The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  The Prius looked lonely in the last bay of the garage, a tiny bug lost in what had seemed a cozy home for vehicles when the other cars had been there.

  Monday morning, Dr. Cuttle’s office called to make arrangements for an evaluation of Mr. Shackleford’s mental acuity later in the week. As soon as he hung up the phone, it dawned on him that the Prius was still the only car in the garage. He gave a small laugh at the thought of Shackleford riding with him in the tiny cabin of the hybrid.

  Roger took Shackleford’s lunch up at the stroke of noon and found him hunched over his keyboard, peering into the monitor. “Lunch, sir.”

  “Mulligan! Astonishing. I might have found her.” He grinned at Roger over his shoulder.

  “Her, sir?”

  “Descendant, Mulligan. My DNA match turned up a number of potential relatives but this one looks particularly promising.”

  Roger placed the tray on the table. “Something in particular, sir?”

  “According to her family tree, she’s a direct line from a mutual great-great-grandparent back in England. Aldus Gideon. He used the old spelling of the surname, EL instead of LE, but he had two sons that came to the new world. My great-great-grandfather Henry James came over in the late 1600s, but according to this his younger brother, Barnabus Franklin, followed at the turn of the century. This woman, Barbara Griffin, is a direct descendant on her mother’s side.”

  “Sounds promising, sir. How would you like to proceed?”

  Shackleford sat back in his chair and shook his head. “I need to think about that, Mulligan. I don’t know anything about this woman other than her name. I don’t know if she’d be any better than Naomi.” He frowned and his lips twisted into a grimace. “Check in Perkins’s rolodex for Featherstone. First name Amos. Call him and tell him I may have a job for him.”

  Roger took out his notebook and wrote the name down. “I’ll do that directly, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan.”

  “The specialist called, sir. Dr. Cuttle would like to meet you later this week.”

  “Ah, the head doctor?”

  “Yes, sir. Geriatrics specialist, focused on dementia.”

  Shackleford laughed and moved to the table for his lunch. “Was a time I’d have resented needing a geriatric specialist.” He peered up at Roger. “Seems rather comforting from this vantage point.”

  Roger nodded. “I can see why, sir. Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, thank you, Mulligan. You’ll let me know when Midgeley comes up with the new car? I’d like to see it before we buy it.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Roger left him working on his soup and went to find the rolodex in his desk. He’d seen it there but had never had cause to look through it. Without knowing the people the names belonged to, it seemed a wasted effort. Featherstone’s card held the phone number and the additional information that he was a licensed investigator. Roger jotted the number into his notebook and stopped at his laptop to order a replacement. After only a few months, his was already almost filled.

  He placed the call immediately and got Featherstone himself on the second ring.

  “Featherstone. Can I help you?” The man’s voice sounded pleasant enough. Roger felt mildly disappointed it wasn’t the noir detective growl.

  “Mr. Featherstone. I’m Joseph Shackleford’s butler, Roger Mulligan. Mr. Shackleford asked me to call. He may have work for you.”

  “Mulligan,” he said. “He has another relative to track down?”

  “Something like that, sir. Could you come speak to Mr. Shackleford? He can explain what he wants.”

  “Sure. My calendar’s clear tomorrow morning. Say 10 a.m.?”

  “I’ll notify Mr. Shackleford, sir. Thank you.”

  Featherstone rang off and Roger hung up the phone. After weeks of steady routine, the pace around Shackleford House seemed to be picking up.

  * * *

  Midgeley rang the back bell at 2 p.m., just as Roger wondered if he’d show up. The black Mercedes in the yard drew him like a magnet as soon as he opened the door.

  “Maybach,” Midgeley said. “Ritzy. Pricey. May not have the same cachet as a Bentley, but it’s a Mercedes.”

  Roger walked around the vehicle and nodded. “Mr. Shackleford would like to see it before he makes up his mind.”

  “Or before you make up his mind for him?” Midgeley asked, grinning.

  Roger chuckled and nodded. “This one’s on him, sir. I can’t spend that kind of money on my own.”

