The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  “That’s just your opinion?” Cuttle asked, a note of incredulity in his voice.

  “Well, some of it she told me. Some of it I’ve extrapolated, sir.”

  “He’s not incompetent. He aced his MMSE and seems particularly cogent for a man of sixty. Given that he’s got a couple of decades more than that on him, that’s damn good in my book.”

  Roger nodded.

  Shackleford leaned forward. “I wanted you to hear this, Mulligan. Direct from the good doctor’s mouth.”

  “Honestly, I think you’re doing better, sir. You hardly ever call me Perkins anymore.”

  “Who’s Perkins?” Cuttle asked.

  “My late butler. He was with me for nearly forty years,” Shackleford said. “Old habits die hard.”

  “I’ll happily certify him as rational,” Cuttle said. “I should be so sane. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Shackleford said. “I may be back to you on that, depending on how this all shakes loose in the end.”

  Cuttle nodded and rose. “I’ve got another patient to get to. Nice to meet you, Joe. Roger.” He paused to shake hands before leaving the room.

  “We seem to be getting the pieces together, sir.”

  Shackleford nodded. “It won’t satisfy her, but it’s a foundation we can build on.”

  A medical assistant opened the door. “This way, gentlemen.”

  Shackleford stayed quiet the whole way back to Shackleford House, gazing out the window as he always did.

  Roger rolled onto the tarmac behind the house to find Naomi waiting in her BMW. He pulled to a stop and looked back at Shackleford. “Suggestions?”

  “It’s probably too late to leave,” the old man said with a chuckle. “There’s a wheelchair in the trunk if you need it. Let me see if I can make her angry enough to leave before it comes to that. Pull up so I can talk to her through the window.”

  Roger maneuvered the Mercedes around in a loop and stopped.

  Shackleford rolled down the window to Naomi’s astonished stare.

  Her window dropped. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just got back from my checkup,” Shackleford said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “Checkup? What checkup?”

  “Geriatrics specialist in dementia. Recommendation from my regular doctor. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “That is not what I wanted,” Naomi said.

  Shackleford chuckled. “No, I suspect you wanted me to go to one of your pet doctors who already has the diagnosis on file.”

  “Uncle, you’re not yourself.” She leaned out to look at the Mercedes. “And what is this car? Where’s the Bentley?”

  “The Bentley is safe,” Shackleford said. “This is my new car. Mulligan’s suggestion, actually.”

  “Mulligan?” Naomi asked. “That’s not part of the deal, Mulligan.”

  Roger turned his head to look at her. “Ma’am?”

  “You were supposed to keep him from doing stupid things like this.”

  “You hired me to take care of him and the house. Using the old cars—taking them out of the garage where they may have become irreparably damaged—would have been reckless.”

  “So you spent how much money to buy this?” she asked. “He’s not competent to be making that kind of decision and you know it.”

  “I’m right here, Naomi,” Shackleford said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d go back to sniping behind my back and not talk about me while I’m in the room. For your information, according to the specialist, there’s nothing wrong with my mind. The decision to safeguard the antiques and get a modern vehicle with better safety features and readily available repairs makes a great deal of sense.”

  “How much did that cost?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “That’s none of your business,” Shackleford said. He paused. “What do you want, Naomi?”

  “I just wanted to see how you were doing, Uncle.”

  Shackleford nodded. “As you can see, I’m doing very well. Now, I’m tired and I want my nap. I suggest you piss off.” He pressed the button to roll the window up.

  “Think she’ll leave, sir?” Roger asked.

  Shackleford shrugged and stared straight ahead. “Let’s give her a few moments, Mulligan.”

  Naomi fulminated in her seat for a few moments. She spoke occasionally, the sound of her voice making its way into the car but not the actual shape of her words. She paused and then Roger’s phone rang.

  He slipped it from his pocket. “It’s her, sir.”

  “May as well see what she has to say,” Shackleford said.

