he said.

  * * *

  The door to the library stood ajar when Roger returned with a luncheon tray. According to his schedule, he was a bit early, but he was sure that after not eating all morning, Shackleford had to be feeling hungry. Roger pushed into the room but the old man wasn’t there. “Oh, shit.”

  He placed the tray in its customary position and fled toward the master suite. He knocked twice and entered, his gaze raking the room and freezing at the closed bathroom door. He felt his heart pound in his chest and held his breath, the indecision driving the air from his lungs. Should he? What if the old guy had fallen?

  The toilet flushed and Roger breathed a sigh of relief, stepping back out of the suite and pulling the door closed behind him. That would have been embarrassing for all concerned.

  He stepped back into the library and looked for the books. The wrong book, as he’d come to think of it, lay in Shackleford’s normal chair while the other still peeked out from under the cushion in the armchair. He picked both up, placing them side by side on the library table. As he started to look inside, Shackleford returned.

  “Ah, Mulligan. Lunch, excellent. I seem to be more peckish than usual today.”

  “My pleasure, sir. You didn’t eat much breakfast today.”

  Shackleford stopped halfway down into the chair before lowering himself slowly to the seat. “Did I eat any?” he asked, looking at Roger.

  “No, sir.”

  He sighed. “Was I myself?”

  “Not precisely, sir. No.”

  Shackleford glanced at the two books, frowning. “That’s ... strange.” He looked at Roger. “Where’d you find these?”

  “The brown covered volume was in your chair, sir. The green one under a cushion over there.” Roger nodded at the armchair.

  Shackleford pulled his napkin from the tray, shook it open, and laid it on his lap before taking up his spoon and tucking into the soup. He nodded. “The green has been the most useful in illuminating my current predicament.” With his free hand, he stroked the cover of the brown one. “This one.” He shook his head. “You say I’ve been reading it?”

  “Yes, sir. Generally when you’re least yourself, sir.”

  Shackleford looked up at Roger. “Really?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Interesting. We have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, don’t we?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll need to leave in about two hours.”

  “Did you find a replacement for the Bentley?”

  “I have three suggestions, sir. All current models. All luxury sedans that will blend in with modern traffic, sir.”

  “Blending in is important?” Shackleford asked.

  “Unless you’re trying to be noticed, yes, sir.”

  “All that you’d be comfortable driving, Mulligan?”

  “Yes, sir. At least if something happened to any one of them, repairs would not require a specialist or parts that are no longer available.”

  Shackleford scraped the last of the soup out of his bowl and nodded. “I suppose we’ll need to test drive them?”

  “Do you have a budget in mind, sir?”

  Shackleford shook his head. “Petty cash. Anything under a quarter million. We can move the other cars into secure storage with the rest. They’ll make a good addition to the estate.” He paused. “You should find something you’re willing to drive yourself. I’ll buy it and tie it to the position. You shouldn’t have to pay for running my errands from your pocket.”

  “That’s not necessary, sir.”

  Shackleford shook his head. “It is, Mulligan. I’m going to need you to run more errands as Naomi ramps up her attempts to get me committed. I don’t want you relying on some ride-for-hire service or taxi.” He turned a dark eye on Roger. “You don’t know the influence she has.”

  “Her or her father?” Roger asked, leaping to the obvious conclusion.

  “Does it matter?” Shackleford asked, looking up with a frown.

  “No, sir. I suppose not.”

  “Now, we have an appointment this afternoon. What do you know about the physician?”

  “She came from Pettigrew’s book, sir.” Roger paused. “We spoke to her before.”

  Shackleford sighed and shook his head. “Sorry. That one’s my brain,” he said. “Littlefield, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Of course. Good doctor. Thank you, Mulligan. Remind me to get ready. I’ll need half an hour.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Carry on, Mulligan.”

  Roger left the library, his head spinning. How did rich people buy cars? It probably wasn’t by visiting the lots around town. Send the chauffeur? He sighed and headed for his quarters. He’d check with the Bible before he did anything rash.

  He looked up the Secured Storage Facility first. It seemed that Shackleford owned a couple of warehouses in the old port district, well away from the gentrified sections closer to town. He pulled up a map on his laptop and noted the locations. Some street-level photos showed old-style brick warehouses surrounded by fencing. One of the photos showed a loading ramp and another a rolling garage door. Secured Storage, check.

  He flipped to the table of contents again and looked up Purchasing. He’d seen that section before but hadn’t checked all the way down the list of things that might be purchased. Vehicles showed up near the bottom. He flipped to the page and discovered one Nehemiah Midgeley, purchasing agent, with a contact number. He took the Bible to the phone alcove and dialed the number.

  “Midgeley Autos. Randolf speaking. What can I sell you today?”

  “Good afternoon. May I speak to Nehemiah Midgeley?” Roger asked.

  “Nehemiah?” Randolf asked. “Who did you say was calling?” The voice got quiet and almost suspicious.

