Free Dead at Breakfast by Beth Gutcheon Page B

keys?”
    â€œYes. 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.
    â€œI’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 . . .”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œBut this was the last car they had, at least the last sedan, and you said . . .”
    â€œOh 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.
    â€œThen call us a taxi. There must be a taxi in this shit hole.”
    â€œWell—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 . . .”
    â€œForget that. That guy is creepy weird and his car is a death trap.”
    â€œMiss Poole, do you really think your sister should travel tonight? She didn’t look as if she . . .”
    â€œShe 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.”
    â€œMiss Poole. This was all they had. I’m afraid they’d have to find someone to come from Portland, four hours both ways . . .”
    â€œLook. If the president of the United States wanted a car here tonight, they’d get one here, right?”
    â€œI imagine so . . .”
    â€œWell 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.
    â€œFound ’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.
    â€œThis 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?