“Are you a wizard?” Roger asked.
“Yes.”
Roger paused at that, wondering if the old guy might actually be around the bend or if he defined wizard in some obscure word-game fashion known only to himself. “Does your niece know?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Would I need to press your shirts?”
The old man’s eyebrows sprang up so fast, they might have achieved orbital velocity had they been closer to the equator and not so well attached. He barked a short laugh. “No,” he said.
“You know they want the house?”
“Oh, yes. More precisely the land. The house is a rotten tooth in the street’s chromium smile. They want the house so they can do a little real-estate orthodontia.”
Roger smiled. The old bastard was growing on him by the minute. “Do you have dementia?”
The old man nodded, his eyes seeming to turn down at the corners. “Not exactly, but it’s getting worse.”
“But you’re a wizard?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you need a butler?”
The old man tilted his head up and a little bit away, looking at Roger through the side of his spectacles. His eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I don’t?”
Roger pondered that for a moment and glanced down at the scuffed toe. “I used to have a problem with my shoes in the army, sir. I’d spit-polish them until they shined so bright I could shave in them, but every once in a while, I’d catch the heel of one against the toe of the other. Left a scrape.” He nodded at the old man’s shoes. “Kinda like that one, sir.”
“I scuffed my shoe so you think I don’t need a butler?”
“No, sir.”
“Explain.”
“A man who can dress himself, keep track of his place in a book with print that small, and keep a pair of wingtips in shape on his own doesn’t need a butler. Naomi said you feed yourself and the groceries come on schedule.” Roger shook his head. “A valet, I could understand. A security guard, certainly. Somebody to talk to who’s not trying to pull the rug out from under you? I can believe that, sir. A butler?”
Shackleford leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the arms of his wheelchair. “And what makes you think you didn’t just describe a butler’s duties?” The sly old codger’s face wrinkled into a grin and his eyebrows kept asking “Huh? Huh?” as they flickered up and down.
Roger laughed. It wasn’t a deep laugh or a long one but it felt damn good. He shook his head. “Got me,” he said.
“Do I?” Shackleford asked. “Do I have you, Mr. Mulligan?”
“I’ll sign the contract if you’ll have me, sir.”
Shackleford stuck out one gnarled, liver-spotted hand that trembled slightly. “If you’ll have me, son.”
Roger shook the man’s hand, not at all startled by the strength in his grip. “When would you like me to start, sir?”
“Just as soon as you can get moved in, Mulligan.” He paused. “Do you prefer Mulligan or Roger?”
“I answer to both as a rule, sir. Which would you prefer?”
“Let’s go with Mulligan. It’s the tradition in service.”
Roger stood and gave his best impression of a butler’s bow, feeling just slightly ludicrous. “Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?”
The old man leaned back in his chair and grinned at him. “Yes, Mulligan. Please settle your affairs and move in as soon as possible and get those leeches off my property.”
Roger smiled and gave his little bow again. “Very good, sir. I shall do my best. With your permission, I’ll attend to the paperwork?”
“Thank you, Mulligan. That will be all.”
Roger got the distinct impression that the old boy was playing his role as lord and master to the hilt. He turned and headed for the door, but before he reached it, the latch released and the door swung inward. Confused, he turned to see Shackleford making an odd gesture with his right hand.
“I told you,” Shackleford said, with a small nod.
Roger stepped into the hallway and the door closed behind him with a quiet click. He had to hand it to the old man. It was a pretty good trick. Probably a remote under the blanket.
Chapter 2
Roger grabbed his duffel bag from the Uber’s trunk before the driver could get out. He’d been a little shocked to realize how little he had to show for thirty-odd years. Too many deployments. Too little time. Occasionally he’d remember something. What happened to his high school yearbook? Where were his baby pictures? Probably all in a landfill somewhere. Maybe his mother still had them. The Uber purred off down the paved alley and Roger looked up at the back of the house. He still had a couple of boxes of stuff in the apartment, but his go-bag served for his first day.
