The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  “Do you mind if I borrow this?” she asked. “The green one, too?”

  Shackleford shrugged. “Neither one has done me any good. You may as well give them a look.” He pulled the green-covered work from the side table and handed it across. He smiled at Roger. “You’ll have to guess if I’m not holding a book,” he said.

  “I’ll cope, sir.” Roger considered the issue for a few moments. He could usually tell if the old man wasn’t there as soon as he opened his mouth. “Did you have a butler before Perkins, sir?”

  “No, Mulligan. Parsons was my father’s valet, but I hired Perkins when I first set up house.”

  “Was it that God-awful pile you had in Arizona?” Fidelia asked.

  Shackleford nodded. “One of the first purchases I made after ...” He patted his chest. “After finding this.”

  “I remember it,” Fidelia said. “I had no idea what possessed you—” She cut herself off and swallowed.

  Shackleford snorted. “Precisely,” he said. “It turned out to be a good decision, that house.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Wasn’t it demolished or something?”

  “It was. A land developer bought the property for a new shopping mall. I made a killing on it.”

  She blinked. “Really?”

  “You saw the shape it was in,” Shackleford said.

  “Yes, that’s why I couldn’t understand why you bought it and why you actually lived there. You could have lived anywhere.”

  He shook his head. “Only if my father had coughed up the money. That was my first big deal. By the time I closed on it, I’d sunk nearly every penny I had to my own name into it.”

  “But you hired Perkins?”

  He nodded. “Appearances. We lived frugally on my allowance. We were both much younger men.”

  “Why did you sell the seaside place on the Cape?” she asked. “Was that one of your investments?”

  “You know that place is gone now, right?”

  Her eyes widened. “No, really?”

  “One of the Atlantic storms. Took out the whole bluff it was on.” He shrugged. “I had the opportunity to buy a property in Connecticut and took it. Sold that place and rolled the money over. Two years later it sank into the sea.” He sipped, smiling at her over the rim of his cup. “I still have the Connecticut house, if you’re looking for a place to live.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I’m happy in my condo. No staff to worry about. No grounds to keep. Frees me up to travel.” She paused. “Is it empty?”

  He shook his head. “Rented. I gave it to a management company to handle. Amazing how much people are willing to pay for a lease on a mansion.” He shook his head. “It turns over about every three years as they come to understand that the reason they couldn’t afford to buy one is the same reason they can’t really afford the lease.”

  “Oh?” she asked. “What’s that?”

  “Not enough income,” he said. “Lease siphons it off too fast so what looked like a good deal soon becomes an unrelenting burden.” He sighed. “Money makes people stupid. They think that if they get a pile scraped together it’ll grow on its own—and it can—but then they start to spend it.”

  “Ah, cash flow,” she said.

  Shackleford nodded and looked at Roger. “So, Perkins was the only other butler. If I call you Perkins, it’s as likely habit as dementia.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “We’re going to have to clue Ms. Griffin in,” Fidelia said.

  Shackleford sighed but nodded. “At least she’s talented. It won’t seem like insane ranting.”

  The front doorbell rang.

  “Speaking of whom,” Roger said. “Excuse me, sir.” He went down to open the door and help Barbara with her bags.

  She stood on the stoop with a single large suitcase and a broad grin. She turned and waved to her mother in the car at the curb. When the car drove off, she turned back to him. “Well, Mulligan. Ready to get to work?”

  “I am, Miss. Mr. Shackleford and Ms. Necket are in the library.” He reached down and plucked the suitcase off the landing. “This way, Miss.”

  She stepped into the house and he closed and bolted the door.

  “We’ve delayed deciding anything until you returned,” Roger said.

  “Appreciated, Mulligan. Thank you.” She glanced at him. “It feels odd calling you by your last name. Does it bother you?”

  He grinned. “That’s all I’ve been called for much of my adult life, Miss. First the army and then as an EMT. It’s not that much different.” He looked down at his suit. “The uniform fits better.”

