Dead at Breakfast

  Flax hated to interrupt Shep on his day off, but he knew he’d want to know. The only reason either one of them thought to tell Buster was that Buster was in uniform, working the parade. Things rarely got out of hand at eleven in the morning on a fall Monday in Ainsley, but the Harley club would be riding. They were mostly retired guys with their wives riding pillion or in sidecars, but a lot of them were veterans as well, flying American flags, and if you got a handful of crunchy granolas dressed like Indians chanting something like “Columbus was an Imperialist Tool,” there could be trouble. Buster stood beside his cruiser, which was parked across one of the side streets to prevent anyone from inadvertently driving onto the parade route, wearing his shades in spite of the drizzle, popping one fist against his open palm, trying to look menacing.

  Gabe Gurrell was at a loose end. His hotel was virtually empty. Mrs. Babbin and Mrs. Detweiler had driven off to do some sightseeing and have lunch with a friend in Bar Harbor. Normally this would be a busy weekend, but the news about the fire had caused a rash of cancellations in spite of how cheerfully the website announced that fall color was at its peak and the inn was ready to welcome and cosset guests.

  The new girl on the desk seemed to have things under control, so Gabe went to the kitchen, looking for Sarah. He found that Oliver Brooks was running the lunch service, which consisted of a handful of walk-ins. He should have known Sarah wasn’t there when the kitchen sent him the BLT he had asked for instead of green slime.

  Gabe went up the back stairs to Sarah’s apartment. If there was silence he wouldn’t knock, afraid she’d had another migraine and was napping, but when he reached her door, he could hear the sound of the television.

  She answered the door. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, which startled him; he rarely saw her out of her chef whites these days.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s all right. I was just . . .” She trailed off and opened the door wider, which he took as an invitation to see for himself. He stepped in, and she closed the door behind him and went back to her chair.

  “I came to see . . . Could I take you out to dinner tonight?”

  She looked up, distracted.

  “Where?”

  Not the answer he was expecting.

  “What would please you?”

  Another pause. Her eyes kept cutting back to the television. She picked up the remote and muted the sound from the broadcast.

  “Little Savannah Roseff, who trained with me here, is cooking in a new place on the other side of the lake. I heard she was doing my coffee soufflés and I hope it’s not true.” The dessert soufflés were a signature dish of Sarah’s.

  “Let’s check it out,” said Gabe.

  Sarah was watching the screen. He had to move to her side to see what was on it.

  The Antippases’ funeral thing for the daughter. On the screen was a static shot of a mountain of balloons, stuffed animals, posters, and bouquets stacked against a barrier outside the Staples Center. On the pavement at the foot of the mound was a row of current magazine covers, all with pictures of Artemis. Artemis smiling, a publicity still from the Disney days. Artemis with her head thrown back and eyes closed, a mic in her hand, while beyond the stage a sea of people waved cell phones over their heads, the screens glowing like candles in the dark. Artemis in a sequined cobalt mermaid gown, grinning and holding up a Grammy award. Artemis in sweats with her head down, her lawyer clutching her elbow, doing a perp walk after one of her many DUIs. They cut to a live shot of teenage girls, one white and one black, weeping and holding a homemade poster that read gone to soon. Then a shot of limousines, with motorcycle escort, proceeding gravely through the crowds that were waiting to see the celebrities arriving.

  “What’s the place called?” Gabe asked.

  Sarah clicked the television off. “The Firepond,” she said. “It used to be a blacksmith’s shop. On a stream. Very pretty.”

  “I’ll see if they’re open,” said Gabe.

  No response.

  “I’ll let you know,” he added.

  She was looking out the window at the gray sky, a moody contrast to the unreal brilliance of the California day the rest of the world was watching.

