The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  Roger took the document and bowed. “Of course, sir. It’ll be a few minutes.”

  He dropped the contract off on his desk on the way to the kitchen and set about putting the coffee tray together. The routine effort gave him something to do to assimilate the adrenaline spike he’d received by finding Shackleford sitting naked on the cold tiles of his bathroom. He took a few cleansing breaths while the coffeepot surged and hissed on the counter. How many episodes had he missed? There was the time he found the old man shirtless, and this one, but how many more? As the coffee huffed to the end of its cycle he took some solace in the idea that nothing serious had befallen the old guy yet.

  He’d still make it a point to check on him at least once an hour when the women left.

  * * *

  Julia Rexwood called as Roger finished setting the table for dinner. He took the handset to Shackleford in the library and waited.

  “Can they compel that?” he asked once the pleasantries had finished. He frowned and shook his head. “I see. It would have been nice to have some kind of notification.” He glanced to Roger, and then arched a brow.

  “They can’t have gotten access to my records,” Shackleford said into the phone. “How did they convince a judge to accept the petition? Don’t they need some kind of justification?” He frowned and nodded for a few moments. “I see. So this is a preliminary hearing? Should I get a copy of my own doctor’s report?” He nodded. “Of course. I’ll have them send it to you.” He nodded a few more times. “Anything else?” He nodded again. “Very well. Thank you, Julia.” He handed the phone back to Roger. “Thank you, Mulligan.”

  “Well?” Fidelia asked.

  “Preliminary hearing to see if there’s cause to hold a full guardianship hearing,” Shackleford said. “We’re allowed to bring witnesses and submit documentation from our own physicians.” He looked at Roger. “I’d like you to be there to speak on my behalf, if you would, Mulligan.”

  “I’d be happy to, sir.” He paused. “I won’t be able to lie, sir.”

  Shackleford grinned. “I wouldn’t expect you to. Just tell them the precise answer to the questions they ask and you should be fine.”

  Fidelia raised her eyebrows. “Is that wise, Joseph?”

  “I know my niece. Once they get Mulligan sworn in they’ll ask him about my wheelchair and the episodes she’s supposedly observed herself.” He looked at Roger and lowered his voice. “Tell the court, Mr. Mulligan. Have you observed the interactions between Mr. Shackleford and Mrs. Patching?”

  “Yes, sir,” Roger said.

  “How would you characterize those interactions, Mr. Mulligan?” Shackleford asked, keeping the lower voice going.

  Roger smiled. “It was a rather convincing act, sir.”

  “You mean to say he was pretending, Mr. Mulligan?”

  “Yes, sir. Right down to the wheelchair, which he only used when Mrs. Patching was in the house.”

  Shackleford smiled and nodded. “Easy. If they ask you anything beyond that, just answer with the truth, Mulligan.”

  Barbara pursed her lips and frowned. “They’re not going to let off that easily.”

  “They have the burden of proof, my dear,” Fidelia said. “But I agree. I’d expect some questions that will require a little more tap-dancing.”

  “No tap-dancing,” Shackleford said. “Simple answers. Yes or no as much as possible. Julia will go over it with us before the hearing.”

  The front doorbell rang, interrupting the conversation.

  “Speak of the devil,” Shackleford said. “That’s Naomi now. Probably coming to make sure I’m properly flustered.” He nodded at Roger. “Show her in, Mulligan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Roger went to the door and opened it to find Naomi and Ted waiting on the stoop. “Mr. and Mrs. Patching,” he said. “Mr. Shackleford is expecting you. Come in.”

  Ted blinked and his face blanked for a moment but Naomi smiled and led the way in.

  “I just bet he was,” she said.

  Roger ushered them up the stairs to the library. “Mr. and Mrs. Patching, sir.” He stepped out of the door frame to allow them to enter.

  Naomi stopped short just inside the room and Ted nearly bumped into her. “You’re still here?” she said, glaring at Barbara.

