The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  The Badgers looked at each other and nodded in unison. “Is there anything else?” Hecuba asked.

  “Not that I can think of,” Barbara said.

  “Me, either,” Fidelia said.

  Hecuba looked at Roger. “Mr. Mulligan? You’ve been pretty quiet over there.”

  “We considered several options including boarding schools, but I really think a bed and breakfast is our best choice. Capitalization isn’t an issue. We can charge what we need to in order to cover the expenses of the additional staff but we don’t know if that high-end market of bed and breakfast is viable at ten to twelve rooms at something over a thousand a night.”

  “A lot would depend on the costs. How much remodeling would you have to eat?” Hecuba asked.

  Roger ran the floor plan of the east wing through his mind. “It might be substantial,” he said. “Depends on what we do with the rooms that are already there. The east wing may need to be gutted and redone from the walls in.” That thought made him pause and look at Barbara.

  She returned the concerned gaze.

  “That’s got you thinking, at least,” Hecuba said with a smile. “That’s good.”

  Fidelia looked back and forth between Roger and Barbara but didn’t offer any additional comments.

  Barbara took the meeting back to focus. “All of it depends on what the likely market is. That’s what we need next.”

  Horace nodded. “I agree. Can any of you sign a contract for Shackleford?”

  “I can take it to him for signature and return it today, sir,” Roger said.

  “I can,” Fidelia said. She shrugged. “Durable power of attorney. He’s got one for me as well. Long-standing, actually.”

  Horace nodded. “Let me get a contract and we can start today.” He went over to a desk on the far side of the building.

  “This is a big space for what you use,” Fidelia said.

  Hecuba smiled. “I love it. It echoes a lot, but when it’s just us up here, we play music and it’s like a concert hall. Sometimes we dance.” She looked down with a shy smile before looking out the window. “View’s not bad either.”

  “You own the whole building?” Barbara asked.

  “We do. The basement is filled with our computers. First floor is rented office space. I’ve got one open if you’re looking?” Hecuba raised an eyebrow.

  Barbara grinned. “Not just yet, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Second and third are offices for our research teams. Fourth floor is our apartment.”

  “You live here?” Fidelia said.

  “Really short commute time,” Horace said, coming back with a single-page contract. “We got a zoning variance from the city to include our residence. It was cheaper than having to support another building.” He slid the contract over to Fidelia. “Standard terms. We’ve done a lot of work for Shackleford over the years.”

  Fidelia scanned the contract and pulled a pen out of thin air to sign it. She turned the page around to the Badgers’ side of the table.

  Horace stared at her for a long moment.

  “I told you. He knows,” Fidelia said.

  Horace looked at Roger who shrugged. “I work for Mr. Shackleford, sir. It’s been an interesting few months.”

  Horace snorted a short laugh and took Fidelia’s offered pen to scrawl his signature on the line. He handed her back the pen and picked up the paper, sliding it between thumb and forefinger. He pulled a second copy off the back of the first and handed the top copy to her. “We’ll have a preliminary report in a couple of days.”

  “Can you email it to us?” Barbara asked, giving her address.

  “Copy to me, too?” Roger asked, giving his.

  “You have email now?” Hecuba asked.

  Roger smiled. “We have internet at the house now, yes.”

  She smiled. “That will make things easier.”

  “What’s your timeline on this project?” Horace asked.

  “I’ve got five more days to come up with a plan for what to do with Shackleford House,” Barbara said. “I could run a little long; but my goal is to have something within a week.”

  “Thought about tours?” Hecuba asked.

  “Parking is an issue,” Barbara said. “As Roger noted before, ten or twelve cars is our limit.”

  “Artist’s residence?” Horace asked. “Long-term retreats. Writers, artists?”

  “Could we generate enough revenue to cover the real-estate taxes?” Barbara asked. “They’re called ‘starving artists’ for a reason.”

  “Not all who wander are lost and not all artists starve,” Horace said. “But I take your point.”

  “Wizard school?” Hecuba asked.

