Cake Roulette

Mr. Quentin extracted the empty dropper from the cake, and gently wiped the chocolate frosting from the glass before screwing it back into the bottle. He slipped the compound 1080 into the inside pocket of his uniform jacket. Admittedly, a rather nasty game of roulette, but you’ll soon learn it was necessary. Mr. Quentin placed the slice of chocolate cake with the other seven slices, placed a hand on each side of the cart, then hung his head and paused. Another year, another dinner party spent serving his prized chocolate cake to the wrong family; although, thankfully, this would be the last. The thought made Mr. Quentin smile, and with a satisfied sigh, he closed his eyes and pulled the cart into a soft pirouette in front of him. The cart wheels on the marble floor was usually a noise that reminded Mr. Quentin of his hatred and misery day in and day out, but today, it was music.

In the dining hall, gathered for William Jr.‘s 35th birthday, sat six of the most wretched humans imaginable. If you were to picture the worst ninety minutes of your life at a table with six of the worst humans you know, that would be about half as bad as being present for the Dudley dinner parties. The chief of all reasons for Mr. Quentin’s abhorrence for William Jr.’s birthday is that the snobby young man shares his birthday with Millie, Mr. Quentin’s youngest of four daughters. It also just so happened that William Jr., upon sampling the famous chocolate cake Mr. Quentin had baked for Millie eight years ago, declared the cake HIS absolute favourite, and demanded it be served to him each year, on July 18th, at six o’clock. Mr. Quentin would thus be mandated to stay each July 18th until the clock struck nine, returning home past Millie’s bed time, unable to serve her any remaining pieces of her favourite cake.

After Mr. Quentin’s wife died, his last family, the Stephensons, had heard there was one family looking for a new butler close to where he and his girls would be moving, and graciously offered to transfer his services. The Dudley’s promised the Stephensons that they would treat Mr. Quentin to good pay, flexible hours, and to treat him with love and respect for all of his days at the manor. They came up short on two out of the three, but being short on job experience and the sole provider for four growing girls didn’t leave him the option to walk away. This year however, as Mr. Quentin fleshed out the details of the Chuck-E-Cheese-esque birthday menu demanded each year by William Jr., he realized he had one more option. As he quietly anticipated being beckoned to the dining room, Mr. Quentin played out each scenario one more time.

William Dudley Senior: If a dusty, crumpled up record of Jim Crow laws and anti-women’s suffrage propaganda was wrapped around a moth ball and then turned into a human, it would have been William Dudley Senior. He was an incredibly foul man who did things like snap his fingers at waitresses and spray the neighbourhood cats with cold water. Mr. Quentin had always imagined William Senior’s death as the easiest to cover up due to his age, soaring blood pressure, and the fact he was married to a much younger woman with expensive tastes— sure to be first on the suspect list. Of course, once his was wife was proven not guilty, she will likely have the rest of the family removed from the manor, cancelling any William Jr. birthday parties. Mr. Quentin had once caught a glimpse of William Senior’s will and testament hidden in the kitchen freezer, and noticed he refused to be autopsied in the event of his death so as not to “advance scientific knowledge for, or have his organs end up in, someone other than a Dudley, for they do not deserve even a fraction of the excellence that runs so purely in his blood.” A strong candidate for “most deserving of the slice.”

Mrs. Fink-Dudley: Without a doubt, no one would have delighted in William Senior’s sudden demise more than his wife. As much as this woman’s conduct was equally as horrifying as her husband’s, she was not entirely ignorant to the fact that he was despicable. Still, her self-awareness could have used work, and her closet had about 42 too many un-worn fur coats in it. From her Wednesday brunches with the other trophy wives, it had grown quite apparent to Mr. Quentin that Mrs. Fink-Dudley would have hoped for his sudden demise some 20 odd years ago when they married. Mr. Quentin had sometimes pictured gifting Mrs. Fink-Dudley a tee shirt that said “I married an old millionaire and all I inherited was a step-son old enough to be my brother.” Should Mrs. Fink-Dudley drop dead tomorrow, an absolute victory for entitled millionaire heirs and PETA activists everywhere, her prime suspect would of course be her step son, who has spent the last twenty years in a state of pure outrage that he will never live to inherit the Dudley fortune. Her own family would launch an investigation that the Dudleys would be very ill advised to stick around for, and though Mr. Quentin may be temporarily jobless, he would be William Jr.-less as well.

Bill Dudley: The only child of William Senior, who liked to use the words “deserving”, “hard working”, and, with not an ounce of irony, “rightful heir” to describe himself, despite never having a single hand in the Dudley empire, let alone working a day in his life doing anything. Bill Dudley’s work day consisted of 8 hours per day, Monday to Friday, sitting in an easy chair, smoking cigars and complaining about his lazy son and gold digging step-mother. He was particularly cruel to William Junior, which would have made Mr. Quentin sympathetic on occasion, had William Junior not been such a cruel young man himself. Despite leaving a clean plate every single time, Bill also loved to criticize Mr. Quentin’s cooking. Mr. Quentin felt satisfied at the thought of Bill’s remark about the cake being the last he ever made, dying before he could even finish the slice; he felt even more satisfied knowing a vial of compound 1080 was in William Jr.’s bedside drawer as of 20 minutes before slicing the cake.

