Witch Water

don’t like the sound of that. Disappeared.”

Now, he’s RE-appeared… “If you’d reported him as missing, the police wouldn’t have done anything about it anyway. Enough time hadn’t passed.”

“Right. And what else could I do? He doesn’t show up on the last day he’s booked, and then you arrive for an indefinite time, so…I moved Karswell’s stuff out and gave you the room ’cos it’s the one you wanted in the first place.”

It was between Baxter’s words that Fanshawe got the gist. Now matter how much money this Karswell man is worth, I’m worth more. He bumped Karswell for a more lucrative customer, just like airlines bump discount passengers for people who’ll pay more. Happens every day.

“Like you said,” Baxter continued, wringing his hands. “I thought he went someplace else for his last night, with a friend or something. He left his car, left his belongings and his suitcase, even left his keys.”

“Oh, the Cadillac I noticed parked behind the inn— That’s his, I suppose.”

“Right. I moved it myself, then put his suitcase in the trunk. The cops probably think I’m some kind of a dunderhead. Man leaves his car, his keys, and I don’t do a thing…”

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