“No, nothing else—”
“Well there’s more to that story, there is, a good bit more.”
She’s probably working me again, but— His irritation at being here collapsed. “What do you mean?”
“Well, sir, I ain’t one to leave a gentleman twistin’ in the wind, so’s to speak”—but just then her own attention was highjacked. A smiling middle-aged couple approached the kiosk; the look on their faces said they had several questions for the elderly woman. “Pardon me a jot while I tend to these folks’ needs, and I’ll tell you all about it, sir.”
“Okay. I’ll go grab a coffee and come back when you’re done. Can I get you a cup?”
“What I fancy most is a cop’a tea, sir, if you please—the Earl Grey type, what they’s got—and I’m much obliged to ya, sir, much obliged.”
Fanshawe parted for the coffee shop. When he’d arrived he realized he’d walked right by the Travelodge and felt no temptation whatsoever to steal a glance at the windows or the pool. This perked up his mood. While he waited for his order at the cafe, he thought to check his cellphone and saw that he’d turned it off. Oh, a message, he realized, then listened to the voice mail.
“Hello, Mr. Fanshawe,” the passionless voice sounded. “This is Dr. Tilton. I thought I’d give you a call to see how everything is progressing since we last talked, and am hoping that you’ve set into motion what I suggested. I’d very much like to hear from you, so please call back at your convenience.” Fanshawe’s thumb hovered over the dial-back button, but then he hesitated. This was a call he didn’t really want to make; he was too intrigued by other considerations. And what would I tell her anyway?
Hi, doctor. I’m pretty much convinced that I’m NOT actually hallucinating. What do I mean by that? Well, see, that looking-glass I stole WORKS…
He still had to think about that determination, he knew, but didn’t want to bother with talking to her now. And when he thought to call in to his main office, his phone rang.
“Artie, I was just thinking about you,” he said.
“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.”