Evian Dudley: Wife of Bill, always wore hot pink fingernails about two inches too long, and had never spoken a word to Mr. Quentin in his eight years of working in the manor. Evian was the only person in the manner who seemed particularly fond of William Junior. It was she who whispered and nodded in agreement with William Junior the day that Mr. Quentin had been callously denied the right to be present for Millie’s birthday ever again. Mr. Quentin thought about Evian receiving the slice the most, and felt in some ways that this death was perhaps the least effective, if not completely ineffective in enacting his plan. Eventually, he realized that without Evian around to protect William Jr., it may at least get him out of the picture when Bill and Poppy box him out entirely.

William Dudley Jr.: The man-child of the hour as it were. He had a certain affinity for playing cruel pranks on Mr. Quentin, despite the fact that Mr. Quentin began working at the manor when William Jr. was 27 years old. He hid tools, spoiled dishes, and purposely called Mr. Quentin’s daughters the wrong names, often referring to Mr. Quentin’s “poor dead wife”. Though William senior was a strong contender for “most deserving of death by chocolate cake”, THIS revenge would be sweetest. With no William Dudley Jr. around, there would obviously be no more William Dudley Jr. birthday parties. The best part of all was that every single family member, with the exception of Evian Dudley, would have been a suspect: everyone else hated William Junior and his ridiculous birthday parties just as much as Mr. Quentin did.

Poppy Margeaux Dudley: Simultaneously a golden child and prized possession of the Dudley family. Poppy spent her days fishing for brands to sponsor her social media, which, according to Bill Dudley, despite her never succeeding, was “honest work”. Poppy had once tried to have Mr. Quentin fired for making her egg white frittata with yellow instead of white onions, but Bill was in a meeting and unable to hear her complaint, so she informed Mr. Quentin he got lucky. William Jr. resented Poppy so strongly for being their father’s favourite that he had actually attempted to kill her by cutting her brake lines once, so it wouldn’t be hard to frame her murderer should she eat the slice.

You may recall that, in total, Mr. Quentin’s cart held 8 slices of his famous chocolate cake. Mr. Quentin knew that to play roulette, he had to gamble, and two out of six outcomes were certainly not ideal. One of those being, if Mr. Quentin himself did eat the poisoned slice, leaving his four daughters orphaned. His chocolate cake recipe was tucked into the pages of his own will in the freezer, with instructions for Millie’s sisters to bake it each year in his memory and to celebrate Millie how he wishes he could have done all those birthdays past. The second of the non-ideal outcomes was if the slice went to the maid, Mrs. Went. Mrs. Went, though several years Mr. Quentin’s senior, was the only friend Mr. Quentin had. She was the only soul who knew of Mr. Quentin’s plan, and despite his refusal, insisted on participating. She had approached him as he closed the oven door just hours earlier, slipping her soft but wrinkled hands into Mr. Quentin’s, and smiling.

“If it’s me, I’ll be happy to go. You know my family’s long gone, and I’ve done my time. If it’s me— you use it. You get your payout from the evil, maid murderin’ Dudley’s, and you go enjoy your life with your babies.”

Before Mr. Quentin could respond, she touched his cheek, and slipped out of the kitchen.

The dining rooms doors swung open as Mr. Quentin wheeled the eight prized slices to the underwhelmed party. As always, Mr. Quentin was deemed unworthy of conversation, and he placed the slices in front of each person in silence. He then placed the two remaining slices at the Butler’s counter, where for some reason he and Mrs. Went were ordered to eat, despite the very obvious feeling no one wanted them in the room. He took a deep breath, and then his first bite.

As minutes of forks clinking on the China passed, the time had come, and the trigger would now be pulled. Mr. Quentin scanned the room, hoping for any six of the preferred outcomes when the bullet left the chamber.

Mrs. Went erupted into a fit of coughing. Her face began to turn red, her breathing laboured. Mr. Quentin held his breath, and fought off the tears, rehearsing his performance as best he could in his head. Mrs. Went swallowed and gasped for air, ceasing coughing at once. “My apologies, dears,” she panted, “it appears the cake is so good I started to literally inhale it!” She winked at Mr. Quentin, who did his best to disguise his sigh of relief.

William Junior sneered, “I would think you’d have learned better table manners by now you—“

William Jr. slumped out of his chair and began seizing. Evian dashed to his side, screaming for someone to call an ambulance. Mr. Quentin nodded at Mrs. Went, and slipped away to grab his second chocolate cake from the kitchen. If he hurried, he could make it home in time to surprise Millie for dessert.