Fanshawe knew the comment was incidental yet still his paranoia construed something smart-alecky about it. “I’m semi-retired now,” was all he said, but was surprised a particular question hadn’t been asked. “I did happen to hear something out of place—I mean, I think I heard something.”
“What’s that, sir?” asked the cop with the clipboard.
“A dog growling, a large one by the sound of it. I suppose it could have been a wolf.”
The captain shrugged. Was he repressing a smile? “There’s been no wolves here in ages,” and with that the man didn’t seem interested in the least.
“I just thought I’d mention it; this does look like it could be a wild animal attack.”
“A wild animal wouldn’t likely snatch a man’s wallet,” the captain enlightened, then the cop added, “No change in the victim’s pockets, either, no pens, no handkerchief, no keys…”
Fanshawe contemplated the surprising information.
As if to change the subject, “In town long, Mr. Fanshawe?” the captain asked. It seemed intimidating the way he crossed his arms.
“I’ve been here two days but may be staying several weeks or even months. Not sure yet. I’m kind of …on vacation.”
The captain’s brow jigged. “Kind of?” but then the officer caught himself. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fanshawe. Vacation or not, it’s none of my business—”
Good, because you don’t WANT to know why I’m really here, Fanshawe thought.
“—but it’s our conclusion that this man here”—he took a grim glance to the now covered corpse—”is a homicide victim.”
“It would seem so. No wallet, no keys,” Fanshawe said, confused.
“Just want you to know it’s a pleasure to have someone of your influence staying here in Haver-Towne,” came the captain’s next odd remark. Now he seemed not to be aware that a dead man was in proximity. “Sorry a nasty thing like this had to happen. What I hope you can understand, sir, is there hasn’t been a murder here in, well, since way back when. Right, Mr. B?”
“Not since Colonial times,” Baxter accentuated, but then that discreetly troubled look grew more pronounced.
“Something wrong, Mr. B? Looks like you got something on your mind.”
“Aw, yeah…” Baxter glanced again to the covered corpse—the facial region of which was revealing blood spots through the white fabric. “Aw, damn, captain. I guess I could be wrong here, but I don’t think so. See, I think I know who this man is…”
— | — | —
CHAPTER FIVE
(I)
Fanshawe heard the entire speculation twice, first as Baxter recited it to the police, then again when he walked back to town with the man.
“Eldred Karswell,” Fanshawe repeated. That’s some name. “So he’s the man who booked my room before I arrived?”
“Yeah. That was definitely the same suit he was wearing last time I saw him. Don’t see many brown suits nowadays, do you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Don’t know anything about the guy ’cept that he had money and seemed like a nice fella. A bit stiff, but…nice.”
“How old do you think he was?”
“Sixty, sixty-five, he looked. Always dressed good too, kind of like you.”
Fanshawe didn’t like the portent of being compared to a dead man. “Retired?”
Baxter looked up. “Didn’t say, but he struck me as a history buff. Asked to look at some old books at the inn.”
Well, Fanshawe thought. The history buff is now history himself.
But Baxter seemed agitated, as though he’d done something wrong. “Damn, I guess I should’ve notified the cops when Karswell never came back to the hotel that night, but, hell…”
“You couldn’t have known. He was a guest, that’s all. How could you know that he didn’t go to visit a nearby town, or maybe had some friends stop by and go somewhere else. He’d already booked the room.”
“Right, for seven days, and six of ’em were already up when he disappeared.” Baxter’s face crinkled. “Just 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?”