Chronicles Of The Keeper - Summon The Keeper Part 74

"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 h.e.l.l in the bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"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. a.s.suming that ex-Olympic athletes would be watching their weight, he'd also made a large Greek salad, and a kiwi flan for desert.

Wondering why she was so nervous, Claire checked the newly hunter green walls above the wainscoting in the stairwell and was relieved to discover that although they still smelled like fresh paint, they were dry. "Lucky for us that when Dean says he'll get to it first thing in the morning, he means predawn." Crossing over to the counter, she watched Austin race through a fast circuit of the office. "What's with you? Storm coming?"

"I don't know." He flung himself from the top of the desk to the top of the counter and skidded to a stop in front of Claire. "Something's coming." After three vigorous swipes of his tail, he added, "It feels sort of like a storm. Almost."

At six-fifty-two, a wide-bodied van of the type often used to shuttle travelers from airports to car rental lots parked in front of the hotel.

"Looks like they're here," Claire announced, moving toward the door.

Austin bounded to the floor and raced halfway up the first flight of stairs. "So's the storm."

"What are you talking about?"

His ears flattened against his skull. "Old..."

"Of course they're old, it's a seniors' tour." Adjusting her body temperature to counteract the evening chill, Claire went out to meet the driver as he emerged. He was a youngish man, late thirties maybe, wearing a brown corduroy jacket over a pair of khakis, one of those round white canvas hats that were so popular among the sort of people willing to pay forty-five dollars for a canvas hat, and a pair of brown leather loafers. With wings.

"I have them taken off the sandals every fall," he told her, noticing the direction of her gaze. "I don't know what I hate more, cold feet or sandals and socks." He held out a tanned hand. "Hermes Gruidae; the second bit was a.s.sumed for the sake of a driver's license. You must be Claire Hansen. I believe I spoke to your cat about our reservations."

"He's not my cat," was the only thing Claire could manage to say.

"No. Of course not." Hermes looked appalled. "I wasn't implying ownership, merely that it was a cat I spoke to."

"Uh, right. I just came out to tell you that there aren't any stairs around back if you want to let your people off in the parking lot instead of out here."

"Not a bad idea, but I don't think you could get them to use a back door." He winced as an imperious voice demanded to know the reason for the delay. "They're a rather difficult bunch actually."

The voice had been speaking flawless Cla.s.sical Greek, although Claire spoke only English and bad grade school French, Keepers were language receptive, it being more important in their job to understand than to be understood. "Retired Olympians," she muttered, examining the words from a new angle. "Oh, G.o.d."

"G.o.ds, actually," Hermes corrected, sounding resigned. He hustled back out of the way as an elderly man in a plaid blazer stomped down onto the sidewalk.

"You listen to me, Hermes, I'm not spending another moment sitting in that... h.e.l.lo." Smiling broadly, he stepped toward Claire, arms held out. "And who is this fair maiden?" he asked in equally flawless English, capturing her hand. "Surely not Helen back again to destroy us with her beauty."

"Not fair and not a maiden!" snapped a woman's voice from inside the van. "Keep your hands to yourself, you old goat. Get back here and help me out of this thing."

Belatedly Claire realized that her fingers were being thoroughly kissed and an arm had slipped around her waist, one liver-spotted hand damply clutching her hip.

"Zeus! I'm warning you...!"

Silently mouthing, "Later," Zeus gave her one final squeeze and returned to the van.

Objectively, the Lord of Olympus was shorter than Claire would have expected him to be, had she actually spent any time thinking about it, and someone should have mentioned that the white belt and shoe ensemble wasn't worn north of the Carolinas after Labor Day. He'd been handsome once, but over two millennia of rich food and carnal exercise had left the square jaw jowly under the short curly beard, the dark eyes deep-set and rimmed with pink over purple pouches, and his Grecian Formula hair artfully combed to hide as much scalp as possible. An expensive camera bounced just above the broad curve of his belly, the strap hidden in the folds of his neck.

And if that was Zeus...

Hera, clawlike hand clutching her husband's arm, reminded Claire of an ex-First Lady from the American side of the border. Her skin stretched tight over the bones of her face, her makeup applied with more artifice than art, she looked as though a solid blow would shatter her into a million irritated pieces. "The Elysian Fields Guest House? Honestly, Hermes, is this the best you could do?"

"It's the best for our needs," Hermes told her soothingly.

Claire found herself being examined by bright, birdlike eyes behind a raised lorgnette.

"Oh, a Keeper," Hera sniffed. "I see."

The second man out of the van paused to stretch, both hands in the small of his back. Incredibly thin and still tall in spite of stooped shoulders, he was dressed all in black, jacket, shirt, pants, shoes, with a crimson ascot at his throat. A hawk like hook of a nose made even more prominent by the cadaverous cheeks completely overwhelmed his face although a neatly trimmed silver goatee and full head of silver hair did what they could to balance things out.

A tiny white-haired woman in a lavender pantsuit draped in a mult.i.tude of pastel scarves followed him out. "Oh, look. Hades!" Wide-eyed, she pointed gracefully toward the eaves of the hotel. "A white pigeon! It's an omen."

Hades obligingly looked.

The pigeon plummeted earthward, hitting the ground with a distinct splat.

"Did I do that?" Hades asked. "I didn't mean to."

"Senile old fool," Hera muttered, pushing past him.

"Never mind, dear." On her toes, Persephone rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. "Next time, just don't look so hard." Capturing a scarf as it slid out from under a heavy gold brooch, she fluttered ring-covered fingers around her body. "Oh, dear. I've forgotten my knitting."

"Never mind, Sephe. I've brought it out for you."

Claire had no idea who the woman handing Persephone her knitting bag might be. Running over the remaining G.o.ddesses in her head offered no clues. Pleasant looking, in the sensible clothes favored by elderly English birdwatchers, she reminded Claire of a retired teacher pulled back into duty and near the end of her rope.

As though aware of Claire's dilemma, she walked over and held out her hand. "h.e.l.lo. You must be our host. I'm Amphitrite."