  Midgeley nodded. “I hear you on that.”

  “I’ll get him,” Roger said. “One moment.”

  Midgeley nodded and took up station beside the back door. “I’ll just stand here and look at it for a while.”

  Roger walked up to the library and knocked. “Sir, Mr. Midgeley has a vehicle for you to look at.”

  Shackleford stood to look out the window and down at the tarmac below. “A Mercedes? Interesting. Nice looking car. New?”

  “Mr. Midgeley has the details, sir.”

  Shackleford grinned at Roger. “You like the looks of it.”

  “I do, sir, but it’s a bit intimidating.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not used to that kind of luxury in my life, sir.”

  Shackleford shrugged. “Let’s go take it for a spin, shall we?”

  Roger led the way down the stairs and back to the waiting car.

  Shackleford took a moment to shake Midgeley’s hand. “Thank you for this, Nehemiah. I appreciate the service.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. S. I love satisfied customers.” He looked at the vehicle. “Doesn’t hurt my feelings to get to work with a vehicle like this either.”

  “Details?” Shackleford asked.

  “Mercedes Maybach 650. Brand new. Just came off the train from an assembly plant down south. Wood and leather interior. Same market sector as Rolls. It’s classy and distinctive but easily overlooked as just another luxury car. I think it’s a solid investment, but it’s all a matter of how the dice roll. It’s got enough muscle to move when it needs to and enough metal to stand up under stress.”

  Shackleford nodded and walked around the vehicle. “Shall we take it for a ride?” He looked at Roger.

  “Key’s in it,” Midgeley said.

  “Let me lock up, sir.”

  Shackleford nodded.

  Roger grabbed the back door and garage keys from the safe and made sure he had his driver’s license. He locked the house and opened the rear door for Shackleford. The old man slid into the car easily enough. The door closed with a solid thunk. “Mr. Midgeley? Front seat or back?”

  “I’ll take the front,” Midgeley said, helping himself to the door before Roger could react.

  Roger went around to the driver side and lowered himself into the seat. He closed the door and found himself in a world of wood, leather, and silence. Midgeley walked him through the controls and sat back in his seat, clicking the seatbelt. Roger swallowed and started it up. The engine rumbled to life and settled into a low growl, barely audible in the cabin.

  “It’s a heavy beast,” Midgeley said.

  Roger nodded, put a hand on the wheel, a foot on the brake, and shifted it into drive.

  After the old Bentley, the Mercedes felt like a dream. He rolled down the tarmac, taking the alley to the street and moved out into city traffic. The car moved with precision. The turn radius felt long, because it was, but Roger adapted to it quickly. The heavier vehicle took a little more stopping distance for a smooth stop but the brakes had enough grab that the one time he needed to stop short, he could. Yes. It still felt like a bit of a boat but it was a really nice boat. He returned to the house after a jaunt around the neighborhood.

  “You don’t want to take it out on the interstate?” Midgeley asked.

  “My biggest concerns are driving in town traffic,” Roger said, looking back at Shackleford. “Sir?”

  Shackleford shook his head. “You’re my driver, Mulligan. If you�
��re happy with the vehicle, I’m certainly comfortable enough back here.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Roger said. “Is it too much car?”

  Shackleford laughed. “I’ve a reputation to uphold, Mulligan. This will do nicely, as far as I’m concerned.” He snickered. “I’m rather looking forward to Naomi seeing it.”

  “So? That’s a yes?” Midgeley asked.

  “Yes, Nehemiah,” Shackleford said. “That’s a yes. Thank you. Send the bill and we’ll arrange transfer.”

  Roger got out of the car and went around to open Shackleford’s door. Midgeley beat him to it and they shook hands all around.

  “I think you’re going to like this,” Midgeley said. “I’ll settle the tags and title for you. You can drive on my dealer plates if you need it in the meantime.”

  “Thank you, Nehemiah,” Shackleford said.