The back of the house could have been part of a country estate. Two honest-to-God oaks stood in the corners of the yard closest to the alley providing an arching entry to the property. A large-ish paved tarmac led from the alley to the garage that sat behind the house proper. The lot felt much wider in the back than in the front. Without measuring, Roger felt certain that the house itself only occupied a fraction of the land. He walked up the drive, past the four-bay garage and around the black BMW sedan. He admired the lines as he passed.
“Like what you see?”
He looked up to see Naomi waiting at an open door at the back of the house. She’d dressed down for the occasion—man-styled shirt, unbuttoned far enough to show some black lace underneath, skinny jeans, tasteful pumps. No jacket. “Yes,” Roger said. “Nice lines. Too expensive for me.”
She shrugged. “This time next year you’ll be a millionaire. You never know.”
He glanced back at the car and shrugged. “This part of the deal?”
She laughed. “That’s mine.”
“You drive it around town?” He stopped at the stoop. “I had you pegged for a taxi-taker. Parking must be a bitch.”
She shrugged. “Some things are worth doing yourself.” She tossed her careful coif as if it didn’t matter. “Come on. Tour starts now. I’ve got an appointment downtown in two hours.”
He stepped into the entry, what his mother might have called a mudroom, and pointed out a compact laundry setup. “You’ll need to handle this.” She arched an eyebrow. “It wasn’t on your list of ‘not my jobs,’ was it?”
He shook his head. “No. I didn’t think of it, but two of us in the house? I think I can handle it. I’ve got to do my own, actually. The dry cleaning bill is going to cover most of it.”
She gave him a second glance.
“What? You thought I didn’t know how to clean a wool suit?”
She pursed her lips and gave him a coy shrug. “Unplumbed depths,” she said.
He snorted and she put a little extra sway in her walk as she headed down the corridor, pointing out various storage and staging areas. Three steps led up to the main-floor and the kitchen.
Roger whistled and updated his concept of the house from ‘eccentric but charming house’ to ‘damned mansion.’
“How many people used to live here?” he asked.
Naomi wrinkled her nose. “No idea. Why?”
Roger took in the six-burner stovetop, the stacked ovens, a refrigerator bigger than his apartment, and enough counter and cupboard space for a regimental exercise. “No reason. Seems like overkill for a man and his butler.”
Naomi shrugged it off. “It’s an old house. You know how they get.”
Roger didn’t and wasn’t sure which ‘they’ she might be talking about—old houses or the people who lived in mansions.
“Come on. Your quarters are just around the corner.”
He followed her through a swinging door and into a wainscoted hallway, past two closed doors to one that stood open. “Bathroom,” she said, pointing to the obvious. She swung the door across the hall open and ushered him in like a real-estate agent on tour. “Butler’s quarters.”
Roger stepped into wood and leather heaven. It wasn’t l
arge. Correction. It didn’t feel large. Aged wood paneling, tongue and groove or some close facsimile, lined the walls. The furnishings were scattered tastefully around the room—a couple of leather easy chairs, end tables, a coffee table, and an ottoman. One of those old-fashioned desks with the rolling top hugged the wall, situated perfectly so light from the window fell on it. The place even had a built-in bookshelf and a small window that looked out onto the side yard and a wing of the mansion beyond. Not terribly scenic but somehow peaceful.
“Bedroom in here,” she said, swinging open a narrow door.
He stepped in and nodded. A large wardrobe and a six-drawer dresser stood against the far wall. The full-sized bed, a solid-looking sleigh in some deep brown wood, took up a lot of floor space but left plenty of room for him to move around. He crossed to the wardrobe and opened the double doors, noting the mirrors inside them. He plopped his bag inside and swung the doors closed. Another nod. They should have led with this. For the first time since turning in his weapons, Roger felt like he was at home.
Naomi watched him from the doorway, not exactly in the hooker-one-leg-up-arching-her-back-to-show-off-her-breasts pose but close.
“You mentioned uniforms?” he asked.
“There’s a uniform service. They’re expecting you.” She reached into the breast pocket of her shirt with two fingers and pulled out a business card. “I can drop you on my way downtown if you like.”