  Gabe Gurrell had been kinder to Sarah than any man had ever been. Her father had been nearly fifty when she was born, and he was an old-fashioned man given to unpredictable angers, and never completely comfortable around women or children. Gabe was a completely new experience. He was patient and forgiving and despite being in a seemingly perpetual state of harassment, had a blessedly even temper. Which was probably exactly why Sarah felt no pressure to accept his proposals. He never rattled his saber or suggested there would be any consequence if she kept him dangling too long. But lately she had felt a certain longing, and wondered if she’d left it too late to try to share a life with a good man.

  When Sarah was a girl, there were things she wanted the way only lonely children can want things, without any understanding of how unreachable or unreasonable they might be. She had wanted to be a veterinarian and have six children and live in a house full of animals, like Doctor Doolittle. Also, she wanted to be a famous singer, which would mean everyone would love her. The music teacher at her elementary school thought she had perfect pitch. In third grade she sang “I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair” in an assembly on Stephen Foster, and Mrs. Lee went into transports. Her parents even found the money for her to study voice for several years. Come to think of it, the happy family dream and the rich and famous dream were the same dream, because when she was famous and everyone loved her, she would marry a man who looked like Harrison Ford and have six children and live in a house full of animals like Doctor Doolittle. That had been her plan.

  The other thing she had wanted desperately was a little bay pony named Cinders. Cinders belonged to the boy on a nearby farm who got polio because his parents didn’t believe in vaccinations. Sarah’s parents couldn’t afford both the upkeep on a pony and voice lessons. The pony, Sarah reflected, would have been dead in the ground these past thirty years by now. But there were ponies here, and Clarence and Walter, and often there were children. She would go to dinner with Gabe, and then they’d see.

  Gone to soon. Gabe went back to his office, shut the door, and turned on the television in the corner. He was slightly embarrassed that he wanted to watch this, and he told himself that he wasn’t merely drawn to the spectacle, or to the pleasures of witnessing painful and intimate feelings that are none of his business. He wanted to see Mrs. Antippas and her sister. They were known to him, they were real to him. He was part of this story but it was weird to be part of something on the same screen that brought you American Idol or Survivor.

  And then he couldn’t seem to turn it off. He watched the stream of music gods and movie stars climbing out of their limousines and walking between the walls of people. Alicia Keys. Mariah Carey. The governor of California. Justin Timberlake. Rihanna. Two regulars from Saturday Night Live, where Artemis, irreverent and transgressive, had been a favorite, according to the reporter murmuring into her microphone. A feed from inside the auditorium, where a gold-plated casket was covered in white flowers. Orchids and roses. A gigantic screen on the stage showed a video of Artemis in performance, while the crowd filling the hall stared as if frozen, wiped their eyes suggestively, or in some cases fell to sobbing.

  Here came Lisa Antippas limping slowly down the aisle to the reserved seats in the front row. She was leaning on a young man the reporter identified as her son, Jeremy. Next came Glory on the arm of a large unidentified man with the look of a bodyguard, and then the twins, Sophie and Ada, on too-high heels, holding on to each other. The reporter intoned, “This is our first glimpse of the family since the death of the troubled superstar. They are grieving a double tragedy today, first the death of a daughter and sister, followed by the bizarre death of the singer’s father, Alexander Antippas, in a hotel fire on Thursday in the state of Maine. After the service here at the Staples
Center, there will be a procession to Forest Lawn, where Artemis will be laid to rest. We’re told that later this afternoon, the family will have a second service in a chapel at Forest Lawn, a private farewell to her father, who will be buried beside the daughter he outlived by only two days. You wonder what this family can be going through . . .”

  The shot switched to outside again, where another motorcycle escort accompanied yet another limousine. The network reporter, in dark suit and dark glasses, said softly into his microphone, “Well that’s right, Allie. There’s been a rumor here for several hours that the First Lady and her two daughters, who reportedly are heartbroken Artemis fans, would be attending the service here today, and that was their limousine that just moved through security here on their way into the center. Security is extremely tight as you can imagine . . .”

