Witch Water (28 page)

The old woman laughed. “Aye, but I do, sir.
Just like I said to ya!”

Fanshawe’s mood darkened; he lowered his
voice. “Yes, but I felt awful at one point. I saw the picture of
her baby on the wall and made the mistake of asking about it.”

Mrs. Anstruther’s eyes turned instantly
regretful. “Oh, dear me, yes! What a ’orrible, ’orrible thing to
happen, I must say. The poor little tot, he caught hisself a fever
so’s Miss Letitia, she rush him to the hospital but”—she crossed
herself—“he die in her arms ’fore she got him there, not two months
ago it was. Certain I am, though, sir, certain as I’m certain the
day’s long, the Lord’ll bless ’is little soul. The tot was buried
in the town churchyard, sir, and the entire town show up to show
their respects,” and then she crossed herself again. “We all pitch
in some to pay for the tot’s embalming and coffin and all, on
account Miss Letitia ’erself were sufferin’ from empty pockets at
the time.”

Died from a fever…
The added
information only made Fanshawe feel worse.
My God, what a
terrible thing to happen…
“I can’t imagine what a blow it
must’ve been to Letitia.”

“I don’t imagine none of us can. A dreadful
thing like
that?
And not no one there to help her through
it.”

“Yeah, she told me the child’s father
abandoned her,” Fanshawe recalled. He didn’t want to be rude, but
he couldn’t wait to leave and be back with his own thoughts.

“Ah, but did she tell ya any
more
about that scoundrel of a chiseler who walk off on her?”

“No, nothing else—”

“Well there’s more to
that
story,
there is, a good bit more.”

She’s probably working me again, but—
His irritation at being here collapsed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, sir, I ain’t one to leave a gentleman
twistin’ in the wind, so’s to speak”—but just then her own
attention was highjacked. A smiling middle-aged couple approached
the kiosk; the look on their faces said they had several questions
for the elderly woman. “Pardon me a jot while I tend to these
folks’ needs, and I’ll tell you all about it, sir.”

“Okay. I’ll go grab a coffee and come back
when you’re done. Can I get you a cup?”

“What I fancy most is a cop’a
tea,
sir, if you please—the Earl Grey type, what they’s got—and I’m much
obliged to ya, sir, much obliged.”

Fanshawe parted for the coffee shop. When
he’d arrived he realized he’d walked right by the Travelodge and
felt no temptation whatsoever to steal a glance at the windows or
the pool. This perked up his mood. While he waited for his order at
the cafe, he thought to check his cellphone and saw that he’d
turned it off.
Oh, a message,
he realized, then listened to
the voice mail.

“Hello, Mr. Fanshawe,” the passionless voice
sounded. “This is Dr. Tilton. I thought I’d give you a call to see
how everything is progressing since we last talked, and am hoping
that you’ve set into motion what I suggested. I’d very much like to
hear from you, so please call back at your convenience.” Fanshawe’s
thumb hovered over the dial-back button, but then he hesitated.
This was a call he didn’t really want to make; he was too intrigued
by other considerations.
And what would I tell her
anyway?

Hi, doctor. I’m pretty much convinced that
I’m NOT actually hallucinating. What do I mean by that? Well, see,
that looking-glass I stole WORKS…

He still had to think about that
determination, he knew, but didn’t want to bother with talking to
her now. And when he thought to call in to his main office, his
phone rang.

“Artie, I was just thinking about you,” he
said.

“Good things, I hope. I wanted to get back
to you so you wouldn’t think we’re sluffing.”

“I would
never
think that.”

“We got ahold of Eldred Karswell’s
secretary, danced around some issues, and got her to tell us about
your guy. The, uh, warlock he was writing about was named—”

“Jacob Wraxall,” Fanshawe said. “I already
got that, Artie.”

“You make me feel useless,” his manager
griped. “And that’s all she would say except for bibliographic
crap. Nothing else about the
warlock.
”

Fanshawe appreciated Artie’s humorous
emphasis. “I got the scoop already, but thanks just the same.”

“Well here’s some scoop you probably
haven’t
gotten yet. About five minutes ago the Prosser Fuel
Corp stock
split,
and it skyrocketed just like you said.
Congrats. You just made a couple million.”

