The Wizard's Butler Read online

  He looked around his quarters for a filing cabinet or some indication of where the actual bills had been stored. Nothing jumped out at him, but there had to be something. He eyed the pile of mail. He doubted that was months’ worth, although it could certainly represent several days. He replaced the ledger on its shelf and went to close the rolltop, only then realizing that the bottom half of the desk was made of drawers, one of which held very modern-looking files, each tabbed and arranged in alphabetical order. The lightest touch on one of two decorative-looking knobs on a shallow drawer front to the right of center caused a writing surface, complete with blotter, to slide out from beneath the main desktop.

  Every time he thought he had a handle on things, he discovered some aspect he hadn’t anticipated. The whole situation began to feel more and more out of control—snowballing on him and threatening to sweep him away.

  He sighed and then took another deep breath. He could do this. Roger headed to his bedroom, intent on grabbing a fresh shirt from his duffle bag, and froze in the doorway. The bag lay on its side on one of those hotel-style suitcase stands in the corner. The deep green canvas bag looked out of place in the wood and leather room. How had it gotten out of the wardrobe? “What the—”

  Looking around, he spotted a small black notebook resting on the top of the dresser, a silver pen beside it. A white card stuck out of the top of the book like a bookmark. Heavy paper stock, he thought as he pulled it out.

  “A gift from Mrs. Pettigrew to Roger Mulligan on the occasion of his first posting. Even the sharpest minds sometimes need help with memories. Use this to aid yours. Best wishes.” The words spidered across the card in a flowing script; it was signed with an ornately flourished P.

  He opened the wardrobe and blinked. The cavernous interior held clothing—the very clothing he’d been fitted for. He pulled out one of the coats and one of the white shirts. Hangers full of them took up over half the space. Long coats on the left, then the shorter. A few vests. No, waistcoats. More shirts than he’d ever owned in his life, all neatly hung. The far right held the slacks. He pulled some of them out, noting that a few had the satin stripe while most of them were plain. A tie rack on the door held a bouquet of dove gray ties. Four pairs of shoes stood lined up along the bottom of the wardrobe.

  He looked around. Nothing else seemed disturbed. How was this even possible?

  He opened the top drawer on the dresser and found neatly rolled black socks and a tray with the pocket watch and chain in it. The second drawer held white undershirts, the third boxers. The bottom three lay empty and he had no idea what might go in them until he glanced at his duffel bag and shrugged. “Seems legit.”

  He needed to report to Shackleford and realized they both needed lunch. He’d lost the morning and felt like he was wading through hip-deep muddy water into the afternoon. He stopped to pick up the pile of mail and headed for the stairs. No time like the present.

  * * *

  Roger knocked twice on the library door and opened it. Shackleford sat in his chair, staring into space. For a moment Roger thought the old coot had snuffed it while he was out, but he was too upright, too stiff. It took a while for corpses to stiffen up. He waited, unsure whether he should close the door and walk away or enter, possibly breaking the man’s concentration.

  The dilemma resolved itself when Shackleford seemed to reanimate and tilted his head to one side, staring at Roger. “What is it, Perkins?” he asked. “Sorry, Mulligan.” He offered a small grin and shrug. “I beg your indulgence, Mulligan. Perkins was with me for decades.”

  Roger stepped into the room and shrugged. “I understand, sir. Slip of the tongue.”

  “Precisely,” the old man said. “Did you find Mrs. Pettigrew?”

  “I did, sir. It appears my new uniforms have arrived already.”

  “Did they? Excellent.” He eyed Roger. “You’re not wearing it?”

  “I only just returned, sir. I have the mail and wanted to check in with you as soon as possible. I can go change, if you’d prefer?”

  “Not necessary, Mulligan. Thank you.” He held out his hand for the mail. “Have you sorted it?”

  Roger handed it over. “No, sir. I wasn’t sure how much you wanted me to. What’s important and what’s not.”

  Shackleford nodded and tossed the pile on the library table. “Sort it now and I’ll see if you and I agree on what’s important.”

