"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 pa.s.sed."

"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 b.u.mped Karswell for a more lucrative customer, just like airlines b.u.mp discount pa.s.sengers 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 gla.s.ses 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?"

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. d.a.m.n, 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 d.a.m.n graveyard, he wouldn't even have been out there today! Holy h.e.l.l, 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 fl.u.s.tered. "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 d.a.m.n, 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 b.u.t.ton 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-"

"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."

"Poppyc.o.c.k. 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.

G.o.d 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 l.u.s.tily, 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-gla.s.s. Someone had moved it the last time he'd seen it-of this he was certain. But now...

Fanshawe squinted down. WITCH-WATER LOOKING-GLa.s.s, 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sa.s.sins 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!"