“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 manager.
“Hi, Artie, it’s me.”
“Oh, nice of you to give us a call,” came some obvious sarcasm. “Are you all right?”
“Of course—”
“So where are you? Hagerstown?”
“Haver-towne,” Fanshawe corrected.
“Oh, I’ve heard of it! Are you all right?”
“No assassins have knocked me off yet.”
“Funny. You know, you could at least touch base with us once a day. You’re turning our hair gray.”
“You’re already gray, Artie—prematurely. No offense.”
“Oh, none taken!”
“Look, I’ve got a wild bug up my—”
“Really? You?”
Fanshawe chuckled. “I want you to have the research people check something out for me. I want to know about a guy named Eldred Karswell—”
“Who’s he?”
“Just…a guy. He drives an old black Cadillac,” and then Fanshawe read off the vehicle’s license plate number.
Artie sighed through a pause. “Got it. Not gonna tell me the deal with the guy—this…Karswell?”
Fanshawe smiled. “No. Just run a make on him because…well, because I’m the boss.” Fanshawe didn’t want to reveal that Karswell had actually been murdered, or at least killed, if the police were wrong. Artie would go ballistic… They would find out soon enough.
“I’m hearing you loud and clear…boss.”
“Good. Just ring me on my cell when you’ve got it, okay?”
“Sure. Say, aren’t you going to ask how things are going with all your astronomically successful businesses?”
“I don’t have to ask, because I have the utmost confidence in you.” Fanshawe liked Artie but he just didn’t feel like talking right now. “Thanks, Artie. Take the office out on the company card tonight. Anyplace you want.”
“Uh…”
“A simple thank you will suffice.”
“Uh, thanks, boss!”
“Later, Artie.”
“Yeah, sure, I—”
Fanshawe hung up, feeling satisfied in some inexpressible way. He couldn’t imagine what goaded his curiosity about Karswell, but then there were a number of things he felt intensely curious about in Haver-Towne, things that wouldn’t ordinarily pique him. It’s because my life has changed now…for the better. I’m essentially retired; my managers run my businesses, so I need new interests, and with that he began to walk. He’d done lots of walking since he’d arrived, and he found that he liked it. It cleared his head…
He began to walk back toward the trails.
It occurred to him that police might still be around. I hope they don’t think I had something to do with it… Still, he felt like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime. But he couldn’t quell the urge to see the trails again, and the scenery off the most elevated of the hillocks. He didn’t think for a minute there was a subconscious motive, the joggers, for instance. After what they saw today, they’ll NEVER come back out here. Before he knew it, he was ascending the hillocks.
No surprise there, he thought when he saw that the trail where Karswell’s body had been found was cordoned off completely with yellow tape. Only when he discerned that the police had left did he realize how unwise coming here might be. Whoever killed Karswell might still be out here…