The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  “That’s it, then,” Sam said. “I’ll send the bill by snail mail but you might set up a Shackleford House email address now that you can handle it. Almost all business is being done digitally these days.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Roger said. “I’ll look into online banking, too. Maybe I can get some of the recurring bills on auto-pay.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” she said. “Call if you need help with anything.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I really appreciate the extra steps you took here.” He held out his hand.

  She shook his hand and nodded. “You’re welcome. It was a fun project and nice not to have to low-ball everything to meet an unreasonable budget.”

  “I’ll let you know how it works out.”

  She waved and took her bags back to the van, placed them inside, and closed the cargo doors before climbing into the cab and driving away.

  Roger watched her go, wondering if she might like to have dinner some night. He shook his head and went to break down the extra packaging for the trash pickup. Shackleford House might have entered the digital age, but his duties remained significantly analog.

  * * *

  Roger hated it when Naomi Patching came to call. Sure, she looked good, but she had the heart of a killer. He’d met enough of them to know. It wasn’t that they had dead eyes. It was what made their eyes light up. Getting away from those eyes was one of the reasons he declined re-enlistment. Her showing up reminded him that not all the killers wore uniforms, even if most of the uniforms didn’t contain them.

  “Are you going to let me in?” she asked, when he’d stood too long in the front doorway.

  “Of course, ma’am. My apologies.” He stepped back and held the door open.

  “I presume I’m not interrupting meal time or—perhaps—nap time,” she said, the caustic tone making clear that she remembered being kept waiting.

  “I’ll see if Mr. Shackleford is receiving visitors, ma’am. If you’d care to wait in the parlor?”

  “I’m not a visitor, Mulligan. I’m a relative, in case you’ve lost sight of that.”

  “Of course, ma’am. If you’d care to wait in the parlor, I’ll see if your uncle is receiving relatives.”

  “What are you hiding, Mulligan?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

  “Hiding, ma’am?”

  “Why this charade of checking with him? Are you afraid of what I’ll see if I arrive unannounced?”

  “Not at all, ma’am. One of my duties as butler is to make certain Mr. Shackleford is not disturbed.” He beeper vibrated and he checked the message. It read “Show her up.” He nodded. “Mr. Shackleford will see you now, ma’am.”

  She harrumphed but followed him up the stairs to the library. Roger knocked before entering. “Ms. Patching, sir.”

  Shackleford sat in his usual wheelchair, appearing much frailer than normal. A wan smile on his lips and the sunlight streaming in behind him shining on a few strands of hair combed over his scalp. “Thank you, Mulligan.”

  Roger stepped out of the doorway and Naomi swept in. “Uncle. How are you feeling?”

  “Passable,” he said. “Quite passable. Come in. Have a seat. Can I offer you tea? Coffee?”

  She lowered herself onto the front edge of one of the easy chairs and shook her head. “No, thank you, Uncle. I can’t stay very long. I just came to see how you were. When was the last time you had a physical examination?”

  Shackleford stared daggers at her. “I fail to see how that’s any of your business.”

  Naomi gave him a serpent’s smile and glanced at Roger. “You may go, Mulligan.”

  Roger looked to the old man who gave him a short nod.

  “Thank you, Perkins. Carry on.”

  Roger nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. Although tempted to listen outside the door, he went back to the laundry to finish folding the towels. He should have anticipated the physical. Naomi wanted her uncle declared incompetent; establishing his physical disability would feed that narrative if it came to a hearing. He felt pretty sure that it would.

  The question remained as to who would conduct the examination and under what conditions. Naomi wouldn’t stand for a family doctor, would she?

  He finished the laundry and tossed a freshener capsule into the washer to clean it while he ran the towels up to the third floor linen closet. In the beginning he thought the setup to be inefficient, but the truth was that starting with the clean at the top meant all the laundry flowed downhill and only had to be carried up the stairs when clean again. For one man—two, counting himself—it seemed over the top, but then having the entire mansion for the two of them did, too.

  Roger stopped outside the door on his way back down. He paused for a moment before knocking and entering. Naomi looked at him with a sour scowl. Shackleford smiled at him.

  “Perkins, thank you. Would you show my niece out?”

  “Of course, sir.” Roger stood away from the door and gave a small bow. “Ms. Patching?”

  She turned to Shackleford. “Uncle. You’re being unreasonable.”

  “You’re being tedious, Naomi. You want a physical. I’ll get a physical. I’ll use my own physician, thank you.” He shrugged. “Who better than to give me a checkup than the man who knows me best?”

  “But he’ll just report what you want him to say,” Naomi said.

  Shackleford snorted. “And yours would do the same for you. I’m sorry, Naomi, but I’m not playing this game. If you’d like to have my records reviewed? Fine. Get a second opinion, but if I’m to suffer the indignity, at least let it be on my own terms.”

  Naomi stood, arms rigid at her sides with fingers splayed like she wanted to keep them from clenching into fists. “This is not over, Uncle.”

  “Good day, Naomi.” He looked at Roger. “Be careful she doesn’t fall down the stairs, Perkins. She’s not seeing very well right now.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Naomi growled and stomped out of the room.