  “I’m Roger Mulligan. I work for Mr. Joseph Shackleford.”

  “One minute. I’ll get him.”

  The line went to music, a cheap midi jingle that repeated itself every fifteen seconds. Three cycles passed before the line picked up again.

  “Midgeley. Can I help you?”

  “Mr. Midgeley, I’m Roger Mulligan, Joseph Shackleford’s new butler.”

  “Can you confirm that?” Midgeley asked.

  “You have the number for Shackleford House, I presume?” Roger asked.

  “I do.”

  “If you could call me back, would that convince you?”

  Midgeley grunted. “Fair enough.”

  The line went dead and Roger hung up. Seconds later the phone rang and Roger picked up. “Shackleford House.”

  “Okay. I guess it’s you. How can I help you—Mulligan, was it?”


  “Yes, sir. Roger Mulligan. Mr. Shackleford is in need of two new cars. A modern-day replacement for one in his classic collection and a late-model compact for me to run errands in.”

  “What? You don’t want to use the MG?” Midgeley’s voice carried the hint of a smile, even over the phone line.

  “To be honest, Mr. Midgeley, I’d love to use it, but I’m afraid something would happen to it while I did. I couldn’t bear the thought.”

  Midgeley chuckled. “Yeah. I understand. They’re just cars, but it’s hard not to think of them as works of art.”

  “I’ve done some research into vehicles,” Roger said. “You are a purchasing agent for Shackleford House and I trust your judgment. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “You don’t know me. How can you trust me?”

  “Because it’s Shackleford House, Mr. Midgeley.”

  The line was quiet for a bit longer than Roger expected. “Parameters?” Midgeley asked.

  “Late model, not necessarily new, luxury sedan. A limousine that doesn’t look like a limousine, if you know what I mean.”

  “Something you can ferry Mr. Shackleford around in without feeling like you’re painting a target on your back?” Midgeley asked.

  “Precisely, sir.”

  “Fer instance?”

  “Mercedes, Audi, maybe a Lincoln?” Roger said. “I’m less concerned with damaging a late-model vehicle, even an expensive one, when I can get it repaired with off-the-shelf parts.”

  “Logical. You married to any of those brands?”

  “No, sir. Just preliminary research.”

  “Timeline?” Midgeley asked.

  “Within the next month, I should think.”

  Midgeley laughed. “I was thinking within the next week.”

  “That would be acceptable, sir. I wasn’t sure how soon you could find suitable vehicles.”

  “I could have them this afternoon, but I’ll look around just to see if there’s anything I’ve missed. Budget?”

  “It’s Shackleford House, sir.”

  Midgeley snorted. “Fair enough. What about the compact?”

  “I need something to run errands with. Nothing fancy.”

  “Van? Crossover?”

  “Anything we’d need a van or truck for, we’d hire out. I was thinking more like Fusion or Jetta. Something I can park,” Roger said.

  Midgeley snorted again. “Yeah. Dime a dozen there.” Midgeley paused. “Tell ya what. I’ll swing by tomorrow in the afternoon with the first runabout. See what you think. I’ve got an idea for the other but I need to see if it’s still available. I could bring that by next Monday.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Midgeley. That would be excellent.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Midgeley said and rang off.

  The storage facility listing had no information beyond the fact that it existed and the address. He made a note to ask Shackleford about the procedure for getting the vehicles moved and checked the time.

  “Get a move on,” he said and went to get the Bentley’s keys.

  * * *

  For all his concerns, the ride from Shackleford House to Littlefield and Gosling, MDs, turned into a nonevent. Roger soon adjusted to the floaty power steering and the overly long front end. At least he didn’t hit anything even if the ride felt like a crawl through the streets rather than the stately cruise he’d imagined. Nobody honked at them for their pokey progress; in fact, only a few people seemed to notice the vehicle at all, let alone stop and stare.

  Shackleford, for his part, rode in silence, gazing out at the passing scenery.

  The medical park looked like any of the modern campus facilities that sprang up in the periphery of the city. Two largish, three-story buildings of glass and brick marked the hub of the park while smaller, single-story duplex and singleton bungalows circled the outer edges among tree-shaded parking lots. Roger found the office without difficulty thanks to the GPS on his phone and parked the car in a “Patients Only” spot near the front.

  He secured the vehicle and went back to open the door for Shackleford.

  “Thank you, Mulligan. Accompany me, please?”

  “Of course, sir.” He fell into step, half a pace ahead of Shackleford and opened the doors as they passed.

  The airlock outer entrance opened to a comfortable-looking lobby in whites and pastels with a reception desk facing the door. The place smelled like new carpet and fresh paint. A receptionist smiled up from his terminal. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I assist you?”

  Roger stepped back to give Shackleford some privacy.

  “Shackleford. I have an appointment with Dr. Littlefield.”

