The Wizard's Butler Read online

  For room and board plus five grand a month, Roger was more than willing to spend the old man’s money keeping things in order.

  He stepped out into the foyer and pulled the door shut behind him after one last glance around the room. “Pixies,” he said again, and chuckled.

  * * *

  One of the things that Roger found a trifle frustrating was the prohibition of using personal phones for house business. The Bible had a whole chapter on it. The rationale made little sense to him but he followed the regulations for Shackleford House the same way he’d followed the regs in the army. The phone prohibition didn’t extend to his personal use, so he saw no reason to break it. The frustration came from having to go to where the phone was and use the rotary dial. The first time he saw it, he didn’t believe it would still work, but the manual had not steered him wrong yet.

  His immediate problem was finding the number for the Dragon’s Pearl restaurant.

  He contemplated looking it up on his cell phone and then dialing, but that felt like cheating. What would Jeeves do?

  Roger went to the phone extension in the kitchen. It had its own little cubby near the back door. The black beauty rested on a small table with a single drawer. He pulled the drawer open and pulled out a current phone directory. “Huh.” He thumbed through the pages, found Dragon’s Pearl and dialed the number, sliding the directory back in its drawer and pushing it closed with his thigh.

  The call picked up on the first ring. “Dragon’s Pearl.” The voice on the other end fired the words down the line like bullets, so fast Roger barely understood.

  “I’d like to place an order.”

  “Pick up or delivery?”

  “Delivery.”

  “Address?”

  Roger gave the street address.

  The pause felt longer than might be suggested by writing the address down. “Is this Shackleford House?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not Perkins.”

  “No, Mr. Perkins no longer works here.”

  The pause ran longer than the last. “What’s your name?”

  “Mulligan.”

  “Please hang up, Mr. Mulligan. We will call you back.”

  Roger hung up and waited only a few heartbeats before the harsh jangle beat from the phone. He picked up the receiver and answered. “Shackleford House.”

  “Mr. Pelican?”

  “Mulligan.”

  “Huh. Very well, Mr. Mulligan. What would you like this evening? Dim sum and moo shu pork?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “And for you?”

  “For me?” Roger asked.

  “That was for Mr. Shackleford. What would you like?”

  “I’ll have the same, I guess,” Roger said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mulligan. We’ll have it there in time for dinner.”

  “Thank you,” Roger said and the line went dead.

  He hung up the phone and stared at it for several long moments, before his brain caught up with the situation. In a few minutes—perhaps half an hour—some delivery guy was going to show up at the back door with two orders of dim sum and moo shu pork. Was he supposed to write a check? Did people still accept checks?

  He went to the bible in his quarters and scanned the table of contents. “Payments for Deliveries. Page 823.” It appeared under the Financial Management chapter heading. Whoever put the book together had done one hell of a job.

  He flipped to page 823, finding it the first time he opened to the back of the book. “Use the petty cash box for small denomination deliveries (key 71). Find the box in the drawer under the worktable, opposite the serving trays. Take the cash needed and place the receipt in the box.” Seemed simple enough.

  Roger found key 71 in the key safe and took it to the kitchen. The drawer hid under the end of the prep table, just out of sight. He pulled it open and lifted out a flat metal box. Inside, the cash—three twenties, a ten, four fives, and ten ones. He counted it twice—exactly $100.

  “Gotta love a well-run household,” Roger said, replacing the box in its drawer. He slipped the key into his waistcoat pocket before checking the time.

  He pulled out a serving tray and began arranging it for Shackleford’s dinner. His cleanup would be easy tonight. As he worked, he pondered the pixie issue. The old man really sold it. Roger could believe that Shackleford seriously thought that pixies cleaned the house and fairies inhabited the garden. Who shoveled the drive in winter? Dwarves?