  Roger followed her and pulled the door closed behind him.

  “You see what I’m up against?” Naomi said, striding down the stairs. “The man is impossible.”

  “As you say, ma’am.”

  “He needs a physical. Man his age? He could have all kinds of things failing on him left and right. Not just his mind.”

  “You make a good case, ma’am. I get an annual myself and I’m not even half his age.”

  “He wants to go to that quack. Man never finds a thing wrong with Uncle Perry.” She stopped at the door and Roger opened it. “That can’t be right. Not even high blood pressure?”

  “He seems to be in relatively good health, ma’am.”

  “Then why is he in a wheelchair?” she asked. “Answer me that.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Sha—”

  “Oh, shut it,” she snapped. “I’ll subpoena the bastard if I have to. Discuss that.” She turned and continued her progress out the door and down the steps.

  He watched to make sure she didn’t catch a heel between the pavers. The way she drove them into the stone, she’d have stuck for certain. When she cleared the gate, he closed the door and returned to the library.

  “She gone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know what she’s planning, Mulligan?”

  “No, sir. Beyond getting you committed to the assisted living facility in Vail? No.”

  Shackleford nodded and walked over to his desk, pushing up the rolltop. “What do you know of this DNA test thing?” He pointed to the screen.

  “They claim to be able to match up people according to their lineage, sir.”

  “How do they sample it?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. Perhaps a swab of the inside of the cheek. Saliva would do it.”

  “They require payment,” Shackleford said, grimacing.

  “Most people do, sir.”

  “Yes, but they require a credit card,” Shackleford said, thrusting his hands into his
trouser pockets and scowling at the screen.

  “You have one or two, don’t you sir? I keep getting statements.”

  “I do, but I’m damned if I’ll give the number to them.”

  Roger nodded. “Might I suggest a prepaid card, sir? Put the amount you need on the card and use that?”

  Shackleford looked at him. “That would work,” he said. “Limit the downside exposure. Do they have those now?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re fairly common.”

  “Can you get me one, Mulligan? With perhaps a hundred dollars on it?”

  “Of course, sir.” Roger paused. “May I ask why you’re looking into this DNA test?”

  Shackleford shrugged. “Probably a long shot, but the Shackleford line goes back to the 1600s here. I know I’m the eldest of the main line, but there must be other Shacklefords. Married women. Pioneers who moved west and disappeared. If I can find some likely heir, then Shackleford House doesn’t need to go the foundation.”

  “Somebody who wouldn’t turn around and sell it to Naomi as soon as they get their hands on the title, sir?” Roger asked. “You realize that the heir would have to have submitted their DNA as well.”

  Shackleford nodded. “Yes, Mulligan. That’s a limitation on the strategy, but I’ve spent thousands on private investigators and researchers. Every Shackleford I’ve found is either from a different branch or came much later.”

  “This won’t rule them out, sir.”

  Shackleford nodded again. “Yes, but I believe it’s the best I can do now.”

  Roger realized what the old man sought. “You’re looking for another wizard, sir?”

  Shackleford glanced at him and shrugged. “You reminded me, Mulligan. The pixies.”

  “You realize you may have found one or two already, sir?”

  “No, Mulligan. Like calls to like. If any of them had the skill, we’d have both known it.”

  “Is there anything I can do, sir?”

  “Get me one of those prepaid cards, Mulligan. Something that can’t be traced back to me.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday, sir. I’ll pick one up while I’m out.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan.”

  “What are you going to do about the physical, sir? Can I make a call for you?”

  Shackleford shook his head. “I was bluffing. My doctor died three years back. I need to find a new one. Somebody who makes house calls.”

  “May I suggest that will be a hard order to fill, sir?”

  Shackleford grunted. “The right doctor could earn a good living just giving me my annual physical, Mulligan.” He stared at me. “Any ideas?”

  “Pettigrew, sir?” I asked.

  “She’s good but she’s not a doctor, Mulligan.”

  “She may know one who has the right skill set, sir.”

  Shackleford blinked and shook his head. “Of course. I’ll write her tonight.”

  “Sir, if you’d like me to, I could deliver the message for you. I’ll be out and about tomorrow anyway.”

  He nodded. “Excellent. Thank you, Mulligan. I’ll have it ready by breakfast.”

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you, Per—” He stopped and sighed. “No, thank you, Mulligan.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Roger left him staring at the screen and tapping his lips with the fingers of his left hand. Would an heir solve the problem or merely complicate it?

  He sighed and returned to polishing the silver. The butler book recommended it be done every week. He didn’t have that kind of time or the staff to help him do it, so he just did the best he could and rotated through the various cutlery drawers each week.

  As he rubbed each piece with the well-used polishing cloth, he let the idea of a revitalized Shackleford House play in his mind.

  Chapter 9

  Roger stopped outside the building and looked up at Pettigrew’s apartment, Shackleford’s letter in his jacket pocket. The old man hadn’t said anything but he was pretty sure that going to any old physician wasn’t in the cards for him. He climbed the four steps to the stoop and pressed the bell.

