There was no time for Cynthia to talk to her husband, who was busy serving breakfast to the late sleepers while she showed Maria, by hand communication, the upstairs chores of Bird Song. The pair spent the balance of the morning emptying the washing machine and dryer, only to fill them with never-ending loads, while in between clearing dishes, brewing more coffee, and playing the jovial innkeepers. Fred O'Connor was off to the post office, but before leaving, he ceremoniously presented Martha with thirty dollars and a smothering hug. Martha was making herself scarce in her room before her luggage-buying expedition to Montrose, thirty-five miles away.
The inn, not large by city standards, was constantly in need of attention, especially in this, the short but hectic high season. The hundred-year-old Victorian building contained nine rentable rooms, each with a private bath. The three largest quarters were located on the third floor, all presently booked by the two Dawkins brothers and wives, one pair of whom was not sleeping with his mate. The second floor contained six quarters, five rooms for guests and the rear left corner occupied by Fred O'Connor. There was a small room beneath the stairs on the main floor, rented in the past but occupied by Martha since her January arrival. The first floor, bisected by a hall and stairs, contained a living room or parlor on the right, or southern, side, and across from it a dining room and adjacent kitchen. The Dean's private quarters, a sitting room-office combination and bedroom, were located in the rear.
The Dawkins group trooped to breakfast, snapping at one other. Paul, who appeared to be the elder brother, was a robust figure who never closed his mouth even while eating. He was tall, an athlete gone to seed, with thinning hair and a used car salesman's smile. While Paul was dressed in jeans and a golf shirt, brother Joseph-never "Joe"-sat stiffly in creased slacks and dress shirt. At least he was tie-less, a concession to "the sticks," as he called Ouray. He looked like a corporate chairman ready to give an annual report as he rolled his eyes with impatience at his brother who dominated the conversation with laughter and silly stories. Their wives, Paulette for Paul and Ginger for straitlaced Joseph, were a contrast in themselves.
Paulette Dawkins was a short but massive chunk of good living who didn't know how to dress. Her pink shorts were slung below a belly that topped her husband's in grandeur. She possessed an "outie" navel that looked like a cherry tomato had dropped down her too-tight tee shirt and landed on the top of the hill. Ginger, coiffed and styled by the best, was ready for a fashion photographer's lens while continually rolling her eyes with disdain toward her sister-in-law. Ginger wasn't as facially pretty as Paulette but her figure-stately and full-and her dress-expensive and tasteful- paled her sister-in-law like a queen visitor at a homeless shelter. As Dean served them, it was apparent any early attempts at public pleasantness were gone, replaced by growls and stares that announced how thoroughly they despised one another.