  The coverage moved back inside to where the video onstage was of Artemis, backlit on a night stage, singing the soaring anthem that had become her hallmark, her supple voice rippling the grace notes with a power and control that seemed preternatural. To hear her was to yearn yourself to say one more thing to someone loved and lost long ago, and simultaneously to seem to see this gifted girl-woman emotionally naked. You couldn’t listen to her sing this song without wanting to rescue her yourself, Gabe thought.

  When the shot switched to an image of the sodden and blackened hole in the new wing of his own hotel, he felt a sudden burst of rage against Alexander Antippas. Imagine being the father of this glorious, damaged girl, and not bothering to go to her, to honor and say good-bye to her in spite of the way the story had ended.

  Well, Antippas was with her after all. Gabe hoped he was down on his big fat incorporeal knees begging her forgiveness.

  Oh, man. This week had really been hell on all of them.

  Shep had Buster with him when he arrived at the inn to question Henry Rexroth, since the visit was snake-related. The new girl on the desk telephoned up to Mr. Rexroth’s room for them.

  “Mr. Rexroth, you have some visitors. Should I send them up?”

  In his bare room, with its one armchair and all his writing materials out on the small desk, Henry Rexroth rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Send them up? Here?

  He emerged into the lobby, thinking possibly it would be that nice couple he had met at the Congo church in Ainsley on Sunday, but it was not. He hesitated only slightly before crossing the room to Shep and Buster. There was a large trash bag standing beside Shep’s foot, with a yellow tape across it on which was printed the word EVIDENCE.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. “Sorry I’m not dressed for company, I was just finishing up a sermon.” He was wearing flannel trousers, and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  Shep said, “We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Rexroth. Would you like to do it here, or at the station?”

  Henry Rexroth thought this unnecessarily bullying in tone.

  “Here would be fine,” he said calmly. “Let’s go to the library.” He led the way, and Shep stayed right on his heel. Buster brought up the rear, carrying the trash bag.

  Mr. Rexroth and Shep took high-backed wing chairs on opposite sides of the cold fireplace. Buster pulled the broad sliding glass-paneled pocket door closed behind them, shutting them off from the lobby, and put the bag down on the floor between Shep and Rexroth. At a signal from Shep, Buster pulled on plastic gloves and took the suitcase out of the bag. He set it on the floor at Rexroth’s feet. Rexroth’s face was completely still. He didn’t even blink. Shep nodded, and Buster opened the suitcase.

  They watched Rexroth’s face carefully as he saw what was within. His eyes flicked toward the door once. Then he looked up and met Shep’s gaze. He looked frightened and resentful.

  “Have you seen those things before, Mr. Rexroth?” Shep asked. Buster took out his notebook.

  With all the dignity he could muster, Rexroth said, “I have. That is my snake handling equipment.”

  “And can you explain to us how you happen to be in possession of snake handling equipment?”

  “It was my father’s before me.”

  “What was he, a zoo guy? Or animal control?” Everyone in the room knew that Shep was asking questions to which he already knew the answers.

  “He was pastor to a Christian congregation in Ohio. Those tools were part of his ministry, and then mine.”

  “You worshipped snakes?”

  Rexroth was offended and showed it. Just for a moment they saw they were dealing with a very angry man. Then the mask was back, unreadable and patient. “No, of course not. I said it was a Christian congregation. We believed that the Lord would protect us from venom. The Bible says in Mark sixteen—”

  “What kind of snakes?” asked Buster. Shep shot Buster a look which he missed.

  “Well, domestic vipers of all kinds,” said Mr. Rexroth. “But some exotics too, when we could get them.”

  Buster was about to pursue this line when Shep cut him off.

  “And you led this congregation . . . when?”

  “From the early nineties until four years ago.”

  “And what happened four years ago?”

  Mr. Rexroth’s eyes flicked to the door again.

  “Mr. Rexroth?”

