The Butler Defective

by D R Lowrey

  From his first moments as a butler dispensing with a stray cadaver, to the latest task of threading that late gentleman’s legs into a pair of borrowed trousers, any sense of a soothing routine had, thus far, escaped Nigel’s grasp. Old Winpole had preached how the unforeseen, the unexpected, and the unfavorable were to be taken in stride by the competent head servant. The consummate butler, in trying times, must be unflappable. Nigel, admittedly, was flapped. How could he not be? In addition to the hijinks involving Mr. No-Name Corpse, he’d franticly coordinated a wobbly wedding, planned a last-minute funeral, installed a pair of exploding water heaters, survived an electric eel attack, detonated a gas pipeline with accompanying inferno, found and lost a misplaced husband, welcomed a murderous fiancé, and, last but not least, become a murder suspect. In outline form, maybe it didn’t sound so bad, but it kept him up at night. That, and all the pssssssting at his bedroom door.

  Week two will be better, he told himself.

  But he could not rest on his laurels. A corpse, no matter how nattily dressed, needs a hole to be planted in. The tiny backhoe, even after being blown several feet into the air, still functioned. Functioned, as in could still dig a hole while rattling like souvenir kidney stones in an empty beer can.

  A great ditch required commemoration of some sort, especially if there’s a body in it. Time did not allow for the purchase of a proper gravestone, so Nigel turned to the maintenance shed that was chock full of artifacts from the estate’s old golf course days. He waded through the dusty clutter of signs, flags, poles, and fencing—items disappointingly but not surprisingly lacking the best qualities for commemorating the dead. Venturing deeper into the darkest recesses, he spotted something more to his liking—a brass sundial mounted in a cement pedestal. Though nonstandard, this grave marker would serve as poignant reminder, especially when viewed at night, that for the dead, time was not a thing. How better to add a touch of class to a garden being repurposed as a depository for wayward corpses?

  Nigel wiped away a layer of dust and grime from the weathered face to uncover a motto encircling the dial. It read, “Always Time for Golf!” A wonderful sentiment had the deceased been a golfer. Nigel decided that he must have been.

  ****

  “What’s up?” said a female voice, coinciding with a poke in the ribs.

  Nigel experienced one of those jarring moments when, instead of finding oneself tied to a concrete slab amid leaping flames being gigged with a pitchfork, one finds oneself sprawled on a loveseat in a mansion accompanied by the wife.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said an alarmed Nigel, seeing Annie prepped for another poke. “I was having a lie-down after dressing a dead man and digging his grave. How’s your day been?”

  “Not good,” answered Annie. “Looked all over for Mr. Sandoval. No luck. Mrs. Sandoval is frantic. Stefanie and Esmerelda aren’t much better.”

  “Any clues?”

  “Just his backpack and a tray of half-eaten Chinese dinner down by the creek.”

  “He was kidnapped while eating?”

  “I imagine he ate as much as he could stomach. It was the broccoli beef. He probably just moved on, but to where, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t think someone picked him up?”

  “My theory is that he went out wandering. Think about it. The man lives like a hobo for twenty years. He comes home to a family he hardly remembers. Everything is different. He’s a stranger in a strange house. Having seen what’s here for him, he might need some self-time to think things over.”

  “Like he’s a lone wolf.”

  “You know, when my family used to get together for Thanksgiving—I mean, the whole family with aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents, the whole shebang—after about six hours, people would start to disappear. They’d take walks, drift off to quiet rooms, hide in closets, whatever. You get my drift?”

  “You mean your mother.”

  “What?”

  That “What?” had an edgy, switchblade quality to it. Nigel felt his spine constricting. “She would take walks, your mother, would she?”

  “No. I meant that people get overstimulated in busy social settings. This may be why Mr. Sandoval has gone away. For him, leaving the house for a night, or a week, or a month is no big deal. Maybe he’ll come back, or maybe he’s decided he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life here.”

  “So, you don’t think he’s been abducted?”

