The Butler Defective

by D R Lowrey

  “Nope.”

  That cop might as well have been talking to a clam. He and Abuelita had gotten on each other’s bad side in a hurry. No surprise, considering they were two people with four bad sides. If not for his badge, the detective likely would have been fending off projectiles.

  “Did you know the schedule for any maintenance or gardening work at the house?” asked the detective.

  “Nope. Hic. That’s the butler’s job.”

  “Your butler, as I understand, has just been hired. What can you tell me about this butler, Nigel Blandwater-Cummings?” said the detective, spewing the name syllable by depraved syllable as if announcing Batman’s newest arch-villain. Nigel’s name had problems enough without being dragged over smoking coals.

  “That butler’s the one you (hic) ought to have your eye on,” said Abuelita. “He’s a sneaky one. Hic. He was all over me from the first.”

  “Really?” said the detective. “What do you mean, ‘all over me’?”

  “Physical contact,” she said. “Inappropriate touching. Hic.”

  “Really?”

  Nigel shuffled toward a far corner of the room where he pretended to be cleaning. He felt the tingle of accusing eyes about his person, a sensation akin to being crawled upon by hairy spiders wearing tiny spurs. Had there been a manhole nearby, he would have dropped himself into it.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” said Abuelita. “The first time I met that English (hic) jackass, it wasn’t five minutes before he was slobbering all over my hand. If I hadn’t whomped him, he’d a been up my arm and onto…other (hic) things.”

  “My goodness,” said the detective.

  “The next time I saw him, even worse. He dropped down (hic) and stuck his head right in my…my regions.”

  “Your regions?”

  “Hic. You know, my private regions. The pelvic area…my hoo-haw, for God’s (hic) sake. You need a picture?”

  Nigel needed no picture, nor a reminder. He remembered the unfortunate accident in nightmarish detail and would have given an appendage for the ability to forget it.

  “I get the idea,” said the detective. “Were there corroborating witnesses?”

  “Hell (hic) yeah,” she croaked. “He did it in broad daylight for the whole damn world to (hic) see. He don’t care. That’s the kind of pervert he is. Hic. Mrs. Sandoval was there. She can tell you, if she was still (hic) conscious. I don’t know why he didn’t go for her. She’d probably (hic) enjoy it.”

  Nigel felt a slight relief as one or two of the eye spiders hopped onto Mrs. Sandoval.

  “Stefanie was there when he did his dirtiest work,” droned Abuelita. “Hic. She can tell you what happened. And the old butler, Gastrick. He saw it all.”

  “Anything more about this butler?”

  “Hell, yes, there’s (hic) more! He broke into the house in the middle of the night. If he hadn’t got (hic) himself stuck in the doggie door, he’d a got me. He told some ridiculous story about catching a dog thief. Hic. He weren’t after no dog thief. I saw the look in his eye. Urges is what I saw—raging (hic) urges. Nothing was going to stop him. Except, of course, that doggie door. Hic.”

  “If I may ask, with all of his bad behavior, why was he hired to be your butler?”

  “Talk to Mrs. Sandoval about that. Maybe (hic) she has the hots for him. But if that’s what she’s thinking, she can forget it. Hic. Once a sexhound like that gets a taste for the plum, he ain’t settlin’ for no prune. Hic.”

  Nigel refused to look toward the crowd, but he heard a gulp that would have been two ounces of bourbon finding its way into Mrs. Sandoval. He could have used such a fortifier. He felt himself drop into a familiar dream, where sat a younger version of himself, in class, stark naked, wondering how to leave without drawing attention. His teacher, the formidable Mrs. Ratcher, had been replaced by his wife, the formidable Annie. Trapped like a naked rat.

  “You’ve been most informative. Is there anything else you would like to tell me?” Nigel heard the detective ask.

  “One more thing (hic) about that butler,” said Abuelita.

  Nigel felt his bones going soft.

  “Yes?” said the detective.

  “Maybe he meant no disrespect, but (hic) I heard that butler call you a rubber-faced Barney buffoon of a detective.”

  “Oh, did he?”

  “I think it was him. Hic. There were a lot of people saying a lot of things, but I’ll bet it was him.”