  The same Hefner-bee opened the door. He had the pipe and smoking jacket schtick down cold, but he didn’t have the right vibe. “Yes?”

  “I have a message for Mrs. Pettigrew.”

  The guy gave him a squinty-eyed stare before stepping out of the doorway. “You know the way.”

  Roger nodded his thanks and climbed the stairs to the landing. He knocked twice and waited.

  The door opened just as he was about to knock again. Mrs. Pettigrew peered out at him, her head cocked just a bit to the right. “Mulligan,” she said.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Pettigrew. I have a message from Mr. Shackleford.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew the envelope, offering it to her.

  “He could have mailed it,” she said, not taking it.

  “The matter is somewhat urgent and I volunteered to deliver it, since today is my day off, ma’am.”

  Her face tightened around the eyes and lips as she stared at him. “I see,” she said. She took the envelope and held the door open. “Come in, Mulligan.”

  He stepped into the apartment, which was just as bare as the last time he’d been there.

  She closed the door and ripped open the envelope, pulling the single sheet from it. “You know what this is about?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She glanced up at him. “How are you adjusting to service, Mulligan?”

  “I find it peaceful,” he said. “At once soothing and gratifying.”

  She nodded, just the tiniest of motions. “This Patching woman is a problem.”

  “So it would seem, ma’am.”

  “When you get back to Shackleford House, check your bible under Medical Assistance,” she said. “You should find whatever you need there.”

  Roger felt a flush of embarrassment. “My apologies for disturbing you, ma’am. I should have checked there first.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Not necessary. I take it you’ve found the volume helpful?”

  “Invaluable, ma’am. Astonishing in its detail.” He paused. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

  She opened the door and smiled. “Not at all, Mulligan. I’m happy to be of assistance.”

  He left the apartment and turned at the landing. “Good day, Mrs. Pettigrew.”

  “Good day, Mulligan. Keep up the good work.” She smiled and closed the door.

  All the way down the stairs, he kept kicking himself. Medical assistance. He couldn’t remember seeing such a heading but if Pettigrew said it was there, it was there. On the street outside, he glanced up once more and wondered how long it had been there.

  * * *

  He spent a quiet afternoon at the library looking at more cookbooks. While watching videos on the internet had helped, he still struggled with some fundamental knowledge. Like how did a cook know what kind of whisk to use, or did it even matter if it was a whisk? He understood most of the words but felt like he didn’t have a good handle on the meaning. Add a sprinkle of this or that? How much is a sprinkle? The library shelves had plenty of choices—and he’d read several of them—but he really didn’t have a clue which to choose.

  He walked out of the place without a book, and pulled out his phone. A last resort, but some things you needed to do. He pulled up the dialer and thumbed in a number. It rang three times before someone picked up.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Roger?”

  “Yes. How are you?”

  “Roger!” She spoke away from the phone. “Ed? It’s Roger.”

  “Jeez, Mom. It’s not like I’ve disappeared. I’m out of the army, remember?”

  She sniffed. “Well, I wouldn’t know, would I? I think you called more on deployment than since you’ve been home.”

  “Roger?” His father’s voice came over the line.

  “Hi, Pop.”

  “You al
l right, son?”

  Roger stepped out of the middle of the path and took a seat on the stone steps. “Never better, actually.”

  “You should come to dinner,” his mother said.

  Roger laughed. “Tonight?”

  “Tonight?” his mother asked. “Can you come tonight?”

  “Saturday’s my day off,” he said.

  “You’re working?” his father asked.

  “Yeah. Had the job for a few weeks, actually.”

  “What are you doing?” his mother asked, a hint of suspicion in her voice.

  “I’ll tell you about it tonight,” he said. He glanced at the clock on the library tower. “I can be there in half an hour.”

  “Seriously?” his mother asked.

  “Is that a good time?”

  “Of course,” his father said. “Whenever you can get here. We can catch up.”

  “I’ve got one more errand to run and I’ll be along shortly.”

  “I’ll put the coffee on,” his mother said.

  “See you soon,” Roger said and broke the connection. For a moment he sat there and looked at the people walking past. If they only knew.

  He snorted and pushed up from the stone, brushing the seat of his jeans off with his free hand. He needed to find a prepaid debit card before calling an Uber.

  * * *

  You’d have thought Roger hadn’t been home in years, given his mother’s glistening-eyed welcome and the way his father hugged him. They still lived in the modest bungalow in the burbs. He hadn’t grown up there, but he still admired the house for its cozy feel whenever he visited. They ushered him into the kitchen and plied him with coffee. The meaty aroma of pot roast with onions filled the house, and he felt himself unwind as he settled into one of the wooden kitchen chairs.

  His mother sat across from him while his father took the head of the table, each with their own coffee mug.

  “So, what’s this mysterious job?” his father asked.

  “You’ll laugh,” Roger said, suddenly shy about what he was about to say.

  His father grinned. “What? You a barista or something?”

  Roger shrugged. “Close. Butler.”