Dead at Breakfast Read online

  When they had gone, the buzz of curiosity resumed. “Accident!” “Lisa?” “Hospital?” people asked each other.

  “What was that sign you were making to Buster?” Maggie asked Hope.

  “I was trying to tell him to take off his hat.”

  “Who’s Buster?” asked Nina.

  “My son.”

  “The sheriff is your son?”

  “Deputy sheriff. And it’s a long story,” said Hope.

  No one knew what to do next. Dessert had not yet been served, and apparently no one was dead, except for Artemis. Yet to resume chattering about whether it made a difference to whip egg whites by hand or in a mixer seemed wrong.

  Oliver said, “All right, troops. We need an organizing principle. Hope is the mother of the local sheriff. Now everyone tell something about themselves that the rest of us don’t know.”

  This was met with a murmur of relief. Oh good, parlor games. Oliver turned to Martin, who was on his right. “You’re up.”

  Martin’s wife looked delighted. “This’ll be good. There’s nothing I don’t know about you.”

  Martin said, “I can play the tuba.”

  “Shut up,” said Nina. “You can not.”

  “I played tuba in my junior high school marching band,” he insisted.

  “You are lying.”

  “If I am, no one can prove it because no one ever has a tuba handy.”

  Nina bopped him on the head with her napkin as she said, “In high school I was junior runner-up sewing champion of Indiana.”

  No one doubted her and all were pleased. Teddy Bledsoe said he could do the tango. Margaux Kleinkramer was a level 90 orc shaman in World of Warcraft. “Whoa,” said Oliver, impressed.

  Homer Kleinkramer had gone helicopter skiing in Alaska in a group that included the king of Spain. Bonnie McCue said that Billy Joel once kissed her on the lips. Albie Clark had been a nationally ranked squash player. Oliver was fluent in Japanese. Maggie said she had once expelled a boy from school whose mother then came into the building and tried to shoot her.

  They all saw Buster’s car pull off down the driveway. Mr. Gurrell came back to the door.

  “Mrs. Antippas had an accident on the way down the mountain,” he said. “I knew you’d want to know. She’s been taken to the hospital in Ainsley. The EMTs said she didn’t appear to be badly injured but she’s in shock, and she might have a concussion. She’s asked for her sister to come and to bring her some things.”

  “Does Glory need a car?” Martin asked, reaching for his keys.

  “No, Mr. Rexroth will drive her. Miss Poole will be in touch with me as soon as she knows more, and I’ll let you all know.”

  As he left, a girl arrived with a tray of dessert soufflés, and Oliver said, “Hope, it’s your turn.”

  “I already went. My son is the deputy sheriff of Bergen,” she said, and chose a coffee soufflé.

  He made a buzzer sound, like a wrong answer noise on a quiz show. “We all already know that.”

  After a pause, she said, “You’re cheating, but all right. I can read astrological charts.”

  Maggie stared at Hope. Hope shrugged. “I used to be sent to my grandmother’s in Maryland. There was nothing on earth to do there. Her Catalan cook had a little business going out the back door, doing readings. She didn’t want me to tell, so she offered to teach me.”

  “I think you’re going to have to prove it,” said Teddy Bledsoe.

  “Fine,” said Hope. “You’re a Pisces.”

  Teddy gave an appreciative hoot and slapped the table. “I am a triple Pisces!”

  “I’m not a bit surprised,” said Hope.

  “What does that even mean?” asked Maggie.

  “And you,” said Hope to Nina, “are a Sagittarian.”

  “I’m a what?”

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “December first.”

  “I rest my case,” said Hope.

  The head of housekeeping was in Mr. Gurrell’s office. Mrs. Antippas’s dog had been in room 6G yowling, since midmorning. When the girl went in to clean, it snarled at her, and then went to the bathroom on the carpet. She had just gone to ask Mr. Antippas to take the dog, so the room could be ready for when the sisters came back, but he had his DO NOT DISTURB sign out, apparently taking a nap after lunch. His room reeked of cigar smoke, by the way. She’d found a cigar butt floating in his toilet yesterday, disgusting, like he forgot to flush. Someone had to get the dog out of the room, and she wasn’t going to do it, she drew the line, he knew when he hired her that she wouldn’t deal with animals . . .