  “Where else would I be?” Barbara asked.

  “Your home?” Naomi asked, taking two steps into the room.

  Fidelia stood and offered a hand to Naomi. “We haven’t been formally introduced, have we? I’m Fidelia Necket. You must be the niece who’s dragging him into court in a couple of weeks. Naomi, is it?” She smiled.

  Naomi scowled and walked past Fidelia to crouch beside Shackleford’s wheelchair. “How are you feeling, Uncle?”

  He smiled in her general direction. “Naomi, what a surprise. And you brought Michael for a visit.” He leaned over toward her. “Getting serious are you?”

  Naomi smiled and patted the old man’s forearm. “This is Ted, Uncle. My husband now.”

  Shackleford looked up, frowning at Ted and then back at Naomi. “Ted? What happened to Michael? He was such a nice boy.”

  Naomi sighed, a deep from-the-chest dramatic performance of a sigh. “We just didn’t work out, Uncle.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Shackleford said. “What brings you to visit an old man this morning?”

  “We were in the neighborhood and just wanted to stop by to see if there was anything you needed.”

  Shackleford shook his head. “How considerate, but I’m fine. Perkins here takes good care of me, and my niece has come to stay for a few months.”

  “Uncle, I’m your niece.”

  He blinked. “Really?” He peered into her face and then looked at Barbara. “She’s also my niece, isn’t she? Barbara?”

  “No, Joseph, I’m just your cousin, several times removed,” Barbara said, settling back on her easy chair with the tiniest of smiles on her lips and ice in her eyes.

  Naomi shot a couple of daggers from her eyes at her before turning back to Shackleford. “Well, I’ll leave you to your guests, Uncle. We just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “Very considerate,” he said, smiling into space somewhere over her left shoulder.

  Naomi stood, smoothing down her skirt before turning to Barbara. “You’re not fooling anyone,” she said, the final word grinding out between her molars.

  Barbara smiled. “Don’t bet on that, Mrs. Patching.”

  Naomi sniffed and turned to Fidelia. “Another gold-digger?”

  Fidelia snickered and shot a glance at Ted before looking back at her. “Are you the pot or the kettle?”

  Naomi blinked a couple of times before looking at Ted. “Come on, Ted. I think it’s time we left.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Fidelia said.

  “Won’t you stay for dinner?” Shackleford asked. “Perkins can set the table for two more. Mrs. Morrisey always cooks enough for an army.”

  Naomi glanced back at him. “Mrs. Morrisey would never forgive us for barging in at the dinner hour, Uncle. Another time.” She gathered Ted with a look and swept from the room.

  “I’ll be right back, sir,” Roger said, following them out.

  “Is he always like that?” Ted asked as Roger caught up with them halfway down the stairs.

  “Only when Mrs. Patching is here, sir.”

  “Really?” Naomi asked, stopping at the foot of the stairs. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t.”

  “Come, Ted,” she said. “We got what we came for.”

  Roger beat her to the door only because she stopped halfway to let him catch up, a smirk dimpling her cheeks. “A few more months, Mulligan. Make it that long and you’ll be a very wealthy man.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’m looking forward to collecting my bonus.”

  The self-satisfied smirk broadened on her face. “I just bet you are.” She strode out of the house without a backward glanc
e, Ted in attendance two steps behind.

  Roger closed and bolted the door before returning to the library.

  Shackleford sat in his straight chair with a grin plastered on his face. Fidelia smiled, but Barbara looked slightly dazed.

  “Would somebody tell me what just happened?” Barbara asked.

  “Unless I miss my guess, that was Naomi setting Ted up as a corroborating witness,” Fidelia said.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn she had a recorder in her bag,” Shackleford said.

  “She did,” Barbara said.

  Fidelia’s eyes widened and she looked at Barbara. “Really?”

  Barbara nodded. “Top of mind. The gloating was like treacle.”

  “All right then. She just violated state law by recording without consent. Anything she tries to introduce as evidence will be disallowed and opens her to a state felony.”

