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 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—”