Dead and Breakfast (Caitlyn Craft Mysteries Book 1)

by David Crossman

  Chapter Twenty-One–Death at the Dinner Table

  “Well, you look like hell after a hurricane,” Piper bellowed, as Caitlin approached the breakfast table. “Coffee’s ready on the sideboard.” He set orange juice in front of Miss Tichyara and, taking her hand, gently guided it to the glass. “Orange juice, my dear.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Piper,” Caitlin replied, with all the good humor she could summon. Truth be told, his had been an apt description of how she felt. She directed her steps toward the coffee urn and poured herself a bracing cup, amazed at the amount of concentration such a simple, mechanical act required. Nevertheless, she managed to make it to the table without embarrassing herself.

  “Did they ever find out what set off the alarm?” asked Mrs. Griffeth, shaking a second spoonful of marmalade onto her croissant. “I’m sure none of us slept well after that.”

  Caitlin was trying to remember the story she and Jill had agreed on when Jill, who had been bustling about the periphery in her typically unobtrusive fashion, looking shamelessly fresh, came to her rescue. “Faulty wiring, Mrs. Griffeth. I’m sure I told you last night. It’s happened before, but I thought Joe had fixed it. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “No harm done,” said Mr. Wagner. “At least no one burned the place down sneaking cigarettes in the middle of the night.” He leveled a meaningful glare at his wife, who pretended not to notice.

  The desultory conversation meandered off in various directions as breakfast was consumed. Fortunately, the guests were comfortable enough with one another that Caitlin no longer felt it incumbent upon her to serve as master of ceremonies. A good thing, since she’d have been hard pressed to string together a cogent thought.

  Slowly, though, the strong coffee produced a head-clearing effect, and she was able to study the gathering one face at a time. If Amber, indeed, had an accomplice, which of them might it be? None of the males could have been the body in the mote, for obvious reasons. But might one of them be complicit in some other regard?

  Perhaps even a mastermind whose lisle thread she could trace through the tragedy of these bizarre events.

  Mr. Piper, as usual, dominated the conversation, in terms of sheer volume, if not content, all the while tending methodically to Miss Tichyara’s unspoken needs, as comfortably as if he’d been doing it all his life. His comments were innocuous and inoffensive, delivered with customary geniality. Nothing suspect in his behavior. No surreptitious meeting of the eyes with Amber as she returned from carrying breakfast to her stepmother.

  Yet, he had entered Miss Tichyara’s room during the fire drill, when he was sure no one was watching, and had removed something.

  What?

  Next along the table were the Wagners.

  Mr. Wagner was leaning across the table in an earnest, if not particularly meaningful, conversation with Delilah. Something having to do with his disapproval of coed dorms. Caitlin had read enough mysteries to know that it was always those you least expect who were most guilty. Applying that criteria, Mr. Wagner should be hung on the spot. Replaying the exchanges she’d shared with him in their brief acquaintance, Caitlin could think of nothing he had said or done that suggested the existence of a dimension to his personality beyond that which he displayed to the world: ingenuous, personable, sublimely content to quietly orbit the brighter stars in his little universe, at the center of which was his wife.

  She was another story. Consigned to the periphery rather than resigned to it, she was surrounded by a strata of society with which she had little or no intercourse during what Caitlin supposed was the humdrum routine of life in the Wagner household. Her awkward attempts to validate herself, painfully obvious to all, were met with polite indifference. Imagining slights where there were none – at least none intended – she was the type who would take offense easily. Sensing this, others seemed to avoid her, so her efforts to ingratiate herself ultimately had the opposite effect.

  Caitlin could not picture the woman willingly floating face-down in the moat. Nor did her personal bulk lend itself to a believable impersonator of the lithe-bodied Gayla . . . no matter how great the distance.

  Her social defects aside, the only black mark against her was the fact the she had been smoking on the balcony when the alarm sounded. Could she have been the eavesdropper? Yes. If so, why? And, while it was conceivable that she possessed the capacity to listen at keyholes, it was doubtful she had the ability to pick locks.

