The Wizard's Butler Page 8

  “Yes, sir?”

  “It’s the pixies.”

  “The pixies, sir?”

  Shackleford nodded. “They are becoming more upset. They didn’t appreciate having their work critiqued.”

  “Critiqued, sir?”

  “Yes. Apparently you inspected their handiwork?”

  “I don’t follow, sir.”

  “They believe you were checking up on them, Mulligan. The front parlor. Cook’s quarters.”

  Roger struggled to keep his surprise from showing on his face. “They are concerned, sir?”

  “Yes, Mulligan. It appears they disapprove of your standard of housekeeping in the areas you’ve taken over and wish to resume their work.”

  “I see, sir.” Roger swallowed. The old boy had lost it. “What would you suggest, sir?”

  Shackleford pursed his lips and stared at his breakfast for a few moments. “A thimbleful of whiskey.”

  “For me, sir?”

  He laughed. “It wouldn’t hurt, Mulligan, but no. For them. Leave a bit of whiskey in a saucer on the counter in the kitchen. Think of it as a libation.” He frowned slightly. “I had a cook who did it on a regular basis, actually. Back when Shackleford House had a full staff. Mrs. Chapman, I believe. Lovely lady.” He looked up at Mulligan. “She claimed it kept them happy and out of her flour crock.”

  “Flour crock?”

  “She claimed they hunted the weevils in it.” Shackleford laughed. “Preposterous idea, but that’s what she claimed.”

  “That the pixies hunted weevils in her flour?” Roger asked.

  “Precisely, Mulligan. We have no weevils in the flour for them to hunt.” He shook his head, a smile playing around his mouth. “She claimed they left their floury footprints on her counters.”

  “I see, sir.”

  Shackleford chuckled and shook his head before addressing his breakfast. “If you’d see to that little matter? Tonight if possible?”

  “Of course, sir. Any particular whiskey the pixies favor?”

  “Use the cheap stuff in the front parlor. They don’t have particularly refined palates. It’s mostly the thought that counts with them. They like being acknowledged for their service. Best do it before they start playing pranks on you.”

  Roger nodded. “Of course, sir.”

  “Carry on, Mulligan.” Shackleford dug into breakfast.

  “Thank you, sir,” Roger said and left the library to straighten out the master suite. He’d done it so often he hardly had to think about it at all. That gave him plenty of time to think about what the old man had said, and he didn’t like it. Clearly his dementia was advancing, but a couple of his comments struck a nerve. Shackleford knew that he’d been in the cook’s quarters. For a man who never left the sanctuary of the second floor, how had he known? He sighed, giving the suite a last once-over before gathering the dirty clothing for the laundry. He’d do it, of course. Put out the whiskey. He’d had much stranger orders from superiors and he knew enough to follow them.

  He also resolved to do some research on dementia to see if there might be something he could do to help make the old man’s life less confusing.

  In the meantime, he had laundry to do and the grocery delivery should be arriving at midmorning. He wondered what life at Shackleford House had been like with a full staff. Who lived here? It seemed incomprehensible that the old man would have a full staff. If he was honest with himself, Roger knew there wasn’t enough work for him to do as full-time butler as it was.

  He shrugged and got on with the morning routine. “Five grand a month with a million-dollar chaser,” he said. He could put up with a lot for that kind of money.

  * * *

  His afternoon routine was thrown into disarray by the front doorbell. He closed the ledger and put it back on its shelf before answering the summons. On the stoop stood a tiny old woman smiling up at him. Wearing a fetching shirtdress in a navy blue that made her eyes shine like jewels, an open-weave shawl around her shoulders that matched her shock-white hair, and stylish but sensible black flats, she barely came up to Roger’s shoulders. “May I help you?” he asked.

  “Good afternoon. You must be the new butler,” she said. “I was so sorry to hear about Perkins.”

  “Yes, ma’am. May I help you?”

  “I’ve come to visit Joseph. May I come in?”

  “Of course, ma’am.” Roger stepped back, holding the door open.

