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—”
“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
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—”
“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
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