  “Thank you for that,” said the detective. “I think that concludes this inquiry. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Hic. They took away my pistols,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I used to have pistols. They (hic) took ’em away just because I plugged the television a few times. Now I have nothing to defend myself (hic) with except for some knives, clubs, and chairs. What I need to protect my honor with is a gun. Hic. Could you lend me yours?”

  “I’m afraid that would violate department policy. Besides, I understand you’re getting married soon. I’m sure your husband can protect you.”

  “I’m not sure about him yet. I would (hic) prefer a gun of my own, at least for the first couple weeks. I’ve never married without a (hic) gun before. Are you sure you won’t let me borrow yours? Maybe you (hic) have a spare. Hic.”

  “I’m sorry, but no. Let me get the door for you.”

  There was no more conversation. Just the whirring of an electric wheelchair with the sounds of collisions and some masculine yelps.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Shocking Dinner Party

  Nigel slipped out unnoticed thanks to the distraction provided by a billiard ball ricocheting about the game room at high speed. Esmerelda declared the runaway ball, a six, evidence of a resident poltergeist. Had he stuck around, Nigel would have agreed wholeheartedly, the ball having leapt from his hand to pursue its free and independent course. Of course, he’d likely be blamed for it, but with a murder rap hanging over his head, disturbing the peace with a raucous billiard ball might not make the indictment.

  This whole murder accusation thing was less than ideal for a new butler, but he had at least gotten through day two. This evening he had arranged a sizable distraction for himself and Annie. At Stanley’s invitation, they would be dining at Cam Logan’s place.

  Nigel considered the visit more business than pleasure. He had roped Stanley into providing desserts for the wedding and playing the friend card might persuade him to ante up a little extra effort. He needed all the help he could get.

  As for Annie? She had no interest in seeing Stanley again, at all. She’d always said he was like a human barnacle attached to her mother’s hull, and once he’d scraped himself off, she was more than fine with never again setting eyes on the pudgy gastropod. But the chance to visit the house of Cam Logan—country singer, TV reality star, local legend—was a fish of a different color. Everyone knew she had a place out there, but almost no one had seen it. Nothing was visible from the road. Few locals had ever been invited. There were rumors of castles with dungeons, safari parks, cryogenics labs, and weapons of mass destruction, but in small towns, exaggerations were possible. Nigel and Annie were being afforded a rare opportunity to peek behind the rhinestone curtain.

  Through a remotely opened gate, down a two-lane road, through a mile of verdant woods, Nigel drove into a broad, manicured space of attractive outbuildings encircled by a white split-rail fence. The road eventually wound in front of an expansive home built in the Roman villa style.

  As Nigel and Annie got out of the car, a man exited the house. Judging by his dress and purposeful manner, Nigel recognized him as a fellow butler assigned to greet the guests.

  “Hello,” Nigel said to the approaching man. “We’re the Blandwater-Cummings.”

  “You are? Good for you,” said the man. He walked on past, climbed into a nearby pickup truck, and drove away.

  Nigel and Annie walked through a small courtyard, past a gurgling fountain, to the massive f
ront door.

  Stanley answered the bell dressed in expensive, brightly colored leisure clothes chosen for him by someone who didn’t seem to know who he was. “Come on in. How are you? Good to see you,” he said. “How have you been, Annie?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, taken aback by the friendliness.

  “And how is your mother? Doing well, I hope.” He had grown loquacious since leaving Annie’s mother. Such verboseness in his previous marriage would have earned him some form of humiliation.

  “She’s…recovering.”

  “Oh, dear. I hope you don’t mean recovering from my departure. You know, we didn’t have much of a marriage.”

  “No. I meant from the explosion of a hot water heater. She sustained some injuries—”

  “Oh, dear. Serious?” asked Stanley, concerned but with a hint of giddiness.

  “No. The injuries were mostly to her hair. But that’s pretty debilitating for a woman like her.”

  “Yes, it must be. A hot water heater explosion? I don’t understand that. Those things never blow up.”

  “She had a new one, just installed,” said Annie.

  “Really? Just installed? There’s not much to installing a hot water heater. The installer must have been an imbecile. I couldn’t make one explode with dynamite. She should sue.”

