Witch Water (11 page)

Fanshawe recalled seeing Mr. Baxter stowing
the suitcase just yesterday. “You’re fretting for nothing, Mr.
Baxter.”

Baxter continued, still distraught, “I
figured if he came back at the last minute, I’d give him his stay
for free.”

“Anyone else would’ve done the same thing.
You don’t have an obligation to inform the police that a private
guest
might
be missing, and it’s certainly not your job to
guess that someone may have been murdered,” Fanshawe offered.

“Yeah, yeah… But I knew it was him the
minute I saw the suit that corpse was wearing.” Baxter let out a
long breath. “Jumpin’
Jesus…
”

Fanshawe could sympathize with the
proprietor’s duress.
A hotel guest getting murdered—getting his
FACE cut off—won’t do wonders for the inn’s reputation…
They
entered the inn and its rush of cool air. “I gotta get my tookus
back to work, Mr. Fanshawe, gotta food delivery out back,” Baxter
said. He tssked. “I’m just
dang
sorry somethin’ like this
happened to ruin your stay.”

“It’s not ruined at all, Mr. Baxter—bad
things happen everywhere.” At last, the remnant adrenalin since the
scream began to drain from Fanshawe’s blood. He tried to end their
discourse on a witty note, “If you think this is bad, try Central
Park,” but it didn’t work. In the back of his mind, the grisly
image flashed: Eldred Karswell’s faceless skull…

(II)

“I don’t know what it was,” Abbie was saying
during the early-evening lull, “but he just seemed—” She looked
right at her father. “Weird?”

“Karswell?” Baxter questioned. “Maybe a bit
of a stick in the mud, but I wouldn’t call him weird. Was nice to
me, I’ll tell ya that.”

Abbie placed more margarita glasses into the
overhead rack. “You just liked him ’cos he spent a lot of money.
Come on, Dad. He was weird. His eyes looked…
calculating.
Like he knew something he was keeping secret. He was
creepy,
Dad. Even his name is creepy. Seriously—
Eldred
Karswell?”

Mr. Baxter didn’t look at his daughter as he
rang out the bar receipts from the last shift. “A man just died
horrible, and you’re calling him creepy. Talk about speakin’ ill of
the dead…”

“Sure, Dad—what happened to him was
horrible”—she leaned closer to him, and lowered her voice even
though no one else was in the bar—”but don’t tell me you’re not
thinking the same thing I am. Don’t even
think
about telling
me you’re not.”

Mr. Baxter’s lower lip rippled, as if
repressing a torrential rage. He clenched a fist till his knuckles
whitened. “I know what you’re tiptoin’ around, girl, so you just
hear me, and hear me good.” For a failed effect, he even thumped
his fist on the bar-top. “Not
one word
of that to no
one!”

“Come on. How Karswell died is an incredible
coincidence. Even
you
have to admit it.”

“I don’t have to admit no such thing,
missy!” Now Baxter roughly grabbed a towel and bottle of cleaner,
and began to wipe down the bar. “And with all the commotion today,
I ain’t even had the chance to get on your case for that
blabber-mouth stunt you pulled last night.”

Abbie straightened her stance, her frown
turning into a half-smile. “Blabber-mouth stunt? You’ll have to
explain that one to me, Dad.”

Baxter pitched his finger back and forth.
“Don’t act like ya don’t know what I’m talkin’ about—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”

“—because I heard every word of it last
night,” and then his face seemed to smolder at her.

Now Abbie appeared bewildered. “Last night?
Every word of
what?
”

“Ain’t ya got no sense at all? Don’t be
telling folks all those gory stories about Wraxall and his
daughter, especially a guest as important as Mr. Fanshawe.”

Abbie’s smile returned, and she slowly
nodded. “Oh, so that’s what’s stuck down your craw. He’s a
customer, Dad, he’s a guest, and he asked some questions. What am I
supposed to do, say, ‘Sorry, sir, but my Daddy told me not to talk
about it’?”

“Don’t get smart!”

“He asked me, so I told him. And
you’re
the one who pushes all this witchcraft jive to the
tourists.”

Baxter’s eyes sprang open. “Mr. Fanshawe’s
no ordinary tourist! He’s worth a fortune, and he’s the type of
guest we want to accommodate so he can
spend
some of that
fortune here! Just last month, Fortune 500 put him on the friggin’
Billionaire
List, and here he is stayin’ at our humble
little hotel. Damn, girl! I can’t believe you told him the room
he’s taken used to be Jacob Wraxall’s!”