  “Thought of that, too,” Barbara said. “I have no idea how to make that work. I’m self-taught—how would we identify students and how would they pay for it?”

  Hecuba looked at Fidelia. “You know a lot of rich wizards with kids.”

  “Not that many. It comes back to how do you teach talent? Talented parents handle it for their kids. Sport talents have no parents to guide them.”

  “My mother has a thread of talent. I can see it in her now, but she can’t see it in me,” Barbara said.

  “Now?” Hecuba asked.

  “Growing up, I couldn’t. I started developing in my teens, but I was probably twenty-five before I saw it in her.”

  “Something to think about,” Horace said. “Is there anything else?”

  “I’m good,” Barbara said.

  Fidelia stood. “We’ve taken enough of your time. We should let you get on with the project. Thank you, both.”

  “Our pleasure,” Hecuba said, heading toward the elevator.

  “How did you get involved with Shackleford House, Barbara?” Horace asked.

  “I’m related to Mr. Shackleford. He tracked me down and hired me to come work with him for a week.”

  “Hired you?” Hecuba said.

  “Yes. Consultant on the future of Shackleford House.”

  “She’s the only talented Shackleford he’s been able to find,” Fidelia said, reaching out to give Barbara a sideways hug. “With any luck, he’ll be able to keep the place out of his niece’s property-grubbing paws.”

  “Naomi?” Hecuba asked.

  “That’s the one.”

  The two Badgers shared a look.

  “She’s bad news, that one,” Horace said.

  “How well we know,” Fidelia said.

  They arrived at the elevator as the doors opened, the young man from the entry smiling at them. “Going down?”

  After another round of handshakes and a ride in the elevator, they emerged into the parking lot in the shaded canyon between buildings.

  “Two days?” Barbara asked.

  “They’re good at what they do. I suspect they’ll do a quick documentation search and see if there’s any foundation to build on. With their talents and connections that won’t take long,” Fidelia said. “If they have to go out and sample, that’ll take longer and be more expensive.”

  Roger held the car door for them. “What if they say it’s not viable, ma’am?”

  Barbara slid in first and Fidelia followed. “Then we reassess our goals,” she said. “One thing we haven’t considered is why we’re doing it.”

  Roger closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. “Besides Mr. Shackleford’s wish?” he asked, starting the car and getting them moving toward the street.

  “Yes. Does he have a goal? Is it busy work to give Barbara something to do?” She reached over and patted Barbara’s hand where it lay on the seat. “You’re delightful, my dear, but would you have come to stay for a week if he hadn’t hired you?”

  “To be fair, he hired me to come stay at the house for a week and see if I liked it,” she said. “It sounded skeevy to me but I’m making as much this week as I would in a year as a psychic.”

  Fidelia pulled back a little and turned sideways in her seat. “A psychic?”

  “That
’s my talent,” Barbara said. “I can read minds. At least in people without talent. I have a few other minor talents, but I figured out that I could make money as Madame Dionysia, Spiritualist. It was better than working retail.”

  “What’s your background?”

  “Grew up in a small town in Rhode Island. That’s where Mr. Shackleford found me. Got good grades, studied business management at URI. With what I’m earning this week, I’ll be able to sink my student loans, finally.”

  “Did you have your talent while you were in school?” Fidelia asked, a wry smile on her lips.

  “Did I cheat on exams?” Barbara asked with a small chuckle. “Unfortunately, it never worked that way.” She shook her head. “I did my own work.”

  “Meet any other talented people?” Fidelia asked. “I’d have thought a population of that size might have at least a few.”

  “I suspect they do. It’s a big school. I kept my head down and my mouth shut for the most part. If they weren’t in my classes or living in my dorm, I wouldn’t have even seen them.” Barbara sighed. “Being a psychic isn’t the best talent to have in a hormone- and alcohol-laced soup. At the time, I didn’t have nearly the level of control that I’ve developed since I graduated.”