  The receptionist tapped a few keys and nodded. “Of course, Mr. Shackleford. If you’d take a seat? We’ll be with you momentarily.” He held a hand palm up to indicate a waiting room to one side.

  Shackleford nodded and Roger led the way, finding only a single patient waiting—a middle-aged woman, maybe 40-something, dressed in a stylish navy business suit—thumbing through a glossy magazine. She looked up at Shackleford and nodded.

  Shackleford smiled and nodded back before lowering himself into the stiff chair.

  “Magazine, sir?” Roger asked, indicating the pile of reading material to the side.

  Shackleford shook his head.

  An inner door opened and a young woman in scrubs stepped into the waiting room, nodding to the woman. “The doctor will see you now.”

  The woman rose and sailed through the open door. The nurse smiled and nodded at Shackleford. “Be right back,” she said, and followed her.

  “Is there anything you’d like me to do, sir?”

  “Hold the fort, Mulligan. This shouldn’t take long.”

  Roger had his doubts but kept them to himself.

  As good as her word, the nurse returned within a couple of minutes. “Your turn, Mr. Shackleford,” she said.

  The old man rose and went through the door.

  Roger pulled out his phone and picked up the book he’d been reading about French cooking. The chapters on egg dishes seemed a little weird. Like adding cream to stop scrambled eggs from cooking? Heat-transfer issue, maybe. On the other hand, he got some interesting insights into souffles.

  After a relatively short time, the nurse returned and looked at Roger. “Mr. Mulligan? If you could come back, please?”

  A cold flash of foreboding zipped down his back but he stood and put his phone away, following her back to a conference room. A gray-haired woman in a white smock smiled as he entered and waved at the chair beside Shackleford before extending her hand across the table. “Mr. Mulligan. I’m Dr. Littlefield.”

  “Nice to meet you, Doctor.” He glanced at Shackleford.

  “I’ve asked her to fill you in, Mulligan. Your memory is better than mine.” He gave a slight shrug.

  “Of course, sir.” He took out his notebook and flipped to the next blank page. “How can I help, Doctor?”

  “Mr. Shackleford has some heart issues that we’ll need to look into further. It’s been some time since his last checkup.” She gave Shackleford a mildly reproving glance. “We’ve taken some blood work and will get the results back probably tomorrow. In the meantime, we need to keep an eye on his physical conditioning.”

  Roger made notes on the key points and looked up at that last. “More exercise?”

  “Specifically balance. He tells me he sits a lot.”

  Roger nodded. “I see. Do you have some recommendations?”

  “I do. Can I email them to you?”

  “Of course.” Roger gave her his email address.

  “And can you work with him to start getting these going?”

  Roger looked at Shackleford. “I can, if you’re willing, sir.”

  He nodded. “I thought I’d prefer that to bringing in a physical therapist or personal trainer, Mulligan. I know it’s not in your contract, but I’d prefer the devil I know.” He grinned.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I
understand you have some medical training, Mr. Mulligan,” the doctor said.

  “Army medic. Civilian EMT certified,” he said.

  She nodded. “The exercises are simple and low impact. Just watch for signs of over-exertion, shortness of breath, that kind of thing.”

  He nodded. “I know the signs.”

  “Do you have a defibrillator in the house?” she asked.

  Roger raised his eyebrows at that. “Not that I know of.”

  Shackleford shook his head. “Basic first aid only, I believe.”

  “Do I need one?” Roger asked.

  The doctor shrugged. “You’re certified on them, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Emergency use only.”

  She shrugged again. “If you need it, it’ll be an emergency. You can get an automated home unit for a reasonable amount these days.”

  Roger made a note. The idea that the old man might actually need one had him taking it more seriously than he might otherwise have.

  “Depending on the blood work, I may be sending some prescriptions to your preferred pharmacy. His blood pressure is a bit high, but I’m taking a wait-and-see stance on that. Do you have a cuff?”

  “I know where to get one,” Roger said.

  “If you could monitor his blood pressure. Before and after his exercise sessions, just to make sure we’re not putting too much stress on him?”

  “Should I get him a wearable monitor?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” she said.

  Shackleford harrumphed. “I’m old. I expected to be resting in my dotage.”

  Dr. Littlefield grinned at him. “We’d like you to continue that dotage for at least another decade. This could help and won’t hurt.”

  Shackleford smiled back at her. “That’s a bit of an intimidating thought.”

  She shrugged. “I’d suggest some kind of meditation. Even a few minutes a day of mindfulness exercise for your mental capacity. Perhaps taking up yoga or tai chi for balance when you get a bit stronger.”

  “At my age? It seems too late for that.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got centenarians who will probably see their 110th birthday.”

  Roger’s eyes widened.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” she said. “It’s more common than you think.” She looked back at Shackleford. “Many of them didn’t start until late in life. As long as you’re not stressing your body, giving it something to do will keep it healthier.”