Charlaine Harris - Day Shift

“So Bertha was expecting a legacy she hasn’t received,” Manfred said. “Anything more pertinent?”

“Here’s the really good stuff. When we went into the study and Lewis was so upset, he was thinking about his mother and how scared he’d been that she would say something about Bertha to the psychic — you, Manfred. And he was wondering if Rachel’s will was going to mention Bertha.”

“Why would it?” Manfred sat for a minute. “What’s the connection? Has Bertha’s son been romancing one of Rachel’s daughters? But they’re both married women.”

“And they’re at least fifteen years older than him, going by appearances,” Olivia said. “I guess the son and Lewis could be having a thing, though I can’t imagine anyone being genuinely interested in Lewis sexually.”

Barry snickered. “I can’t, either.”

“You can hear people’s deepest secrets,” Olivia said. “Manfred can talk to dead people. I feel very plain compared to your skill set.”

“What I do has its weak points,” Barry said. “People don’t always think in an orderly way, with background. They know all the background. So you’re left with lots of gaps. You have to be careful not to fill them in yourself.”

Olivia said, “Your life must be one long trail of disillusionment.”

He nodded. “You’re about right. That’s a good way to put it.”

Manfred was trying to think of something positive to say when Barry stood up. “Okay,” he said. “I think that’s it. I just wanted to tell you that and collect my money. I got to get back to Shorty. He’s not having a good day. I think moving him from Vegas was a mistake. Mrs. Whitefield says he’s seemed mentally fuzzy ever since he arrived. When I’d call him in Vegas, he wasn’t that off base.”

Manfred got out his wallet (stocking up on cash was another thing he’d done in Davy) and handed Barry the agreed amount. As soon as the door closed behind the telepath, Olivia said, “What’s really interesting is what they’ll decide to do with Shorty once they’ve found he actually has to go into some kind of home and they can’t really keep him in the hotel any longer. If all the old people are just window dressing, what’s going to keep them from dumping them out in the desert? What could be the purpose of this?”

Manfred nodded. “I could swear Lenore Whitefield isn’t a villain. She really believes she’s there to keep her guests happy until they move on to their final destination. Ah… that sounds way more gruesome than I intended. What I’m trying to say is, she doesn’t have any designs on them.”

“Yeah, I get that, but the fact is that only the guests staying there who are doing contract work for Magic Portal are real, actual paying guests, and of course whoever is crazy enough to stop in Midnight. I guess the hotel might get to be a sort of destination place since it’s been converted so cleverly, but it’s not really a period piece, is it? It’s a modern version of a motel, fitted into an old shell.”

Manfred said, “This whole town is a shell.”

“What?”

“There are more storefronts boarded up than open. How does anyone here live? How does Home Cookin stay open? How does the Rev survive on what he makes burying dogs and cats and performing weddings? How does the Antique Gallery and Nail Salon make a profit? You have to leave here to make your living. Why don’t the others?”

“You left out Fiji and Bobo,” Olivia said.

“Fiji inherited the house. She’s got almost no overhead. And she sells some spells online, as well as the crap she carries in the shop. Plus, the Thursday night classes are paying propositions.”

“She sells things online? Really?”

“Yeah, I helped her set something up about four months ago, and I got a friend of mine to design her website.”

“You’re a man of secrets.” Olivia did not seem to think that was a good thing. There was a long moment of silence before she said, “Sometimes I think about that, too. But I have no way of knowing how the others get along, and I’m not going to ask them. We don’t ask many questions here, and I like it that way. Call me if the police actually get into the house and find the damn jewelry in the globe. I need to go do stuff.”

And she left, too. Manfred said, “Dammit.” He’d finally said things out loud that he’d wondered about for months — and said them out loud to Olivia, of all people. And she’d blown him off and gotten out the door as fast as she could.

The town fell silent again at dusk. Everyone did the same things they’d done the night before, even though some of the tension had gone. Fiji called Manfred to ask him if he wanted some homemade bread, and when he said yes, they met in the middle of Witch Light Road. There was still plenty of light; they talked a little. Though the heat radiated off the road, it was still pleasant to be outside, to be confident that nothing was lurking… yet.

“Mr. Snuggly won’t come out of the corner of my bedroom,” she said. “He’s gone into scaredy-cat overload.”

“One more night of this, you think? After tonight?”

“I think so.”

“What, exactly, are we so afraid of?”

“Well,” Fiji said, “it is the full moon.” She looked at him significantly, obviously expecting Manfred to pick up her meaning.

“It’s been the full moon lots of times since I moved here, and I’ve never had to do this before.”

“Then you should ask yourself, ‘What’s different about this time?’” she said patiently. “Here’s the bread. There’s beer in it. Enjoy.” She cast a quick glance over at the pawnshop, perhaps hoping that Bobo would emerge. She turned to go back to her house, calling good-bye over her shoulder.

Manfred raised the bread to his nose. It had the most wonderful aroma. He wondered if baking might someday be included in his skill set, because he would do anything to make his house smell like this. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A police car was driving very slowly down the street. The driver was looking from side to side. There was someone else in the front seat. Manfred saw that the passenger was Shorty Horowitz.

“Shit!” Manfred said. He flagged down the car. It pulled into his driveway. He didn’t know the driver, but it was a sheriff’s department uniform.

“You know this man, sir?” asked the deputy.

“Yes, where was he?”

“I found him on the Davy highway just north of here. He says he has a grandson here? Someone named Barry Bellboy?” The deputy said this very carefully, as if he suspected he was the butt of a joke.

“His grandson is over at the hotel,” Manfred said. “I’ll bet he’s going nuts.”

He looked over at the hotel and saw Barry standing in the hotel doorway, looking from one direction to another, obviously terrified. Manfred waved his arms and pointed at the patrol car. Barry came running across the intersection like there was no such thing as traffic, and in a second was standing by the car, panting.

“Oh, you’ve found him! Thanks so much.”

“You Barry? He do this a lot?” asked the deputy.

At least it’s not Gomez, Manfred thought.

“I’m Barry Horowitz. He’s never done this before,” Barry said. “God, I couldn’t find him anywhere. I was really, really… scared.” He leaned down to look across the deputy at the errant Shorty. “Granddad, where’ve you been? Why did you leave?” His voice sound gentle, and he’d put the fear away somewhere.

“Barry?” Shorty turned to look at his grandson. He seemed puzzled.

“That was part of the problem,” the deputy explained. “He kept telling us your name was Bellboy, and I put out a call to search for someone of that name. Of course, there wasn’t anyone in this area called that.”