Wicked Deeds

“Poe was buried in the back at first,” Vickie said, walking quickly ahead of Griffin.

She wasn’t heading toward the back, though, but rather toward the place where Poe had been moved when admirers of his work had finally gotten together to manage the creation of a fine monument to him.

“In an unmarked grave!” she said. “He had a cousin—Neilson Poe—in the city of Baltimore. Neilson was finally contacted after Poe was found and brought to the hospital. But the thing is, Poe never came back to his senses. He was delirious from the time he was found to the time he died.”

There were other visitors to the burial ground, some wandering around to view other notable graves, some hovering by the monument to Edgar Allan Poe.

“Miss, excuse me—is he really here? Or is this just the monument? You seem to know a great deal.”

An attractive woman of about forty or forty-five had stopped in front of Vickie; she’d apparently heard her speaking.

Vickie flushed. “I don’t know that much. I just always loved his work. I do know that he was exhumed and moved here—with other members of his family, Virginia Clemm, his wife, and Maria Clemm, her mother. You can see their names if you walk around the monument.”

The woman thanked her.

Others were gathering. Some came with curiosity—and some with absolute reverence, bowing their heads, speaking softly and then just standing there, as if by gathering at his grave they could breathe in some of his brilliance.

Griffin noticed that a boy standing near the monument suddenly jerked—as if he’d been startled or touched by someone unseen.

He looked around the monument, but saw nothing but other visitors who had come to pay their respects to Baltimore’s famous poet.

Griffin walked around the monument himself, then stopped short.

A man stood there, with dark hair and a sad face. He seemed to be dressed oddly for the day and the time.

The man saw Griffin. He lifted his hand in a salute, staring at Griffin gravely.

Griffin had never been the Poe reader that Vickie was. Of course, he’d never been any kind of a historian, either—able to rattle off names and dates with such amazing conversational ease.

But even he recognized the figure.

For a moment, he thought that the man was an actor, out to entertain Baltimore visitors at the burial ground.

Then the man disappeared, as if he’d faded into the stone itself.

And Griffin could only presume that he had just seen the real Edgar Allan Poe.

* * *

The news was out; it was everywhere.

Baltimore had lost another great writer, and how oddly, how eerily! He had died in a wine cellar—at a restaurant called the Black Bird, a restaurant that entirely honored the great writer Edgar Allan Poe.

Boston claimed Poe for its own—and had just added a life-size statue of him with a raven on Boylston Street. But in life, Poe hadn’t much loved the city of his birth. To be fair, he had lived and worked more in Virginia and Maryland. It seemed, however, that just as “Washington slept here” was a common refrain, Poe was also coveted. And it was only right. New York City had quite a claim on the man, too—in the Village, and up in the Bronx, where he had last lived, and where his mother-in-law, Maria Clemm, had been waiting for him to come retrieve her.

Right now, Baltimore had renewed their claim on the man—and was musing over what facts were known about his death—and how they compared with the death of Franklin Verne.

Griffin and Vickie had come to the police station to meet up with Carl Morris, having given up the illusion that they were on any kind of a vacation or even off for the weekend.

Maybe they had been on the job from the moment the dream had first plagued her that morning, Vickie thought. And, if not then, they had become completely involved once Jackson had called, or even as soon as Monica Verne had reached out to Adam.

Monica’s resolve and passion couldn’t be ignored. Vickie just wished that she hadn’t brought that passion to the media so quickly.

Monica Verne was offering a hundred-thousand-dollar reward to anyone who could lead her to the true cause of her husband’s death.

“Great, just great!” Griffin muttered. “Now we’ll get calls from every demented soul in the city.”

“Well, maybe someone will come forward with good information,” Vickie told him.

They were standing with Morris and a group of officers in the center of the work floor of the station; one of the officers had brought up the live footage on the large screen that hung from the room’s ceiling, available anytime there was some type of video footage that should be witnessed by all.

Monica must have called the local news station just minutes after Griffin and Vickie had left her home; any self-respecting journalist would have hurried to her with all possible speed.

Phones were always ringing, lighting up, at the police station. It almost appeared as if an alien ship sat above them, there was such a display of sound and light as the show aired.

Morris looked at Vickie, shaking his head sadly. “We can hope, but...for the most part? This kind of thing takes up hours of work, and yields little. But yes, we can hope.”