  “You sound like a lawyer,” Barbara said.

  “I have a juris doctor from Brown. Never practiced, but it’s been useful.”

  Barbara blinked. “You have a law degree but you’re not a lawyer? Why?”

  Fidelia gave a little laugh and patted Barbara’s hand. “Bless you, child. Even if I had been a lawyer I’d have retired a decade ago.” She shrugged. “I had other interests and the money to pursue them. I really only went to law school to satisfy my parents. Fascinating field, jurisprudence. Too many people confuse justice with fairness—or with right and wrong.”

  “Isn’t it?” Barbara asked.

  Fidelia grimaced and shook her head. “Not exactly. Finding justice is establishing equitability under the law. The finding might not be actually fair to one or more parties, but it’s declared so by the law.”

  “How is that fair?” Barbara asked.

  “Sometimes it’s not, but fairness is weighed on the scales of justice and the laws are heavily weighted by men.” She shrugged. “That’s why so many women have trouble with the law.”

  Shackleford laughed. “Sorry. It’s too true to be funny but the phrasing caught me.”

  “Dinner will be ready shortly, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan. I’m looking forward to whatever you’ve cooked up tonight. I’ve been smelling something delicious all afternoon.”

  “Roasted chicken, sir. I hope you like it.”

  Chapter 19

  Fidelia, Barbara, and Roger made the trip to Badgers, Limited, on Wednesday. The receptionist took them up to the fifth floor, where the Badgers greeted them. “Sorry to drag you down here again, but we thought you might like the full report,” Horace said. “In short, it’s good news.” He waved them into their seats and turned on a monitor on the table.

  “We started with some basic assumptions about travel and income. It’s not too surprising that the richer you are, the more you travel, but only up to a point,” Hecuba said.

  “After a certain income level, people come to you,” Horace said. “Which isn’t to say the highest income people don’t travel. As nearly as we can tell, anyway. There are so few really rich that it’s almost impossible to get a good sample.” The screen showed the number of people at a particular income level. “The good news is that with over a million people earning half a million or more, we believe there might be a reasonable market for your themed bed and breakfast idea. The royal treatment, as it were.”

  “There’s bad news in here somewhere,” Barbara said.

  Hecuba grimaced, but nodded. “Yes. The price point per night. There are suites around the world that top out above twenty thousand a night, but they’re in prestige locations. Generally in landmark buildings or in special locations like the Hotel Wilson in Geneva or the Burj Al Arab in Dubai. At two thousand a night, you’re asking as much as the royal class suites in the luxury hotels. There aren’t that many in town, which might be a good thing under normal circumstances,” she said. “In this case, those rooms are going empty at least half the time.”

  “Business people who come to the city regularly often have condos or town houses as tax deductions. They’ll have places where they’re known, or they take rooms on the upscale, more secure floors with concierge service. If you’re earning half a mil a year, the chances are good that you know how to control expenses, especially business expenses.” Horace advanced the slide. “Richer people travel more than people who don’t make as much, but where a household earning under a hundred thousand might travel once a year on vacation and three times a year on business that’s paid by their employer, the upper tier—we cut off at half a million a year—travel only slightly more and mostly on business. When they take vacations they travel farther and stay longer, but the majority of those people aren’t traveling more than ten times a year and their stays are three to five days.”

  “So, there might be a market,” Fidelia said. “But we have a problem in that we need to reach out to the people who aren’t traveling strictly for business. We probably can’t attract the vacation traveler. It’s not like this is a destination city.”

  “There’s about a twenty percent chance that you could fill ten rooms at two thousand a night at least half the time,” Hecuba said. The screen flipped to the new graphic. “That’s the same as if you charged a thousand a night, but the actual projected income takes it down to two hundred.”

  “Which is about half the going rate for some of the best hotel rooms in town,” Horace said.

  Roger felt his brain glazing over with the numbers and probabilities.