“He seems to have an interest in the hotel’s
history, that’s all.”

“That’s
all?
I also heard it when you
blabbed about Wraxall’s incestuous affair and the babies he
sacrificed! For goodness sake, girl! Somebody must’ve switched your
brain for a loaf of pumpernickel!”

Abbie chuckled, commencing to stuff olives
with bleu cheese. “Relax, Dad. He’s very interested in the local
lore. In fact, he also said he was going to have a look at the
graveyard soon. I told him all about it last night.”

Baxter’s face began to pinken. “That’s
probably what he was doin’, when he and them women found Karswell’s
body. If you hadn’t told him ‘bout that damn graveyard, he wouldn’t
even have been out there today! Holy
hell
, girl, he’ll be
hightailing it out of here for sure, and probably’ll go straight to
the Travelodge!”

She squealed a modest laugh. “Billionaires
don’t stay in Travelodges, Dad.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t stay here, either,
but we’re fortunate enough to have him anyway. It’s pure gravy. But
after all that gross-out ballyhoo you jib-jabbed to him last night,
you’ll wind up giving the man nightmares. We’re
hoteliers,
Abbie. It’s our job to cultivate our guests, not scare ’em
off.”

Abbie put the stuffed olives away, then
began to cut celery on a board:
snap, snap, snap.
“You’re
impossible. And what’s the big deal? I told you, Stew’s fascinated
by the Wraxall legend.”

Baxter nearly gagged. “
Stew?
Where’re
your manners? It’s
Mr. Fanshawe,
girl. We treat our guests
with every courtesy, ’cos that’s what they expect!”

“He told me to call him by his first name,
Dad.”

Mr. Baxter paused, mulling a consideration.
“Really?”

“Yes, Dad.”

Baxter leaned closer. “Hmmm…well, now. If he
told ya that, then why don’t you turn that little light bulb on in
your noggin and get ta usin’ your brain for more than skull-filler,
huh?”

“
What?
”

“Don’t ya think it might be a good idea to
maybe, well, make some eyes at the man a little?”

Now Abbie bubbled over with shrill laughter.
“You’re priceless! Make
eyes
at him?”

“You’re actin’ like a dizzy blonde, and
you’re
not even
blond. For Pete’s sake, girl—all that
money?” The elder suddenly turned flustered. “But, no, I don’t
suppose my brainchild daughter would ever consider that.”

Abbie shook her head. “Dad. Stop. He already
asked me out.”

Baxter nearly gagged again. “You joshin’
me?”

“No, I’m not
joshing
you.”

Then a look of total dread came over the
man’s face. “You said yes, didn’t ya, Abbie? Please. Tell me ya
said yes!”

Abbie fidgeted. “Well, I wanted to, Dad, but
I really don’t know him that well, so I said I’d take a rain
check—”

Baxter stared, veins suddenly pulsing in his
neck. In a stalled instant, his shoulders slumped. “Aw, Abbie, how
could I raise such
dumb bunny
for a daughter?”

Abbie broke into more laughter. “You’re so
easy to dupe, you know that? Of
course
 I said yes. He’s
taking me to the Thai place tomorrow at seven.”

Baxter stomped his feet and hooted out loud.
When he did so, several guests out in the atrium shot glances into
the bar. “Well, hot damn, girl! That’s the best news I heard since
that Neal Osborn fella walked on the moon!”

“Armstrong, Dad. Not Osborn.”

Baxter was frantic. “What are you going to
wear? That’s very important on a first date, you know. Hmm, let’s
think. You gotta wear something nice, of course. How about that
snappy green evening dress with the shiny razzle-dazzle things on
it?”

Abbie sighed. “It’s just a date, Dad, not
New Year’s Eve. Besides, I think that’s a little too low-cut, don’t
you? A little
showy?
”

“Depends on what you’re showin’”—Baxter
leaned an elbow on the bar. “It can’t hurt any to let the man know
you’ve got some
attributes,
if you catch my drift—you’re not
gettin’ any younger, you know.”

Abbie fastened a button on her blouse. “Oh,
I catch your drift, all right,” Abbie said snidely, “and thanks for
the Not Getting Any Younger line.”

Baxter ignored her. “Oh, and wear those high
heels, too, the ones you got in Manchester. He’ll like them.”