  Gabriel Gurrell was pinching his knees under the desk to distract himself so he wouldn’t shout at her. She was a very good housekeeper, but high-strung, and once she got going like this you practically had to tackle her to get her to stop.

  “I’ll take care of . . . Mrs. Eaton, I’ll . . . Mrs. Eaton!” he finally raised his voice. Then he added, “I’m sorry. I know it’s been difficult. I will have Cherry take the dog for a walk, and please apologize to the staff for me. There was an accident this morning, you know, and we’re all upset.”

  Mrs. Eaton knew all about the accident. Everyone in the house did. They all knew about the girl’s death in California too, the singer, and they thought Mr. Antippas was a . . .

  “Thank you, Mrs. Eaton,” Gabriel said. “Everyone is under strain.”

  “They are. Chef is very upset. Earl is upset.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Thank you for coming to me.” He was on his feet, guiding her to the door. When she had disappeared up the stairs he went down to find Cherry.

  Cherry was lounging behind the reception desk, reading a magazine and chewing gum. She jumped up when she saw him coming, stowed the magazine, and spit the gum into her hand and hid it behind her back.

  “Cherry,” he said.

  “What?” No more ‘Yes, Mr. Gurrell?’ Now that she knew she wasn’t staying on she’d reverted to the sullen manners that were apparently her default mode.

  “A couple of things. When the deputy arrived this morning, you should have called me rather than dealing with it yourself.”

  “You said I was to take initiative.”

  “But this was rather a special case, don’t you think?”

  “Yes I do. I did. Buster said he needed to see Mrs. Antippas’s sister right away and I knew where she was so I took him. Anyway it wasn’t morning.”

  Now she was just being rude. She was really a very hostile little item, Gabriel thought. He sighed impatiently and hitched his shoulders back. Stand straight. Maintain your dignity. You’re the one who always has to eat the crow if you’re in the hospitality business. Clearly the Cherry situation was deteriorating fast, but at this minute, he needed her, if he didn’t want a domino effect cascading through the staff.

  “Afternoon then. You’re right about that.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve come to you about something else though. With Mrs. Antippas in the hospital, and her sister gone, I need someone to walk the little dog. The maid hasn’t been able to clean the room and—”

  “You know what, I quit. I quit right now. I know you already fired me but I still quit, I am not a fucking dog walker. I don’t even like dogs.”

  “Cherry! Remember where you are!” Gabe was trying to whisper.

  “That slobbering horse you made me walk last time dragged me halfway around the lake, I’ve still got blisters on my feet, you try it in fucking high heels!”

  “That was unavoidable and I told you how much I—”

  “Oh shut up. I know you think I’m stupid, you blame me for everything. Walk the damn dog yourself.” Suddenly she started to cry and began to unbutton her Oquossoc Mountain Inn jacket.

  “Cherry! Please!”

  Furiously, Cherry threw the jacket onto the reception desk. There was a gob of chewing gum stuck to it. She began unzipping her skirt. Gabriel was horrified.

  “Cherry!” Gabriel cried helplessly.
“You’re in a public space!”

  She took off the skirt and threw that on the desk. Then she took off one tan faux patent leather pump and threw it at him, and found it so satisfying that she did the same with the other one. Then she stalked off in her blouse and ragged slip, through which you could see her magenta thong underpants.

  The cooking class had a rather antic quality in the afternoon of that day. With both blond interlopers gone, the mood was oddly bubbly. People kept asking Hope if she would do their charts.

  “I knew this would happen, that’s why I never tell people. Anyway you need to know what time of day you were born.”

  “I know mine,” said Teddy. “March eighteenth, 1965, Houston, Texas, four-thirteen A.M.”

  “I’ll call my mother and find out,” said Nina.

  “I’m February fifteenth,” said Margaux Kleinkramer, “and I know I was born right after midnight because my father said I had a red ribbon in my hair. I’d just missed Valentine’s Day.”