“Well, Monica is convinced her husband was murdered,” Vickie said.

“And she’s probably right,” Griffin murmured.

“Sorry!” Carl Morris called, his voice deep, rich, loud—and extending to the different officers and detectives in the room. “Answer all calls—do your best to sort the wheat from the chaff.”

“You’re going to love this one, Detective!” an officer called out, holding up one of the police station’s yellow crime-tip forms. “The Martians are here. They learned how to beam people places by watching Star Trek reruns for hours and hours. They killed him because they had to suck out his brain.”

Morris waved a hand in the air. There wasn’t much laughter. There were far more sighs.

Morris motioned to Vickie and Griffin. They followed him into his office.

There was a monitor screen at the side of his desk. Morris picked up a remote control and hit it. “Maybe you can see something I missed. I’ve gone over the digital video or whatever the hell it is from the front-door cameras a zillion times.”

Nothing happened on the screen. Morris swore softly. “Hang on,” he told them. “I have to go find a kid.”

The kid—Officer Benedict, who appeared to be about twenty-five—hurried in after Morris stood at the door and yelled out.

“Here, sir!” Benedict said to Morris, glancing at Griffin and Vickie with a grimace. “This, sir, turns it on. Then just hit this arrow, and it will play. The arrow is Play. But the device must be powered on.”

“I got it this time, I got it!” Morris said. “Hey, these things are new. We just got them in a week or so ago. Thanks, Benedict.”

“Yes, sir,” Benedict said.

“Stay, will you? These special agents might want the footage slowed down.”

There was only one real agent there at the moment—Griffin. But he didn’t say anything and Vickie kept quiet as well.

“We have footage from the opening at eleven o’clock all the way through the night,” Benedict explained. “So, it would take hours to watch it all.”

“Go ahead, start at the beginning,” Griffin told him. “I’ll have you speed it up—but please, Detective Morris, Officer Benedict, please let us know if you see someone coming or going that we should know about.”

“Of course,” Morris told them.

They began to watch the footage. They saw Gary Frampton, the owner, opening the door and looking out on the day, then closing it again. His daughter, Alice, arrived. A small cluster of men and women who’d been identified as kitchen staff showed up. Then later, Lacey Shaw, the Poe lover/gift shop manager, and then their waiter from the night before, whose full name was Jon Skye. More staff ambled on in. Then came the customers.

“There! Stop it. Back up a bit!” Morris told Benedict.

The young officer did as he was told. Morris leaned in to the screen, pointing at people as he said, “There. Naturally there is a major Poe literary society here, a national Poe society and others. Among them is one actually called the Blackbird Society, and they’re dedicated to all things Poe. Franklin Verne belonged nominally to a number of societies, and among them was the Blackbird Society. That woman there, Liza Harcourt, is the president. The man at her side is Alistair Malcolm, vice president of the society, and with them is...” He paused, staring at the screen.

“That’s Brent Whaley,” Office Benedict said. “Another writer. He’s probably best known in science fiction circles, but he loves horror and Poe. Oh, and he belongs to several societies, the Poe one here, and also an H. P. Lovecraft one up somewhere in the northeast, probably Rhode Island, where Lovecraft was from and where he’s buried.”

They all looked curiously at Officer Benedict.

“You have great information,” Griffin told him.

Benedict flushed and shrugged. “My parents are kind of armchair members. They pay their dues and they love to read all the different stories and articles that go out. They’re just kind of homebodies.”

“They all went in together,” Morris noted. “I’ve met Liza and Malcolm, just not Brent Whaley.”

“Well, they must be friends. They’re society friends, at least,” Benedict said.

Other diners came and went. Benedict sped up the recording, and people on the screen began to look like little ants.

Liza left the restaurant at about three thirty in the afternoon.

Malcolm left a few minutes later.

Brent Whaley didn’t seem to leave.

“Take it all the way to the next morning,” Griffin asked.

They watched as the evening diners—including Vickie and Griffin themselves—came and went. They watched as the staff left, including their waiter, Jon Skye, gift-store maven Lacey Shaw and finally Alice Frampton with her father, Gary. Then nothing. Just a few late-night stragglers walking past, but the front door didn’t open again, and the time stamp on the video rolled into the next day.

“Did you see Brent Whaley leave?” Griffin asked, looking at the others.