  Midgeley grinned and gave his two-finger salute. “Your business is my pleasure.” He strode down the drive and a car started up in the alley, pulling up to the end of the drive as Midgeley approached. He jumped in and they drove off.

  Shackleford looked at Roger. “Concerns, Mulligan?”

  “Perhaps a bit ostentatious?,” Roger asked.

  “It’s time Shackleford House stepped up to the times, Mulligan.”

  Roger looked at him, a bubble of surprise bursting in his brain.

  Shackleford turned and looked up at the mansion looming over them. “It’s been an icon of the past for a long time. Even the cars. Antiques. Old money. Boarding school.” He shook his head. “I’ve been dealing with this little problem of mine for so long, I’ve left the world behind.” He looked at Roger. “You’ve helped me more in the last four months than Perkins did in the four years before he died.”

  “I’m just muddling along, sir, but you seem better.”

  Shackleford shrugged. “It comes and goes. I feel like it’s taking more of my memories every day.” He smiled. “I have a lot of memories and not all of them good. It’s not all bad.”

  Roger stopped himself from thinking about his own memories by focusing on the immediate issues of getting Shackleford back inside and the car into the garage before Naomi drove up.

  “Mr. Featherstone will be by tomorrow morning, sir.”

  Shackleford looked at him, eyes blank for a moment. “Oh. Featherstone, yes.” He shrugged. “Sorry. For a moment I thought I’d lost that one, too.” He grinned. “Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference.”

  “I should put the car in the garage, sir.”

  “Carry on, Mulligan. I’d like a cup of coffee and a cookie when you get a moment.” The old man shambled into the house without pausing at the locked back door.

  Roger wished he could do that and pulled out the garage door key.

  * * *

  When Roger opened the door the next morning, he decided that Amos Featherstone looked like a 50-something accountant. He stood there in a navy blue wool-blend suit with a white shirt and badly knotted tie, blinking at Roger through tortoise-shell glasses that distorted his eyes. “Mulligan? I’m Featherstone.”

  “Good day, Mr. Featherstone. Please come in.” Roger stood back and led Featherstone up to the library. “Mr. Shackleford is expecting you.”

  The man followed along behind, seeming uninterested in his surroundings.

  At the library, Roger knocked twice and entered. “Mr. Featherstone has arrived, sir.”

  Shackleford stood and met Featherstone as he entered, holding a hand out in greeting. “Amos. Thank you for coming. Again.”

  Amos shook Shackleford’s hand and smiled. “You found another lead, I take it?”

  “I have. DNA testing. Amazing stuff.” Shackleford’s normally laconic delivery took on new excitement with Featherstone. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, please. That would be lovely.”

  “Mulligan, a tray if you please?”

  “Of course, sir.” Roger bowed himself out of the room and headed for the tray in the kitchen. He’d anticipated the request and had it waiting. By the time he got back, Shackleford and Featherstone had their heads together in front of the computer monitor. “Coffee, sirs.” He put the tray on the table.

  “So you see, Amos? She could be the one.” Shackleford pointed to some detail on the screen.

  Featherstone nodded. “Yeah. I never would have found her.” He paused and looked at Shackleford. “You sure you want me to look into this?”

  Shackleford sat back in his chair. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Featherstone shrugged. “Money does funny things to people.”

  Shackleford nodded. “Just get me some background on her, Amos. Find out what kind of woman she is.”

  “All right. Usual fees.”

  “After all these years, you know I’m good for it,” Shackleford said with a grin.

  Featherstone chuckled and turned to the coffee. “Never a question, Joe.”

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” Roger asked.

  “Thank you, Mulligan. No. I think we’re fine for the moment.”

  Roger nodded and left them there. Featherstone seemed to be a shrewd operator and apparently knew what the old man needed. Or at least wanted. Roger returned to his morning routine and wondered what he’d do if some distant relative offered to pluck him from obscurity the way Shackleford seemed to be considering for this Barbara Griffin woman. Looking around at the house, he chuckled. Naomi Patching wasn’t a relative but her influence had certainly pulled Roger into a world he never knew existed. He wondered, not for the first time, if she knew that Shackleford was indeed a wizard.

