Disclaimer: All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up.

Spoilers: Minor for Flesh and Blood. I think. Minor, anyway.

Summary: Mrs. Mallard has a mysterious gentleman caller.

"I really don't think I should…"

"Boy, you are not in my employ to tell me what I can and cannot do! Now fetch me a Scotch! And not too much ice!"

"Fine, but you can't say anything to the nurses this time," he replied nervously, removing a flask from inside his coat as he crossed the drawing room to the bar.

Victoria Mallard leaned back on her chaise longue, keeping an eye on him as he poured the amber contents of the flask into one of her good crystal glasses. "Do take care, boy. My late husband bought those for me when we visited Venice. Have you ever been to Murano, boy?"

"No, Ma'am, I have not," he replied, handing her one of the heavy glasses and steadying her hand as she brought it to her lips.

She took a sip, savoring the smoky quality of the drink. "Of course you haven't. Have you ever been to the Continent?"

"Well, I've been hoping to go, but I've been really busy with…"

As soon as she had swallowed her next sip – or perhaps a bit before, as her chin felt oddly damp – she interrupted, "Young people today don't want to travel. So content to stay home where they can see anything they want on their television sets and in their newspapers! We need a good war to get you overseas, boy. Even if it's blown to bits, it's still France."

"I certainly hope that won't be the case."

She took another sip of her Scotch. "Perhaps it is best if you stay. I think the rest of the staff has been stealing my good liquor. And the silver. Did you count the teaspoons yet today, boy?"

"Um, not yet."

"Don't say 'um.' You sound like a common pickpocket. I didn't hire Oliver Twist to be my houseboy."

"Of course not, Ma'am."

"Is the luggage packed for the voyage?"

"What…what voyage?"

"Honestly, boy, you would forget your own head if it wasn't attached to your elephant. The safari! The Masai Mara! Have you even called the ship to confirm a first class suite?"

"Oh, right. I…I called yesterday. They said everything was all set."

"Good! I'm really looking forward to…have you made sure someone is going to look after the dogs while we're gone?"

"We?"

"Of course! I've booked your passage in the servant's quarters. I couldn't very well be without my best houseboy while on safari in Africa. Who else could I rely upon to have such excellent Scotch on hand!" She raised her glass in a toast. "Speaking of which, I wouldn't object to a refill, boy."

"No problem."

"No problem, what?"

"Ma'am. No problem, Ma'am."

"That's a good boy."

"Mr. Palmer, do pay attention! This heart will certainly not be weighing itself!"

Jimmy reached forward just in time to receive the proffered organ. "Uh, Doctor?"

Dr. Mallard looked up from where he was leaning over to get a better look at the deceased lieutenant's liver. "Unless you have discovered an important anomaly…"

"Well, I know a 900 gram heart is something that could fall into the realm of anomaly. Did Captain Miller have a history of heart disease?"

"Perhaps you would not be asking that question of the perfectly normal heart of the victim of an unfortunate incident if you cease leaning on the scale, Mr. Palmer."

"Oh. Right." Jimmy took a step neck just for good measure. "298. That's more like it."

"I'm almost afraid to hand you this liver."

"I can handle it, Doctor."

"Don't be so sure, Jimster." He almost dropped the organ as Abby slapped him on the back. "My grandma used to make chicken liver with hot sauce and…mmmmm. Now I'm hungry!" She spun toward the body. "Okay, spoke too soon."

"Well, as Mother used to say, 'An ill stomach is a poor companion.' Of course she also used to say, 'Double drinks are good for drouth.' I doubt she's altered that philosophy in recent days."

"So how is your mom, Ducky? I haven't seen her in over a month. You tell yourself you're going to visit then," she waved her hand over the body, "another petty officer manages to get run over by a mail delivery truck while delivering heroin to a hooker turning tricks behind the National Museum of American History."

Dr. Mallard raised gloved, protective hands over the body. "Captain Miller was killed in an unfortunate shipboard accident involving bad luck, a wet deck and a poorly protected metal corner."

Jimmy pulled his attention away from the head wound and looked up in alarm. "The petty officer thing has happened before?"

"You know what I mean. Something happens that requires us to be at the beck and call of Team Gibbs, not that I mind, because I live to serve the mighty force of justice that is Leroy Jethro Gibbs, but…"

"Some things you just have to make time for."

"Spoken like a true mama's boy." She patted him on the shoulder. "Good for you. I'm gonna go this afternoon. I've got one of Bert's little brothers for her. Send me samples!"

"Tell her I said hi," Jimmy called as Abby left Autopsy.

"Not that it will matter," Dr. Mallard muttered, leaning back over the open abdominal cavity. The conversation was brief and work-related as they made quick work of the body, finding nothing anomalous. Jimmy was about to excuse himself when Dr. Mallard said, "Mr. Palmer, would you mind staying for a moment?"

"Of course not, Doctor." The bladder had an amazing ability to expand, which he had a feeling he would be taking full advantage of.

Dr. Mallard paused in his stitching of the Y-incision of the chest; Jimmy had noticed his proclivity for completing the autopsies of officers himself on more than one occasion. "I wanted to say thank you."

"For?"

"I believe you know."

"I…" he shifted back and forth from foot to foot, relying on his transitional epithelium to…oh, damn, he had to pee, had to pee, had to pee… "I do not."

"Mother is convinced that the staff at the nursing home are stealing her silver. She only trusts a mysterious houseboy. So…yes. Please see that Capt. Miller is properly comfortable before you…clean up. I shall be in the men's room."

Jimmy was left in Autopsy with a full bladder and a fully stitched corpse.

"Boy, try not to have such a long face. You're bringing the whole room down."

"Sorry, I just had a tough day. Three bodies and no…"

Victoria Mallard's pique at being addressed so familiarly by the houseboy prevented her from interrupting immediately, though her speechlessness did not last long. "I don't pay you to unburden yourself to me. Where is my Scotch?"

"I…I'm sorry. I'll get right to it, Ma'am."

"Quite alright, boy. Even my Donald has such fits of weakness at times. Always talking about the dead. Murder, this and suicide, that and splattered all over the room…The boy is a walking thesaurus of death. Not like you, dear." She reached for her glass. "Close your mouth, boy, you'll catch flies."

"Sorry, that's just the first time…"

"First time you've failed to pour a drink for yourself, boy. Do hurry. I don't like to drink alone."

He smiled like a child. "Yes, Ma'am."

"I remember during my first trip to South Africa…"