  “It feels so stuffy,” she said.

  He put her bag beside Fidelia’s in the closet and nodded. “I’ll confess I was a bit put off by it at first.” He shrugged and opened his palm toward the stairs. “This way, miss.”

  “At least call me Barbara,” she said. “You don’t work for me.”

  “You’re a guest of the house, miss.” He started up the stairs and she fell into step.

  “Barbara,” she said.

  “Very well, Miss Barbara.”

  She laughed, the sound echoing around the foyer.

  He showed her into the library. “Ms. Griffin, sir. Should I begin dinner?”

  Shackleford nodded. “Set it up in the small dining room, if you would, Mulligan?”

  “Of course, sir.” He looked at the two women. “Any dietary preferences I should take into account?”

  “None for me,” Barbara said. “I’m not a fan of boiled beets, but almost anything else.”

  Fidelia smiled. “Whatever you prepare will be fine, Mulligan.”

  “Very well. Thank you, all.” He started back out and Fidelia patted the chair beside her.

  “Come. Sit, Barbara. We have to talk.”

  Shackleford took a chair across from them.

  Roger had time to see Barbara frown, glancing between them as she lowered herself into the chair.

  * * *

  Using some of his new skills, Roger prepared chicken marsala with rice and steamed green beans. The cellar contained a nice selection of wines and his reference materials suggested a red. He shook his head at the suggestion but as the chicken developed, he realized that a white wouldn’t do. He opened a bottle of Collioure to let it breathe. Being a beer guy, he’d never heard of it before but he trusted the references.

  While dinner cooked, he set the table, leaning heavily on the diagrams in his butler handbook to make sure he had the right number of forks and spoons in the right places. Given the length of time he’d been at Shackleford House, it felt good to try out some of the skills he had only read about.

  The buildings on either side of the mansion blocked the late afternoon sun, so he adjusted the drapes and checked the lighting in the room.

  As dinner hour grew nearer, he surveyed his handiwork and smiled to himself. “If they could see me now ...”

  He returned to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on a green salad and push a frozen apple pie into the oven. It seemed a little like cheating, but he hadn’t had a chance to try his pastry skills. Besides, the old man had them on standing order so he must at least expect to get one now and again.

  A few minutes before the hour, he started a fresh pot of coffee and put on water for tea. He wasn’t sure who’d drink which but felt compelled to offer both. He ached to know how it was going in the library but managed to stay busy with his duties. It wasn’t unlike waiting for the brass to finish planning a patrol. At least people wouldn’t be shooting at him in Shackleford House.

  He hoped.

  At the hour, he went up the stairs, knocked on the library door, and entered. “Dinner is served, sir.”

  The three of them sat with their heads together over the low table among the chairs. They all looked up. Roger felt a wash of relief run through him when Barbara smiled over her shoulder. He’d been concerned that she’d abandon them once she learned of Shackleford’s problem.

  “Thank
you, Mulligan. It smells delicious,” Shackleford said. “We’ll be right down.”

  “Very good, sir.” Roger went down and settled the salads around the table, placing a serving boat of fresh balsamic vinaigrette near the head.

  Shackleford led the way into the dining room with Fidelia and Barbara walking behind, arm in arm. The image of some period piece movie flashed in Roger’s mind, although Shackleford wasn’t “dressed for dinner” and both women wore pants instead of gowns. The picture made him smile as he held the chair for Fidelia. Shackleford seated Barbara before taking his own chair at the head of the table.

  Roger poured water for them. “Would anyone care for coffee? Tea? Wine?”

  Shackleford looked at the table and then at his two dining companions. “I’m fine. Ladies?”

  “Water’s good for me,” Fidelia said.

  Barbara nodded. “Thank you, Mulligan. This is fine.”

  Roger stepped back, replacing the pitcher on a tray on the sideboard.

  Fidelia asked, “So, where do you think we should work? How do you want to handle this project?” She helped herself to vinaigrette and handed the dressing boat across the table to Barbara.

