Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) by Judith K. Ivie Page A
Authors: Judith K. Ivie
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briefly and rolled her eyes.
At last Bolasevich abandoned the podium, and Karp took his place to inform those in attendance that Alain’s family very much appreciated their sharing this time with them and would be pleased if they would join them for coffee and a light lunch in the Nutmeg Room immediately following the service. The Hartt School musicians moved smoothly into a Bach recessional. Bellanfonte and Bolasevich escorted Vera Girouard and her companion down the long aisle. Karp escorted the female half of the elderly couple, and the old gentleman followed. The rest of the rows emptied from front to rear at a decorous pace befitting the occasion. By the time we were able to make our exit, the lines at both the men’s and women’s rooms were discouraging.
As usual, practical Margo had the solution. “I don’t know about y’all, but I have no intention of standin ’ in this line for half an hour waitin ’ to pee when BGB’s restrooms are empty right across the street.”
“Great idea,” agreed Strutter , and they led the way back down the escalator and out the hotel’s front doors. The noontime heat was oppressive, and we hurried across Trumbull Street and half a block down Church Street to the Metro Building’s side entrance, which was the only one used on weekends. It wasn’t until we were in the air-conditioned lobby that it occurred to me to check who was on the security desk, and my stomach flip-flopped uncomfortably.
“Don’t worry, you’re off the hook for the moment,” Strutter announced, reading my mind. “Charles isn’t on again until the third shift.”
“Okay,” I said meekly, knowing I had it coming. At the earliest opportunity, I promised myself, I would present myself to Strutter’s nephew and eat my portion of crow. For the moment, I produced my official building pass and dutifully recorded its number in the sign-in book. Strutter , Margo and Ingrid did the same, and we proceeded to the nearest express elevator, which delivered us to the thirty-eighth floor with terrifying swiftness. The easiest access to BGB during weekend hours was through the reception area, which was staffed until 2:30.
“Hey, Quen ,” I greeted the receptionist, an attractive young woman who, like Charles, was a college student during her off hours. “Having a nice quiet day to study?”
“Not at the moment,” she replied. “I guess that memorial service must be over, because you’re the second bunch of people to come through here in the last five minutes.”
“Bathroom shortage at the Hilton, hon ,” Margo informed her. “Who else is here, so we’ll know who not to get caught talkin ’ about?”
Quen consulted her list, an informal version of the sign-in log in the lobby. “Well, Karp was leading the pack. He had Mrs. Girouard in tow, some woman friend of hers named Grace, and Girouard’s parents, who look about a hundred years old. I was a little nervous about them going down the stairs. I made a note that a party of four non-employees came in, but since Karp was escorting them, I didn’t pay that much attention, frankly. All I know is they went down to thirty-seven.”
“We’re about to do the same,” said Margo, hopping from foot to foot, “after we use the facilities on this floor, that is.”
“No can do,” said Quen . “Somebody jammed up one of the toilets, and I’m waiting for maintenance to come and clear it up. The whole place is flooded.”
Margo groaned and made a beeline for the stairs. The rest of us followed. The door at thirty-seven was stuck, as usual. Margo wrenched it open, and she and Strutter headed directly across the aisle to the women’s room. Ingrid and I, having abstained from coffee before the service and therefore not quite so pressed, took a detour to her desk so that she could check her telephone messages from Friday afternoon.
The service had left us somber, and the thick carpeting in the aisles silenced our footsteps, so the two women standing
At last Bolasevich abandoned the podium, and Karp took his place to inform those in attendance that Alain’s family very much appreciated their sharing this time with them and would be pleased if they would join them for coffee and a light lunch in the Nutmeg Room immediately following the service. The Hartt School musicians moved smoothly into a Bach recessional. Bellanfonte and Bolasevich escorted Vera Girouard and her companion down the long aisle. Karp escorted the female half of the elderly couple, and the old gentleman followed. The rest of the rows emptied from front to rear at a decorous pace befitting the occasion. By the time we were able to make our exit, the lines at both the men’s and women’s rooms were discouraging.
As usual, practical Margo had the solution. “I don’t know about y’all, but I have no intention of standin ’ in this line for half an hour waitin ’ to pee when BGB’s restrooms are empty right across the street.”
“Great idea,” agreed Strutter , and they led the way back down the escalator and out the hotel’s front doors. The noontime heat was oppressive, and we hurried across Trumbull Street and half a block down Church Street to the Metro Building’s side entrance, which was the only one used on weekends. It wasn’t until we were in the air-conditioned lobby that it occurred to me to check who was on the security desk, and my stomach flip-flopped uncomfortably.
“Don’t worry, you’re off the hook for the moment,” Strutter announced, reading my mind. “Charles isn’t on again until the third shift.”
“Okay,” I said meekly, knowing I had it coming. At the earliest opportunity, I promised myself, I would present myself to Strutter’s nephew and eat my portion of crow. For the moment, I produced my official building pass and dutifully recorded its number in the sign-in book. Strutter , Margo and Ingrid did the same, and we proceeded to the nearest express elevator, which delivered us to the thirty-eighth floor with terrifying swiftness. The easiest access to BGB during weekend hours was through the reception area, which was staffed until 2:30.
“Hey, Quen ,” I greeted the receptionist, an attractive young woman who, like Charles, was a college student during her off hours. “Having a nice quiet day to study?”
“Not at the moment,” she replied. “I guess that memorial service must be over, because you’re the second bunch of people to come through here in the last five minutes.”
“Bathroom shortage at the Hilton, hon ,” Margo informed her. “Who else is here, so we’ll know who not to get caught talkin ’ about?”
Quen consulted her list, an informal version of the sign-in log in the lobby. “Well, Karp was leading the pack. He had Mrs. Girouard in tow, some woman friend of hers named Grace, and Girouard’s parents, who look about a hundred years old. I was a little nervous about them going down the stairs. I made a note that a party of four non-employees came in, but since Karp was escorting them, I didn’t pay that much attention, frankly. All I know is they went down to thirty-seven.”
“We’re about to do the same,” said Margo, hopping from foot to foot, “after we use the facilities on this floor, that is.”
“No can do,” said Quen . “Somebody jammed up one of the toilets, and I’m waiting for maintenance to come and clear it up. The whole place is flooded.”
Margo groaned and made a beeline for the stairs. The rest of us followed. The door at thirty-seven was stuck, as usual. Margo wrenched it open, and she and Strutter headed directly across the aisle to the women’s room. Ingrid and I, having abstained from coffee before the service and therefore not quite so pressed, took a detour to her desk so that she could check her telephone messages from Friday afternoon.
The service had left us somber, and the thick carpeting in the aisles silenced our footsteps, so the two women standing
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