“Let me run the footage back,” Benedict said.

Morris pointed at the screen when a large group was leaving together. “Is that Whaley there? I think it’s the same man—the top of his head appears to be the same. But maybe not.”

“You have to be right,” Benedict said. “Yeah, that has to be him. He’s just surrounded by that big crowd—looks like it was a rehearsal dinner for a wedding. Guess Brent got into the middle of it.”

“Maybe—or maybe not,” Griffin murmured.

“We’ll find out. Because if he was still in the restaurant... I guess we’ll pick up Brent Whaley. If he tells us he walked out in a crowd...we’ll know for sure. But even with the cameras, there are things that can be missed. And there is the delivery door... Oh, we’ll be really nice. We’ll ask for help from him,” Morris said wearily. He shook his head. “Would one writer kill another? Out of jealousy, anger or a perceived insult?”

Griffin looked at Vickie. “I don’t think it involved writers, but... ‘The Cask of Amontillado,’” he said.

“Oh, yeah, man! I read that one,” Office Benedict said, enthused. “So cold! So precise... But our victim wasn’t walled in.”

“Poe liked to wall people in, huh?” Morris asked, shaking his head. “‘The Black Cat.’ He liked burying people alive, too. ‘The Premature Burial’—and others, I’m sure.”

“Everyone is a Poe expert,” Griffin murmured, looking at Vickie a little bit baffled. She had to smile. “Detective, Mrs. Verne said that you took her husband’s desktop computer. Have you been able to find anything on it, any references to him planning to meet up with anyone—anything at all?”

“Our tech people are on it—and they’re good,” Morris assured him.

“I’m sure they are,” Griffin said. “We’ll be in touch then,” he said. “Will you let me know if you’re able to find Brent Whaley?”

When they left a few minutes later, Vickie whispered to Griffin, “That really was a great rendition of ‘The Raven’ you gave earlier.”

He laughed, squeezing her hand and smiling at her. “Yeah? Well...”

He looked away. Something was bothering him, she thought. “My turn,” she said. “What? What’s going on?”

“I saw him.”

“Him—who?”

“Him—Poe. Edgar Allan. He was at the burial ground.”

“The ghost of?” Vickie asked, frowning.

“Looked just like Poe—and disappeared in the wink of an eye. In my experience that means, A, I’ve worked at this job too long, B, there’s a really amazing magician at work in Baltimore, or, C, the ghost of the master of horror and mystery himself, Edgar Allan Poe, is walking among us!”

3

Vickie stood on North Amity Street, looking at the building that Edgar Allan Poe had once called home.

She was on her own; Griffin had headed to the morgue with Carl Morris. The medical examiner—Dr. Myron Hatfield—was going to start right in on Franklin Verne.

With the uproar in the city over the very unusual passing of such a man, it was imperative that he give a cause of death as quickly as possible. He had already been approached by various media outlets, of course.

He’d said he could not give out cause until he had received results on every test that must be considered when such a death had occurred.

Bravo, Myron! Vickie had thought. She was sure that certain things might quickly be obvious. She was glad that the man intended to be thorough—and that he wouldn’t be pressured into speaking before he was ready.

Morris had, she realized, kept a number of pieces of information from the press. There was no mention of the dead blackbirds found by him, nor the little souvenir-style raven Verne had been holding so tightly in his hand.

Vickie looked up at the house. She had downloaded and printed some information about the residence while at the police station.

While the home wasn’t furnished, it was on the National Registry of Historic Places, and, according to her reading, very much the same as it had been during the years Poe had lived there between 1833 and 1835. A Poe society had struggled long and hard to preserve the building and had managed to do so. Through time—and due to the expense of keeping up the old property—city organizations took over. Now Poe Baltimore, an organization dedicated to keeping alive the brilliance of the man who had lived and written some of his most amazing work in the city, took care of the house.

The house was a small brick row house in a line of other similar houses.

A friendly docent welcomed her and explained some of the rooms and the exhibits. The museum was proud to have Poe’s writing desk and a number of other important artifacts, some china, glasses and more that had belonged to the family. Vickie admired the objects—those that had belonged to Poe’s father, and those that were simply from the correct period.

