Dead at Breakfast by Beth Gutcheon Page B

toothbrush and toothpaste were lying on the counter. Not standing in a glass. He opened the mirrored cabinet above the sink. No glass in there either. He went to the door.
    â€œYou guys notice there’s no glasses in here?”
    â€œYeah, Buster did. No wastebasket either.”
    Shep looked. He opened the cabinet under the sink. No wastebasket. He went out again.
    â€œYou find them out here?”
    â€œWe found parts of a glass, was probably on the bedside table.Must have broken in the heat; the lab will tell us what was in it.”
    â€œWastebasket?”
    â€œNo trace. The manager said they’re made of raffia, the ones they use in the bathrooms. Lacquered.”
    â€œWhat is that, raffia?”
    â€œLike straw or something. Totally flammable.”
    â€œHuh,” said Shep.
    The day dragged on. Martin Maynard made no secret of his belief that the local talent were in way over their heads on this one, if indeed there had been a crime. Personally he didn’t think there had been. He was restless and deeply resentful that they wouldn’t let him go for his run. They were treating him like a suspect instead of an ally. Officious clowns. He spent a lot of time on the phone to the Bureau and already knew that in fact the police had no power to keep any of them where they were, unless they were prepared to arrest them, but his bosses thought he should stay and cooperate, at least until morning.
    Gabriel had given up trying to follow regulations where Colette the dog was concerned. She couldn’t be left in the room with Mrs. Antippas. She howled and cried when she was carried past the hallway to Mr. Antippas’s room. Glory had her in the bar on her lap.
    Hope came into the bar and told Margaux Kleinkramer she was wanted in room 3B. One by one they were being called to present their bona fides and be fingerprinted.
    â€œEven me!” said Hope, amazed. “I’m the deputy sheriff’s mother!” She watched as Margaux left the bar with none of her usual ebullience.
    â€œI have to wash my hands,” Hope said to Maggie. “Come with me.”
    When they were sequestered in the powder room, with the water running, having checked to see no one was in the stalls, Hope said,“I know you think this is a joke, but I have to tell you, there is no way on God’s green earth that Margaux Kleinkramer is an Aquarius. I really think I should tell Buster.”
    Maggie could picture that scene.
    â€œDo you suspect her of something?”
    â€œI suspect her of not being who she says she is. I’ll bet you lunch at the Four Seasons; she’s a Capricorn, probably with Leo rising. Aquarians hate liars, and we already know her name isn’t really Margaux. What kind of person lies about her sun sign?”
    â€œRunning her prints should be interesting.”
    â€œI think the whole thing is going to be interesting.”
    Maggie suddenly asked, “You know Jorge Carrera, my security guy at school? Who took us to the Rangers game?”
    â€œHe was fun.”
    â€œHe is fun. He was chief of detectives in the NYPD before he came to us.”
    â€œI had a feeling he was a big deal.”
    â€œHis retirement gig was to bodyguard a boy whose mother was prosecuting terrorists. She had fatwas and death threats all the time. When the boy graduated, Jorge stayed. He has the most depressing view of human nature.”
    â€œI knew there was a reason I liked him so much,” said Hope. “I wish he were here.”
    â€œBuster is going to do fine.”
    Hope didn’t look convinced, and Maggie understood that that was what made her think of Jorge. She too wished he were here.
    Buster was still with the Major Crimes guys when the van from Morrison’s Funeral Home arrived. The day had turned a glorious blue and gold, which gave him a needed lift. He’d been up since two-thirty in the morning and had had nothing to eat except ahandful of fancy cookies