  He chuckled to himself but the thought sent him back to the handbook to check the section on property maintenance. The table of contents had nothing on either lawn and garden care or winter snow removal. He checked it twice. Everything else he could think of was covered. Interior maintenance—straightening the rooms, making the beds, refilling the decanters. The kitchen had its own section on restocking the pantry (standing order with Barthmore & Co., delivered weekly, billed monthly), a menu suggestion guide for various meals. Each suggestion had enough variation that Shackleford could eat a different breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day for two weeks without repeating.

  Curious.

  Were these his favorites or just the forty-odd meals the grocery order supported? His respect for the menu planner notched up a few levels as he considered what kind of effort that must have taken.

  The back doorbell jingled, and Roger put the bible back on the shelf. Something to consider later.

  He strode to the back door to find a red-haired delivery driver in a black motorcycle jacket with wide lapels and a side zipper, leather pants, and heavy boots. She carried a padded case emblazoned with a glowing golden dragon on a red background. She looked to be about twenty. One of those little econo-cars stood at the end of the tarmac. “Mr. Mulligan?”

  “Yes, thank you. Come in.” He took her through the short corridor and into the kitchen. She seemed to know her way and placed the carrier on the work table while he pulled the petty cash box from its drawer and unlocked it. “What do we owe you?”

  “Fifty-seven dollars.” She pulled a folded receipt from a pocket in the top of the bag, placing it on the table beside Roger, and unzipped the large flap around the front. She pulled a cardboard tray from the carrier, sliding it onto the table and zipped the carrier up again.

  Roger glanced at the bill and counted out sixty-five dollars.

  She took the bills and grinned. “Thanks.” She folded the money and tucked the carrier under her arm. “Enjoy your dinner.” She headed for the back door and Roger followed to secure the deadbolt behind her.

  He pulled out his pen and marked “Tip: $8” on the receipt before tucking it into the box and securing it once more in its drawer. From a security standpoint, the process made him a trifle uneasy. A stranger had come inside the perimeter, seen where the cash box was hidden, and had drawn him away from it before he’d had time to secure it. He considered how he might change that to make the house more secure in the future. The aroma wafting from the folded containers made him forget all that as he finished dishing up Shackleford’s meal. He placed a small teapot full of fresh tea on the dinner-sized tray and kicked himself for not changing to his apron. Seeing no telltale spills on his clothing, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  He took the tray up to the library and paused outside the door to knock and enter. Shackleford looked up from his book and his face lit up. “Ah. What a treat.”

  The old man’s obvious delight made Roger smile. He seemed almost childlike in his glee. “Dinner is prepared, sir.”

  “I see that, Mulligan.” He closed his book and slid it down the table, patting the now-empty space in front of him. “And you made tea to go with it. Good man. It’s just not the same without tea.”

  Roger slid the tray in front of the old man. “There you go, sir. I have to admit it smells delicious.”

  Shackleford nodded, leaning over his plate to inhale the aromas. “This is the best place I’ve found for moo shu this side of Baotou.” He looked up at Roger. “You know the traditional
dish isn’t served with these little wrappers. Just rice. I’ve grown fond of them and the Pearl does them right.”

  “I’m looking forward to trying it myself, sir.”

  “Don’t let me keep you from your meal. Carry on, Mulligan.” He nodded and addressed his meal, pouring a bit of tea from the pot and taking a sip, before taking fork in hand.

  Roger left him digging into his dinner. As he walked down the stairs toward his own meal, he wondered if the old boy got lonely up there. He never left the house, at least not since Roger had come. He never came downstairs. He spent his days reading the same book. Granted, the book had to have a million pages. The old man might be a slow reader, but always that one book. What could possibly be so interesting?

  Thoughts of the old man’s reading habits evaporated at the aroma of the garlic and spices filling the kitchen. Roger grabbed a plate from the cupboard, scooped a helping of pork and mushroom ambrosia from the paper box, and added a few of the still-warm pancakes before settling onto one of the tall work stools at the table and digging in. The food drove all thoughts from his mind as his mouth and nose explored the various flavors and textures.

