“And would you like it served in a crystal parfait dish, too?”
He sat up and looked interested. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
“Dream on.”
“You’re just mean, that’s what you are.” Lying down again, he pillowed his chin on his front paws. “Tempt me, taunt me, then feed me the same old beef byproducts.”
“If it isn’t for Austin, what’s it for?” Dean wondered. “We’ve got lots of food.”
“Frozen and canned,” Claire reminded him, handing over the money. “Maybe you’re supposed to stock upon fresh.”
He fanned the stack with his thumb. “This is gonna buy a lot of lettuce.”
In the end, unable to shake the feeling that she needed to be involved, Claire decided to go with him. It would be strange to leave the hotel so soon after going out to buy the new keyboard—something most site-bound Keepers would not be able to do—but with Hell itself reinforcing the shield, what could go wrong?
Austin, when applied to for his opinion, yawned and said, “The future is unclear to me. I’m probably faint from a lack of decent food.”
“What if I promise to bring you some shrimp snacks?”
He snorted. “Too little, too late.”
“He’d tell me if he saw a problem,” Claire assured Dean a few minutes later as she climbed into the passenger side of the truck. “He’s too fond of being proven right not to.”
Baby heralded their return two-and-a-half hours later with a deafening volley of barks and a potent bit of flatulence.
“Couldn’t have a wind from the north,” Claire muttered, staggering slightly under the weight of the grocery bags she carried. “Oh, no. Has to come up off the lake and right over the canine trumpet section. What has that dog been eating?”
“Well, we haven’t seen Mrs. Abrams for a while,” Dean pointed out, unlocking the back door.
“Yoo hoo! Colleen dear. Have you got a moment?”
Silently accusing Dean of invoking demons, Claire took a step back and smiled over the fence. “Not right now, Mrs. Abrams. I’d like to get all these groceries inside.”
“Oh, my, you have bought out the stores, haven’t you. Are you having a party?”
Since she asked in the tone of someone who expected to be invited should said party materialize, Claire was quite happy to answer in the negative.
One hand clutching closed her heavy sweater—a disturbing shade of orange a tone or two lighter than her hair—Mrs. Abrams eyed the bags with disapproval. “Well you surely can’t be planning on eating all of that yourself. It’s extremely important for a young woman to watch her weight, you know. I don’t like to brag, but when I was young I had a twenty-two inch waist.”
“I’ve really got to go put these things away, Mrs. Abra…”
“I only need a moment, dear. The groceries will keep. After all, this is business. A very close, personal friend of mine, Professor Robert Joseph Jackson—Maybe you’ve heard of him? No? I can’t understand why not, he’s very big in his field. Anyway, Professor Jackson is coming to Kingston on November third. He’s so busy over Halloween, you know. I’d love to have him stay here, of course, but Baby has taken such a strange dislike to him.” She beamed down at the big dog. “I told him that I knew the nicest little hotel and that it was right next door to me, and he said he’d be thrilled to stay with you.”
Claire could feel the bag holding the glass bottle of extra virgin olive oil beginning to slip. “I’ll be expecting him, Mrs. Abrams. Thank you for recommending us.” Rude or not, she began moving toward the door.
“Oh, it was no trouble at all, Colleen dear. I’m just so happy to see that you’ve taken my advice and have begun fixing the old place up. It has such potential you know. I see that young man is still with you. So nice to see a young man willing to work.”
“Isn’t it,” Claire agreed as Dean rescued two of her four bags. “Good day, Mrs. Abrams.”
“Professor Jackson will need a quiet room, remember.” The last word rose to near stratospheric volume as her audience stepped over the threshold and into the hotel. Dogs blocks away began to bark.
“I wonder if we’re asking for trouble, renting a room to a friend of Mrs. Abrams.”
Dean turned from putting the vacuum pack of feta cheese in the fridge as Claire set her bags down on the counter beside the others. “More trouble than a hole to Hell in the basement?”
“You may have a point.”
“He may,” Austin agreed, leaping from chair to countertop. “But fortunately his hair hides it. While you were out, a guy named Hermes Gruidae called. He’s bringing a seniors’ tour group through tonight, retired Olympians, and needs four double rooms and a single. I said there’d be no problem.”
“Retired Olympians?” Dean fished a black olive out of a deli container and popped it in his mouth. “What sports?”
“He didn’t say. He did mention that they’re not very fond of restaurants and wondered if you could provide supper as well as tomorrow’s breakfast. You being Dean in this case since I doubt they’d want beans and wieners on toast. I told him that would be fine. They’ll be here about seven. Dinner at eight.” He blinked. “What?”
Arms folded, Claire stared down at him suspiciously. “You took the message?”
“Please, I’ve been knocking receivers off hooks since I was a kitten.”
“And you took Mr. Gruidae’s reservation?”
“Well, I didn’t write anything down if that’s what you’re asking although I did claw his name into the front counter.”
“You what!”
“I’m kidding.” Whiskers twitching, he climbed into one of the grocery bags. “Hey, where’s my shrimp snacks?”
By six-forty-five the rooms had been prepared, the paint trays and drop cloths had been packed away, and Dean was in the kitchen taking the salmon steaks out of the marinade. Assuming that ex-Olympic athletes would be watching their weight,
