Dead at Breakfast by Beth Gutcheon Page A

facedown, was a hardcover book. Shep peered at it. Brothers Karamazov . That surprised him. Guy was a self-improver, either that or his wife made him join a book club. A coat closet near what served as the front hall of the suite held a hotel safe, locked, and a minibar. Shep opened the minibar and peered in. Expensive nuts, chips, and cookies, all were gone. Other stuff too, probably. The tech guys would have a list.
    The electricity was out in this wing of the hotel, so the team had had to set up lights and run extension cords out from the old part of the building. Photographs of the rooms were taken from every angle. There were fingerprints beside the light switch and on the doorknobs. The fingerprint tech had carefully lifted them, after treating them with superglue fumes to heighten their definition.Sketches were being made, measurements taken, everything duly noted. Shep went back to the bedroom.
    The body on the bed was enormous, even larger than Shep’s. It was on its back, lying peacefully on the side of the bed nearest the slider, charred and roasted. If it had been wearing any nightclothes, they were gone now. The facial features were blackened gristle; the lips were burned off so the expression seemed to be all teeth. Padding and upholstery of the headboard was mostly burned away, and the bedcovers were a combination of ash and melted synthetics, stiff and shiny. The crime scene tech was gingerly sampling materials into jars and labeling with precise notes the locations they came from.
    Lem Perkins, the local coroner, was lounging in the corner of the room with Buster Babbin, watching.
    â€œLem,” said Shep.
    â€œShep,” said Lem.
    â€œMorning, sir,” said Buster. Shep gave him a minuscule tip of the head.
    â€œWhat’ve we got here?” he asked Lem.
    â€œWhite male, about three hundred and forty-five pounds, sixty-one years old, name Alexander Antippas. That’s according to Gabe Gurrell. I can’t tell much of anything as things are. Don’t dare turn him over for fear he’d come all apart. We’re waiting for the hearse from Morrison’s to come bag him up.” Morrison’s was the funeral home in Bergen Falls. They would take the corpse to the medical examiner’s office in Augusta.
    â€œCause of death?”
    â€œThat’s the sixty-four-dollar question. I’m guessing he was dead before the fire started, otherwise why is he just laying there?”
    Shep grunted. “What’s Denny say? Arson?” He was going to wait for the tech team to finish, but he wanted to have a closer look at the way the fire had moved, where it had been hottest.
    â€œGuy was a smoker,” said one of the techs. “Cigars. He might have fallen asleep with one in the bed. Wouldn’t be inconsistent with what we’ve found so far.”
    â€œKnow if the lights were on or off?”
    â€œCan’t tell. You can turn them on or off from either the switch at the door or the ones beside the bed. The position doesn’t tell us anything.”
    â€œBathroom been dusted and photographed?”
    It had. Shep went to have a look.
    The bathroom door had been closed when the fire broke out. There wasn’t much left of the door, beyond hinges and the doorknob, but it had minimized the damage to the room. The toilet seat was up. There was a cashmere dressing gown on the hook on the back of the door. Chapstick and Kleenex in the pocket. Towels were neatly stacked on the vanity; clearly the room had been cleaned since the guy last took a shower here. A toilet kit was open beside the sink. Mouthwash, shaving gear, surprisingly grotty manicure kit, toothpicks, dental floss, earplugs, sleep mask. Either the room was dark enough for him as it was, or he hadn’t gone to sleep yet. There were a clutch of amber prescription vials, no surprise for someone in the kind of shape the deceased was in. The evidence techs would bag the meds and log them in.
    The