Abbie shook her head and smiled at her
father’s folly.

Baxter looked at the grandfather clock in
the corner. “Hey, why are you even working now?”

“I’m filling in for Hester; she wanted to go
to a concert.”

Her father scowled. “You should be in bed,
you need to get plenty of rest for your big date tomorrow—”

“Oh, I get it, a woman like me, who’s
not
getting any younger,
needs her beauty sleep?”

“That ain’t what I meant, missy—”

“It’s only ten o’clock, and I told Hester
I’d work till close. Those professors always come in for a late
round.”

“Poppycock. I’ll take care of those
beard-o-lookin’ late-timers, so you get your bee-hind straight to
bed this instant.”

“That’s ridiculous—”

Baxter grabbed her shoulders and urged her
out from behind the bar. “Not another word, girl! Up to bed! Oh,
and maybe get your nails done in the morning at that fancy
salon”—he shoved some cash at her. “Can’t hurt.”

“You’re a nut, Dad…”

“That’s all well and good but I’m still your
father and I’m still the boss.”

Abbie dismissed her father with a laugh,
then left the bar, but only a few moments later several bearded
patrons came in, bringing plenty of loud chatter with them. Baxter
manned his post, but he did so in a dreamy, distracted state.
No, sir,
he thought with a smile.
It’s not every day my
daughter gets asked on a date by a billionaire…

(III)

The abrupt vision of seeing a savaged murder
victim left Fanshawe in a strange daze. He’d thought he was over it
but the image, however momentary, lingered like a flashbulb spot.
After he and Mr. Baxter had parted, he’d begun to wonder the most
grotesque things.
Jesus, the guy had no face left.
So…

Where was the face now?

If stripped off with a knife…where were the
pieces? Had the police taken them? But, no, Fanshawe had been there
before
the police, and he’d seen no evidence of
pieces
 or collection.

God Almighty. What happened to Karswell’s
face?

The daze followed him into early evening,
and he found himself almost unconsciously re-inspecting the hotel’s
display coves. His eyes landed on one book,
The Unsearchable
Way, or England’s Danger and Dealings with Anti-Christ,
by R.
Crome, Rector; then another,
Newe Angle-Land & Its
Witcheries & Tragick Worshipp of Divells in No Human Shape,
by Rev. A. Hoadley
.
Wonderful,
Fanshawe sputtered to
himself. Various paintings came next. He stood before the large,
old portrait of Jacob Wraxall, his daughter, and their surly
manservant.
Why do I feel so dizzy?
Gem-green eyes looked
back at him, Evanore’s rather lustily, but her father’s eyes looked
absolutely foreboding. Something seemed to emanate off the
unpleasant likenesses; Fanshawe closed his own eyes for a full
minute—not knowing why he’d chosen to do so—but a superimposition
seemed to remain, with Wraxall smiling at him, smiling as one
smiles in approval. Fanshawe thought absurdly,
Looks like ole
Jake likes me…
It was fanfare, though—Fanshawe knew this. When
he re-opened his eyes, Wraxall’s portentous scowl was
unchanged.

What did I expect?

More dazed steps took him through more
display coves.
Why am I so ragged out?
He felt unsteady on
his feet. Now he realized he was looking at the ornate case which
housed the peculiar looking-glass. Someone had moved it the last
time he’d seen it—of this he was certain. But now…

Fanshawe squinted down. WITCH-WATER
LOOKING-GLASS, MADE BY JACOB WRAXALL, CIRCA 1672, the familiar
label read. Now, however, he saw that the device hadn’t merely been
moved again, it was gone entirely.

The observation troubled him as he decided
to go back outside.
Why should that thing bug me so much?
But he knew. It reminded him of his own Bad Old Days, which were
not too far behind him. Of the object’s disappearance, any number
of explanations were feasible. Mr. Baxter had probably loaned it to
a guest interested in looking at the area’s panorama, or perhaps
someone interested in such relics—an antique dealer or
antiquary—had purchased it from Baxter.

Still, the notion itched at Fanshawe. His
immediate impulse was to suspect the glass had been stolen,
though…

Why would he think
that?

Once he’d exited the inn, he’d walked around
toward the building’s rear—once more, via an urge more unconscious
than anything…

He was standing directly before Karswell’s
old yet pristine black Cadillac.
What am I doing NOW?
He had
no idea, and no idea further when he took out his cell phone and
called his office manager.