  By the end of the class Hope had everyone’s birth date and place, and she had promised to take her laptop to town and see what she could do. She also had no idea how to make the ceviche or gravlax the rest had been working on but Maggie said she’d teach her. And that, by the way, her own birthday was October 16.

  “I know,” said Hope, “and you have Scorpio rising. I did your chart ages ago.”

  “You did?”

  “I was on the search committee that hired you, remember?”

  “You mean you chose me based on my sun sign, or whatever it’s called?” Maggie was offended.

  “Of course not, we chose you because you are wonderful. I just find it a useful tool.”

  Maggie was slightly cool to Hope the rest of the class.

  It was teatime when Mr. Rexroth’s seedy Grand Marquis made its way majestically up the drive. He parked in front of the steps, then got out and started around the car to help Lisa get out, but Glory got to her sister first. Maggie and Teddy Bledsoe, playing bridge with Bonnie and Nina, watched the arrival from their table in the bow window of the lounge. The whole right side of Lisa’s face was black and blue and swollen, the eye nearly swallowed within puffy purple-green bruising, the skin stretched shiny and taut. Both her right wrist and foot were in high-tech splints involving a lot of Velcro. Glory put her arm around her sister and acted as her crutch as she negotiated the porch stairs. Neither woman seemed to be speaking to Mr. Rexroth. He busied himself with producing a wheelchair from the trunk of the car and setting it up for Lisa at the top of the porch stairs.

  Mr. Gurrell hurried out from behind the reception desk to see if he could help.

  “Just send a bucket of ice up to our room,” said Glory shortly. “And tell Mr. Antippas his wife is back.”

  Ten minutes later, Glory reappeared.

  “Did you find Mr. Antippas?” she demanded.

  “We’re looking for him.”

  “How hard could it be? He isn’t small.”

  “We think he may have gone for a walk,” said Mr. Gurrell.

  “That would be a first,” said Glory acidly.

  “I’m a little short-staffed at the moment but someone has gone to look.”

  “And has the rental car arrived?”

  “Yes, Miss Poole. It’s in the parking lot. Would you like the keys?”

  “Yes. I’ll bring it around and you can send a bellman for our bags.”

  Glory swept out.

  A few minutes later, she was back, furious. “They brought a stick shift! It’s a fucking stick!” she yelled at Mr. Gurrell. He looked rather frightened.

  “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, did you tell me you needed an automatic? I’m afraid I didn’t hear that, this was all they had in Bangor. It’s an Escalade. I thought you’d be so pleased . . .”

  “I can’t drive a fucking stick, and my sister can’t drive at all for at least a month. They’ll just have to bring another one. The plane will be waiting for us.”

  “But this was the last car they had, at least the last sedan, and you said . . .”

  “Oh for Christ sake, well obviously if they didn’t have a sedan I could drive you should have ordered something else.”

  Mr. Gurrell didn’t answer, though he looked unhappy, and after a silence even Glory seemed to realize that this wasn’t his fault, though she wanted it to be somebody’s.

  “Then call us a taxi. There must be a taxi in this shit hole.”

  “Well—no. I might be able to get one to come from Ainsley, but at this time of day, she’s usually having her supper. Mr. Rexroth might be willing . . .”

  “Forget that. That guy is creepy weird and his car is a death trap.”

  “Miss Poole, do you really think your sister should travel tonight? She didn’t look as if she . . .”

  “She wants to go home. That’s what she wants. She’s going to that funeral if she has to go on a gurney. Call the rental people and have them send another car.”

  “Miss Poole. This was all they had. I’m afraid they’d have to find someone to come from Portland, four hours both ways . . .”

  “Look. If the president of the United States wanted a car here tonight, they’d get one here, right?”

  “I imagine so . . .”

  “Well then get one here. That is all. Make it happen.”

  Mr. Gurrell looked as if he didn’t think it was going to help, but he started to dial.

  He was on the phone, saying, “Three people, I think. And a dog. Wait, I’ll ask. Miss Poole?” when Earl shambled up to the desk.

  “Found ’im,” he said sourly. “Last place I looked. His wife’s room. Heard them yelling at each other from a floor below.”