  Roger crossed to the table and shuffled the advertisements, glossy magazines, and first class into three piles. He then went through the first class, weighing each in his hand and ignoring most of the ‘urgent time-sensitive’ come-ons. It took him only a few minutes to complete the task.

  Shackleford stepped up beside Roger and nodded. “From now on, you can recycle the ads directly. Magazines go here in the library eventually, but new issues go on my bedside table. Just swap the new for the old and file the old in the appropriate box.” He nodded at the neatly labeled row of file boxes on one of the library shelves. “I keep them for reference.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The old man eyed the three stacks of first class. “You can open anything in first class, Mulligan. I’ve no secrets from you.” He picked up one of the ‘urgent time-sensitive’ envelopes and ripped it open. The solicitation inside looked familiar. “Roadside service life insurance.” The old man shook his head. “You can recycle anything that offers me a deal on anything. I don’t deal with vendors I don’t know.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  He picked up one of the envelopes marked ‘invoice enclosed,’ giving it the same rough treatment. He pulled it out, scanning it briefly. “Yes, you’ll find bills for services rendered.” He looked up at Mulligan from under his eyebrows. “You are my butler, not my laborer. It’s your job to hire the people to do the work and see that it’s done correctly and to your satisfaction. Not to do the work yourself. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Utilities, taxes, normal bills. Simply pay them. You have signatory authorization on the house checking account. Anything that looks odd, bring it to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Shackleford pointed to the last pile of envelopes. “Why did you put these in a separate pile?” he asked, looking up at Mulligan.

  “They don’t fit any of the other piles, sir. They’re not obvious bills. They’re not likely sales flyers.”

  Shackleford nodded. “Open them for me, please?”

  Roger opened the first three—a sales offer masquerading as a letter, an invitation to a hearing aid demonstration, and a letter from a friend telling of his adventures overseas. “I’d toss the first two, sir.”

  Shackleford nodded again. “This one?”

  Roger picked it up and put it back down. He shook his head. He picked it up again and put it back down.

  “What’s the matter, man? I asked you to open it.” Shackleford looked at him, a mischievous grin taking the sting out of his words.

  “I don’t know, sir. I pick it up, try to open it, but then put it back down.” He tried a couple more times. “I don’t understand.”

  Shackleford nodded. “It’s warded.”

  Roger stared at the old man. “What do you mean warded, sir?”

  “I can open it but you won’t be able to,” he said. “You also can’t inadvertently discard or shred it. Various messages from my colleagues around the world. They’re rare but should you come across one, simply put it with those missives that require my attention.”

  “I understand, sir.” Roger didn’t really understand but couldn’t deny that somehow the letter didn’t want to be opened. The thought unsettled him.

  “Is there anything else, Mulligan?”

  “I have to be honest, sir, I don’t know much about bookkeeping.”

  He nodded. “Neither did Perkins in the beginning.” He grinned. “I don’t know much either, but if you need help, hire it. You have a budget for it and if you need more, it’s available.”

  “You mean
hire a bookkeeper, sir?”

  “If that’s your wish. I’m not sure we have enough work to keep a full-time bookkeeper employed. You may just want to hire a consultant to teach you how to do it.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll look into that. Would you like lunch?”

  “I would, Mulligan. Thank you. A bit of soup would sit well.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll get changed and see to it.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan.” Shackleford scooped up the recalcitrant letter and the one from his friend. He waved a hand at the rest. The junk mail disappeared, leaving only the bill resting on the table.

  Roger blinked, feeling his jaw drop.

  Shackleford looked up at him. “What? Did you want them for some reason?”

  “No, sir. It just surprised me.” He bit down on his tongue to keep from asking how the old guy had done it. “That’s quite a trick.”

  Shackleford offered up a sly smile. “You don’t believe I’m a wizard yet?”

  “You’re definitely a wizard, sir.” He had to be the best magician Roger had ever seen. “No doubt in my mind.”

