The Cat That Got the Cream

by Fiona Snyckers

  On Halloween night, most shops in the High Street would stay open so parents could enjoy extended shopping hours while their children trick or treated through the village. Fay had already ordered bags of candy so that the Cat’s Paw would be ready for any little demons who happened to stop by. She was planning to dress up as Katniss Everdeen for the night. She had her bow and arrows all ready and was going to do her hair in a side braid.

  As she reached Sweet’s Candy Store she looked up and saw that she was in the right place. A small sign in flowing letters indicated that Galliano’s fencing studio was located on the second floor. She looked around for a staircase or an elevator but couldn’t find one. Instead, she put her head into the candy store and greeted the young witch behind the cash register.

  “Morning, Penny.”

  “Morning, Fay,” said the daughter of the Sweet family. Only on Bluebell Island, Fay reflected, would the owner of the local candy store have the actual last name ‘Sweet’.

  “How are your guests enjoying our caramel fudge on their pillows every night?” asked Penny.

  “Oh, it’s been a huge hit. Everyone asks where the fudge comes from and I send them here. They also enjoy the chocolate-covered nougat.”

  Penny’s smile was as sweet as her name. “That’s good. We love a happy client. What can I do for you this morning?”

  “I’m trying to get upstairs to the fencing studio, but short of growing wings and flying, I don’t see how.”

  “I know. It’s crazy. I think this block was designed back when the staircase was a servants’ entrance that had to be hidden at the back. I’m afraid you’ll have to go all the way around. You’ll find the stairs at the back.”

  Fay thanked her and walked to the end of the block. She circled around a scented-candle shop and approached the candy store from the back. There she found a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor. A sign with an up-arrow said, ‘This way to Galliano’s’.

  Fay could hear sounds coming from the fencing school before she reached the top. It reminded her of the martial arts studio she had trained in occasionally during her years with the NYPD. There was the same squeak of feet on rubber mats, the scuttle of fast-moving bodies, and the grunts of exertion.

  The door was standing open. Fay found herself on the threshold of a large, bright studio with floor to ceiling windows on both sides. A rack of fencing masks in different sizes stood to her left, with a selection of fencing vests next to it. In the corner was a collection of swords. No, not swords. They were called foils.

  A beginners’ class was in progress. The children could have been no more than five years old. Two women that Fay recognized as teachers from the local kindergarten were standing on one side having a low-voiced conversation while keeping an eye on the class.

  The children were wearing protective vests and facemasks that were currently tipped up onto their heads. They had clearly been well drilled on safety procedures because there was no horseplay or ill-discipline. They faced the front where an instructor was teaching them how to make a pass that she referred to as a ‘simple attack’. From where Fay was standing, it didn’t seem very simple at all.

  In a corner of the room stood a man wearing a white fencing outfit that was so tight you could practically count his ribs. His hair was pitch black and worn slightly long. It had been slicked away from his forehead and into a ducktail arrangement at the nape of his neck. His eyebrows were strongly arched, giving him a look of permanent surprise. His face was a darker shade of olive than his neck, leading Fay to conclude that he was wearing makeup. The overall effect was one of great theatricality.

  As he caught sight of her, he made his way to the front door, taking care not to disturb the class in progress.

  “Buon giorno, signora. You are here to arrange lessons for your child, si?” His accent was so thick that Fay struggled to understand what he was saying.

  “Hmm? Oh, no. I don’t have children. I just wanted to speak to the owner or manager of the studio.”

  He swept her a flourishing bow. “But that is I! Massimo Galliano, at your service.”

  Fay shook hands with him.

  “My name is Fay Penrose. I run a B&B just outside the village. I was wondering if you had ever seen this man before?”

  She scrolled through the gallery on her phone until she found a photo that she had taken of the murder victim’s face. She had taken it with a flash, and it showed every detail of his features. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be asleep.

  Mr. Galliano grew very still as he stared at the photograph. His eyes flicked from side to side. He seemed to be considering his reaction.