Fanshawe’s eyes roved about the shops and
passersby on the street, not particularly interested in what Artie
had just said. “That’s cool, Artie, but—”

“Cool?” Artie sounded shocked or angry. “I
just told you you bagged a couple mil on the side, and all you say
is
cool?
”

Something in the back of his mind itched at
him, and it was just that second that he knew what it was. That
picture of Letitia Rhodes’ baby made him feel terrible. “The
split’s great, Artie, but I’m kind of distracted at the moment.
Write down this name and address.”

“Ready.”

“Letitia Rhodes, 13 Back Street,
Haver-Towne…”

“Got it. Why?”

“I want you to contact the county tax office
here and pay off any outstanding property-tax debt. And while
you’re at it, pay off the next, say, five years, in advance. Use
one of the ancillary accounts.”

“Ooooo…….
kay,
” came the response.
“Let me guess. A hospice? Someone who runs an animal shelter?”

“No—”

“Oh, wait! Some chick you’re hot for?”

Fanshawe’s eyes glimpsed Abbie across the
street; she was watering plants at the entrance. She smiled and he
waved.
Oh, man. I better get my ass in gear and ask her out
again…
“Actually I have met someone, Artie—”

“Eureka!
Finally
getting over the
divorce shit!”

“No, no, it’s someone else, not Letitia
Rhodes. I just…feel bad for her, so pay off her prop tax like I
told you.”

Artie seemed resigned over the line. “Always
the good Samaritan, okay. I’ll get on it.” A confused pause.
“But…who is she, this Rhodes woman, I mean?”

Fanshawe was about to tell him to mind his
own business, but then he smiled.
He’ll love this.
“She’s a
palm reader,
Artie. A
fortune teller.
”

The next silence seemed to unroll. “Great,
first a warlock, now a fortune teller. Just another day at Fanshawe
Enterprises.”

“You know what she told me?”

“Uhhhh—”

“My wealth will increase a thousandfold,”
and then Fanshawe laughed.

“That’s a good one, boss. So you’re going to
be the world’s first trillionaire?”

“Thanks, Artie”—he kept laughing—“I’ll talk
to you soon.” He hung up.

That’ll give him something to talk about
at the office.
But, next, he considered his impulsive order:
paying off the taxes of a woman he didn’t really know. Fanshawe had
thrown lots of money at charity situations but…not like this. He
simply felt awful for the woman—
Baby died, the father booked,
can’t make a living anymore because of the economy, and she was
about to lose her house for defaulting on taxes.
But now that
he’d done this, he felt much better.
I helped someone in
need—
and his next thought amused him.
Who says I’ve got a
black heart?

He looked back to where Abbie had been but
she was no longer there. He couldn’t wait to see her—

Mrs. Anstruther wriggled her fingers at him.
The tourist couple was gone. He brought her tea to the kiosk.

“Thank you, sir, oh, that’s perfect, it is,”
she said, sipping from the to-go cup.

“Now—
what
were you saying?”

The woman’s stiff hair moved when her brows
rose. “Oh, yes, sir, ’bout Miss Rhodes and that man she were with
what made her in a mother’s way.”

“Yes, you were saying that he left Letitia
when he found out she was pregnant.”

She nodded in a way that seemed cunning.
“And that ain’t all he done neither, sir. See, when he left her he
also stole a fair rooker of ackers from her.”

“He stole…
what?
”

“Quite a considerable sum of
money,
sir, what that she save up from her palmist’s business—oh, yes,
sir. Several thousand dollars it was.”

“Jesus…”

“A bloke like that, sir? What it is we call
a bloke like that in England is a man who hain’t worth a brown
trout,” and then she smiled as if amused.

Ain’t worth a shit,
Fanshawe
translated. “I hope at least that the police got him for the
theft.”

She ruefully shook her head. “’Fraid not,
sir, oh, no. See, what this bloke done after he took the money is
he broke out a
winder
from the outside, so’s ta make it look
like a
burglary,
sir. The constables couldn’t charge him
with no theft on account there was
insufficient
evidence.
”

“Damn,” Fanshawe muttered. “Well I hope the
bastard at least paid some child support before the baby died.”

“No, sir, I’m sorry to say he did
not.
’Tis the way things work out sometimes, sir. The folks
who wouldn’t ’urt a fly are the ones who get roughed up.”