  His plate emptied almost before he’d realized it and he sat back, savoring the after-tastes and debating on going back for another helping. He shook his head and wiped his mouth with a napkin, folding it beside his plate. He started to clear the leftovers, but he stopped to change into his apron. “Proper equipment for the job,” he said.

  As he put the leftovers in the fridge, his mind wandered back to the old man eating alone in the library. Did he like it? Was he lonely? The train of thought soon came around to Roger himself.

  He rinsed his dirty dishes before stacking them in the dishwasher. Since taking the job, he’d eaten every meal alone. It hadn’t been that big a shift for him since turning civilian again. He’d have to use both hands to count the number of meals he’d shared since leaving the army but it wouldn’t take all the fingers if he ignored those meals grabbed on the fly with the ambulance crew. Was he lonely? He shrugged and made a last inspection of the kitchen before changing back to his jacket, leaving the apron hanging in the pantry. On a hunch he ran a finger over one of the shelves and saw the trail it left in the dust.

  He felt the frown building on his face and looked around the oversize closet. Perhaps this space wasn’t on the regular schedule. He’d done little more than use the pantry since he’d been on the job. He went out to the kitchen and ran a finger through the dust on the shelf under the work table. It wasn’t a lot, but there was some. He checked the phone niche, lifting the black behemoth off its stand and looking at the outline of its base on the surface. The rectangular shape stood out against the surface dust. Again, not a lot, but enough to notice. He replaced the phone and walked down to the mudroom. He traced across the top of the windowsill and saw no trail in the dust. He tried the storage shelf above the laundry units. No trail. Everywhere he tested, he found no dust.

  The old man’s words came back to him. The kitchen and his quarters. He strode back to his rooms and did a fast inspection of the lateral surfaces. He found traces of dust everywhere. He grabbed the key for the cook’s quarters and went in there. He had no idea how long the house had been without a cook but surely there would be dust aplenty in a locked room.

  The cook’s quarters occupied a slightly smaller footprint than Roger’s but it was all one room, laid out in a logical manner with a full-sized bed, a sitting nook in one corner and its own window onto the garden. He ran his finger down the windowsill and across the top edge of the sash. No dust. None on the top edges of the sleigh bed, or the top rail of the wainscoting. None on the empty bookshelves. No dust anywhere. The room looked as clean and fresh as any inspection-ready barracks he’d ever seen, barring the unmade mattress on the bed. He slapped the mattress hard, watching the ray of light shining in from the window. No poof of dust.

  A chill slid down his back and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. That sense of being watched that used to happen in the villages sometimes. Out in the mountains where there was too much cover for snipers to hide in and not enough for him to use. He felt his heart rate notching up and heard his own breathing rasping in and out of his chest. He took a breath and held it for a four-count before letting it out again.

  Not enough evidence. The room had been closed and locked for months. He shook his head and left, locking the door behind him.

  He tucked the key away in the safe and considered what the old man had said about whiskey. He shook his head and checked the time before heading up to the library to get the old man’s tray and see if he needed anything before bed. He checked the railings and even the top of the wainscoting as he passed from the ground floor up to the library. No dust anywhere. He shook his head, trying to find some rational explanation for the evidence. Could there really be pixies?

  “What the hell is a pixie?” he asked, finding that he only had the word but no real concept. He had a better idea of a leprechaun from folklore. Not for the first time, he wished the house had internet access. He stopped outside the library and took a cleansing breath, putting the notions of pixies and fairies and leprechauns out of his mind. He tapped twice and swung the door open, stepping into the room.

  “If you’re through with dinner, sir?” he asked.

  The old man looked up. “Yes, thank you, Perkins. You may clear. What did you think of the moo shu?”

  “Delicious, sir. A nice break from my own cooking. Thank you for the treat, sir.”