  “Do you know him?” Fay pressed.

  He looked up and his smile was back. “But, yes! I know this one. His name is Eduardo Mayweather. He did not live here on the island.”

  “Eduardo? He was Spanish? Italian?”

  Galliano laughed. “Forgive my – how do you say it? – my poor pronunciation. The name is how you say it in English. Ed-ward.” He enunciated it carefully.

  “Edward Mayweather. Got it. And how did you know him? Did he come here for lessons?”

  Galliano found this amusing too. “No, no, no. He did not require lessons, that one. He was a maestro. He was almost the equal of the great Galliano himself. No. He wished to impart his knowledge to students. And also, maybe to learn a few trucchi astuto from Galliano.”

  Fay shook her head. This was getting confusing.

  “Trucchi astuto?” She took a shot in the dark. “Astute tricks?”

  “Si! How you would say, ‘cunning tricks.’”

  “And when you say the great Galliano, you are referring to yourself?”

  “But, of course.” He opened his eyes very wide. “Who else?”

  “So, Mayweather came to the island to join your studio as a fencing instructor and to pick up some tricks from you. Are you aware that he is dead?”

  If Fay hadn’t been watching his face closely, she might have missed it – the utter lack of surprise on his face. This was followed immediately by a collapse into grief.

  “Ah, il povero uomo. That is molto triste. How did he die?”

  “He was stabbed here,” Fay touched her abdomen just below the diaphragm, “by a sword of some kind”.

  Again, a reaction flickered across his face before he had time to smooth it away. This one was more difficult to read. It might have been surprise, or it might have been alarm, or something else entirely.

  “He must have been unarmed,” said Galliano. “There are not many who could have got past the guard of Eduardo if he had been carrying a foil of his own.”

  “You could have.”

  His eyes flew to her face. “What do you mean?”

  “You just told me that he had come to the island to learn some fencing tricks from you. I just meant that if anyone could have got past his guard, it would have been you. As the superior fencer.”

  “Ah, yes. I see what you mean. But this had nothing to do with me.”

  “Where were you this morning between midnight and six o’clock?” she asked.

  “At home in bed. I have an appartamento right here next to the studio. Unfortunately, there is no one to confirm that. May I ask what your interest in this matter is?”

  “I was the one who found Mr. Mayweather this morning. I am naturally interested in what happened to him.”

  “I see.”

  “May I ask how long you have been on the island, Mr. Galliano?”

  “Almost a year.” He glanced over to where the fencing instructor was finishing up her lesson. “I must be going now. Scusi, Signorina Penrose.”

  He hurried away to congratulate the children on their lesson. Instead of leaving straight away, Fay went to a small side office with a sign on the door saying ‘Secretary’.

  Galliano had mistaken her for a young mother, so she decided to trade on that.

  “Good morning,” she said to the woman behind the desk. “I’d like to enroll my child in p
rivate lessons with Edward Mayweather. Can you tell me when he’s available?”

  The woman looked harassed. “I’m so sorry. I’m just a temp. I’ve only been here since Monday and I don’t know that name at all. Let me look him up on the computer.”

  She tapped away at her keyboard while Fay waited.

  “He’s been marked as absent since last Friday,” said the secretary. “I’m not sure if he’s still taking students.”

  “That’s fine,” said Fay. “Can you tell me how long he’s been working here?”

  “Now that I do know. It says here that he joined the studio three weeks ago on the fifth of October.”

  “That’s perfect,” said Fay. “That’s all I needed to know.”

  Chapter 5

  Fay emerged into the High Street to find that the clouds had disappeared, and it had turned into a lovely fall morning. She knew better than to trust it. The weather on the island at this time of year was unreliable. You could get four seasons in one day – or in one morning for that matter.

  But the unpredictability of it made the sunny spells that much more precious. Right now, she could enjoy the powder-blue sky, the wind that had dropped to a gentle breeze, and the cheer of the mild sunshine. The fact that it could all be swept away in the next hour only increased her enjoyment.