  She breezed through the entry and paused long enough for him to close and bolt the door behind her.

  “I’ll see if Mr. Shackleford is accepting callers. May I say who’s calling, ma’am?”

  “Of course. My card.” She pulled a heavily embossed calling card from her purse and presented it to him. It read “Fidelia Necket.”

  Roger took it and indicated the parlor with an open palm. “Would you care to wait in the parlor, ma’am?”

  “Thank you, Mulligan. That would be lovely.” She sailed into the room and took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs, crossing her legs and relaxing into it as if it were her own.

  “I’ll only be a moment, ma’am.”

  Roger left her peering about the parlor. He couldn’t remember seeing anybody so completely at home in their own skin. The woman had to be pushing seventy but she moved with the grace of a thirty-year-old. Her face might be wrinkled and her hair white, but there was nothing old about her.

  He knocked on the library door and entered. “Excuse me, sir. You have a caller.” He handed him the card.

  He took the card and glanced at it, a grin exploding onto his face. “Delia? Here?”

  “In the front parlor, sir.”

  “Oh, how marvelous. Show her up, Mulligan. Show her up.”

  Roger nodded. “At once, sir.”

  Returning to the parlor, he found the woman where he’d left her. She looked up when he appeared in the door. “Mr. Shackleford is in, ma’am. May I show you to the library?”

  She stood and nodded. “Thank you, Mulligan.”

  He started toward the stairs and stopped at the foot, offering his arm. “May I offer my assistance, ma’am?”

  She gave him a smile and hooked her wrist over his elbow. “I’m always happy to walk on the arm of a handsome man,” she said. “But I just got back from the base camp at K-2 so I’m fairly certain I can navigate the stairs.”

  Roger couldn’t suppress the surprise. “I’m impressed, ma’am.”

  “Don’t be,” she said. “It’s a long walk that’s been spoiled by too many hikers.” She paused as they turned at the landing. “You believe me?”

  “Of course, ma’am. Why would I doubt you?”

  She gave a delicate shrug. “Oh, possibly because I’m old and frail? You’d be surprised how many people believe old means weak.”

  Roger smiled. “I would never presume to comment on a lady’s age, ma’am.”

  “Yet you offered your arm,” she said. “Thank you, Mulligan.”

  “My distinct pleasure, ma’am.” He started up the next short flight.

  She disentangled herself at the top of the stairs and waited until Roger introduced her. “Ms. Fidelia Necket, sir.”

  He stepped aside so she could enter and was astonished at the speed with which Shackleford crossed the room and enveloped the woman in a bearlike hug. “Delia, my stars. How was Xinjiang?” he asked, breaking the clinch and holding her at arm’s length, gazing at her. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “It was elevating,” she said, with a girlish laugh. “Although the trails are in dreadful condition.”

  “Come in, come in. Sit.” He pressed her into one of the comfy chairs and took the one across from her. “Can I offer you some refreshment? Tea? Sherry?”

  “A sherry would be welcome, Joseph. Thank you.”

  “Perkins, the Palo Cordato Chipiona? There should still be a bottle or two in the cellar.”

  The woman shot Shackleford a raised eyebrow before looking at Roger. She pursed her lips and her eyes t
ightened.

  “I’ll look, sir. It may take me a few moments to find it.”

  Shackleford waved him off. “We’ve a lot to catch up on. Thank you, Perkins.”

  Roger gave a small bow and left, pulling the library door closed behind him. He went to the kitchen and checked the small cellar there. He’d not given it more than a cursory glance before. None of the menu items in his bible mentioned wine. Other than the occasional whiskey that the old man poured himself from the decanter in the library, he didn’t think the old boy drank. It took only a moment for him to find two sherries among the thirty or so bottles; neither was Palo anything.

  He went to the key safe and pulled keys for the garage, cellar, and one marked “wine storage” for good measure.

