Dead at Breakfast (19 page)

“Could we have a minute, Mrs. Eaton?” Hope asked. She felt they were old friends, since she had waylaid Mrs. Eaton several times to explain with perfect politeness why duvets were an invention of the devil and no sensitive person could sleep under them. A properly made bed had sheets, blankets, a pretty blanket cover (Hope's were monogrammed) and a bedspread. You could choose or discard any of these layers yourself as conditions demanded. With a one-size-fits-none duvet, how could you adjust for changes in temperature during the night, your own or the thermometer's? Surely this was a simple proposition.

The hotel
had
blankets, Mrs. Eaton conceded. Hope was so glad; she confided with a cheerful laugh that she'd stayed in more than one upscale hostelry that had gotten rid of every blanket in the place in celebration of this new trend in bedding. Really, whose idea was this? It might or might not make sense in Sweden, but what about a summer in, say, Pittsburgh? Or San Diego?

Mrs. Eaton had let it wash over her, privately thinking that if a hotel threw out its bedding there had probably been bugs involved. It had been years since anyone had asked her for blankets. She had
spent more than she should to give her newly married daughter and son-in-law a duvet for Christmas, and they just loved it. She had ordered it on the Internet. Her daughter used her old blankets to line the dog's bed.

The Oquossoc blankets were neither new nor fresh, and Mrs. Eaton had had to cycle them through the dryer with sheets of Bounce to get rid of the aroma of ancient closet that clung to them, before she made up Mrs. Babbin's bed. And then the next night she had to do it again because the new girl had taken Mrs. Babbin's blankets back to the basement and given her a nice duvet again.

The other one seemed to be relatively sane, and Mrs. Eaton had admired her nightgown, which had ribbons laced into the hem. It was the other one who spoke to her now.

“When the upstairs girls go into the rooms to make them up, how do they open the doors?” Maggie asked. Like most hotels, the inn had installed electronic readers instead of old-fashioned locks, and the “keys” were thin plastic wafers the size of a credit card.

Mrs. Eaton took a card from her pocket and held it up. It looked exactly like the key card Maggie had in her own pocket at the time.

“I take it that's a master key? What does it open?”

“All the bedrooms,” said Mrs. Eaton. “And the linen closets on each of the corridors.”

“But not the doors to, say, Mr. Gurrell's office?”

“That too. Someone's got to run the vacuum in there.”

“What doesn't it open?”

“The kitchen. The pantries. The food and liquor storerooms. Kitchen staff keep those clean themselves.”

“I see. And where are the master keys kept?”

Mrs. Eaton gestured toward a battered metal desk against the wall, where she kept her record books. There was a phone on it and a wheeled desk chair, and several clipboards on which requests from the guests were tracked. “That top drawer locks.”

Maggie walked over to the desk and tried the drawer. It opened easily, and in the left-hand corner among the tangle of ballpoint pens, rubber bands, and paper clips that always fill such drawers, she saw a neat stack of apparently identical room keys.

“I don't keep it locked when I'm the only one here,” said Mrs. Eaton, as if she'd been criticized. “Obviously.”

“And when you do lock it, where is the key?”

Mrs. Eaton fished a small metal key out of her pocket. It was on a ring at the end of a chain with a tiny wooden lobster buoy attached. She saw Maggie notice it. “Grandson,” said Mrs. Eaton. “Christmas present.”

“So you keep the master key cards here, and when your girls clock in, you give them keys, and they give them back when they leave?”

“That's about the size of it.”

“And where do the master keys come from?” Hope asked.

Mrs. Eaton didn't seem to follow the question.

“If you needed more master keys, what would you do?”

“Ask Mr. Gurrell and he'd make them, or have the front desk make them.”

“So,” said Buster, stating the obvious, “anyone who worked the front desk could have access to any guest room.”

“That's about the size of it,” Mrs. Eaton repeated. There was a cold note of disgust under the flat sentence, and Maggie thought again of how many people in this hotel feared they were going to lose their livelihoods because of Cherry Weaver.

They thanked her for her time. As they were at the door, Maggie asked, “Do you keep this door locked, Mrs. Eaton?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Eaton.