  “Who would do that? And why? I suspect he’s wandering around out there. You saw him before the wedding? What was his state of mind?”

  “Whatever his state of mind was, it was likely to change because he carried with him a bottle of state-of-mind changer. He was going to wait out the wedding. He said he didn’t mind his ex-wife getting married, but he didn’t want to see it.”

  “I suppose that’s reasonable,” said Annie. “Tell me, what do you suppose went on between Mr. Sandoval and Mrs. Sandoval the other night after they left your room?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Man-and-wife stuff?”

  “You think? Mr. Sandoval is advanced in years and seems pretty frail.”

  “He may be a wreck of a man, but a wreck of a man is still a man. And Mrs. Sandoval is still a woman.”

  “What do you mean by that?” said Annie, sharpening her tongue.

  “She is, isn’t she? At least, she still acts like one.”

  “What do you mean by that?” said Annie.

  Nigel realized he’d struck some kind of nerve. Silly place for a nerve, but he’d pull back the drill nevertheless. “I just mean the old gal hasn’t given it up yet. Still polishes the hooves and coifs the mane. You know, the feminine habits that any thoroughly disinterested person might notice. Why this interest in their love life?”

  “The state of their relationship might give insight into why Mr. Sandoval would leave or stay. Put yourself in his place. Would settling down with the old wife be a sunny day at the beach, or a slow roast in hell?”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “And what does Mrs. Sandoval know about that map on his back? She must have heard us talk about it in your room. Did she know about it before?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “I believe the tattoo was obtained in Brazil,” said Nigel, enjoying the rare opportunity to know something his wife didn’t.

  “Why Brazil?”

  “The tattoo has a kind of treasure emblem on it with the inscription, tesouro. I looked it up. It means ‘treasure’ in Portuguese. I suppose Mr. Sandoval could have gotten it in Portugal, but since we know he just wandered back from Brazil, let’s assume he got it there. Therefore, Mrs. Sandoval wouldn’t have known about it.”

  “This inscription, are you sure it’s not moles?”

  “Ah, now that you mention it, could be. Portuguese moles.”

  “Right,” said Annie. “Supposing Mrs. Sandoval had never seen it, could she still know its secret? Does she know what Mr. Sandoval might be hiding?”

  “If she does,” said Nigel, “she knows more than Mr. Sandoval does. He has no idea what the map means.”

  Nigel rested his weary gray matter while Annie’s tireless cogs continued to gyrate.

  “Changing topics,” she said, “did you see that detective today?”

  “Yes, he came by, as gristly as ever, I’d say. If I’m to believe him, he’ll have a warrant for my arrest tomorrow.”

  “I told you to forget about that. Did you tell him about Mr. Sandoval?”

  “Mr. Sandoval?”

  “Yes, about Mr. Sandoval being a missing person. Mrs. Sandoval said you were to call the detective.”

  “Ah, I don’t recall that I happened to mention anything about Mr. Sandoval.”

  “Wait,” said Annie.

  Why did Nigel, upon hearing the word ‘wait,’ suddenly want to run away? He had known that word for a long time and was pretty clear on the definition, yet when Annie said it the way she did, waiting was n
ot what came to mind

  “Let me get this straight,” continued Annie. “You, the last known contact for Mr. Sandoval, talked to a detective but neglected to mention that he was missing? You, who are also the prime suspect for a murder. Tell me you didn’t do that.”

  “I didn’t do that.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “The murder, I mean. The other thing I did.”

  “How could you do that?”

  “Sorry,” said Nigel. “One can hardly be expected to think of mislaid people while being fitted for the electric chair. I mean, I’d have gabbed about the vanishing Sandoval until I was blue in the face if that detective hadn’t insisted on taking orders for my last meal. I got distracted.”

  “Nigel, Nigel, Nigel, you are now not only the prime suspect in a murder case, but also the primary person of interest in a missing person case. Until one of these cases is resolved, you are, as the police say, in deep shit.”

  “You told me not to worry about the murder case. You’re changing your mind?”