Walking the rooms, halls and stairways of the house and studying the exhibits, Vickie wondered about the fact that Griffin had been the one to see Poe—while she had dreamed about him. She wondered if she was a little bit worried that the ghost had shown himself to Griffin rather than to her—or if she was just disturbed because her dream had been so real. She had nearly felt the dirt of the road; she had heard the noise of the tavern as if it had been real. She’d much rather simply see the man—or the specter of him—than face dreams that made her feel she was right there with the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the dust that stirred in the air.

The staircases in the house were wicked—with twists and turns and very narrow. Vickie smiled and stepped out of the way for a mother with a young son to make their way up.

Vickie followed; the house was mostly empty, but there were displays here and there.

She studied Poe’s family tree and felt she got a sense for why he loved the Virginia and Maryland areas so much more than Boston. Both of Poe’s parents had been actors. He’d been born in Boston, but his father’s grandfather had been a Revolutionary hero and the Poe family had settled in Baltimore even before the fighting had begun. And while his foster father had been in Richmond, Poe had found love in the arms of his cousin, Virginia Clemm. His mother-in-law/aunt had loved him, too. He’d formed a family here. According to one exhibit, Poe had considered himself to be a “Virginia gentleman.”

And yet, in the end, Baltimore had claimed him.

She was reading another placard when she felt an uneasy sensation. The mother and little boy were near her, along with an older couple and a small group of young women who appeared to be high school age. She looked around.

And then she saw him. He was standing behind the young women. He was watching her with what seemed to be tremendous enjoyment. As she stared at him, he smiled deeply, and then gave his attention to the pocket watch he drew from his waistcoat. He pointed a finger at her, as if he was mocking her. And then he disappeared.

She blinked.

She had seen him. She had definitely seen him.

And she was suddenly angry; he was playing with the two of them. Somehow, he had haunted her when she’d been sleeping! And now he was playing the mystery out with his appearances and disappearances.

If he had something to say, he needed to say it!

She turned and strode across the room, eager to get down the steps—very eager to leave the house. On the very narrow stairway, she felt something—as if a hand pushed her. She gritted her teeth, really angry—until she realized that she hadn’t been pushed, she’d been grasped.

Vickie managed to swing around just in time to catch the little boy, who had hurried ahead of his mother and tripped on a step.

She steadied him, mentally mocking herself.

Poe’s ghost had not been trying to push her down the stairs. She was glad to have rescued the overanxious boy and was quick to assure the boy’s mother that it was nothing—she might have tripped on the stairs herself!

Outside the small museum, she muttered beneath her breath as she headed for her car.

Glancing up, Vickie couldn’t help but note that while it was afternoon, the sun was still up in the late-summer sky. It had been a long day, and it seemed almost ridiculous that so much could have happened and it still be the same day. But it all had moved quickly. They had gone from the wine cellar at the Black Bird to see Monica Verne. From her house, they’d gone to Poe’s tombstone, then to the station, and from there, Griffin had gone on to the morgue and she had come out to the museum.

The afternoon was waning, but...

There was still sun.

And shadows, she thought, going into the parking garage. For a moment, she paused, turning quickly. She had felt certain that she was being followed.

She saw no one. But since she couldn’t see anyone, she spoke aloud.

“You wretched little bastard! If you’re following me, just show yourself. And if you can’t have the manners to do so, well, shove the hell off!”

No one replied. She tensed, hearing a footstep. It was just a man in a hoodie, hands deep in his pockets. He looked up at her as if she was crazy, shaking his head. He didn’t speak to her, but muttered beneath his breath.

“I’m not following you, lady. Take a pill.”

Wincing, Vickie let out a breath and hurried to the elevator at the parking garage, and then across the asphalt to her own car. She got in and set her key in the ignition.

It was then that he spoke.

“Good afternoon, miss.”

She nearly broke the key in the ignition, switching it off, turning to stare at the ghost.

It wasn’t that she was in the least afraid of the dead. Dylan Ballantine—the teenaged ghost who had saved her in high school—had taken it upon himself to be her near constant companion and torment her through a great deal of her college years. Now, he had a lovely girlfriend, Darlene—a young woman sadly lost to killers, but who had reached out to Vickie to help solve her case. She was used to having spirits around.

It had nothing to do with fear. It had everything to do with Poe’s ghost following her around and popping up in her car.

He was now seated next to her in his suit, waistcoat and an ascot. A curl of his dark hair fell over his forehead.