“Just when you leave for the day, or whenever you leave the room?”

“When I leave for the day, or when I'm on duty alone and have to go upstairs. When we're busy, the girls are in and out of here all day, but someone in charge is always here to answer the phone.”

Maggie and Hope had persuaded Buster to stay at the hotel for dinner. He had called Brianna to see if she was home, but Brianna was having supper with Beryl Weaver, which he very much did not wish to join, so he accepted his mother's invitation. They were sitting in the sunroom, and Hope and Maggie had returned to the jigsaw puzzle. They had the boat and the fools in it filled in, but the background sea and sky were going slowly.

“What about a cocktail?” Hope asked.

Buster jumped to his feet and said, “I'll go. What'll you have?”

Maggie had just put together two pink pieces of the banner that floated from the boat's mast, and was intently scanning what looked like acres of little bits, looking for other shards of the same color. She looked up at Hope, and was just in time to see over Hope's shoulder Gabe Gurrell drive out of the parking lot with Chef Sarah in the passenger seat.

“Cook's night out,” she said. “Don't order anything complicated for dinner.”

“I was thinking of thin gruel anyway,” Hope said. “That was a big lunch.”

“It was. I'll tell you what I was thinking. Isn't that beast of Mr. Rexroth's a bloodhound? A tracking dog?”

“You know, I think it is,” said Hope.

“Yes, it is,” said Buster, still hoping he was on the way to the bar to order drinks for them. He considered himself officially off duty, as of about four hours ago.

“I was wondering if the dog could tell us anything about who took the snake gear. He was probably in the room at the time.”

Buster sat back down. He wanted to dismiss this suggestion as something a professional would disdain, but frankly he wondered why he hadn't thought of it.

Hope asked, “Would there be any harm in trying?”

“He might lead us straight to Cherry's locker,” said Maggie.

“Oh. Yes. I don't suppose we can suppress it if we don't like what happens?”

“No,” said Maggie. “But nobody listens to us anyway.”

“That's true,” said Hope. “Buster?”

Buster wanted to say “I'd like a quart of Budweiser, please” but instead agreed that it was worth a try. Big slobbery Clarence was practically the definition of an underdog, and Buster was always in favor of surprising people who underestimate underdogs. They might solve this thing themselves, right now, while the Great Detective was off having his dinner. He went out to his car to retrieve the evidence bag from where it was locked in the trunk.

Mr. Rexroth was in the library. He looked smaller than a week ago, Maggie thought, as she paused in the doorway. He looked up, startled, as they came in, as if they were a herd of bison thundering into his sanctuary. Maggie apologized, and explained what they wanted.

“Clarence is not really a working dog,” he objected. “I don't know if he's had any training. He's not used to strangers.”

“Do you know that he
hasn't
?” Maggie had interrupted because she could see that he would keep piling on excuses out of sheer anxiety.

“No, I don't, but . . .”

“Every dog needs a job,” said Hope. “They like to be useful. I think he'd enjoy the opportunity.”

“Let's go see,” said Maggie. And Mr. Rexroth, apparently unable to think his way around this fast enough to stop it, stood to be swept along in their wake, and Buster knew exactly how he felt.

Clarence was glad to see them. He'd been asleep on the bed, which caused Mr. Rexroth to act cross and make excuses, but Hope and Maggie fussed over the dog and told him what a brilliant handsome boy he was. Clarence faithlessly gave them his full and slobbery attention. Mr. Rexroth crossed the room and sat down on the oak chair at the tiny desk where he usually did his writing.

“Now Clarence,” said Hope, “we have a job for you. Get down now, and sit.” Before the men could tell her this was a ridiculous way to talk to an animal, Clarence scrambled off the bed and sat at her feet, looking up at her, as if he'd been waiting for someone to recognize his gifts for years.

“Buster,” said Hope, “give us the snake bag.”

Buster passed out gloves again, then put the suitcase on the bed, opened it, and handed the snake bag out to his mother. Hope put it to Clarence, who was instantly passionately interested.

“Here now. Good boy. That's right, sniff,” she said as Clarence worked the thing over with his large wet nose. “Now Clarence,” said Hope reasonably, “we need to know who came in here and took it. Understand?” She withdrew the bag from the dog and said, “Clarence, work.”