  “No, but when they’ve filed you as a murder suspect, you don’t want to hand them addendums. You should be on your best behavior.”

  “Really? I probably shouldn’t have kicked him then.”

  “You kicked the detective?”

  “Just a little bit, in the shin. He’ll survive.”

  “Nigel, Nigel, Nigel.”

  This saying of Nigel three times followed by a disgusted look was some kind of evil spell, probably conferred from her mother. Wherever it came from, it worked. Nigel’s bottom heated up just as if he’d taken smacks from his mum.

  “You said you dressed the body. Where is it?”

  “In the casket, last I saw. Why?”

  “I want to take a look.” Annie didn’t wait for permission. In an instant she was up and striding for the casket with Nigel in her wake.

  “Before you look, I need to warn you. I don’t want you to be shocked by what you see—”

  “Nigel, I’ve seen dead bodies in all kinds of conditions. Nothing here is going to shock me.”

  “I know, but I just want to let you know beforehand. The body—”

  Annie popped the hood.

  “Nigel, you didn’t,” she said upon seeing the body. “First the wedding and now the funeral?”

  “I kind of wanted to bury the memory.”

  “You should have put the cake in there as well.”

  “It’s not so bad, really,” said Nigel. “The green pinstripes give him a little color. Goes with his complexion.”

  Annie let out a snort. “You even used the tie with the socks on it.”

  “Goes with the suit.”

  “A red rubber nose would go with that suit.”

  “Gastrick didn’t have any for some reason.”

  “Okay,” said Annie, stepping away from the casket. “Now I have to compose myself.”

  “That’s funny,” said Nigel. “You’re composing while he’s decomposing.”

  “Maybe you should wear the red nose.” She stepped back up to the casket, reached her hand around the corpse’s neck, and wrenched his head to the side.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Nigel.

  “This. The point of impact.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Nigel. “In my opinion, the impact was made by a non-smooth article, something with texture.”

  “That is a very astute observation,” said Annie, poking the area at the back of the head.

  “I also believe he was not killed with a ball-peen hammer. A blow by a ball-peen hammer would have rendered his skull into a jigsaw puzzle.”

  “A jigsaw puzzle?”

  “You know, pieces.”

  “Those are intelligent observations,” said Annie. “Who gave them to you?”

  “Orloff. Orloff and Breadbox.”

  “Orloff and Breadbox? Is that a comedy team?”

  “Orloff, the mortician’s assistant, and Breadbox, the eulogist.”

  “You’ve been talking to the experts?”

  “Do you concur with their expert opinion, doctor?”

  “I find myself in general agreement with Orloff and Breadbox. A ball-peen hammer makes no sense at all. Whatever hit him struck with speed, not weight. A heavy object, like a ball-peen hammer, carries a crushing power behind it. That’s not evident here. This was done by a lighter object at high velocity. This man did not die from a crushing blow, but from a hematoma—a secondary effect from a blow to the head, probably from a projectile.”

  “Brilliant, Dr. Annie. You should form a company—Annie, Orloff, and Breadbox: Forensic Analysts.”

  “Unfortunately, none of this tells us who did it.”

  “No, but eliminating a ball-peen hammer as the weapon of choice means they can hold off fitting me for an electric skullcap.”

  “They don’t use electricity anymore,” said Annie. “Too cruel.”

  “Someone needs to tell that to the eels.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Butler or Not, Here We Bury

  The flowers arrived at ten. Breadbox, the officiant, arrived at eleven-thirty. The tequila hour arrived at noon. Nigel had not arrived at all.

  These events, arriving as they had without a butler to deal with them, left Mrs. Sandoval less than jolly. The wedding had been a rather rocky affair, which was no surprise considering the collection of livewires at the heart of it. This funeral, by contrast, where nothing much depended on the outcome, should have been a relaxed, pleasant occasion. But an increasing gall built within Mrs. Sandoval at being put in such a somber, dour mood.

  Where is that damn butler? Mrs. Sandoval asked herself as she sat tequila-less in her office.