“Ass!” Vickie muttered, so startled that she was shaking. She was glad—at least—that he had spoken before she’d driven out into traffic.

Then she realized that she had just called a man who had created work she had admired all her life an ass.

But he did not seem to be offended.

Rather, he grinned at her with sheer pleasure.

“Wonderful! You do see me, and quite clearly!” he said. “I mean, one must face it. There were times, indeed, when I might have been compared to the lowliest of the beasts of burden! But I beg of you, believe this! I can be charming and sincere and offer the utmost assistance as well. And, my dear Miss Preston—oh! First, forgive me being so forward, but I observed some of the most recent events and heard your name. I am, of course, Edgar Allan Poe—and I do believe that you need assistance!”

“Sir, I will tell you this,” Vickie said, irritated and amazed that a ghost could make her feel so aggravated, “I see you clearly.”

His pleasure increased; his dark eyes twinkled. “I’m quite overcome—so deeply pleased. Why, it hasn’t been since...perhaps 1921 or so, when Mr. Abraham Grisham was in the city that I was able to speak so simply and easily with the living. He was a charming man—quite well lettered. He spoke to me at the burial ground. Oh, you mustn’t think that I spend my days sitting melancholy in the cemetery—despite the words I wrote. I... Well, I’m not at all sure what I’m doing here, but, my dear young woman, I dearly hope that you realize I wrote fiction, and that I was no ghoul!”

“No, of course not. I had a dream about you, about the day you died,” Vickie said.

“You seem like an intelligent young woman. I’d not have whispered in your ear as you lay sleeping had it not appeared so. I listened at the restaurant... You were knowledgeable. I was so pleased. So many people see me in such a sad light. As if I did nothing but haunt old, decrepit, decaying houses crumbling apart! Graveyards by night... They seemed to think I was a drunken, broken man, even in death, wasting away on a tombstone. That was that wretched Griswold—Rufus Griswold.” He stared at Vickie, as if waiting for her to say something.

She did. “Rufus Griswold. You attacked him with some rather pointed criticism of his work. When you died, he found his revenge. But you see, in the end, of course, you won. People became enamored of your work more and more with each year. I can assure you, very few people today would know the name Griswold—but there is probably no one who has ever attended a school in America who has not heard of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.”

“Bravo, Miss Preston, and words most kind. Far sweeter to my ear than those I heard before! Imagine—those that came harsh upon the ear before as you traversed the garage! Such rude words to fall from such rose-like lips!” the ghost said, shaking his head. “Dear me! Not that I have not known my share of opinionated members of the gentler sex, but...you can be quite hasty and devilish in your speech!”

She narrowed her eyes. “Trust me, I’ve said worse. Usually, when your kind makes acquaintance with me, it’s because they need help. If you wish for some kind of assistance, Mr. Poe, it’s not good manners to pop up here and there, and then disappear, testing the sanity of the living.”

He still looked at her, amused.

“Should I care? I’m afraid I’m quite beyond help, though, to be honest, I don’t at all understand this existence.” For a moment, he looked stricken—he had an expression that suited every description of him as a haunted and miserable man who had led a life of substance abuse, scraping for an income, continually plagued by death and misfortune in those around him. “My Elmira has gone,” he said. “All those I would call beloved, or friend—or even enemy. So...you, Miss Preston, surely need help. Not me. Therefore, I am at my leisure. You may do the groveling, if you so choose.”

“You may get out of my car, if you wish to be so rude,” she said.

He smiled at that. “My apologies! It is not my intention to be rude. You have no grasp of what it is like to be among the dead. Here on earth. Quite uncomfortable—I mean, those unused to being critiqued and disparaged would barely make it! People walking through you, not seeing you, not noting a pleasant, ‘Good morning!’ And those of my kind. Oh, the wailing and lamenting! Quite enough to give one a dreadful headache—I mean, had one actually had a real head that might ache!”

She had actually been really angry—as much as she admired Poe. She’d simply seen the dead most of her adult life, and there was one thing she knew for a certainty. They were very much like their living selves. Some were giving, some needed help, some were kind—and some were self-absorbed and self-righteous and not so nice.

“Do you know what happened to Franklin Verne?” she asked him.

