Peter and Iris disembarked from the plane at Bob Hope Airport in Burbank, California. Peter called Dolph and his frustration grew when the phone rang incessantly. He hung up and redialed.
“Where is he?” Peter said as he listened to the endless succession of rings. “We should’ve contacted him before we left Antigua,” he said to Iris, then hung up.
“He might be in the restroom,” Iris said, “or he could be outside doing some yard work.”
“Yeah. It’s possible he might be out on an errand, also. I’ll give it a few more tries, otherwise we’ll just get a cab. I was hoping he would pick us up.”
The yellow taxi rounded the semi-circular drive and stopped by the front door of the Hutchins’s residence. Iris and Peter exited the cab and pulled their luggage from the trunk with the cabbie’s help.
Peter unlocked and opened the door. He reflexively recoiled and fanned the air before him with a wave of his hand. He groped for the light switch and the porch light came on.
“Something’s wrong,” Peter said to Iris. “The whole house reeks of gas.”