Those Who Spoon

Chapter Seven

Ebenezer stared in exasperation at the unmoving body of the maid. He had not meant to hit her knees quite that hard, but for goodness’ sake – her attitude was beyond ridiculous. She had fallen, not been pushed (not quite, at least). “Come on, get up,” he said. Glancing impatiently at the clock on the wall, he added, “I don’t have all of the time in the world! Church is in half an hour!”

Still, Natasha did not get up. The urge to prod her with his foot was overwhelming – and incredibly annoying, taking into account that he simply couldn’t order the muscles in his legs to obey him even if he’d wanted it more than anything in the world (which, frankly, he did). So instead, Ben made do with a perfectly faked cough. “Ms. Horvitz, that’s quite enough drama for the day,” he ordered. “I pay you to help me, not lick the . . . the . . .” His voice faltered as he noticed a hint of red below Natasha’s head, and all color was drained from his face as that puddle of crimson increased in size.

“SPENCER!” Ben screamed, clutching the arms of his wheelchair. “SPENCER!” Everything inside him shriveled, from his cold heart to the tongue in his mouth. No longer could he scream; no longer could he feel even the slightest shimmer of horror. All Ebenezer knew, could think of, was that he needed to get away from Natasha whether she was only a shell of the robust, irritating maid he had been acquainted with or not. There was a pressing need to empty his bladder regardless of the fact that he had been able to go by himself ten minutes ago as well, and, too occupied within the claustrophobic corners of his mind to feel ashamed, Ebenezer relinquished the muscles that held the urine in its respectful sack. “Spencer,” he managed to croak as a wet, warm spot blossomed on his pants. “Spencer!”

“Coming, sir!” the manservant drawled. “Just a moment!”

“Now!” Ebenezer screeched. “Now, Spencer!” He held his eyes shut and rammed the arm of his wheelchair again. “Now, now, now!”

“All right!” Spencer muttered grouchily, appearing around the corner. “Don’t get too worked up about it, sir! We still have enough time to bring you to the church.”

“N-Natasha,” Ebenezer groaned. “Natasha.”

“I’ll sack her after we get back, sir – by the time I pick you up, there will be a replacement.” Not glancing at the scene, Tracy Spencer put his hands on the back of Ebenezer’s wheelchair and began to turn him towards the door. “A rosy-cheeked, quiet girl who knows how and when to keep her big mouth shut, sir.”

Ben still clawed at the armrests, trying to find the right words to tell the butler what had happened. “She,” he rasped, “she just fell over . . . slipped over her own mess.”

Spencer paused in confusion, glanced back at the kitchen briefly and looked away again. A second later, the realization of what his eyes had just witnessed hit him, and he grew pale as a toad. “Oh my God,” he breathed, stepping back in horror. “Oh my God. She’s . . .”

“Dead!” Ben cried out, breaking out of the spell of silence that had caught him so unexpectedly; gripped him by the throat. “She’s dead! This – this is a disaster! They won’t ever let me rest! This is going to cost me money – and not just money! My reputation! The news won’t leave me alone . . . the press will make up stories about how it was an affair gone wrong – well, that idea is ridiculous, never mind that. She was terribly unattractive! Oh, what a pity! There is going to be so much trouble about this! An investigation, most likely . . . Damn it, they will call me a murderer! A murderer, Spencer!”

The servant’s lips trembled and he covered his mouth. “Oh my God,” he repeated.

“Don’t just stand there!” Ebenezer shouted. “Call the police and get me out of this building! They can’t suspect me of trying to cover it up, for crying out loud! Where have your wits gone to?”