“Most sadly, I do not,” he told her. “But of this, I’m quite certain. He did not kill himself. He did not fall back into the ways of sin or the flesh or into a vat of wine, as they might well say! I knew Franklin Verne. Well, I did not know him as those who called him friend might know him—I know the man because I observed him. He was a good man. A good writer. He loved his wife very much. I felt that we were kindred spirits.”

Vickie studied him, waiting. It had been, she knew, way too much to hope that the ghost of Poe, having appeared in her dream and now in her car, had all the pat answers she might need.

“He loved his wife, and she loved him,” Vickie said.

He nodded, grave now, not taunting or teasing. “You see, he reminded me of where I was when... Well, I don’t know what happened at the end myself, but I am referring to the point when I left this earth. When I died. I was on a train...and then I was dead. I have been listening to theories ever since. But that is no matter now. It is far too late to be solved. But so—here is one truth. Sarah Elmira Shelton was my first love. We were so young...and in love as only youth can be in love. Her father betrayed us. I went on. And believe me, I did love my Virginia. Dear, sweet, innocent Virginia! So very lovely! And yet, she was gone. And then I was back in Richmond, and there was my Sarah Elmira, a widow herself. She was no flushing young rose; time lay between us. Time had taken a toll upon us both as well. For her, I joined the temperance society. I gave up drink. And I did not die in a drunken stupor—to that I swear!” He was passionate, but he stopped suddenly, smiling at her. “I knew love, and that is what I mean. And I have seldom seen such a deep, rich, selfless love as that which Franklin Verne bore his wife, and which she bore him in return. He told her he would not drink. I told Sarah Elmira that I would not drink. I meant it—so did Franklin Verne. I came to you because the truth must be proved for him—he did not run down to a wine cellar and drown himself in a vat of wine!”

“No,” Vickie said.

“You must understand—”

“I do.”

“What?” He frowned. “You really believe that?”

“I believe he was murdered. I met Franklin Verne a few times. I also write. History.”

“Ah, nonfiction.” He studied her. “Not poetic at all, but...”

“Excuse me! It’s not easy, laying down facts and figures, making it interesting and keeping the reader going. Well, okay, sometimes history is so bizarre that it is all quite intriguing, but...”

“Back to me! And Franklin, of course. How are you going to prove the truth?”

“Griffin will find the truth. Griffin and the FBI and the police,” Vickie said. “I’m not an agent yet. I have no real power.”

“You don’t need power,” he told her.

“No?”

He lifted a hand into the air dismissively. “I am credited with creating the first mystery novel, you know. Detective novel. ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’”

“Yes, I know the story. But Franklin Verne wasn’t killed by an ape.”

“Neither was I, my dear, neither was I. The point is this—one needs to merely follow the clues to discover the truth.”

“And you know how to follow the clues?”

“Indeed, I do. My dear Miss Preston, I did not write the first such novel without having some knowledge of the quest for such forensic knowledge.”

Vickie smiled. “Well, then.” She turned the key in the ignition once again.

“Where are we going?” he asked her.

“To the morgue.”

“I will not go in.”

“I’m not going in,” she told him. “Griffin is there. And I believe that Dr. Hatfield is very good at what he does. If there is something that we need to know, we’ll know it.”

“Yes.” The ghost of Poe looked thoughtful and concerned. “If Verne drank, someone forced that drink into him!”

“Possibly.” Vickie hesitated. “He did smell like wine.”

Poe lifted his hands. “I don’t—I can’t smell anymore, so...” He smiled at her. “I would think, Miss Preston, that you wear the sweetest perfume.”

“Well, thank you. I think,” she murmured. “We’ll go and get Griffin. He’s seen you, of course, you know.”

“How rare. How delightfully rare. Two of you! And it’s almost as if...”

“As if?”

“As if I were living again. If only...” He paused again, then seemed to straighten. “But we will not be waylaid in our quest. We will find the truth. Franklin Verne was a fine man. I believe that too often in life, he received slings and arrows for reviews. I think others were jealous of him.”

“Everyone gets bad reviews now and then,” Vickie said, and chuckled softly. “Anyone can review a book now and so many people do. I can’t think of an author who doesn’t get a bad review somewhere along the line—even if out of jealousy or sour grapes. Perhaps deserved—perhaps not. Books being digital and reviews online mean that... Well, like I said. Everyone gets a bad review now and then.”