He took the card. Industrial Uniforms, Inc. “Catchy name. Your company?” he asked.
She grinned and shook her head. “My father’s.”
“They make butlers’ uniforms alongside UPS jumpsuits?”
“UPS drivers don’t wear jumpsuits, but yes.” She checked the jeweled timepiece on her wrist and nodded at the door. “Come on. A lot to see and I’m going to be late if we don’t move it.”
He waved her on, pausing for a moment at the door to look back at his new digs. Yeah. They should have led with this.
* * *
The rest of the tour became a whirlwind of this room, that room, store room, dining room, another bathroom, downstairs parlor, pantry, another bathroom, upstairs parlor, library, master suite through there, etc., etc. By the time they got to the attic, Roger had had his fill of rich and snooty. She might be fun in bed but he was never going to remember half of what she spieled off.
“I got it,” he said when they’d reached the top landing.
“I haven’t shown you all the rooms here.”
“Attic. Probably servant quarters at some time. Now storage?”
She shrugged. “Still servant quarters. Storage is in the basement.”
“Basement?”
She nodded. “I skipped it. Access is in the garage.” She checked her watch again. “Probably just as well. I’ve got to scoot.”
“Don’t let me hold you up. I can find the place.”
“It’s right on the way,” she said.
“Just give me the house keys and I’ll Uber over.”
“You could take one of the cars,” she said over her shoulder, already heading back down the stairs. “They have free parking.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.” Not that he would, but she didn’t need to know. “Where’s my employer?”
She paused at the landing. “Uncle Perry? Master suite. He’ll ring you when he wants you.”
“Ring me? What? Like I have to wait downstairs or something?”
She grinned and took a small pager from her belt where it had been hidden under the tails of her shirt. “It’s not all old dust and fresh wax. Here.”
He took the device and looked it over. Standard electronic pager, settings for vibrate, small display screen. He made sure it was on, green light showing, and clipped it to his belt. “Thank you.”
“Good luck.” She tripped down the stairs, hands up for balance, looking more like a teenager than a forty-something cougar.
“Keys?” he said, calling after her.
“This way,” she said, backtracking down the hallway toward the kitchen. She led him back to the butler’s quarters and pointed to a key safe hidden behind the door. The safe’s key stuck out of the keyhole. “Every key to every lock in the house is supposed to be in there.”
“Supposed to be?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I haven’t found a locked door that didn’t have the key. I didn’t try them all.”
“Your keys?” he asked.
“My keys?”
“Yes, you have a key to the house, don’t you?” He held out his hand.
“Gracious, no. Why would I?”
“How do you get in?”
She rolled her eyes and headed for the back door. He was confused when she stepped outside, afraid she was going to show him a key under a plant pot or something. She pointed to one of those “over the knob” things that real-estate agents used. “Combination is 4185.”
His inner security alarm screamed at him but he smiled and nodded. “Thanks.” He thrust his hands into his pockets to keep them from either grabbing the thing off the door or strangling her.
She pulled a key fob from her pocket and twee-tweeted the Beamer. “Any questions, I left contact numbers on your desk. Call if anything unusual comes up.”
He nodded. “Will do. Thanks.”
She pulled the door open and slid into the car in one fluid motion. He wondered if she practiced it at home in the garage where nobody could see when she slammed the door on her foot. The engine rumbled to life and, contrary to his expectation, rolled sedately down the tarmac and into the alley behind—the small sound of tires on pavement clearly audible over the quiet engine.
He released the lock box from the knob and pocketed the key. “Dumbass.”
The pager vibrated on his belt. The screen had a single word. “Library.” The old fellow must have been watching.
He closed the back door and threw the bolt. He’d bet his first month’s pay she had a key in her pocket, but he was done with Nay and Tweed. He made his way through the maze and up the main staircase to the library. The door opened for him as he reached for it. He stepped in to find the old man sitting in his chair by the window. “You rang, sir?” he asked, without really thinking about it.
