The Million Dollar Detective (15) beyond. We've had broken bones. We've had people pass out. But nobody quits. Their senseis wouldn't bring forward a candidate who would quit. I broke a toe, and kept going. It's a rite of passage, and a really tough adoption proceeding. You become part of a family," he grinned wickedly, "a really nasty, dysfunctional family." She laughed politely for him while wondering about his sanity. "So, are you done with the treadmill?" "Yes, you can have it. I'll nip upstairs and have a shower, shall I? "Okay. After my shower, I can offer you an omelet for breakfast. I know how to make a pretty good omelet." "Cook's day off?" she asked. "Yeah, Mrs. Crocker only cooks for me on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Saturday and Sunday the whole staff has off, but you may see Henderson or Mrs. H. around the place, since they live here." "Bart," she said, "why do you always say, 'Henderson and Mrs. H.?' Wouldn't it save time to simply say, 'the Hendersons?'" "Ah," he said, and to her surprise he looked embarrassed again. The poor man must have an overactive blush reflex. "You see, Henderson's other name is Higsby." "'Other name?'" "I'm not really sure which goes first and last. It could be Henderson Higsby or Higsby Henderson. Either way, Mrs. H. works." He said that last almost proudly. "You are such a liar," she accused. "He works for you. What name do you put on his paychecks?" "Henderson writes the paychecks. I put money in a household account. He has signatory authority for it, and cuts checks for the staff, household expenses, and remodeling and stuff." "Oh, that's absurd," she protested, convinced Bart was having her on. She played along anyway. "How do you know he's not robbing you blind?" "I only put so much money in the account, and he has to meet payroll. Once in a great while he asks for more money if we have a big expense. I always agree to it. Basically, I trust him. And, of course, I know private investigators who could hunt down anyone who robbed me." "Absurd, I say," she said. "Am I going to find out later that Henderson and Mrs. H. really own this house and simply allow you to live here, like on that television show, Magnum, P.I.?" Now that she was having him on, the universe felt back in proper balance. "No, it's not like that. I own the house. I supply the money. They just run everything. And I don't look like Tom Selleck." "No," she said, and put a finger to her lips thoughtfully. "You know who you look like? I've just thought of it." She waited until he spread his hands and made an exasperated face, then said triumphantly, "Jethro Bodine." "JETHRO BODINE?" Bart clapped both hands on the top of his head. "From The Beverly Hillbillies? Meredith, he was an idiot!" "I didn't say you reminded me of him intellectually. I said you look like him." She smiled delightedly at his discomposure. Why did she enjoy teasing him so much? It must be love, she decided. Yes, that must be it. Bart stood there, mouth agape, slowly shaking his head, his hands open and palms up reaching out toward her. After a few seconds of enduring her laughter, he turned the gesture into a shrug and said, "Well, Max Baer, the actor, was tall, with dark hair, a fairly muscular build, and he was a good-looking guy. Huh, maybe there is some physical resemblance." Meredith caressed his cheek with the fingertips of one hand and let those fingers fall to his bare chest. She raised one eyebrow at him. He raised both his eyebrows back at her. "I do love you," she said. He shook his head and sighed, "I must love you an awful lot, too, otherwise why would I enjoy your teasing so much?" Now he was a mind reader, as well. He fixed his gaze square on her eyes and said in a voice Meredith found so deep and manly it made her shudder, "Yet I do. Indeed I do." He broke the spell this time and said, "I think you better go take your shower. I need to run." "Not from me I hope." "No, never. I'll go miles and miles," he said, "but stay right here." He set the treadmill's speed much faster than the jog she had started out at. Meredith estimated he'd do eight to twelve kilometers before he was done, a long way, yet nowhere at all. Meredith showered, dried her hair, did what she could with the few cosmetics in her handbag, put her hair in a ponytail, and rummaged through Bart's panic room for another set of clothes. She had to settle for workout shorts again, but tried a button-up silk shirt for a top this time. When she checked her reflection, she found the shirt revealed a bit too much in a couple of spots. To correct its near transparency, she found a dark T-shirt to wear underneath. Her sandals completed the outfit. She shrugged at the mirror. He'll just have to love me anyway, she thought. Bart came in, puffing and shiny with sweat. He took in her appearance and said, "Nice dress." "The sleeves are a trifle long," she said. They hung down past the ends of her fingers. "You look simply scrumptious when you're all shiny like that." Bart waggled a finger at her. "You're kind of wicked in a sexy way. Now, be good while I take a shower." She stuck her tongue out at him, and as soon as he closed the shower door, she carried a chair into the bathroom to sit on while she watched him. The pebbled glass of the shower enclosure made his form indistinct. Pity, she thought. When Bart reached for his towel, he caught sight of Meredith sitting there. "Oh!" he said. "Meredith! What are you doing?" "I