“Mom, that's not how the handlers do it,” said Buster.

But Clarence wasn't standing on ceremony. He went straight to Mr. Rexroth and sat down, staring at him.

“Good boy!” said Hope. “Clever boy! Now come here. Here, Clarence.”

Clarence abandoned Mr. Rexroth and went back to sit at Hope's feet again with a happy expression that said “What's next, boss?”

“Now. That was very very smart of you, but not what we needed. Now smell this again.”

She presented the bag again, moving it so he'd smell the handle as well, then gave him the tongs. Clarence studied them assiduously with his large mobile snout.

“Good Clarence! Now Clarence, work! No, no no,” she added, as Clarence made for Mr. Rexroth again. “No. Not Mr. Rexroth. Buster, open the door.”

Clarence sat near Mr. Rexroth, but facing Hope, with his ears pricked.

“Find the other person, Clarence. There's another scent and you know whose it is. Show us, boy!”

Buster was feeling that his mother had watched entirely too many episodes of
Lassie
. Clarence, find little Timmy!!

But Clarence was on his feet, nose to the ground, heading for the door. His head moved back and forth in a pendulum pattern, vacuuming for scent.

“Mrs. Babbin, he must be on leash when he leaves the room!” cried Mr. Rexroth.

“We can't interrupt him now, he's working,” she answered, following Clarence out the door, with Maggie right behind her and the men bringing up the rear.

“Isn't this amazing?” Hope asked Maggie. “It's like the first time you use a Ouija board and you don't believe it's going to work at all, and then the pointer starts moving.”

“I wish you hadn't said that,” said Maggie. “I was just getting into this.”

The dog stopped outside Earl Niner's door and sat down with authority.

Hope turned and gave Buster a questioning look. Mr. Niner? Now what?

Buster stepped up and tapped on the door. “Earl? It's Buster. Are you in there?”

They all stood holding their breaths, listening for sounds on the other side. Then the knob turned and the door opened. Earl was in his usual painful posture, in dungarees, a T-shirt, and bare feet, with a parrot on his shoulder.

Walter the parrot took one look at the dog and with a scream, dug his claws into Earl's shoulder and flapped his useless wings. Clarence rushed into the room past man and bird and went to the empty snake habitat. He sat down and stared fixedly at it, as he had at Mr. Rexroth.

Earl, torn between distress for Walter and anger that these people would bring a dog into his room, retreated to the far corner, where Walter hopped desperately onto his hand to be ferried back into his cage, uttering terrified cries. Earl closed the door, and Walter began picking at his breast feathers while Earl tried to soothe him.

“Brilliant, Clarence!” Hope cried. “Just brilliant! Good dog!”

“Earl, I'm sorry,” said Buster. “I didn't know it would upset him.”

“Don't know much, do you?” Earl answered angrily.

Maggie said, “He's not tracking a person, he's tracking the snake!”

“Exactly!” cried Hope.

“That ought to work. Well done, Clarence! Mr. Niner, could we have something that belonged to Grommet?”

“Will you get out of my room and never come back?”

Maggie swore that they would.

Earl went to the terrarium and broke off a bit of branch that Grommet had slithered over in happier days.

When Earl had closed the door on the little hunting party and they were in the hall, Clarence was given the bit of branch to peruse with his nose. He seemed thoroughly gratified.

“All right! Clarence, work!” Hope commanded, and the dog set off at a good clip toward the rear of the hotel. Nose to the floor, he swung his head like a Geiger counter across his path as he moved with assurance to the back stairs and started down. Hope and Maggie looked at each other, triumphant, and clattered after him. Buster was right behind them and Mr. Rexroth fol
lowed, not wanting to be blamed if the dog did something to disgrace him.

Maggie and Hope had not been down these stairs before and were full of interest. This was the staff's domain. Clarence stopped at the landing for the second floor, sniffed thoroughly at the crack of the door that led into the guest rooms, then turned and returned to the stairs, continuing his descent to the ground floor.

“He's going to the staff lockers,” Hope said to Maggie. These, they knew, were down another flight, in a room next to the laundry.