  “Are all talented people single?” Roger asked, looking at them in the rearview mirror.

  Fidelia snorted. “No. I was married for a time. Joseph was, too.”

  “I’ve had some relationships,” Barbara said. “It was easy to tell when they soured.”

  Roger pulled the car into the drive behind the house and parked near the back door. He opened the doors for Barbara and Fidelia but when he unlocked the back door, both women paled.

  “Oh, dear,” Fidelia said.

  “What’s that sound? Sounds like a smoke alarm?” Barbara asked.

  Roger shook his head. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Pixies,” Fidelia said, bolting into the house. “With me, Mulligan.”

  The three of them raced into the foyer and stopped. Both Barbara and Fidelia kept turning their heads this way and that.

  “I can’t tell where it’s coming from,” Barbara said.

  “I can’t either.” Fidelia’s eyes narrowed until they nearly closed.

  “Mr. Shackleford?” Mulligan shouted. He shook his head and mounted the stairs two at a time, making a bee-line for the library. He made a quick circuit around the room, checking behind the furniture and under the tables, before bolting to the master suite. He found the old man propped against the wall and sitting on the bathroom floor, naked except for the chain and pendant around his neck. He stared into space, eyes open, his hands palm up on his skinny thighs. “Sir?” He heard the footsteps behind him and stepped into the door frame to block them. “He’s in here. Give me a moment.”

  Fidelia stopped, sliding a little bit on the polished floor. “Is he okay?”

  Roger looked over his shoulder. “No blood. No broken bones. Let me get a robe on him.” He stepped back into the bath and closed the door behind him. “Sir?” He pulled the old man’s robe from its hook behind the door and held it open. “Mr. Shackleford?”

  The old man didn’t move.

  Roger draped the warm robe over him backward, like a blanket. He pressed his fingertips against Shackleford’s throat, finding the pulse to be strong and regular. He flashed a hand in front of the old man’s face and his eyes blinked. He crouched down in front of him. “Mr. Shackleford? Can you hear me?”

  Shackleford’s brow furrowed and his eyes started blinking—regular pulses that were too long to be autonomous. Blink. Blink. Blink. After a half dozen or more blinks, his eyes closed, the wrinkles around them deepening. After a few moments, the old man drew in a long, shuddering breath and his eyes popped open. “Perkins. No. Mulligan. You’re back.”

  “Are you, sir? Back I mean?”

  His head wobbled on his neck, something between a tiny nod and a tiny shake. “I’m about halfway in each. It’s ... odd. Like a dream.” He looked around, just his eyes at first and then his head started turning. “I’m on the floor?”

  “Yes, sir. Naked under the robe.”

  Shackleford glanced down and to the side. “That explains why my butt’s complaining.” He looked up. “Is it safe for me to get up?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Do you feel dizzy? Light-headed? Weak?”

  Shackleford shook his head. “Not that I can tell.”

  “Let’s see if we can get you off the floor and put that robe on properly.”

  Roger got under Shackleford’s arm and pulled him to his feet, catching the robe as it fell off to wrap it around him correctly and cinch the tie around his waist. Shackleford seemed steady enough on his own to take the step to the john and sit on the closed lid.

  “How are you doing, sir?”

  Shackleford shrugged. “Whatever it was, it’s receding quickly. Where are Barbara and Delia?”

  “I suspect they’re panicking on the other side of that door, sir.”

  He swallowed. “I’m fine,” he said, raising his voice to a near shout.

  “Okay,” Fidelia’s voice sounded strained, and right against the wood. “We’ll wait in the library.”

  Roger heard their footsteps recede as he watched Shackleford regain his normal composure. As normal as it could be sitting on the can in the bathroom, anyway. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “Where are my clothes?” he asked looking around the bathroom.

  “Where do you usually get undressed, sir? I assume you were either in or about to get into the shower.”

  “Not getting out?” Shackleford asked, still scanning the room.

  “No water on the floor. Your hair and beard aren’t wet, sir.”