  At this juncture, though, it did occur to Caitlin that she had never seen Mrs. Wagner and Amber engaged in conversation, despite the fact that the younger woman was heiress presumptive to a vast fortune, and therefore a prime candidate for the attentions of Mrs. Wagner – a social climber in search of a ladder. Surely age wasn’t a factor. She spoke easily and mindlessly enough to Heather and Delilah, and had tried to do so with Miss Tichyara, though with no more luck than anyone had had in that quarter which, incidentally, was another peculiarity Ella Tichyana and Amber had in common.

  Heather was next. Breezy, bright, and bursting with vitality, she was easily at home in the spotlight, of which her extravagant, playful sexiness made her the frequent focus. She had a pinup figure and knew it, clearly enjoying its affect on men, and the ill-masked envy in women’s eyes. Caitlin saw a lot of herself, some twenty years previous, in Heather. Not as pretty, surely, but brimming with the same optimistic confidence in the world she had imagined for herself.

  At a practical level, Heather, though bigger boned and generally more robust, could have played the part of Gayla in the moat, and would probably have taken a dip in the October water on a dare. Madame Butterfly. A competitive swimmer.

  That possibility was put on hold as Caitlin studied the young woman from the perspective she had applied to the others.

  Such a comparison was, on the face of things, unfair, since Heather and Delilah were independent travelers and, as such, not often in intimate contact with the other members of the group. Nevertheless, she possessed that uniquely American attribute, which Caitlin secretly both scorned and envied, of assuming carefree familiarity with the world at large. She knew she was attractive and, therefore, made little effort at it. Consequently, she was more appealing. She talked as easily with the female members of the party as with the male and, as far as Caitlin could recollect, had not excluded anyone from the pleasure of her company. In this, Caitlin thought, she was more male than female. There was, though, a superficiality to her conversation, a self-centeredness typical of women her age whom Providence had richly endowed.

  The only fact that stood in her favor as a candidate for Amber’s accomplice was that Caitlin could imagine her playing the part, both psychologically and, at a stretch, physically.

  If so, given the fact that she and Delilah were only coincidental guests, Amber would have to have improvised her elaborate plan on the spot, and somehow enlisted Heather in a matter of hours after their meeting. Not, in Caitlin’s estimation, a likely prospect. Besides which, Heather and Delilah had both been in their room, and clearly asleep, prior to the sounding of the alarm.

  Off the list, for now.

  To Heather’s left, at the end of the large oval table, was Mrs. Griffeth. If ever there were a natural-born eavesdropper, it was she. However, unless her entire persona was a performance – and that of Oscar-worthy caliber – she could not have been compelled to take a dip in the moat at gunpoint. Adding to her defense, she had been in her room – if not asleep – when Mr. Piper had knocked. Lastly, she herself had been the victim of theft. Twice, in fact, though she didn’t know it yet. Caitlin cringed at the thought of having to tell her.

  Beside her, the chair usually occupied by Jeremy Farthing was empty. Caitlin would wait until noon, by which time twenty-four hours would have elapsed since he’d last been seen, before calling the police. Jean-Claude, if possible. She moved on quickly.

  Delilah was the unknown quantity in the equation. A dark-skinned black from Trinidad, she spoke eloquently, with a musical island lilt. While no
t a captivating beauty like her roommate, or Amber for that matter, she was pleasant-looking, with a dazzling smile. She listened intently when spoken to and smiled brightly and often.

  The gray, white, and maroon sweatshirt she wore advertised her as a member of Dartmouth’s track and field team. Probably a good swimmer as well. Not the type to be intimidated by either the cold or the water, but could she, because of her color, have impersonated Gayla in the moat? Not without substantial effort (and Caitlin was confident that, whatever else may or may not be discernible in Mrs. Griffeth’s photo, the redhead had been white). Of course, a white body stocking? Prodigious amounts of make-up . . . From that distance?

  But if she was going to eliminate Heather as the body in the moat, she had to eliminate Delilah for the same reasons.

  To her left, separated by an empty chair reserved for Mrs. Capshaw in the unlikely event she wished to join the company, was Amber. The image of her as a cold-blooded murderess was hard to sustain as she chatted amiably with Jill. There was not the least suggestion in her demeanor of the darkly ethereal young woman with the dead rabbit’s eye framed in her viewfinder. Though, like several members of the group, she seemed to have gotten little sleep the night before, she was neither morose nor pouty, nor in any way threatening.