  Shackleford chuckled. “It’s only the first day, Mulligan. It gets easier as it goes along.”

  Roger gave his butler bow. “Of course, sir.” He turned to leave, but the old man stopped him at the door.

  “A few of those little round crackers, too, Mulligan. The salt is terrible for me but a few in soup?” He shrugged, his eyes looking more like puppy-dog than wizard.

  “I’ll see what I can find, sir. Should I stock them?”

  “Just a few, perhaps.” The old man grinned.

  “Very good, sir.” He stepped out into the hall and realized that having that notebook right at that moment would have been a very good idea. He tried to remember what the other thing he was going to remember was and snorted when he couldn’t.

  * * *

  He felt a little self-conscious putting on the uniform for the first time. Since it wasn’t a formal occasion he took the suit pants and jacket rather than the morning coat with the fancy trousers. The mirrors in the wardrobe’s doors made tying the tie pretty easy. His fingers seemed to work the knot from memory without him having to think “this goes through there” too much. He finished by slipping into the jacket and buttoning the top button. His wristwatch gleamed and he crossed to the dresser, sliding the top drawer open to get at the tray. The bulky wrist chronometer found a home there and he pulled out the pocket watch. Fastening the chain, he checked the time against the wristwatch. One of them was off by a minute, but he didn’t try to correct either.

  He pulled the pager off his belt and held it in his fingers, wondering where to put it. No pockets allowed. Finally he clipped it to the waistband of his trousers near the key-ring loop on his hip. The device was barely bigger than a pack of matches and didn’t break the line of his coat.

  He picked up the notebook from the top of the dresser and pulled off the elastic cord holding it closed. The pen was a simple retractable ballpoint, a few grades above your basic Bic, and it wrote in black ink, of course. He jotted down a quick note about oyster crackers and another about calling a locksmith to change the locks on the outside doors. Then he made a note to look in the garage to see what vehicles it held. After thinking for a moment, he added one about inventorying the house and hiring a bookkeeper to help him make sense of the household finances.

  He clicked the pen again and closed his notebook, slipping the elastic around it and clipping the pen in the handy loop. The whole thing slid into his inner pocket like it had been made for it. Given the source, it probably had.

  He checked himself in the mirror again, frowning at the shadow on his jaw. He’d need to pay a little more attention to the morning shave, apparently. He shrugged and headed for the kitchen, his new shoes clicking on the parquet floor.

  He glanced around looking for something. What was it Pettigrew had said? Apron. He didn’t have one. Did he?

  He opened what he thought was a broom closet only to find a full pantry behind the door. Yes, there was a broom and dustpan in spring clips. Beside them, a black apron hung on a peg. He slipped his jacket off, swapping it with the apron. He looped the top strap over his head and pulled the buckled belt around his back. The two ends clicked together with a snap.

  It took him some looking and poking but found the soup and crackers. Soup went into the microwave and he co-opted a sugar bowl sans lid for the crackers. The two bowls looked rather lonesome on the tray, so he added a glass of sparkling water, a small side-salad of greens he found in the fridge, and a china ramekin which he filled with a ranch dressing he’d found with the rest of the condiments. The old guy must like it. Satisfied with the luncheon tray, he swapped his apron for the jacket once more and took the tray up to Shackleford.

  The old man barely looked up when Roger swapped the lunch tray for the breakfast one that still sat on the table, nothing but crumbs and an empty mug left on it.

  “Lunch, sir.”

  “Thank you, Perkins,” he said without looking up. “Just leave it on the table.”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. He wondered what was so important to the man that he spent days studying that book.

  Tray returned and breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, he retired to his quarters to call a locksmith. Time to get the security under control.

  * * *

  Roger always rose early. At 5 a.am., he rolled out of his new, comfortable bed and did his morning twenty-five—pushups, jumping jacks, and sit-ups. Twenty-five each. A far cry from his army days, but it got his blood moving. He changed into his jogging clothes and headed for the back door. He’d need to find the right path in his new neighborhood but felt confident that in the upscale, gentrified environs he’d find plenty of paths.

