The Butler Defective
Page 32
Stanley went back to his bakery, not only to bake but to live. He could not go back to Cam’s estate. It had been sold and swept clean of anything soft for him to lay on. Stanley’s growing notoriety as an artisanal dessert chef dipped for a while as his imaginative baked goods took on darker tones. Blackened heart cookies and red velvet mausoleum cakes proved not as popular as his earlier, more playful creations. In addition, he swore off women for good.
Women did not complain.
Stefanie and her husband, Stefanie’s Husband, went about their business as usual. No one knew what that was, but it was greatly appreciated because it kept the pestilential windbag away for long stretches at a time. Everyone relaxed, especially Stefanie.
A reward was offered for information on Cam Logan’s whereabouts, and Esmerelda tried to win it by means of mental telepathy. After many failed attempts owing to “contaminating crosstalk,” she constructed an isolating lead box to be worn as a helmet. The heavy contraption proved unwieldy and claustrophobic but did cure a case of hiccups. Essie eventually gave up her telepathy endeavors to craft a line of spiritually infused, lead-lined planter boxes.
The stresses of that eventful week had unnerved Mrs. Sandoval to the extent that she resumed asking for tequila before noon. Nigel was diligent not to facilitate such a habit, but was instructed to serve a midmorning alcoholic eggnog from Thanksgiving until New Year’s. This tradition, he learned, was unbreakable. As a matter of fact, his eggnog was such a hit that Mrs. Sandoval suggested augmenting the tradition to include the days from New Year’s to Thanksgiving. Nigel managed to head off the proposal with a visit from New Antigua’s premier cardiologist. A great relief to him since daily eggnog production was fairly energy zapping.
Of all the residents at the estate, the grandest transformation by far was seen in Grumps. Having been so enamored with gore-spattered vengeance, he had over time lost touch with life’s simple pleasures. Once his all-abiding thirst for bloody retribution had been exposed as an inconvenient indulgence, he emerged from his self-imposed hate-filled cocoon into a fresh, expansive rainbow-colored world of new possibilities. Of course, being ninety-five-years old was somewhat limiting, but perhaps less than in the revenge game. This reformed hermit began taking walks—many walks, several per day, outside, in the sun, in the rain, and sometimes, in the dark. Upon his return, he would comment, whether or not anyone was listening, on how bright was the sun, or how wet was the rain, or how grassy-smelling smelled the grass. He was quick with a compliment and only rarely mentioned murdering someone. The other members of the Sandoval estate, who previously had regarded Grumps as something along the lines of an ugly piece of furniture no one would buy, came to regard the kindly old gentleman as more like a friendly stray cat they had no qualms about feeding.
Grumps was sometimes accompanied on his walks by Mr. Sandoval, who would relate episodes from his twenty years of aimless strolls across the Americas. Grumps, in turn, would relate episodes from his fifty years of sitting in a room day after day. The two had lived scarily parallel lives. Both had experienced a rebirth. In Mr. Sandoval’s case, a spiritual evolution had formed through his two-decade sojourn. In Grump’s case, a momentary insight had revealed that a practical joke had caused him to throw his life away. And, of course, there was that unbreakable bond known only to the small fraternity of brothers with skulls caved in by fish.
So, what became of the off-target murderess, Cam Logan? Who knows?
After nabbing the boots, the signed team portrait, and a few kabobs, she vanished. How she got away or to where, no one knows. She had already sold off most of her properties to pay her debts and needed the treasure, one would speculate, for a smooth landing into the fugitive life. Unless she’s hanging out at the Honey Pot, she’s still on the run.
On the run, but likely not alone. Undoubtedly, there are people who know things. There must be. A rich person, if they’re to maintain a certain lifestyle, can’t vanish without help. And anyone who knew Cam Logan knew she would not be giving up her lifestyle. Even if she was no longer Cam Logan, the star, she was still somebody, and that somebody required a small army of financial managers, fitness trainers, mental health gurus, plastic surgeons, domestic workers, dietitians, and a handful of world-class enablers. Such an entourage would be tough to conceal even for an experienced drug lord, much less a newly notorious country singer. Cam Logan would turn up somewhere, someday. Probably sooner rather than later.
So, mystery 1A, the identification of the killer, has been solved, but what of mysteries 1B and 1C?
1B. How did a frog end up in a dead man’s gullet, and
1C. How did a toad end up in his mouth?
To know that, you’d need to know about the man, Emilio Anguilero.
So, what do we know about this man called Eel?
Not nearly enough.
The rubber-faced detective knows something. Annie knows more than he does. Cam Logan knows more than she does. The FBI knows more than Cam does. The CIA knows more than any of them.
And Nigel?
Well, Nigel knows how to make a devastating eggnog, and that’s enough for now.
An Invitation
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About the Author
D. R. Lowrey, the non-award-winning, critically-untainted author of comedic fiction, writes from the humid furnace of Houston, Texas, often while not wearing a shirt.
It wasn’t always like this. For years, D. R. clung tenaciously to a shirt-wearing job that paid real money in exchange for his soul. When that job went kaput, he investigated the possibilities of a career in the hardware retail business, or, alternatively, writing fine literature. Fine literature, as it turns out, is hard to write. Harder even than selling door hinges. Having acquired such wisdom, D. R. took to writing stuff more aligned with his true personality—uncultured, absurd, insubstantial. He now foists these works upon the reading public.
Some refer to his books as a “beach read.” D. R. disagrees. He feels that if you require a beach to read a book, your time is better spent wading amongst the sharks and stingrays. He suggests reading in the comfort of your own living room, preferably on furniture suitable for napping, while siphoning a favorite beverage. Experience shows that after extensive siphonings, his books do indeed start to resemble fine literature … what with the words, punctuation, and all.
D. R. enjoys thoughtful, non-violent interaction with his readers. He views such discourse as an ongoing referendum on whether to write or sell latex paint.
Check out www.drlowreyauthor.com if you’re desperate for something to do.
Table of Contents
New Butler, New Body
One More Thing, or Two
A Feral Butler’s Day Off
Unwelcome Guests
A Guest’s Welcome
Reintroductions
A Frog in the Works
Inquiring Minds
Getting Implicated
A Shocking Dinner Party
Baseless Accusations
A Man Who’s Figured Things Out
Butler’s Business
> Evidence Piles Up
Treasure of the L3 Vertebrae
Too Many Psssssts
Sleepless Night, Fitful Morning
A Heart-to-Heart
Explosive Preparations
Last-Minute Superheroes
Thinking Out of the Box
With this Ring
Wedding Splasher
Fit for a Funeral
Butler or Not, Here We Bury
Old Friends, Dead Friends
Funeral, Interrupted
Nigel Makes His Move
Grumps Gets His Chance
A Penny Drops on Stanley
Pennies from Heaven
A Cat Out of the Bag
Leopards Have Limitations
Nigel Changes His Spots
Aftermath