  “Sundrop” her father had called her. All other considerations aside at that particular moment, it fit.

  The disparity, so sharply drawn in the light of day, between the Amber of Caitlin’s suspicions and the self-assured, if shy, young woman at the end of the table, had a sobering effect on her judgment.

  It was far more difficult under present circumstances to maintain the belief that Amber was Gayla, a calculating killer, than that Caitlin, her hyperactive imagination ignited by exhaustion and the apparent haunting of Joanna Capshaw (which might, after all, be nothing more than madness), had created evidence out of thin air and witness where there was none. Nothing but coincidence.

  As usual, Amber wasn’t wearing a bra. Her nipples cast sharp, crescent-shaped shadows on the ribbed cashmere of her red turtleneck. If she was aware, as Caitlin was, of the effect this arrangement had on the men in their little circle, she didn’t care.

  There was no arching of the back, none of the frequent stretches and exaggerated yawns that were the trademark of women trying to draw attention to their endowments.

  Amber was no coquette.

  Caitlin’s eyes, completing the circumnavigation of the table, drifted automatically to Miss Tichyara’s chest which, draped in folds of outerwear, was a blank canvas. Nothing of the shape of her breasts was evident.

  Suddenly Caitlin felt she was being watched. Raising her eyes, she found herself staring directly into Miss Tichyara’s dark glasses, in which she could see her own silhouette, framed by light from the garden door.

  It was only an instant, as the glasses swung sightlessly toward Mr. Piper in response to a question from that quarter, but the connection, however illusory, had been profoundly eerie and unsettling.

  She found herself struggling to keep from blurting out “Miss Tichyara, why was the light on in your room last night?”

  Whatever conclusions these observations might have led to were muted by the rattle of the panes of glass in the kitchen door as it swung open, revealing the unmistakable form of Jeremy Farthing.

  “So, you folks haven’t killed each other yet,” he said, dispelling any doubts. “Oh well, there’s time yet.”

  “Mr. Farthing!” Caitlin erupted spontaneously. “Where have you been?”

  “Oh, roaming here and there,” Farthing replied casually, simultaneously scuffing his shoes on the mat and removing his coat, “seeking whom I may devour.” His eyes seemed to rest briefly on Heather, who had lost interest in him the instant his identity was established and was engaged in light conversation with Delilah.

  “I knocked on your door last night,” said Piper sententiously. “You weren’t there.”

  “Hate to think I missed the pleasure of your company, Pipes. What had you in mind?”

  “Saving your life, I suppose. The fire alarm went off.”

  “We were worried about you,” said Mrs. Griffeth. “How’s your head?”

  “Pretty much back to normal, for better or worse. Thanks for asking. Any breakfast left?” He directed the question at Jill.

  “Yes.” The relief was evident in Jill’s demeanor. A living, breathing, healthy Jeremy Farthing, however unpleasant, was preferable to another corpse. “Yes. Of course. I can do up some eggs and toast, if you like.”

  “I like better with bacon.” Farthing, having briefly warmed his hands in front of the fire, went to the table and sat down beside Mrs. Griffeth. “Missed me, didn’t you old darlin’?” Frances flushed demurely. “Haven’t told anyone about us, have you?”

  “Mr. Farthing!”

  “Can’t keep her hands off me,” Farthing broadcast on a broad frequency, his lips pulled back in a cheerless smirk. He threw an arm around the flustered woman who, nonetheless, resisted only slightly as he drew her toward him. “Poor ol’ thing.”

  “I don’t suppose you feel you owe us all an explanation as to where you’ve been,” said Piper.

  Farthing didn’t retaliate, as Caitlin expected. Instead, he seemed to consider the statement. “You never know where you’ll end up when you go chasing fairies,” he said at last. Again his eyes, while embracing his general audience, lingered a moment longer on Heather. “Isn’t that right, blondy?”

  Heather had been talking to Delilah, when everyone else at the table fell silent. She looked up. “Sorry? Did someone say something?”