  He waved the comment away. “Quite welcome, quite welcome.” He turned back to the book—the same book as always—that lay splayed open on the table.

  Roger took the tray and paused at the door. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  Shackleford shook his head, not looking up from the book but placing a fingertip on the page. “I’ll take a hot chocolate at 10, if you please, Perkins.”

  “A hot chocolate, sir?”

  The old man looked up from his book. “Yes, Perkins. If it’s not too much trouble?”

  Roger gave his butler bow. “Not at all, sir.”

  “Thank you, Perkins.”

  Roger left and went to the kitchen to find a recipe for hot chocolate. The last time he’d made it, he put a couple spoons of powder in a mug and poured boiling water on it. He felt certain that Shackleford wanted something a little more than powdered gratification. He felt sorry for the old geezer; his confusion level seemed to be mounting. Roger knew there was little he could do about it except to make him as comfortable as possible.

  Chapter 5

  Roger came in from his run and tossed the paper and the morning’s flower onto the counter before locating a vase. He put a little water into it and stood the blossom—pale yellow petals with a black center—in the slender milk-glass container. While he was there, he ground the coffee and filled the pot with water. Setting it to brew, he headed for the shower, stripping off his T-shirt as he went.

  Under the steamy spray, he considered his hot cocoa skills. The old man hadn’t seemed bothered by the cup he’d gotten, but Roger couldn’t help but think he could have done better. He’d have to pursue that. He’d tried a little himself and found it just a bit unsatisfying.

  He shut off the shower and scooted across the hallway to his quarters as he finished drying his hair.

  Something smelled funny but he couldn’t place it. Almost like pickles. He checked his deodorant but that wasn’t it. He shrugged and pulled on the uniform, making sure to put the watch in his pocket. He stopped to make a note about cocoa recipes before slipping the notebook and pen into their proper place.

  He caught another whiff. Definitely pickle-smelling.

  He followed his nose out into the hallway and out to the kitchen where the pickle smell nearly overwhelmed him. It wasn’t quite pickle. It had just a hint of coffee.

  Frowning, he went to the coffee maker and pulled the pot from under the spigot. He held the glass container up to the light.
It looked fine, but when he stuck his nose near the spout, the vinegar smell caught him right between the eyes.

  He pushed the pot away, flipping the lid and pouring it down the drain.

  “What the hell?”

  He rinsed the pot with hot water, smelling it and rinsing a few more times before the pickle smell dissipated. He pulled the filter full of pickled grounds from the basket and dumped it into the trash, before rinsing the gold basket clean.

  He looked at the faucet and at the vase with the flower in it. He picked it up, pulled the flower out and sniffed the water. Just water. He replaced the flower and put the vase back on the table.

  Next he flipped the top open on the coffeemaker and sniffed inside. The vinegar smell lingered but he still couldn’t figure out where it came from. With a shrug, he refilled the reservoir with fresh cold water and set the machine to cycle. It took him three cycles but he finally got the hot water coming out without the vinegar smell.

  He checked the time and set about making the first pot of the day. With luck, he’d get it done in time to take Shackleford’s breakfast up.

  The whole time he worked on breakfast, he kept an eye on the coffee maker. The fresh brew smelled fine and tasted like coffee.

  He shook his head. “What the hell?”

  * * *

  Roger delivered breakfast at the usual hour: a ham and cheese omelet, one slice of buttered toast, a small glass of orange juice, and the old man’s single cup of coffee.

  Shackleford looked up at his entrance. “Good morning, Mulligan.”

  “Good morning, sir. Did you sleep well?”

  “Passable, Mulligan. Passable.” He put the book down and examined the tray. “This looks delicious, Mulligan. Branching out in your culinary endeavors?”

  “Just trying to keep mealtime interesting, sir.”

  The old man smiled. “Excellent work. Thank you, Mulligan.”

  “Is there anything else, sir?”

  Shackleton paused. “There is one thing, Mulligan.”