  “I believe it was a factory defect,” interjected Nigel. “How have you been, Stanley? You look different, younger.”

  “Thanks, Nigel. I feel younger. I’ve lost about ten pounds.”

  “It’d be eleven if not for that hair,” said Nigel, admiring his new crop.

  “Let’s make our way to the den,” said Stanley, motioning them forward. “Honestly, I feel shipshape, sleek, streamlined, like years of clingy barnacles had been scraped off my hull. I’ve been working out and eating right. Cam’s personal trainer and dietitian work wonders. You should try it sometime, Nigel.”

  “Right. Where would any of us be without our personal trainers and dietitians? Not in Cam Logan’s house, that’s for sure.”

  The trio walked down a muralled hall obviously intended to evoke the Mediterranean. Nigel wondered if Cam owned a Mediterranean villa modeled to evoke central Texas.

  “Ah, here’s Cam now,” said Stanley, turning and welcoming her with open arms. Cam walked past the arms and straight to the guests.

  Cam Logan looked every inch the star. Annie certainly noticed. Her eyes drizzled the country tart from the top of her luxurious hair to the tips of her manicured toes and then back up again. Size-ups of that intensity were normally reserved for those about to be slammed to the pavement and handcuffed. But in this case, Annie was likely noticing the immaculately polished toenails, the graceful lines of her slippers, the beautiful fabric of her flowing, designer maxi-dress, the vintage art deco necklace and earrings, and her velvet headband sprouting deep blue flowers, possibly sapphires, scattered across a field of silky, golden hair. She admired the art of such presentations even if she didn’t indulge herself.

  Nigel noticed that Cam Logan looked very well-preserved and maintained for a woman in her fifties. You could see a lot of craftsmanship had gone into her. And money, lots and lots of money. A year’s maintenance on that facial skin alone was probably worth a luxury automobile or two.

  “I am so glad to meet you,” said Annie.

  “Me too,” said Nigel. “My wife has told me so much about you.”

  “It’s always wonderful to meet my fans,” said Cam. No one had mentioned anything about fans but when you’re Cam Logan, you just assume. “You’re both friends of Stanley, I understand.”

  “More or less,” said Nigel.

  “Of course we are,” said Annie, driving an elbow into Nigel’s appendix. “We’ve known Stanley for years.”

  “Wonderful. You can tell me some of his secrets,” said Cam.

  “Nope. Afraid not,” said Nigel. “When you look at Stanley, you’re seeing all there is. They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but I say, why not, if the pages are blank.”

  Stanley smiled and nodded.

  The foursome made their way to the dining room, where they occupied the end of a table made for twelve. Wine was provided by a servant in white who appeared to hear but not speak.

  “Enjoy the wine,” said Cam.

  “What kind is it?” asked Nigel.

  “It is a Camignon Blanc,” said Cam.

  “I’m not so knowledgeable about wines. I confess I’ve not heard of that variety before,” said Nigel.

  “You wouldn’t have. It’s a hybrid grape developed by my oenologist. I have my own vineyard.”

  Nigel swirled the wine in his glass and held it up to the light before gently rolling it under his nose to capture the aroma. It was wine all right. “Here on the property?”

  “Goodness, no, not here. In Oregon.”

  “I see. That sounds convenient. No late-night trips to the liquor store for you,” said Nigel. “Under what label do you sell your wine?”

  “We don’t sell it. We drink it. I used to spend so much on wine, but now that I have my own vineyard, I don’t even think about the cost. And it’s so much fun. I go up there every fall for the grape harvest. It’s become a passion,” she said, grasping Nigel’s forearm. “I crush the grapes myself, the old-fashioned way.”

  “The old-fashioned way? What’s that?”

  “I stomp them to get the juice out.”

  “You stomp the grapes? Yourself?” said Nigel, holding his glass to the light. “You have special grape-stomping shoes, I suppose?”

  “Shoes? Goodness, no! That’s not how it’s done at all. When I first started the winery, I had a grape press. But when I told my Italian vintner—Dito, a wonderful man—that I wanted to press the grapes myself, he suggested the old-fashioned way of stomping the grapes with the bare feet of a woman. According to him, there’s no duplicating the flavor derived from the old stomping methods—something to do with the fungus.”