  Fay strolled along the High Street admiring the Halloween decorations. They made her nostalgic for her childhood in suburban Connecticut. Even Pappa’s Pizzeria had got into the spirit of the holiday with a display of two black bats holding up a pizza between them.

  She laughed at the clever decoration and was about to walk on when a thought struck her. She retraced her steps and went into the pizzeria. It was run by a couple known locally as ‘the husbands.’ Vito and Luigi had come over to Bluebell Island from Sicily as young men thirty years earlier. They had founded their ristorante on arrival and had been doing brisk business ever since. If anyone would know the Italian community on the island, it would be them.

  Fay saw Luigi behind the counter, while Vito waited tables in the restaurant. It was a quiet time of day, with the breakfast and brunch crowd having cleared out and the lunchtime customers only starting to trickle in.

  “Fay, cara!” Luigi’s greeting was enthusiastic as usual. “What can we do for you on this fine morning?”

  “Morning, Luigi. I’m looking for information rather than food, although I have to admit it smells delicious in here.”

  “My Vito has been experimenting with a pumpkin spice filling for his sweet pastries. Then he drizzles a cream cheese frosting over the top.”

  Fay’s sigh was dreamy. “You’re killing me, Luigi. Can you box up four of those to go? I’ll take them home for Morwen, Maggie, Pen, and me to have with our tea this afternoon.”

  “Ah, that Pen. He has a sweet tooth, that one, although he will never admit it. You know we play poker once a month?”

  “Sure.” Fay knew that Luigi, Pen, Sergeant Jones, Doc Dyer and a few other men in their fifties and sixties got together for a monthly poker evening.

  “So, what information can I give you?” Luigi asked as he packed the pastries into a bakery box.

  “What do you know about Massimo Galliano at the fencing studio? He sounds so Italian that I can hardly understand him, but I could swear he made a grammar mistake in speaking to me this morning. He said ‘trucchi astuto’ when I’m sure it was meant to be ‘astuti’. Do you know anything about him?”

  Luigi looked troubled. “You know I don’t like to chatter, Fay cara. I hate to speak ill of anyone. It makes me uncomfortable here.” He tapped his chest.

  “I know that,” said Fay. “And I respect you for it. Especially since the rest of this island is a regular hotbed of gossip. But this is not just curiosity on my part. You probably heard about the body that was discovered this morning outside the Cracked Spine. The victim seems to have died from a sword injury. Mr. Galliano confirmed that he had been working at the fencing studio for the last three weeks. This is a proper murder investigation.”

  Luigi’s face cleared. “Ah, that is different. If you are looking into this matter, belissima, it is sure to be solved swiftly.” He lowered his voice and gestured to her to come closer. “Massimo Galliano, as he calls himself, is not Italian at all but Welsh. His real name is Maxie Galway.”

  “Wow.” Fay had guessed there was something off about him, but not that he was an imposter on this scale. “Is he even a fencing instructor?”

  “Oh yes, he certainly is that. And a very skilled one too, I believe. But it is the Italians that are known to have true mastery of the art of the duello. It makes good business sense to pose as an Italian when one is setting up a fencing studio, you understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “Also …” Luigi tapped the side of his nose. “When one wishes to be a success with the ladies, it can be useful to cultivate an Italian accent. My Vito and I discovered this to our cost when we first arrived here.”

  Fay laughed. She had heard stories about how broken-hearted several of the Bluebell Island ladies had been when Luigi and Vito had finally got married – to each other.

  “It must have come as a shock to Mr. Galliano to find two Sicilians already living in the village.”

  “Indeed, it did. At first, he spent his time ducking around corners every time he saw one of us approaching. He had a dreadful fear that we would corner him and start speaking Italian. Then he realized that we had no intention of exposing him and he began to relax. These days he has the cheek to greet me in Italian, only to switch to English immediately afterwards.”