  Shackleford reached up to touch his beard then nodded. “Good thinking.”

  “Doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see the obvious, sir.”

  Shackleford offered one of his small chuckles. “You’d be surprised, Mulligan.”

  “Was it the amulet, sir?”

  Shackleford nodded. “Yes, I’m relatively certain. I’m also relatively certain that it’s a problem.” He looked up into Roger’s face. “It’s getting worse. I’ve never had an episode like this before.”

  “That you know of, sir,” Roger said.

  “Eh? What?” Shackleford asked.

  “Well, I only knew you were in trouble because both Barbara and Fidelia heard something. Something loud. I couldn’t hear it.”

  Shackleford frowned, his tongue flickering over his bottom lip. “Pixies?”

  “Or the fairies. Or both,” Roger said with a shrug. “Fidelia heard something the other day when we found you in the atrium, sir.”

  “So, your hypothesis is that I may have had other episodes like this—even when you were here—but you didn’t hear the alarm?”

  “Yes, sir. You could have come out of this on your own and I’d have never known. We have no way of knowing how many times or how often it’s happened over the last five months.”

  Shackleford nodded, his brow furrowing. “Distressing thought, Mulligan. Quite distressing.”

  “It’s happened twice in two days, sir. It could be a fluke.”

  Shackleford shook his head. “I don’t think so, Mulligan. I’m afraid it’s not. We go hours between speaking.”

  “I’m hesitant to impose on your time, sir. I have my duties to keep me busy.”

  “Yes, Mulligan, but it may be time to make those duties include a periodic check-in to make sure I’m still—well—me.”

  “As long as the two ladies are in the house, I should have plenty of warning.” Roger smiled at him. “Now, do you need help dressing?”

  Shackleford shook his head, seeming quite himself again. “I think I can manage, Mulligan. If you’d see to our guests, I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Roger left him sitting on the john and went through to the library.

  Barbara and Fidelia looked up as he entered.

  “How is he?”
Barbara asked.

  “Mr. Shackleford seems to have recovered. He’s dressing and will be along shortly.”

  “You didn’t hear the noise?” Fidelia asked.

  “No, ma’am. I assume you heard some magically generated sound that I’m deaf to. The same as the other day in the atrium.”

  She frowned and worried her lower lip with her teeth. “That’s a problem.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I just discussed that with Mr. Shackleford.”

  “What’s a problem?” Barbara asked.

  “Actually, it’s twofold,” Fidelia said. “One, we don’t know how many of these episodes he’s had. Mulligan has been here for months but can’t hear either the pixies or the fairies. We don’t know how many times he’s had an episode like this.”

  “Are they dangerous?” Barbara asked.

  Fidelia shook her head. “Not as such, no.”

  “The difficulty is that I don’t know how long they last or how frequently they may be happening. Mulligan and I cross paths rarely over the course of the day,” Shackleford said from the door. He nodded to Mulligan on his way to his normal chair, lowering himself and relaxing into it with a quiet sigh.

  “What’s the other problem?” Barbara asked.

  “If they’re more frequent than we know, it raises the possibility that it might happen while he’s in court,” Fidelia said.

  Shackleford frowned. “That reminds me. We haven’t heard from Julia Rexwood, have we?”

  “Not to my knowledge, sir,” Roger said. “Let me check the messages.” He went to the upstairs parlor to check but found none recorded. When he got back to the library, Shackleford had the Badger contract in his hand and was scanning down through it.

  “This was well done,” he said. “Your work, Delia?”

  “Hers,” Fidelia said, nodding at Barbara.

  Shackleford beamed at the younger woman. “Well done, indeed.”

  “Might I get refreshment, sir?” Roger asked.

  Shackleford looked over at Fidelia and Barbara. “Tea? Coffee?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to either,” Fidelia said.

  “Coffee?” Barbara asked. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble, Miss Barbara,” Roger said.

  Shackleford nodded and handed the contract to Roger. “Coffee it is, then, and would you file this, please, Mulligan.”