  His dawn patrol took him out the back door, down the tarmac, and around the alley. The backs of the townhouses lining the alley all looked the same, each with its fenced-in yard, some with parking lots, most with just a stockade privacy fence and trash-bag gate. Almost all had the same dumpster in a sedate green with a white triangle logo. The alley itself seemed remarkably clear of gang tags or loose litter. The occasional plastic bag fluttered in a corner, but those things went wherever the wind blew. It wouldn’t surprise him to find them in the Sahara.

  The alley continued across several cross streets, the gentrified row houses seemingly unending. He jogged three blocks down and turned up to the main street to jog back. He dodged a few early dog-walkers by stepping off the sidewalk to run in the gutter. The overnight parking bans appeared to be strictly enforced since he didn’t have to run around vehicles. The repetitive warning signs with their red zero-slash ticked by him so often he wondered which councilman’s son had the franchise on producing them. He jogged past the front of the house, glancing up at it and feeling a pang that the edifice might be gone in a year, erased in favor of the monotonous stone, brick, chrome, and wood façades of yet another two or three “modern townhouse condominiums starting at the low 1Ms.” He snorted, startling a forty-something in trendy cross-trainers, capri-length leggings and an oversized Miskatonic U. Athletics hoodie as she walked her mutt along the brick-paved sidewalk. She scowled at him and he gave her a smile, a nod, and a wide berth as he passed. At the next cross-street he turned down to complete his loop by jogging up the alley to the tarmac. He paused to walk the last bit, giving himself a bit of cooldown. It hadn’t been much of a run but it would do until he had more time to find his way.

  Back in his quarters, he slipped into a pair of jeans to walk across the hall to the bath and take a shower. When he returned to his rooms, he took the notebook from the top of his dresser, flipping it open. He’d crossed off the locksmith note as soon as the locks had new keys. The locksmith made short work of the front and back doors, presenting Roger with four keys for each. He made sure one hung in the key safe but also left one out on his desk.

  He checked the remaining items on the list as
he changed into his uniform of the day. Roger wasn’t sure what time Shackleford got up. He went to the kitchen and prepared one of his own favorite breakfasts—a pair of poached eggs with well-buttered toast and coffee. It took only a few minutes, and he ate in the kitchen, leaning against the counter near the sink.

  He put his dishes in the washer and went to the key safe in his quarters to retrieve the key marked ‘Garage’ in big letters. On his way down the tarmac to pick up the morning paper, he swung by the garage. Flipping the switch inside the door kicked on a row of fluorescent tubes down the length of the barnlike structure. Three cars, each parked nose out, gleamed side by side in a row. A mechanic’s work bench held tools he’d seen before but had only limited experience with. The concrete floor looked clean enough to eat off.

  First in line, a classic black limousine from sometime in the fifties, maybe. Long nose, short trunk. It looked European, like something from a diplomatic newsreel. He strolled past the nose, where a Bentley badge above the grille held a B with wings. He peeked in at the leather interior but felt nervous about even looking at it.

  Next a black Cadillac limo from the 60s, judging from the design. Compared to the sleek Bentley beside it, it looked like a box with fins but the wide stance and longer wheelbase probably made it a good choice for a longer ride.

  A red MG convertible perched last in line. The boxy shape, curved doors, and gleaming chrome made him smile. It had to be from the forties or fifties. Older than Roger’s mother. He glanced back up the line. Probably they all were. He couldn’t imagine how much money the three vehicles might fetch from a classic car buyer. The thought made him swallow hard at the idea that—at some point—he might have to drive one of them.

  The last bay stood empty. A few faint tire tracks on the concrete made him think it hadn’t always been that way. Perhaps the late Perkins had kept a vehicle there. He shrugged and walked back up the line around the backs of the cars. Each was as inspiring from the back as the front. Cars had never been Roger’s passion, but gazing at the collection in the old man’s garage, he could see why some people might love them.