  The slide changed again. “At a thousand a night, you get thirty percent,” Hecuba said. “Again, that’s only filling the rooms half the time.”

  “I think we have your point,” Fidelia said. “Few hotels book more than seventy per cent of their rooms and those are predominantly the cheap seats.”

  The Badgers exchanged a glance then both nodded. “About right, yes.”

  “What’s the price point for us to fill seventy percent of the rooms at least eighty percent of the time?” she asked.

  “Probably around five hundred a night,” Horace said. “We didn’t run a lot of numbers, but the best case we found was in that range between four and five hundred.”

  “So if we went to five hundred and ran at sixty percent occupancy, that’s only three thousand a day,” Barbara said.

  “Yes,” Hecuba said. “Break even estimates say you’ll need to keep average daily expenses—fixed and variable—under that.”

  Barbara and Fidelia shared a look. Fidelia shrugged. Barbara looked at Roger. “Thoughts?” she asked. “I’m apparently as boggled as you are.”

  “We’d need more than just the décor and ambiance,” he said. “We’d need a draw beyond the Downton Abbey crowd.”

  Hecuba smiled. “If you can find that, you’ll be well on the road.”

  Fidelia nodded and stood. “Thanks. You’ve given us the shape of the problem. We’ll have to think about what you’ve found out.”

  “We’ll email the full report to Shackleford House,” Horace said.

  They shook hands all around and left the building. Once ensconced in the car, Barbara sighed.

  “What are you thinking?” Fidelia asked her.

  “I’m thinking this may not be the right path and I don’t have any idea what a better one might be.”

  “You don’t need to turn a profit,” Fidelia said. “Just breaking even would reduce the costs of the house considerably.”

  Barbara frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You have any idea what the property taxes are on that place?”

  “A thousand a day, in round numbers.” Roger said, glancing back in the rearview mirror. “I pay the bills.”

  Barbara gave a little cough.

  “We don’t use much electricity or water. They’re more variable. Just the main house is about what you’d expect, but if we open up the wings and have more people turning on lights and flushing toilets, that’s going to add up, but I’d be surprised if it went up to a grand a day.”

  Fidelia sat back in
her seat and gazed out the window. “So, in theory, that might work.”

  “What about the cost of staff?” Barbara asked. “I don’t want to be running a sweatshop.”

  “Figure two hundred a day per head, so five people is a thousand a day,” Fidelia said. “You’d have to pay the butler and cook more, but the footmen and maids could still earn a decent wage. They’re basically your bellhops and housekeeping.”

  “Would the pixies approve?” Roger asked, making the turn into the alley behind the house.

  Fidelia pursed her lips and shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll need to check with Joseph.”

  “What’s the issue with the pixies?” Barbara asked.

  “They live in the house,” Roger said, easing the car up to the back door. “They handle most of the routine maintenance like dusting and polishing the floors. According to Mr. Shackleford, they also apparently play pranks on people they don’t like.”

  “This is all new to me,” Barbara said. “Delia?”

  Fidelia shook her head. “They’re basic sprites. We’ve given them the name ‘pixie,’ but they’re helpful entities who live with talented people. The bigger the place, the more room there is for them. Shackleford House probably has a lot of them just because it’s huge by modern standards and it’s been around a very long time.”

  “I never noticed any in my place,” Barbara said.

  “You might not have had enough of them to be noticeable. I suspect you have at least a few, but until you get enough of them, their efforts are lost in the noise of day-to-day activity.” She looked out at the house as Roger pulled to a stop. “This place probably has thousands of them. I suspect it’s attracted every pixie in a hundred-mile radius.”

  Roger got out and held the doors for Barbara and Fidelia. “I’ll just put the car away and join you in the library. Mr. Shackleford will be interested in what we’ve learned. I’ll bring up a pot of tea.”

  * * *

  By the time Roger got the tea brewed and into the library, the two women had filled Shackleford in on the findings.