  “Is that so? Well, he doesn’t lack chutzpah, as we say in New York City. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

  Luigi thought for a moment. Then he called Vito over. “What can we tell la bella about this Massimo Galliano? I have given her the basics. It seems the gentleman who turned up dead in front of the Cracked Spine this morning was working for him.”

  Vito stroked his chin. “Would that be the new instructor who arrived a few weeks ago? He was in his fifties. A solid build but quite muscular and very light on his feet? I think Massimo referred to him as Eduardo.”

  “That’s him,” said Fay. “Edward Mayweather. Can you tell me anything about either of them?”

  “Not really,” said Vito. “They were always arguing, that’s all I know. The one called Edward seemed to be trying to persuade Maxie – or Massimo as he likes to call himself – to show him something. Some complicated fencing technique that is known only to the privileged few. He kept saying that Massimo had promised to show it to him. And Massimo kept insisting that he wasn’t ready. I heard them arguing about it – oh, many times.”

  Luigi beamed with pride. “Ecco! Behold how observant my Vito is. He never misses a thing.”

  “And he doesn’t share your reluctance to gossip either,” said Fay as Vito smiled modestly. “You’ve both been very helpful. Mille grazie.”

  Fay left the High Street and began the steep walk up to Penrose House.

  It had been an enlightening morning. She had started off knowing nothing about her victim – not even his name. Now she knew that he was from Exeter, that he was a fencing instructor, and that he had come to the island both to teach and to learn. By his own admission, Galliano had promised to teach him some cunning tricks in the art of fencing. Then he seemed to have reneged on that promise. They had argued. Could one of those arguments have got so out of control that Edward Mayweather had ended up stabbed through the chest?

  It didn’t seem likely.

  From the little Fay knew about fencing, safety was paramount. Fencers were trained from a young age to make no irresponsible movements. It would take a lot to overcome that lifetime conditioning.

  She wasn’t sure where to go from here. She could speak to Galliano again, perhaps. And interview his assistant who had been teaching the kindergarten class. It was no good asking the secretary because she was a temp who had only been there three days and had never
met Mayweather.

  Lost in thought, Fay trudged up the hill towards Cliff Road.

  “Fay, love! You look as though you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  It was Doc Dyer – David’s father and one of Fay’s best friends in the village. Just the sight of him cheered her up.

  “Morning, Doc. Playing hooky from your patients?”

  “Not at all, dear girl. It’s nearly one o’clock. I’ve finished my morning consultations and now I’m waiting for our cook to announce lunch. Just taking the air until then.”

  “Not so much the air as the fumes from that noxious pipe of yours.”

  Doc Dyer held up his corncob pipe and polished the bowl with his handkerchief.

  “Don’t talk about my beloved like that,” he said. “She’ll take offence.”

  “Do you happen to know how David got on with the autopsy this morning?”

  “I know he finished it before he started seeing patients this morning. Why don’t you come in and ask him yourself?”

  Fay took a step back. “Oh, no. I don’t like to intrude.”

  Doc Dyer rolled his eyes. “What is it with you two lately? You treat each other as though you were radioactive. This is business. Come in and ask the boy how he got on with the autopsy.”

  “Has he also …?” Fay began. “I mean … I forgot what I was going to say.”

  “Has he also been behaving as though you were radioactive?” he said with a sigh. “The answer is yes. The other day I suggested that we ask you to dinner and he acted like a cat on a hot tin roof.”

  Fay pulled a face. “Oh, well … if the idea is that repulsive to him …”

  “No, my love. Not at all. He didn’t act as though it were repulsive. He acted as though I had just suggested that he should go up to the most popular girl in school and tell her all about his secret crush. It wasn’t horror so much as nervous mortification.”

  Fay pulled herself together. “Well, it’s none of my business. He’s an independent agent. He’s a single man and when he feels like inviting … someone … to dinner, no doubt he will do so.”