“Unfortunately—”

“But it hain’t the end’a my
story,
sir,” she went on, at once enthused. “As I were just relatin’ to
ya, the day after that scoundrel found out what that Miss Rhodes
was havin’ a baby, he left her. But
’ere’s
what else,
sir.”

Fanshawe tapped his foot. By now he was
quite used to people deliberately keeping him in suspense. “Any day
now, Mrs. Anstruther.”

She grinned. “The day after that poor li’l
baby die…
he
die.”

“What, the child’s biological father?”

“The same, sir.”

Fanshawe felt a satisfaction at this news.
“Pardon me if I sound callous, ma’am, and pardon my language, but
when
shitty
people die, I don’t call it unfortunate, I call
it justice.”

The old woman laughed. “Oh, sir, I’m so
’appy to hear you say it ’cos your feelin’s are the very mirror to
what all of us thought. But tell me what your mind tells ya of
this: that man? It weren’t a accident what killed him, it were a
massive
’art
attack which since he were only in ’is
thirties,
we all found quite odd, we did, quite odd.” Then
she paused to look at him, with that same cunning cast to her
face.

“Odd, sure, but it happens,” Fanshawe
said.

“Sir, if I may, it might well be that you
hain’t receivin’ the full measure of my
meanin’,
sir.”

Fanshawe tried to study her words with as
much introspection as possible.
What does she m…
“You’re not
saying that Letitia had anything to do with the guy’s death, are
you? That’s impossible. What? She slipped him some drug to cause
heart failure?”

“What it might be that you should do is like
what my father used say to us when we was girls, sir, and what he
said was that the
surmise,
sir, might call for a bit more
forceful
ponderment,
sir,” and then she winked at him.

Fanshawe felt his face go blank when
something seemed to
snick
in his mind. “Oh, come on, Mrs.
Anstruther. She put a
curse
on the guy? She stuck a pin in a
voodoo doll?” He laughed. “She’s a palm reader, not a witch.”

Mrs. Anstruther’s expression turned
dead-serious. “Oh, hain’t she now? Are you sure of what it is
you’re speakin’, sir?”

Fanshawe just kept looking at her.

She turned quickly, offering a lively
pretense as a man, woman, and two young teenagers approached the
kiosk. “Lovely talkin’ to ya, sir, as always, and I hope to talk to
ya again soon. Got ta tend to these tourists now—”

“Have a good day, ma’am”—again he couldn’t
resist. He put a $10 bill in her tip jar.

The woman brought her hand to her heart,
acting overwhelmed. “Gracious me, sir! The proper words simply
don’t exist to express my feelin’ of gratitude, sir, and bless you,
sir!”

Smiling, Fanshawe pointed to the jar full of
bills. “Looks to me like you’re doing all right today.”

She hunched over to whisper, “Yes, sir, but
most’a that ain’t but a bunch of piddling
singles,
sir.
Ten-spots, now,
they’s
what we call in England rare as
rocking-horse shit!”

Fanshawe could’ve gusted laughter as he left
her to her business. But as he crossed the cobbled street, the
levity faded. What the old woman had distinctly implied stuck to
him like burrs.

Letitia Rhodes? A witch?

The idea seemed absurd, but then why should
he discount it so quickly when he’d already convinced himself that
Wraxall’s sorcery, and Evanore’s
witchcraft,
was real?

—
| — | —

CHAPTER TEN

(I)

Fanshawe felt physically aimless when he
re-entered the inn, went upstairs, and showered and changed.

Physically but not mentally.

His thoughts had become something like an
apparatus of many moving parts, all turning in synchronicity so to
process everything Fanshawe had experienced.

A relapse into his voyeuristic obsessions
hand in hand with Abbie, his only romantic interest since his
marriage; the Wraxall legend; death by ‘barreling’; what were
possibly hallucinations of a barking dog and then what he’d
witnessed in the wax museum; Karswell’s dead body and its
coincidental condition, not to mention that he was investigating
Jacob Wraxall just as Fanshawe was; the secret attic room and the
discoveries of a more telling diary penned by Wraxall himself, plus
multiple containers of witch-water and more looking-glasses; and
not only his curious fortune as told by Letitia Rhodes but also yet
another 300-year-old diary penned by her linear ancestor Callister
Rood…