“Is she gone, Mulligan?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve had a tour of the house and I’m informed that I have an appointment for a uniform fitting.”
“About that,” he said. “Her father’s establishment? Industrial Uniforms?”
“Yes, sir.”
Shackleford harrumphed and shook his head. He reached into the side pocket of his jacket and withdrew a card, shook his head and put it back, drawing another. He frowned at it for a moment. “What am I doing, Mulligan?”
“I believe you’re looking for a uniform company to replace Industrial Uniforms that Ms. Patching recommended, sir.”
“Am I?” he asked and looked at the card in his hand. “Yes, so it seems.” He took a deep breath and blinked several times, staring at the card. He nodded and handed the card to Roger. “Go here. Ask for Mrs. Pettigrew.”
He took the card, a heavy stock with a street address embossed into it. “Mrs. Pettigrew, sir.”
“Yes, Mulligan.”
“Very good, sir. Is there anything I can get you before I go? Have you eaten today, sir? Some breakfast, perhaps?”
The old man looked up at Roger. “I haven’t eaten, no.” He said it as if only just realizing.
“It’s midmorning, sir. What would you like?” He shrugged. “I don’t know what’s in the kitchen but I could probably handle tea and toast.”
“Can you manage a bagel and coffee, Mulligan?”
“Cream cheese, sir?”
“Of course,” he said. “Smoked salmon if there is any. Naomi never gives me smoked salmon.”
“I’ll check, sir. I’ll need some time to find my way around, sir.”
Shackleford smiled. “Mrs. Pettigrew.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll ask for her.”
“Thank you, M
ulligan.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” Roger did an about face, his military training carrying him out of the room as the door latched behind him.
The path to the kitchen seemed familiar by then. On the counter he found a chromed coffee maker. He rummaged for a few minutes, lining up the requirements for coffee: whole bean, which required a grinder—also handy. Whoever laid out the kitchen knew Roger’s mind, apparently. He assembled the ingredients in the machine and pressed the Brew button.
“Bagels, bagels,” he said. “Where would I hide the bagels?” He spotted a four-slice toaster and flipped a mental coin as to whether bread was over or under the counter. He pulled the lower cupboard open, surprised when it turned out to be a drawer. Loaves of bread in various colors and two sleeves of bagels lay arrayed in its depths. One sleeve was cinnamon and raisin, the other onion. He pulled open the fridge to find an almost empty cavern. A quart of milk, a pound of butter, tubs of margarine and cream cheese. One crisper drawer held fresh greens; the other, carrots, celery, and mushrooms. He found a box containing cello-sleeves of smoked salmon, the expensive Nova kind, all unopened. “Sure. What else would he have?”
By the time he got a bagel toasted, schmeared, and covered in thin slices of pink fish, the coffee gave up the final gurgle. Only then did he realize that cutlery, cutting boards, and all the associated necessities had seemed to appear under his hands when he reached for them. He really had to hand it to whoever had designed the kitchen. He opened the cupboard above the coffeemaker, looking for a mug, and stopped. No mugs. His brain fought him for a moment but he realized the cupboard held cups and saucers. All matched. He pulled down a set and assembled it. “All right,” he said. “Cup and saucer. I can do this.” A part of his brain said, “One more dish to wash,” and the other part said, “So?” He glanced down at the brushed stainless steel front of a dishwasher and shrugged.
He considered the breakfast in front of him. If it were his, he’d just eat it at the counter. Shackleford expected him to deliver it. “What would Jeeves do?” He remembered the small tray that Naomi had tried to deliver applesauce with. He frowned and looked at all the cupboards, trying to figure out where he’d store serving trays. He walked past the cook top and ovens, shaking his head. Turning, he crossed to the nearest worktable and found a collection of silver trays in various sizes slotted into a shelf under it. He picked a medium sized one and placed it on the table top. The cup and saucer fit nicely in one corner but he needed a plate for the bagel. His inner dishwasher complained again but he squelched it, pulling a small dessert plate from the cupboard.
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