  It took him only a few moments to open the cellar door and go down the stairs. He flicked the light switch and blinked at the cavernous space. Ceramic tiles covered the floor, reminding him of the black and white subway tiles he’d seen in New York City. Wood panels covered the walls. A workbench against the near wall held woodworking and mechanic’s tools. Arched brick passages led out of the cellar’s entryway. He took the first one and came to a heavy wooden door with a padlock and hasp. The “wine storage” key fit the lock, which snapped open with a click. He pulled the lock and hasp, hooking the open padlock into the freed hasp and locking it. The door swung open on silent hinges revealing the kind of wine cellar that he’d only seen in movies.

  He stepped in, marveling at the racks—mostly full of bottles. The place had a very faint aromatic tint in the air and the temperature dropped enough that he was glad he wore his uniform. It wasn’t cold, exactly, but definitely chilly. He started scanning the racks, noting that each had one or more labels. He strolled through the racks and finally found a rack devoted to ports which led him to another with sherries. He rifled through the bottles, disturbing them as little as possible before finding a heavy brown one with “Palo Cortado” in a flourishing script and the word “Chipiona” in heavy block print on the label.

  He pulled it from the bin and tucked it under his arm. He had no idea what the price of such a bottle might be, but knowing the old man, it was probably a really good sherry. The guy didn’t do anything in half measures.

  He retraced his steps, securing each lock as he passed. As he switched off the light, Roger looked back at the cellar. He probably should take one of his afternoons and do a tour down here to learn the layout. He had a feeling there was much to be discovered.

  Back in the kitchen, he found a decanter and sherry glasses in the glassware closet. He wasn’t sure of the appropriateness of actually decanting it, though, stopping at the last moment and satisfying himself by pulling the seal off the neck of the bottle and loosening the rimmed cork. He set the bottle and two glasses on a serving tray and walked it up the stairs. He should brush up on the actual etiquette for entertaining guests. Pretzels were almost certainly inappropriate, and he didn’t have a clue as to what cheese or fruit might be well matched. He gave a mental shrug and knocked on the door before opening.

  They sat smiling up at him as he entered.

  “Ah, excellent. You found it. Thank you, Mulligan,” Shackleford said.

  “Sorry for the delay. I had to go down to the cellar to find it. I took the liberty of loosening the cork but thought you’d prefer the sherry sooner than in a decanter.” He settled the tray on the table.

  “Thank you, Mulligan,” he said, again. “That’s fine.” He reached for the bottle himself and pulled the cork, giving it a cursory glance before pouring the small glasses half full. Even at the distance, the heady aroma filled Roger’s nose. “That will be all for now, Mulligan,” he said, placing the bottle back on the tray and lifting a glass. “If we need anything more, I’ll ring you.”

  Roger nodded and gave his best Jeeves bow before leaving them to enjoy each other’s company.

  * * *

  The house had two dining rooms. Three, if he counted the servants’ table. Mulligan inspected the smallest—a cozy room with a neutral wallpaper above the wainscoting. Windows let in daylight and several paintings hung on the walls, mostly pastoral scenes with the occasional portrait. The oval table seated ten, but stood without its extra leaves with six chairs; the other four had their positions, one on each side of the sideboard, and two more flanking the window opposite. He consulted his bible on guests for dinner. Something told him Ms. Necket would be joining them.

  It took him a few wrong turns but he found the linens in the sideboard and the silver chests in a closet in the kitchen. The bible offered suggestions on which setting to use—from simple, clean modern lines in stainless steel to the most decorative silver with baroque flourishes on the handles. Some of the sets had place settings for eighty people in full kit and filled several chests, while the smallest could handle ten. He hadn’t been aware that the everyday flatware he had used so far was stainless steel and part of a larger set.

  Having done his homework, he straightened his uniform and took a deep breath before knocking on the library door. He waited a few moments before entering, not wishing to interrupt anything too intimate. The door latch clicked and the door swung open on its own, something that hadn’t happened in days.

  “I beg pardon, sir. Will Ms. Necket be saying for dinner?”

  “Splendid idea, Perkins.” Shackleford looked at her. “Delia, my dear? Can you stay?”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Sadly, no. I’m meeting Lilly to go over the arrangement for this year’s Fête d’Étoile. They’re quite put out with me for being in Pakistan last season and would never forgive me for not carrying my end this year.”

