Richard sat on the couch, waiting for Dr. Allan Bettencourt to answer. He sat there, lost in thought, his chin resting on his hands. His wife, Evelyn, perched next to him, looking concerned. Richard could hear the ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere nearby, dimly echoing off the walls.

“Well…” Allen finally began; Evelyn and Richard both jolted.

“I’m not sure if I believe this whole ‘possession’ story,” he declared. “She’s been surly since she was a teenager. By that standard, all teens could be possessed by the devil.”

“I only know what I saw,” Richard explained. “It wasn’t just the deep voice; it was also the preternatural strength. It was like watching a fight scene from ‘Terminator 2’.”

“Could have been adrenaline,” the doctor mused. “Or any number of other things. There are drugs that produce similar effects. I prefer to look for mundane explanations before assuming the existence of devils and zombies.”

“I understand completely,” Richard commiserated. “Ultimately, all that matters is that I got a confession and solved the case. Though I’m very sorry it had to be your daughter.”

“So are we,” Allen confirmed. “She’s likely to be put away for a long time. And right now, she’s spending money, hand over fist, on one of my lawyers, to defend herself. But at least there’s one upside to the situation!”

“And that is…?” Richard perked up.

“She finally got out of the house!” Evelyn chimed. “And now we can sell this hulking monstrosity!” Allen joined her for a laugh.

Richard looked around at the opulence. “What, you don’t like it?”

“We don’t need it!” Allen stated. “I bought it long ago so my daughter could grow up somewhere safe, away from all the decay and corruption. Fat lot of good that did me! But this place costs too much to maintain, and we hardly use any of the rooms. I mean, we turned the ballroom here into a conversation pit!” He sighed and looked wistful. “There was an element of social climbing to it, too. At one time, I had to have the biggest and best of everything. Peer pressure, you know? But I think I’ve gotten that out of my system now.”

“You’ve grown past it, dear,” Evelyn assured him.

“That I have!” he cheered, then turned back to Richard. “I must say, I’m impressed with how quickly you solved the case. At first, I was worried that funding you for the duration would become really expensive. So thank you for relieving my anxiety!”

“Always happy to help,” Richard muttered. Being good at his job meant working himself out of income; there was actually a bonus to being incompetent.

“And along those lines,” Allen continued, “I’m still interested in retaining your services, but I don’t want to bore you…what kind of cases do you normally take?”

“A wide variety, I assure you.” He felt proud of his deft bit of misdirection; it sounded so much better than desperately bleating that he’d take anything.

“How about debt collection? I still have a lot of former patients that owe me money.”

“Of course; tracking down hidden assets is a detective’s bread and butter. I’ve also taken many missing-person cases. The subject doesn’t matter much; to me, investigation is investigation!”

“Excellent!” Allen cheered, clapping once. “My office will contact you soon regarding some delinquent patients.”

“His office…meaning me,” Evelyn clarified.

“Indeed,” Allen agreed, kissing her on the forehead. He turned back to Richard. “I’m sure you understand the frustration of doing good work for someone and then getting stiffed on the bill.”

“I assure you, I do.” Granted, he used his detective skills to ferret payment out of his holdouts, but that meant extra work for no extra pay, only what was owed him. He perused the affluent couple in front of him, and realized that in many ways, rich people were just like everyone else, only with bigger problems.

“Well!” Allen announced, slapping his knee. “We don’t want to keep you all day. There’s a lot of work involved in getting this gilded albatross off our necks. I’m sure you have better things to do, too.”

“Indeed.” Like sitting by the phone, hoping he’d really get a bunch of debt-collection jobs. Or that someone would hire him for another case, hopefully not specifically choosing him for incompetence.

As Richard approached the front door, he saw a note taped to the inside. “Detective Schmutz…” it began. He tore it from the door and read it. “Please join us in our den for a chat.” A small map indicated a path to what he remembered were the servants’ quarters. The note was signed with a script letter B. Could that mean “butler”? Only one way to find out.

He opened the door at the top of the outside stairs and immediately heard somber singing. Following the noise, he found a large contingent of the help seated in their living room, swaying in their chairs, each holding a glass of something intoxicating. They stopped as they noticed Richard approach.

“Ah, there’s the man of the hour!” the butler slurred. “Let’s all raise a toast to Shiva, destroyer of worlds!”

“Hail!” they burbled in unison before downing their drinks. This was followed by a cheer, and a spirited refilling of tumblers, the bartender’s besotted hands skillfully dispensing a variety.

“Wait…what did I do?” Richard asked, unsettled.

“You got rid of Kelly!” warbled the head housekeeper. “Now they’re selling the house! We’ll all be out on the streets before we know it!” Another raucous cheer erupted.

The bartender called to Richard. “Join us! What’s your poison?”

“None for me, thanks,” Richard dismissed. “I have to drive.”

The bartender shrugged. “One responsible, upstanding citizen, coming up!” Taking out a glass, he began pouring various liquids into it, his hands a blur of activity despite his inebriation.

The butler put his arm around Richard and pulled him close. “You’re telling me you never drink on the job? I thought detectives always had a bottle of whiskey in the drawer.”

“Not me,” Richard assured. “I save my drinking for when I’m at home.” He eyed the butler curiously. “Are you saying you drink on the job?”

“What, you think butlers are stuffy dim bulbs?” he asked. “Hell no! We look that way because we’re sauced, and are doing everything to hold it in!” He put his finger to his nose and winked. “Pro tip for you.”

The bartender suddenly appeared next to Richard. “One virgin Shirley Temple, on the house.”

“Thanks.” Richard took the glass and had a sip. His eyes lit up. “Wow, this is really good!” He took a larger sip.

“It should be,” the bartender declared. “It’s got all the best ingredients. Bettencourt Manor doesn’t skimp on anything! We spare no expense!”

Richard enjoyed the complex flavors on his tongue and eyed the luscious looking maraschino cherry on top of the ice. “But why are you all losing your jobs? Won’t the new owners take you on?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” explained one of the groundskeepers. “They might already have their own staff. And even if they don’t, there’s likely to be several months of remodeling before they need anyone. By then, they’ll have forgotten all about us, and we’ll have to reapply for our old jobs…competing with lots of new faces.”

“Wow,” Richard said morosely. “I had no idea.”

“It’s OK, old chap!” the butler assured him. “It’s not your fault; you were just the messenger.”

“I always knew the daughter would be the death of this family,” the auto mechanic declared. “But what were we to do about it, eh?”

“Surely you can get work elsewhere,” Richard surmised. He was met with a table full of glares.

“As cushy as this job?” the lead housekeeper groaned. “You really think I want to run a day care for a bunch of insolent brats?”

“I’d be lucky to end up doing lube jobs at the BMW dealership,” the auto mechanic grumbled. “I’m too old for the quick-oil-change centers.”

“You see, Detective Schmutz,” the butler informed, “these jobs skills don’t really transfer. Am I supposed to end up as the host at a casual dining chain? Please, spare me. Actually, I probably will be spared.” He adopted a mocking tone of voice, mimicking a restaurant manager. “I’m sorry, Mr. Billingsley, but your services are no longer required. We’ve replaced you with a bubbly blonde girl with a massive rack.”

Richard looked at his note. “So that’s what the ‘B’ stands for? Billingsley?”

“Of course,” the butler informed. “It’s the first initial of my last name.” He looked sad for a moment. “You’ve never even asked me my name.”

“I’m sorry…I didn’t want to be impertinent.”

The butler let out a loud laugh and raised his glass again. “Ladies and gentlemen…a toast to the last living Victorian man!”