  The thought that she might know left him disturbed but he forced himself to shrug it off and work through the weekly grocery order. Regardless of what Patching knew or didn’t, they still had to eat and Shackleford relied on him to make sure the pantry stayed stocked.

  Shackleford called him to the library to show Featherstone out about half an hour later.

  “I look forward to your findings, Amos.”

  Featherstone shook the old man’s hand. “Don’t get your hopes up, Joe. How many times have we done this so far?”

  Shackleford shook his head. “No idea. A lot.”

  “And it always starts with ‘I think this is the one,’ doesn’t it?”

  Shackleford laughed. “Yes, well. You have to admit, this one is different.”

  Amos shook his head. “I don’t have to admit anything.” He grinned. “But maybe she’s the one you’re looking for. I’ll know more in a few days.”

  “Thank you, Amos.”

  Featherstone nodded and Roger escorted him back to the front door.

  “Don’t let him get too excited, Mulligan,” Featherstone said as he left. “He’s looking for something very rare.”

  “I know, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  Featherstone shot him a sharp glance. “Do you really?”

  “He’s looking for a descendant who shares his particular gift, sir.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed behind the oversized lenses. “And do you share that gift, Mulligan?”

  “No, sir.”

  Featherstone nodded. “I’ll be in touch, Mulligan. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “My pleasure, sir. Good day.”

  * * *

  Dr. Cuttle’s office turned out to be in the same medical complex as Dr. Littlefield’s, just diagonally across the park. It boasted the same utilitarian architecture, same fresh paint smell, and the same relentlessly cheerful air.

  Roger found a seat in the waiting room while the assistant took Shackleford back for the examination. He made himself comfy in an easy chair and pulled up a science-fiction novel on his phone. He’d rediscovered a love for reading in the quiet of Shackleford House, although he avoided adventures. The authors never got the mechanics right and they reminded him too much of things he’d rather forget. He sank into the story and let time pass unremarked.

  The assistant returned for him just as the story turned an interesting corner. He
put the phone back in his pocket and followed her to a consultation room.

  Cuttle stood and shook his hand. The doctor turned out to be one of those whip-thin, white-haired gentlemen who slouched around in cowboy boots and string-ties. He wore a smock around the office but left the stethoscope-wielding to his staff. “Roger, is it?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Have a seat.” They sat, Roger and Shackleford on one side of the table and Cuttle on the other. “Joe here says you’re his primary caregiver?”

  “I’m his butler, sir.”

  “So you take care of him and the house,” Cuttle said.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “He ever seem irrational to you?”

  Roger glanced at Shackleford who shrugged in return.

  “He’s seemed confused at times, yes.”

  “You think he has dementia?” Cuttle leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together over his chest.

  “Honestly, I don’t know if I’d recognize dementia if I saw it.”

  Cuttle’s bushy gray eyebrows rose a fraction. “Why do you say that? Doesn’t everybody know it when they see it?”

  “I know there are some common beliefs about it, Doctor, but I’m pretty sure it’s not just being forgetful.”

  Cuttle smiled. “Good. Joe here has given me permission to share the preliminary findings with you. I believe him competent enough to give me that permission. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Not precisely, Doctor, no.”

  “It means that his memory is a bit scratchy in places but—in my opinion—he’s not dealing with dementia. At least not yet.”

  “That’s good news, isn’t it?” Roger asked.

  Shackleford nodded but Cuttle shrugged. “He tells me there’s a hostile family situation. Do you know anything about it?”

  “I know his niece said she wants to move him into an assisted living facility in Colorado.”

  “Is she hostile?” Cuttle asked.

  “Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,” Roger said.

  Cuttle grimaced. “Your opinion on the relationship between Joe and his niece?”

  “I believe she wants the property, Doctor, and knows she isn’t in line to get it. She’s working to get him declared incompetent in order to either get control of it after moving him to assisted living or through probate after he passes away.”