  “How is dear Lilly?” Shackleford asked. “I haven’t seen her in ages. Is she still seeing that Adkins fellow?”

  “I believe Ned threw her over for a younger woman sometime in the spring.”

  Shackleford’s eyebrows shot up. “Anyone we know?”

  “I don’t believe so,” she said, glancing at Mulligan.

  Shackleford took the hint and nodded to Roger. “Thank you, Perkins. Carry on.”

  Roger bowed and backed from the room, closing the door behind himself. He felt a modicum of disappointment at not having a guest for dinner, but was also somewhat relieved that he wouldn’t have to practice his untried skills just yet. He pulled out his notebook and jotted a reminder to look into some culinary training. Perhaps there was a course he could take. He added a note to speak with Shackleford about getting internet in the house as well. He felt like he’d stepped back twenty years. He hadn’t had it on deployment, but he missed the ability to just look something up online. The limited access he had through his phone simply wasn’t the same.

  * * *

  At four, Roger’s pager beeped and he went up to the library.

  “You rang, sir?” Every time he said it, Roger couldn’t help but hear a deep, sepulchral voice in his head.

  “Ms. Necket is ready to leave, Perkins.” They both stood and Shackleton took her hand. “Thank you for calling, Delia. Please don’t be a stranger while you’re in town.”

  “It’s lovely to see you, Joseph. I’ll call again soon and fill you in on all the details.”

  Roger escorted Ms. Necket down the stairs to the front door. She paused, putting her palm to the wood, holding it shut. “He’s getting worse.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Shackleford’s health, ma’am.”

  “You’re not discussing it, Mulligan. I am. He called you Perkins more than once.”

  “Old habits die hard, ma’am.”

  “Ned Adkins died some time ago,” she said. “Joseph attended the funeral.”

  Roger felt his eyebrows rise. “And the younger woman?”

  “The year before he passed away,” she shrugged. “It seemed kinder than correcting him. Lilly Granger is happily married to her third husband. She’s Lilly Pennington now. He attended the wedding.”

  “It comes with age for some people, ma’am.”

  Her f
ace clouded in a fierce frown. “This isn’t age. This is—” she paused, glancing up the stairs toward the library. “This is something else.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, ma’am.”

  “How well do you know your employer, Mulligan?”

  “The Patchings employ me to look after Mr. Shackleford, ma’am.”

  “That pair?” She scoffed. “They’re probably afraid he’ll have the place declared a historical landmark to keep it out of their clutches.”

  “I couldn’t comment on that, ma’am.”

  She stared into his face, her eyes narrowing. “Did they tell you about him before you agreed to work here?”

  “They made me aware of his diminished capacity, ma’am, yes. I was not hired under false pretenses, if that’s your question.”

  “They told you he was ... different?”

  “They told me that he had a diminished capacity, ma’am,” Roger said, repeating himself. “I met him, talked with him, before I signed the contract.”

  “How are you getting along with the pixies?” she asked, tilting her head to the side and staring into his eyes.

  Roger blinked as his mind struggled to make the conversational turn. “Pixies, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Mulligan, the pixies. New man in the house. The adjustment period is often challenging.”

  Roger glanced up toward the library and looked back to find Ms. Fidelia Necket’s knowing smile.

  “I thought not,” she said. “A word of advice, Mulligan. Put out the whiskey before they start playing pranks.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement, ma’am.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Are all men pig-headed fools?” Her delivery turned what might have been a bitter insult into a quiet plea.

  “I suspect most of us are, yes, ma’am.”

  She pulled her hand from the door and stood back so he could open it. He swung it open for her but she paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorjamb, and looked back. “It’s not dementia, Mulligan. It’s that damned amulet. I fear it’s stealing his mind, one piece at a time.” She was down the steps before Roger could respond. She didn’t look back, simply walked to the street and slipped behind the wheel of an older model Taurus parked at the curb. He watched her pull out into traffic and drive away.