  Roger pressed the answer key. “Yes, Ms. Patching?”

  “I have no idea what game you think you’re playing, Mulligan, but this will cease. Am I clear?”

  “No, ma’am. You are not clear. You hired me to keep Mr. Shackleford safe and to take care of the building. I am doing that.”

  “Don’t play the fool with me, Mulligan. What’s the idea of getting rid of the Bentley and buying that thing?”

  “As Mr. Shackleford explained, ma’am. The Bentley is a priceless antique. Since you have insisted that he venture out of the house for medical purposes, Mr. Shackleford has retired the classic cars and obtained a late-model vehicle to replace them.”

  “He’s spent a quarter of a million on a damn car, Mulligan. That’s not rational.”

  “If you say so, ma’am.”

  She paused and Roger thought he could hear her teeth grinding over the phone. “What did they say? The doctors?”

  “One moment, ma’am.” Roger put the call on hold. “She wishes to know what the doctors said, sir.”

  Shackleford rolled his window down and peered out at her. “They said I’m in good health and sane, Naomi.”

  She hung up her phone and glared. “Of course they did. It’s what you paid them for.”

  “Any yours will find the same thing, unless you’re paying them to say differently,” Shackleford said. “It’s over, Naomi.”

  “What’s over?” she asked, her face going blank.

  “Your meddling,” Shackleford said.

  “Meddling, Uncle?” Her voice rose an octave. “I only want what’s best for you. You’re not a young man—”

  “Enough,” Shackleford said. He didn’t raise his voice but the word snapped across the short distance like a ruler on her knuckles.

  She winced and her jaw clamped shut with a click of teeth.

  “You’re not welcome in my home as long as you persist, Naomi.” Shackleford’s gaze seemed to burn into the woman and she wilted back from the pressure. “If you want to visit, set up the date and time with Mulligan in advance. Do you understand?”

  Naomi’s eyes could have shot lightning at him based on the storm on her face. “This is not over.” She bit each word off and spit it at the old man. She cranked the BMW over and slammed it into gear, pulling off of the tarmac with a little pop of rubber and disappearing down the alley with a growl of abused engine noise.

  “Thank you, Mulligan,” Shackleford said. “I’ll get out here while you take care of the car.”

  Roger got out to hold the door for the old man and watched him cross the short distance to the house. His back seemed a bit straighter, his gait steadier. He didn’t bother with the door knob, just gestured with his left hand and walked through the open door. It swung closed behind him, and Roger shut the door on the Mercedes.

  The exchange gave him a lot to think about. What would Naomi try next? He felt certain that she wasn’t done and the property represented too much money—and too much ego—for her to let the old man win. He’d seen that look before on tribal warlords. It never boded well for anybody. He keyed the garage door open and backed the Mercedes into place. The rules of engagement here were different, but he felt sure that Shackleford had just gone to war.

  * * *

  Featherstone showed up at the front door unannounced. “Sorry, Mulligan.
Is the old man in?” His suit looked rumpled, but he seemed otherwise calm and collected.

  Roger held the door open. “Come in, sir. He’s just finishing his breakfast. If you’d care to wait in the parlor, I’ll see if he’s taking visitors.”

  Featherstone nodded and took a seat in the parlor while Roger went upstairs.

  Roger knocked twice on the door and entered.

  Shackleford looked up from his paper, coffee cup lifted halfway to his mouth.

  “Sorry, sir. Mr. Featherstone just arrived, asking to see you.”

  The old man put the cup back on his tray and nodded. “Show him up, Mulligan, and bring some more coffee.”

  “Of course, sir.” Roger returned to the parlor and collected Featherstone, taking him up to the library. “Would you care for some breakfast, sir?”

  Featherstone shook his head. “I’ve eaten, thank you.”

  Roger opened the library door and ushered Featherstone in before heading down to the kitchen for a carafe and an extra cup. By the time he returned, Featherstone and Shackleford had their heads together, Featherstone with an odd smile on his face and the old man staring into the middle distance with a frown. “Coffee, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan,” Shackleford said. “Just leave it.”