  “We need to break it down,” she said. “Plan for a plan.” She drizzled some dressing on her salad and passed the boat to Shackleford.

  “I like the sound of that,” he said. “I think I said it before. Use whatever you need from the house. If there’s something we don’t have, we’ll get it.”

  “That’s a pretty large blank check, Joseph.” Fidelia speared a forkful of greens.

  He grinned at her. “I’m not worried.”

  “I think the first step is to brainstorm what kinds of things we might do,” Barbara said.

  “Like what?” Fidelia asked.

  Barbara paused, a cherry tomato halfway to her mouth. “Well, we have a lot of bedrooms. A bed and breakfast? A foster home, going back to the house’s original purpose? It was a boarding school for a time, wasn’t it?”

  Shackleford nodded. “Long time ago.”

  “Replace the chalkboards with white boards and those classrooms would look—well, not like new with those antique wooden desks—but still modern enough.”

  “What would we teach? And to whom?” Fidelia asked.

  “Just brainstorm now. We can refine later,” Barbara said. “What do you think, Delia?”

  “The ballroom is set up as a conference center. We could rent that out for business meetings. Small conferences,” she said.

  “I think they had that in mind when they set it up back in the 60s,” Shackleford said.

  “Do we know how many bedrooms there are?” Barbara asked.

  “At least a dozen plus the servants’ quarters upstairs and the butler’s and cook’s quarters,” Shackleford said.

  While they worked through their salads, Roger went to the kitchen and plated the main course, returning to the dining room with it on a lovely tray, each plate covered with a gleaming silver dome. He replaced the used salad plates with chicken and rice, getting appreciative smiles from Shackleford and Fidelia. After he served up water and wine, he took the dirty dishes back to the kitchen.

  The meal progressed smoothly, Roger only half following the conversation as he made sure everyone had food and beverage. The brainstorming continued through dessert. Nobody complained about the store-bought pie; they seemed too engrossed in the planning.

  As he poured the coffee, Shackleford looked up at him. “What do you think, Mulligan?”

  “I think part of the plan might be to see what kind of need the city has,” he said. “That would help focus the conversation.”

  “What kind of need?” Shackleford asked.

  “Yes, sir. Are there hundreds of small conference centers going begging? Or are there professional organizations that don’t have regular meeting spaces?”

  “Oh, we didn’t have that one on the list, did we?” Fidelia asked.

  Barbara shook her head.

  “We’d need to look into any licensing that might be required if we bring in guests,” he said. “A bed and breakfast would need staff.”

  Barbara nodded. ‘Yes. It would take some research into each of these ideas, but knowing what the city needs?” She nodded again. “Makes sense.”

  “Also scale,” Fidelia said. “It’s a lot of bedrooms for a residence. If we pick boarding school, how do we select students?”

  “Can we even do that? What’s this zoned for?”

  “Residential, at the moment,” Shackleford said.

  “That’s probably grandfathered in, though, isn’t it?” Fidelia asked. “You’re surrounded by multifamily buildings.”

  “Condominiums, to be precise,” Shackleford said. “That’s what Naomi wants this place to be.”

  “That can’t happen,” Barbara said.

  Both Shackleford and Fidelia turned wide eyes on her.

  She sat back in her chair and swallowed. “Can it?”

  Shackleford smiled. “I sincerely hope not. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Can we stop her?” Fidelia asked. “You know she’s going to fight any will in probate.”

  “If I didn’t think we could, I wouldn’t be taking the steps I’m taking.” He shrugged. “Anything is possible. Depends on whose palms get greased and how solidly we plan our defenses.” He looked at Barbara. “You’d be the one in the hot seat.”

  Barbara shook her head. “I am far from an expert on rich people’s problems.”

  Shackleford laughed and Fidelia hid a smile behind her coffee cup.

  “Sorry, that might not have sounded right,” Barbara said.

