Witch Water

“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?”