  “My wife was bitten by a water moccasin. She didn’t often handle the snakes but it was a moment of . . . She was filled with the spirit. She came up the aisle to me and held out her arms, with her eyes shining. And I gave the snake to her.”

  The room fell silent.

  “And then what happened, Mr. Rexroth?”

  “It bit her. She died.”

  Mr. Rexroth was struggling with emotion, and they gave him time to master it, though Buster wanted to know much more about exactly what the symptoms had been and how long it took for the death. He didn’t know much about water moccasins.

  “And then what happened?” Shep asked, surprisingly gently.

  “I was arrested. The serpents were seized. There was talk of criminal charges but none were brought, in the end. The whole congregation was witness to the fact that she took the snake voluntarily. Asked for it.”

  “What happened to the snakes?” asked Buster. Shep turned in his chair to look at Buster, a look he finally noticed and understood to mean Will You Shut the Fuck Up?

  Mr. Rexroth, seeming dazed, didn’t find the question odd. “I believe they were destroyed.” He seemed to feel as guilty about that as about the fate of his wife.

  “So you came to Maine?”

  “Not immediately. My congregation was disbanded, though I believe some of my people now worship in Kentucky. I traveled east. I tried congregations here and there, but nothing felt right.”

  “You were looking for a job as a preacher?”

  “Oh no. Just for a church home. But something was always missing.”

  “So how do you make your living, Mr. Rexroth?”

  Rexroth looked embarrassed. “There was some insurance. From my wife’s death. And my . . . uh . . . mother sends me a stipend.”

  Shep and Buster looked at each other.

  “Your mother can’t be young,” said Shep.

  “No,” Rexroth said glumly. “She seems eternal.”

  “Lucky she’s generous,” said Shep.

  “Yes. No. Well it’s not that, exactly.”

  “What is it, exactly?”

  Suddenly Rexroth seemed to remember where he was and what was going on. “Is this necessary? What’s my mother got to do with it?”

  “We don’t know. You tell us,” said Shep.

  After a pause, Rexroth said, “She remarried after my father died. Her husband isn’t a believer.”

  “She pays you to stay away,” said Buster. Shep looked surprised.

  Rexroth turned to him resentfully and said nothing.

  “So you drove around looking for a church home,” said Buster kindly.

  Rexroth said, “I love animals. I used to stop at shelters and volunteer. I’d walk the dogs and pet the cats. I like t
o be useful.”

  “You didn’t like Mrs. Antippas’s dog,” said Shep.

  Rexroth stiffened. He said defensively, “It was a horrible little thing, but I didn’t wish it harm.”

  Shep let the silence stretch after this remark. Finally he said, “Go on. Animal shelters.”

  “In one place over in Orono they had this bloodhound whose owner had died. Housebroken, nice temperament. It’s hard to place a big dog. I went back into the room where they keep the dogs in wire crates, shelves of them. Clarence seemed to recognize me. He saw me coming. He looked at me with those eyes, as if he’d been waiting for me, and when I put my hand up to the cage, he leaned the top of his head against the wires. I could feel him saying ‘What took you so long?’ The shelter people said they were going to put him down if they couldn’t find a home for him.

  “But then I discovered that none of the motor courts and such where I tended to stay allowed pets. I went back to the shelter and said I had to give Clarence back, and they told me about Oquossoc. Mr. Gurrell took me in.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Gurrell has told you.”

  “You tell us, Henry.”

  “Three years. And three months, it was the beginning of the summer.”

  “You must have been pleased to find a snake right in the next room,” said Buster.

  “I was not,” said Rexroth forcefully. “I foreswore the handling of serpents when Beverly died. Clearly I had misunderstood the scriptures, though I don’t yet understand how. But I believe the Lord put that snake next door as a sign to me.”

  “Sign of what?” Shep asked, seeming really interested.

  “That I still need to be tested before He will take me back,” Rexroth answered with irritation. “What would you think? I mean, how often do you check into a hotel and find there’s a snake in the next room?”