Witch Water by Edward Lee

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?”
    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