  “The fungus?” repeated Annie.

  “Don’t ask me to explain the science, but I do know it’s a lot of hard work.”

  “Is it?” asked Nigel.

  “You can’t just walk around on the grapes. That’s not enough. There’s a technique involved. It took me three seasons and a lot of personal coaching from Dito to get it right. Now he says I’m the best ever.”

  “The best grape-stomper?” said Nigel.

  “Yes, though stomping is not really the right term. To do it correctly, you must bounce, not stomp, and you rotate your body counterclockwise throughout the process.”

  “Counterclockwise?”

  “In the northern hemisphere. And Oregon,” said Cam, “is in the northern hemisphere.”

  “Sounds very technical,” said Nigel.

  “And messy,” said Annie. “Doesn’t the grape juice go everywhere?”

  “It’s done in a big plexiglass tub to contain all the juice. You don’t want to lose a drop after all that work.”

  “It must get all over your clothes.”

  “Clothes?” asked Cam.

  Annie looked at Nigel.

  Nigel looked at Stanley.

  Stanley grinned and held up a fresh glass of the foot wine.

  “You have some…eh…special outfit for bouncing on grapes?” asked Annie.

  “No. Just me,” said Cam. “Clothes are forbidden within the grape-stomping tub. It’s a law, or a rule or something. Dito explained that clothes harbor contaminates, so to maintain maximum purity, the grape-stomper—me—must be naked. Rest assured, no article of clothing has ever touched the wine you’re drinking.”

  “I find that reassuring. Is it reassuring to you, dear?” Nigel asked Annie.

  Annie was busy squinting into her wine glass, which she held over a candle.

  “I thought so,” said Nigel. “Bottoms up, everyone.”

  A delicious soup was served, followed by a course of stuffed quail, followed by some unidentified finger food. By the time the main course arrived, the
foot wine had taken effect and the conversation had turned more personal.

  “So, how did you two meet?” asked Cam.

  “She tackled me,” said Nigel. “She tackled me in a public park as I was jogging. Threw me down, pushed my face in the dirt, and we’ve been together ever since.”

  “How romantic. She saw what she wanted and went after it.”

  “She thought I’d been molesting young girls in a public restroom.”

  “And she wanted to reform you—adorable.”

  “Case of mistaken identity, actually,” said Nigel. “A couple minutes later, she tackled a different guy and shoved his face in the dirt. As far as I know, they never dated. You see, Annie was a police officer with the Houston Police Department.”

  “That explains the lack of makeup,” said Cam.

  Hoping to avoid a dangerous situation, Nigel spoke up. “The story of how you and Stanley met must be far more interesting.”

  “Should I tell them, Stanley?” asked Cam.

  Stanley smiled and did not nod.

  “I was working on my distillery—”

  “Excuse me,” interrupted Nigel. “Your distillery?”

  “Yes, my distillery. It’s a pet project, a kind of hobby. I want to produce my own bourbon. Of course, it’s a long-term thing. I mean, even when the distillery is operational, it’ll be twelve years before my first batch of whiskey. Maybe eleven, if I get impatient. Anyway, I was in need of a veteran pipe fitter to inspect a few of my couplings.”

  “You do your own pipe fitting?” asked Nigel.

  “I love pipe fitting. Some people like knitting, some like fishing—I like pipe fitting. And I’m very particular about my pipe fitting. I wouldn’t trust just anyone. Get the wrong person for a job like that and the whole place could blow up. So, I looked on Angie’s List, and guess who shows up?”

  “Horatio Pipe Fitter?”

  “Stanley, the perfect man for the job. He inspected my couplings, gave me some welding advice, and demonstrated his special soldering techniques. Before you knew it, we were talking stop valves, reducers, and bulkhead fittings over a bowl of caramel popcorn. I’ll spare you the gory details, but once the wine came out and the discussion veered into ball valves, orifice flanges, and female threaded Y-fittings, I was a ball of plumber’s putty in his hands. He’s been here ever since. I believe I can say he’s never been happier. Isn’t that right, dear?”