Witch Water

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