  The elevator doors opened, and Mr. Antippas appeared, half-smoked cigar in one hand.

  “This is like a three-ring circus,” said Teddy happily. Then returning his attention to the game, he added, “The rest are mine,” and swept up the tricks on the table.

  In retrospect, there were people who might have offered to make the drive to Bangor with the sisters. Martin Maynard could have done it, but he didn’t hear about the scene in the lounge until he was halfway through dinner and well launched on a very nice bottle of zinfandel. Hope could have offered, but she’d already spent several hours in the village using the library wi-fi and wanted her supper. No one felt much inclined to devote the evening to solving the Antippas family’s problems.

  Mr. Gurrell couldn’t leave the front desk, and it didn’t occur to him to see if someone else on staff was willing to go. The hotel van was in the shop for inspection and now the garage was closed. The staff parking lot was full of junkers, and you never could tell who was or wasn’t keeping up their insurance. Much as he wanted all three of them gone, four counting the dog, he assumed the family would be litigious, and the last thing he needed was an accident laid at his door, followed by a lawsuit. Besides, no one who had seen Mrs. Antippas thought she should be traveling. She had looked as if she should still be in the hospital. Her face was a mess—could the pressure of a flight be good for that? And concussions were tricky.

  Chef Sarah had another migraine. The cooking class members had broken into small groups and were taking their dinners in the dining room. Mr. Antippas was at a table for two against the wall, by himself, eating steadily with his napkin tucked into his shirt to protect his tie, and his full lips were bright with grease from the roasted pork on his fork. Maggie and Hope were at a table for four with Albie Clark. About halfway through the meal, Glory came into the dining room. Maggie, who was facing the door, saw her take one look at her brother-in-law holding a piece of crisp pork skin in his fingers and ripping at it with his even white Hollywood teeth, and then head straight to Maggie. She dropped into their open chair and said, “Can I sit with you?”

  All three expressed welcome, whatever they may have felt.

  “How is your sister?” Maggie asked.

  “Fucked. I don’t think she’ll ever look the same. She wanted a mirror but I wouldn’t giv
e her one. A double gin martini, rocks, with a twist,” she said to the waiter who had materialized beside her.

  “And to eat?” he asked.

  Glory made a dismissive gesture. “Anything. Whatever they’re having.” As all three at the table were eating different things this didn’t help him much. “One cheekbone is two inches higher than the other, she looks like a Picasso,” said Glory. “The nerves on that side of her face are crushed. They don’t know if they’ll come back or not.” Glory’s own makeup was smeary, and she looked raddled. She loves her sister, Maggie registered, with a little surprise.

  “He was a big help,” she added bitterly, jerking her head toward her brother-in-law. “I could really kill him. He laughed at her for wrecking the car, and stone-cold refused to drive us to the airport, even though the plane is waiting. She just wants to go home. She was crying,” said Glory, and she began to cry herself.

  The martini arrived and she gulped it. Hope patted her shoulder. After a bit Glory found a ratty Kleenex in her pocket and blew her nose. “She’s asleep now. It was bad when the pain meds started to wear off. She didn’t want to take more, she really doesn’t like drugs, but I made her, and she did feel better and then she went to sleep. They told me not to say the name of the pain meds out loud, for fear someone will mug her for them. Around here it’s called redneck heroin. Did you ever just want to stick someone with a knife and twist it?” She looked over at Alex Antippas, who was solemnly pondering selections from the cheese cart with the air of one whose decisions could bring peace to the Middle East.

  Hope signaled to the waiter and ordered lobster bisque and a bowl of pasta for Glory.

  “You need comfort food,” she said kindly. Glory ignored her and ordered another martini.

  Buster Babbin lived in a trailer in a clearing just north of Bergen. His neighbor owned the land but was glad to let Buster live there. The neighbor was getting on in years and none of his children had stayed in the area to farm, so it was good to have a young man nearby, especially a deputy sheriff. It deterred people from jacking deer in his driveway, right up by the house the way they used to, scaring his wife, and it meant their road got plowed out right quick during snowstorms. The town paid good money to have Buster on the job, and he wasn’t any use if he couldn’t get out of his driveway.