  “No, no. Well and succinctly put,” Shackleford said. “Here’s what you have. Very deep pockets, which buy you the best expertise in the country. Need advice on bed and breakfast? Easy. Conference planning? Hire an expert for it.”

  “That’s not going to work,” Barbara said.

  Shackleford raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”

  “Parking,” she said. “Unless you rent a parking garage somewhere and bus them in. The condo associations will complain.”

  “I thought you didn’t know rich people’s problems,” he said.

  She shrugged. “We’re still brainstorming but it’s pretty clear that a lot of this ignores the current regulatory environment.”

  “What kind of red tape did you have to deal with?” Shackleford asked.

  “Not much at my place. Smaller town. Multi-use zoning including residential, retail, and even light industrial.” She shrugged. “I needed to register with the state but it wasn’t particularly onerous. Here? Who runs the city? Mayor and a city council? Zoning board. Building inspectors.” She shook her head. “I’m guessing your niece will send all of them after us.”

  Shackleford grimaced and spun his coffee cup in its saucer. “True.”

  “So what do we do?” Fidelia asked.

  Barbara’s shoulders slumped a little and she leaned back in her chair. “Sleep on it?”

  “It’s a little early for bed, but we should probably figure out where we’ll be sleeping,” Fidelia said, grinning at Roger. “Suggestions, Mulligan?”

  “The guest rooms in the west wing, ma’am. It would take only a few minutes to set them up for you, make the beds. Stock the bathrooms,” he said.

  Barbara looked back over her shoulder at him. “We’ve added to your workload.”

  “Nothing to concern yourself over, Miss Barbara.”

  Shackleford’s eyebrows twitched at the use of her name and Fidelia smiled. “Do you have a preference, my dear?” she asked, looking at Barbara.

  “Long as there’s a bed and a bathroom nearby.” She shrugged. “I’m not that fussy.”

  Shackleford caught Roger’s eye. “If you’d make up the rooms on either side of the bath, Mulligan? It’s not that far down the hall.”

  Roger nodded. “Of course, sir.”

  Chapter 17

  Morning brought unexpected visitors to the front do
or—a bulky guy in an off-the-rack suit, backed up by a woman in a gray uniform with a “County Sheriff” patch on the shoulder.

  “May I help you?” Roger asked.

  “Are you Roger Mulligan, butler to Mr. Joseph Perry Shackleford of this address?” He paused to look up at the bronze numbers above the door.

  “I am.”

  “I have a letter for Mr. Shackleford. Will you accept it?” He held up a business-sized white envelope.

  “You have a summons for Mr. Shackleford?” He glanced at the sheriff’s deputy.

  “Yes,” the man said.

  “Mr. Shackleford is up. If you’d care to serve him directly, I can take you to him.”

  The man nodded. “The deputy is my witness.”

  Roger nodded. “I understand.” He stood back from the doorway and held the door for them to enter, closing it behind them. “This way. Mr. Shackleford is at breakfast.” Roger led them back through to the small dining room. “May I say who’s calling, sir?”

  The man glanced at him. “Who? Me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He sniffed and shrugged. “William Quimby.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Roger entered the dining room, interrupting the conversation. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir. Mr. William Quimby and a deputy county sheriff to see you, sir.” He stepped out of the way and Quimby entered, followed by the officer.

  Shackleford rose and came around the table holding out his hand. “I’m Shackleford. Hand it over. Do you need me to sign for it?”

  Quimby slapped the envelope into the old man’s hand and nodded at the deputy. “She’s my witness. Have a good day.”

  “Show them out, Mulligan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Roger ushered them out and made sure to lock the door behind them before returning to the dining room.

  Shackleford looked up at him. “Some more coffee, please, Mulligan.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He looked down at the document in his hand. “Next time, just accept the summons in my name, Mulligan. As butler you’re an authorized agent for normal business.” He waved the summons. “This is going to be normal business from now on, I expect.”

  “I will, sir.”