  Roger arranged the cups and coffee on the low table between their chairs and retreated from the room. He still had the master suite to clear and the morning’s chores to do. As much as he wanted to be a fly on that wall, duty called. It wasn’t the first time he’d been shut out of a meeting, nor would it be the last.

  The two men stayed closeted for nearly an hour before Roger’s pager called him back to the library. He knocked and entered as Featherstone stood from his seat and shook hands with Shackleford. “I’ll have a full report later today, Joe.”

  “Thank you for the preliminary, Amos. I’ll look forward to the detail. You really think she’s not the one?”

  Featherstone shrugged. “I’ll be honest. She seems like the real deal. She’s definitely a Shackleford somewhere back along, but ...” He paused and glanced at Roger. “But I don’t know,” he said, looking back at the old man.

  “I appreciate your insights, Amos. I’m still tracking through the DNA data. New names come up but none as close as this Griffin woman.”

  Featherstone nodded. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got a report to write.” He followed Roger down to the front door. “Thank you, Mulligan.”

  Roger gave him a little bow. “Thank you, Mr. Featherstone.”

  Featherstone paused at the stoop and looked up at the house before striking off down the path.

  Roger returned to the library to clear away the breakfast.

  “Oh, Mulligan. Good,” Shackleford said. “Featherstone says she’s unlikely to want to give up her life and her business to move here.”

  “The Griffin woman, sir?”

  Shackleford nodded and crossed to his computer terminal to turn the key. He looked at Roger as the machine booted up. “She has a business, it seems.”

  Roger gathered the used cups and the empty carafe onto the breakfast tray. “What kind of business, sir?”

  Shackleford chuckled. “That’s why Featherstone’s a bit leery.” He tapped on the keyboard, his gnarled index fingers pecking their way around until he hit enter. A website painted itself on the screen with a wash of text and individual images blinking into the blanks. A banner across the top of the page showed a woman staring over the top of a crystal ball. She wore a blue turban with a white jewel in the front. The text underneath read “Madam Dionysia Knows.”

  “It seems she’s a fortune-teller,” Shackleford said, grinning at Roger, his eyebrows working up and down.

  A thin shiver shook the skin between Roger’s shoulder blades as he looked between the two faces—the woman stared from the screen with Shackleford’s eyes. They may not have been as old or as wrinkled around the edges but the shape and the icy green depths matched perfectly.

  “You see it, too, Mulligan?” Shackleford asked, turning to look at the screen again.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So did Amos,” Shackleford said. “Do you think she’d give up that charade to come live here?”

  “What makes you think it’s a charade, sir?”

  Shackleford spun around to stare at Roger. “Telling fortunes isn’t magic, Mulligan. It’s make-believe. It’s not one of the arts.”

  Roger picked up the tray. “If you say so, sir. I thought it was all make-believe not long ago.” He glanced at the eyes on the screen. “What if she’s using the psychic bit as a cover for what she’s really doing, sir?”

  Shackleford’s confident stare faded and he turned to look at the screen again, the tip of his tongue tasting his lower lip. “A good question, Perkins. A very good question.”

  Roger left him gazing into the screen and took care of the dirty dishes. The speculation wouldn’t be resolved any time soon. He felt pretty sure that he’d get a chance to take the Mercedes out for a spin on the interstate sooner rather than later. Whatever Barbara Griffin was doing, whether she was a wizard or not, she had the old man’s eyes, not those of a thirty-something charlatan.

  Chapter 12

  The phone rang in the middle of the night, its jangle pulling Roger from a sound sleep around 3 a.m. He went to the alcove off the kitchen—cursing whoever had called, while afraid of what might be the reason. “Shackleford House.”

  “Mr. Shackleford?” A man’s voice came over the line, almost buried in the sounds of shouts and engines in the background.

