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“I only need a moment, dear. The groceries will keep. After all, this is business. A very close, personal friend of mine, Professor Robert Joseph Jackson—Maybe you’ve heard of him? No? I can’t understand why not, he’s very big in his field. Anyway, Professor Jackson is coming to Kingston on November third. He’s so busy over Halloween, you know. I’d love to have him stay here, of course, but Baby has taken such a strange dislike to him.” She beamed down at the big dog. “I told him that I knew the nicest little hotel and that it was right next door to me, and he said he’d bethrilled to stay with you.”

Claire could feel the bag holding the glass bottle of extra virgin olive oil beginning to slip.“I’ll be expecting him, Mrs. Abrams. Thank you for recommending us.” Rude or not, she began moving toward the door.

“Oh, it was no trouble at all, Colleen dear. I’m just so happy to see that you’ve taken my advice and have begun fixing the old place up. It has such potential you know. I see that young man is still with you. So nice to see a young man willing to work.”

“Isn’t it,” Claire agreed as Dean rescued two of her four bags. “Good day, Mrs. Abrams.”

“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 Hell in the basement?”

“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?”

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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. Assuming 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 assumed for the sake of a driver’s license. You must be Claire Hansen. I believe I spoke to your cat about our reservations.”