  “I haven’t seen the damn butler,” said a husky voice that seemed to materialize from within her ears.

  The startled Mrs. Sandoval reared back on her chair expecting to see a ghost. She saw one. The veiled dragon lady had materialized at her office door.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day for a funeral,” said the shrouded, sunglassed head. “Perhaps your damned butler has met with a dreadful accident. Wouldn’t that be just awful?”

  “It certainly would,” said the shaken Mrs. Sandoval. “He’s in charge of the funeral.”

  “Whoever put that man in charge should be buried along with the body.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Mrs. Sandoval.

  “Hmmmm,” said the dragon spirit before disappearing.

  Nigel had been right. The lady rankled when she spoke. Mrs. Sandoval scarcely had time to blow the tension out her nostrils before Breadbox knocked on her office door.

  “Yo, sorry to interrupt lady, but it’s near to one o’clock. I gotta be out by two, so we need to get this t’ing started if it’s all right wid you.”

  “Very well. The butler is supposed to be in charge, but he’s disappeared. I suppose I can round up the mourners, and we can get this over with.”

  “May I have a word wi’t you about the deceased? Let me be da foist to say, I am truly sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

  “That’s nice of you, but don’t waste your breath. I’m just throwing the funeral.”

  “Very generous of you, ma’am. Did you know da dead guy well?”

  “Nope. Not at all.”

  “Can you tell me anyt’ing about him?”

  “Nope. Don’t know anything about him.”

  “I understand he died by a ball-peen hammer to the head. Is that correct?”

  “Could be.”

  “A most unfoitunate accident.”

  “Accident? If it was an accident, I’d say not only unfortunate, but unprecedented. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll corral the mourners. Give me ten minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am. If you’s to be so kind, where will the funeral take place?”

  “We’ll just gather around the casket. It’ll be a stand-up funeral.”

  Breadbox looked concerned. “A stand-up funeral? You mean, I need jokes?”

  “I mean the mourner
s will be standing.”

  “Dat’s a relief. I’m short of material as it is.”

  “We’ll have a brief ceremony beside the casket, and then we’ll move it outside to the gravesite. Can you double as a pallbearer?”

  “For ten extra, sure. One more t’ing, Miss.”

  “Yes?

  “I saw some broad, looked like a mummy with sunglasses. Is she gonna be at da funeral?”

  “I suppose. Why?”

  “She scary, that’s all. I’ll have to keep my eye off her when giving da oology, or I be gettin’ da shakes.”

  Breadbox drifted off, presumably to prepare an information-free eulogy, while Mrs. Sandoval headed upstairs to roust the inmates. Having corralled the herd and driven it downstairs, she disappeared. In a fit of propriety, she had taken the time to lock the liquor cabinet, but not before a couple of lightening rounds with Jose Cuervo. A refreshed Mrs. Sandoval reappeared to the awaiting mob of the usual suspects—Stefanie and husband, Abuelita, Grumps, Esmerelda, Mr. Sandoval, and Annie with mummy. Only Nigel and Jack Watt, presumably on one of his walks, were missing.

  Mrs. Sandoval waddled up to the casket and opened the lid. “Begin,” she declared to Breadbox, who was standing alongside.

  “Don’t he look peaceful? That is one sharp suit. It does my heart good to see a man meet his maker in some fine threads and an unbroken face.”

  Mrs. Sandoval turned to the crowd. “I’m happy to announce that officiating today’s funeral, we have Breadbox.”

  Before Breadbox had spoken a word, the doorbell rang.

  Mrs. Sandoval opened the door hoping to see Nigel ready to assume his role as funeral manager, a role she’d happily hand over as soon as she’d lopped off one of his appendages. She was disappointed.

  “Oh, it’s you, Detective. What’s the news?” asked Mrs. Sandoval.

  “The news?” asked the detective, standing in front of two uniformed officers.

  “About Mr. Sandoval?”

  “What about Mr. Sandoval?”