  Farthing raised his hand. “That would be me.”

  The look Heather returned him, a mixture of contempt and complete indifference, would have silenced a more sensitive man, Caitlin thought. It had no apparent affect on Farthing. “Well?”

  “Speaking of fairies, did you pick up that print, Caitlin?” Mrs. Griffeth intervened.

  “Yes, I picked it up,” said Caitlin, resolving at the same instant not to mention that the picture was missing. “I’ll get it for you . . . later.”

  “I’d like to see that,” said Farthing cryptically.

  Heather had grown impatient. “You were saying?”

  Farthing turned toward her. “Oh, I was talking about fairies.”

  “Fairies? Why? Are you one?”

  Farthing ignored the jibe. “Mrs. Griffeth took a picture of one the other morning.”

  “Good for her,” said Heather. She shot quick glance at Mrs. Griffeth. “If you’d like a picture of a gargoyle as well, I think I know one who’ll pose for you.” She looked back at Farthing and arched her eyebrows – an undisguised challenge.

  Caitlin cringed. Heather stood no chance in a battle of wits with Jeremy Farthing. She could almost hear his reply. “Let’s not bring your mother into this,” or something of the sort, but it wasn’t forthcoming. Instead, he smiled from the side of his mouth. “Fairies are notorious for dragging things home,” he said. “Birds with broken wings. Shiny objects of all sorts.” He leaned back to make room for Jill to put his plate before him. “Thank you,” he said, and plunged in lustily.

  “Fascinating,” said Heather mirthlessly. She questioned the others with her eyes but, receiving no reply, shrugged and turned her attention to Delilah.

  “Of course,” Farthing resumed, his attention seemingly focused on his breakfast. “These little treasures make easy pickings for the crows.”

  Heather looked up with exaggerated long-suffering seething from her every pore. “Should I be listening to whatever you’re trying to say?”

  “Please yourself,” Farthing smiled and tossed a piece of toast at her, which she caught. “Here’s one for the kitty.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She heaved the toast back at him angrily. It hit his face and fell into his plate.

  “Is your purse full, then?” said Farthing. He picked up the toast and bit it, framing her with cool, accusing eyes.

/>   Heather flushed violently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about . . . which makes a room full of us, I’m sure.” She grabbed her purse and her coat and stood up abruptly. “Come on, Dee. Whatever it is, it might be contagious.”

  Delilah, torn between loyalty and black current jam, opted reluctantly for the former and, with hasty good-day wishes to the gathering, prepared to leave with her companion.

  “You may as well let your friend sit and enjoy her breakfast,” said Farthing, who hadn’t taken his eyes from Heather, though she had ceased to look at him. “The crows have come and gone.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two–Dressing Godiva

  It was one of the few times they had all been together in the van since the first day at the Chateau, Mrs. Capshaw excepted. For the benefit of her students, Caitlin briefly reviewed the day’s itinerary: a short day’s outing to Castelnaud, followed by a late farewell dinner at the chateau. As she was speaking, the now-familiar faces trained upon her with varying degrees of interest, she recognized a serendipitous opportunity to investigate one of her suspicions. She concluded hurriedly with the announcement that she’d forgotten a lens in her room.

  “I’ll be back in a minute. Make yourselves comfortable.” At the top of the stairs, the maid’s closet stood open and Genevieve could be heard humming as she went about her chores in Mr. Farthing’s room. All the other rooms were open for airing, and a cold October breeze explored the nooks and crannies with mild curiosity, like the ghost of a child searching for her playmates.

  Caitlin was not accustomed to behaving surreptitiously. For all her native insecurity, she had at least the confidence of approaching the world with a clear conscience. That confidence abandoned her as she tiptoed down the hall to Miss Tichyara’s room, her heart rattling her ribs like a caged animal.

  Genevieve had already done the room. The bed was newly made and a pile of thick, fresh towels stood on the edge of the bureau. Caitlin brushed them with the back of her hand as she passed by. They were still warm from the dryer. A white chocolate mint in a silver and green foil wrapper lay in the geometric center of the pillow, Genevieve’s signature: the seal that her work was through.