was watching you take a shower. Now I intend to watch you dry off. I'm wicked, remember?" She manifested her wickedness further by snatching his towel away as he headed for the closet to find clothes. "Hey!" he said, and then, "Are you planning to stare at me as I walk naked across the room?" "Fair is fair," she said. "You did it to me." Bart slowly smiled. "I'm not just a piece of meat, you know. I want you to respect me for my mind, too." She smiled back. "Oh, I do. Whenever I need someone to do arithmetic in his head, I'll call you. You're such a math geek, did the athletic boys at school stuff you into a locker every day?" He laughed at the absurdity of her sarcasm. "No, no one ever stuffed me into a locker. I was the guy who protected my smaller math geek friends from getting stuffed into lockers." "Naturally," she said. "What else would Sir Galahad the arithmetical wonder do?" Chapter Twenty-four Bart dressed in tan slacks, a powder blue polo shirt, white ankle socks and sneakers. He ran his fingers through his mostly dry hair, and seemed to consider that all the hairstyling he needed. "That's it?" Meredith complained. "You throw on some clothes and finger- comb your hair and you're ready to face the day? I spent more time than that on eye makeup alone." Still, she thought he looked bloody good. "I'm . . . sorry?" he almost apologized. He hastily added, "You look really, really good. Your eyes in particular." She said, "Nice try, but I still think the situation is deplorably unfair." Bart said, "I haven't made plans past breakfast. Any ideas?" "Hmm," she said. They began walking with arms around each other. "Whatever we do, I imagine I will need real clothes. We need to swing by my flat at some point. Oh, and I have to fetch my car from Sheila's house." They had reached the main stairs by this point and Bart nearly took a header down them. "Sheila's? Oh, God. Your car has been there all night!" "Yes, I'm afraid she knows." "Do we have to go there? Isn't there some other way?" Desperately, he said, "Leave your car. I'll buy you a new one." "Bart, don't be absurd. It won't be that bad to see her." "She'll gloat something terrible, Meredith. You know she will." She squeezed his waist, his narrow, muscular waist, and said, "Buck up, Bartholomew. We're tough. We can take it." Henderson met them before they made it to the kitchen. Even on his day off, he dressed formally, the perfect image of a gentleman's gentleman. Warmly, he said, "Good morning, Miss Adler, a great pleasure to see you again. Sir," he said, a trifle less warmly, "would breakfast in the small dining room meet your approval?" Bart, frowning his puzzlement, waved one hand and said, "I was just going to make us omelets." "Nonsense, sir," said Henderson, "Mrs. Crocker would be quite offended." Addressing Meredith, he said, "We weren't sure of your food preferences, so she prepared a variety." Bart said, "Mrs. Crocker's here? I thought today was Saturday." "Yes, sir, quite." A very round woman with Red Delicious cheeks and orange sherbet hair awaited them. She wore a full-length apron over a white cook's outfit, but no chef's hat. She gave a final nudge to one of many platters overflowing with food, and smiled broadly at Meredith. "Good morning! I'm Liz, the cook," she said. Her accent was pure American Midwest. So Bart didn't only hire people with British accents. Meredith shook Liz's hand and said, "Hallo. I'm Meredith Adler. Pleased to meet you, Liz." "Morning, Mrs. Crocker," Bart said, suspicion and confusion in his voice. "Oh, I know who you are," Mrs. Crocker said to Meredith, ignoring Bart. "Henderson told us all about it." "Us?" Bart inquired, eyeing Henderson, who also ignored him. Meredith took in the bounty spread before her, platters stacked high with every imaginable kind of breakfast food, two settings of fine china with gold rims, and silver utensils with 24 kt. gold handles. "Oh, my word," Meredith said. "It's so much." "Don't worry," Mrs. Crocker said. "Eat what you can. I'll wrap the leftovers." Another woman entered carrying a silver tray with a pitcher of lemonade, and two tall glasses with ice. She was taller and less plump than Mrs. Crocker (the adjective sturdy came to Meredith's mind) with auburn hair done up in a French braid. She wore a maid's uniform, like the type Alice wore on The Brady Bunch (not a French maid's uniform). She said, "Miz Adler! Hi, I'm Maggie, H's wife." She smiled broadly at Meredith. Her accent sounded like New York, rather than old York. "This lemonade is fresh-squeezed from lemons just picked in our greenhouse," she said. "Ya gotta try it." "My greenhouse," Bart corrected. "Morning, Mrs. H." She, too, ignored him. "A pleasure to meet you, Maggie," Meredith said. She shook Maggie's hand and took a sip from the glass Maggie handed her. Involuntarily, Meredith said, "Wow! That's absolutely fabulous." She took another sip and asked, "Are you from New York?" "Long Island," she said. "That's where H and I met. I was cleaning this guy's house. H was butling for him." "Butling?" Bart said. Maggie continued, "We met, yada, yada, fell in love, got married, guy's company goes broke, we came here to work." Bart, still trying to get into the conversation, said, "Is Max here, too?" A short, stocky man with black hair walked out from the kitchen. "Yeah, I'm here," he said. "Hello, Ms. Adler, I'm Charlie Mackenzie. Bart calls me Max." He wore a suit and tie, carried driving gloves in one