  “No, sir. I’m Mulligan, the butler.”

  “Wake him. His warehouse is on fire.”

  A splash of cold water seemed to drench Roger’s spine. “One moment.” He put the phone down and raced up the stairs to the master suite where he found Shackleford already vertical and belting on a robe.

  The old man looked up as Roger entered. “Telephone?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.” He held the door for Shackleford and followed him to the upstairs parlor.

  He picked up the receiver and spoke into it. “Shackleford.” He stood there for several long moments, nodding occasionally but saying nothing. “Thank you, Hedgecock. Does the fire chief need me there?”

  Roger didn’t hear the reply but Shackleford nodded. “I’ll expect him in the morning, then.” He listened for a few more moments. “Keep me apprised and good work.” He hung up and looked at Roger. “Looks like Naomi’s peeved.”

  “The cars?” Roger asked.

  “Different warehouse. Mostly old furniture and household goods.” Shackleford headed for his bedroom. “Nothing we can do tonight. Fire chief and arson investigators will be here in the morning. Make sure to keep a pot of coffee on.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Roger settled back into his bed but lay there staring at the ceiling until morning. He strapped on his running gear and headed out, Molly Flint joining him halfway down the alley.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “Sorry. I’m a bit distracted this morning. A fire in one of Mr. Shackleford’s warehouses last night.”

  “I saw the news. That was his?” she asked.

  “Yeah. We got the call around three.”

  “It was a wonder they saved the building,” she said.

  Roger glanced at her. “I haven’t seen the news.”

  “The brickwork got scorched pretty good but the flames didn’t get inside.” Molly shrugged. “Pictures on the news this morning. Lotta smoke but it didn’t even burn through the doors.”

  “Lucky break, I guess,” Roger said.

  “That and the night watchman found it almost immediately and called 911.” She looked at him. “You didn’t know this?”

  Roger shook his head. “I’m just the butler and we don’t have TV at the house. Mr. Shackleford took the call.”

  The morning sun promised a nice day, and the trees along the path glowed with autumn colors, occasionally crunching underfoot as the
y ran. They never talked much once the running started in earnest, so the morning progressed normally. Molly peeled off to cool down at her gate and Roger continued on to Shackleford House. The whole way he pondered how much of the lack of damage had to do with the lucky night watchman and how much of it was some kind of magical protection.

  He got through his shower and poured the first cup of coffee before the front doorbell rang, but only barely. On the stoop he found a tired looking pair smelling of smoke.

  The woman held up a badge. “Chief Bray. This is Inspector Tinker from the State Fire Marshall’s Office. Can we come in?”

  “Of course, Chief. Mr. Shackleford is expecting you.” Roger stepped back and ushered them in. “You can wait in the parlor while I see if he’s awake. Would you care for coffee?”

  “You’re the butler?” Tinker asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were you here all night?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Adrian.” The chief cast a glance at the shorter inspector. “Thank you, Mulligan, is it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Roger Mulligan. Mr. Shackleford and I were in all night.”

  “We’re a bit smoked up, Mr. Mulligan. We can wait here,” she said. “Save the furniture.”

  “It’s not an issue, ma’am, but wherever you’re most comfortable. I’ll be just a moment.”

  Roger went up the stairs to the master suite and knocked before entering.

  Shackleford exited the bathroom, tying a flannel robe around his pajamas. “They’re here already, Mulligan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The old man scrubbed a hand over his face. “Give me a moment to find some trousers. I’m sure they have questions. Can you lay on coffee and pastry in the small dining room?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Five minutes, Mulligan.”

  “I’ll tell them, sir.”

  Roger closed the doors to the suite and returned to the ground floor. “Mr. Shackleford is dressing and will be with you shortly. If you’d come this way?” He led them back to the small dining room off the kitchen, where he opened the drapes to let in the morning light. “Please, make yourselves comfortable while I get some coffee for you.”