hand, but did not wear a chauffeur's cap. "Hallo, Max," Meredith said and shook his rough mechanic's hand. "Hi, Max," Bart said, only to be ignored yet again. Everyone smiled at each other happily except Henderson, who stoically maintained a proper butler's decorum, and Bart, who looked glum and a little miffed at the repeated snubs. "Have you all forgotten that you work for me?" Bart said. "Please, sir," Henderson said calmly, "don't make difficulties with the domestic staff. It's everyone's day off." "Gahh!" Bart said. "Please, sit, eat," Mrs. Crocker said to Meredith. Max pulled her chair out for her. She sat, then Bart sat. Mrs. Crocker tsk'd to herself and said, "What am I forgetting? It seems like there should be something else." Meredith laughed. She had expected a mediocre omelet, which she would have claimed to have enjoyed for Bart's sake. Instead she confronted a feast of daunting proportions. "Perhaps strawberries and whipped cream for the waffles," she suggested. "Oh!" Mrs. Crocker gasped. She dashed into the kitchen and began slamming doors and rattling things. Meredith turned to Bart with alarm. "I was just joking," she said. She called out toward the kitchen, "I WAS JUST JOKING! PLEASE! DON'T TROUBLE YOURSELF!" From deep in her kitchen demesne, Mrs. Crocker's voice came back, "It's all right. I'm paid to do this." Bart asked Henderson, "Am I paying overtime for this?" "It's a distinct possibility, sir," Henderson said. Meredith said, "Bart, why don't you weigh two hundred kilos?" Bart turned his unhappy visage toward her. She gave him a sweet look and waited. It didn't take long. He melted quickly and a smile spread across his face. "Number one," he said, "two hundred kilograms would be about four hundred and forty pounds. I would have trouble walking around at that weight. Number two, I exercise my self-control, sort of a moral workout, by resisting the excess food they push on me." The staffers shifted uneasily and Meredith heard muttering. "Number three," Bart continued, "Mrs. Crocker is very good about leftovers. And number four," here he eyeballed his servants pointedly, "these parasites will no doubt get a crack at the food, themselves." At the insult "parasites," tsk'ing and humphing sounds came from the crowd. Henderson said, "Sir, if you abuse the staff, I may have to pay them bonuses on top of the overtime." Bart shot him a sour glance. "You know, Meredith, there was a time when I was master of my own house." At that, the staff couldn't contain themselves. Even Henderson the stoic snorted a laugh. Meredith patted Bart's arm and said, "Bart, my love, I don't think you should lie to me like that. Your staff will rat you out." She smiled and added, "Just like Henderson did when he called the others in." "Really, Miss!" Henderson objected. "I informed the others, quite so. But I think characterizing it as ratting is a bit much." Mrs. Crocker came back in with a bowl of sliced strawberries and a bowl of whipped cream, not a pre-whipped topping, but a glass bowl of real whipping cream, whipped by her own hand. "What did I miss?" she said. Meredith said, "Really, Mrs. Crocker--" "Liz." "--Liz, you shouldn't have bothered. I truly believe I could find a way to survive on the food already present." Bart sighed, spread his hands, palms up, and loudly said, "WHAT are you all doing here on your DAY OFF?" Meredith answered for them, "Bart, isn't it obvious? They came to meet me. They want to know who this woman is who has come into your life. They're here because they care about you." She took his hand in both of hers and forced him to meet her eyes. "They're here because they love you." At that, his employees began waving their hands and making quick excuses to leave the room. Mrs. Crocker claimed to have left the oven on, though nothing on the table required an oven. Mrs. H. remembered a distant room in urgent need of dusting. Max mumbled about finishing a wiring job on a car. In seconds, poor Henderson stood there alone, his mustache quivering. "Meredith!" Bart said. "Impressive job clearing the room. What's the matter, Henderson?" he teased. "Can't think of any butling to do anywhere else?" "Unfortunately, sir, all the butlement seems to be required here at the moment." A chime sounded. Bong, bong, bong. Bong, bong, bong. Bart said to his butler, "Are you going to get that, or are you off today?" "I'll be back momentarily, Miss Adler," Henderson said, with relief, and backed out of the room. The two laughed, ate, kidded each other, and kissed once or twice. Meredith said, "I find it encouraging that the people in your household feel so strongly for you, Bart. It makes me feel less foolish." Then she said, "This table could easily seat twelve." "We've seated twenty when the leaves are in," Bart said. "Yet Henderson called this the small dining room. That implies somewhere you have a large dining room. How many does that seat?" "Didn't I show you? I'm a lousy tour guide. It's up above the kitchen and this room, too. We have a dumbwaiter to get the food up there. I think our record attendance is two ninety-four. I wanted to squeeze in another six, but it didn't work out. Maybe I could invite thinner people." "Two hundred and ninety-four?" she exclaimed. "That's not a dining room, it's a banquet hall. This is a bloody hotel!" Henderson came back in, and said, "Sir, there are barbarians at the gate." to be continued . . .
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