What critics say:
The Albert Mysteries
“Albert is one of my all-time favorite sleuths.” New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen
“…shines with comic brilliance. Crossman has a gift for creating characters…who should show up in further adventures of Albert. And there should be more.”
Chicago Sun-Times
“If you have ever aspired to be a private detective, here is some hilarious inspiration. Crossman’s delightfully offbeat tale of wacky academic politics contains a host of bizarre characters and an inexplicable homicide. Albert is indeed a unique, likeable operative. I certainly look forward to an encore.”
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“The novel is an exercise in the comic style, defying disbelief. To his credit, Crossman brings it off nicely. Albert is clearly a survivor, likely to be heard from again.”
Los Angeles Times Book Review
“Crossman…creates an offbeat, sympathetic sleuth who meanders innocently through this tale like a lamb through a pack of wolves. Bravo. Encore! Publishers Weekly
The Winston Crisp Mysteries
“Crossman is a skilled mystery writer with a knack for suspense, clues, local color, and a flowing story. His creation, venerable Winston Crisp, is a compelling and likable old fellow whose reappearance in future stories will be warmly received.”
Times Record
“The writing is fast-paced and full of enough twists and turns to engage the most avid of mystery readers. Crisp is a delightful, plausible sleuth. I look forward to more Crisp books.”
Maine Sunday Telegram
“As clever as (this) premise is, as satisfactory as the complex plot may be to the mystery buff…it is the peripheral characters that make this book shine. Let’s hope Mr. Crisp and his pals survive the mayhem and entertain us again.”
Ellsworth Weekly
The Shroud Collector (formerly Dead of Winter)
“Crossman has created a delightfully unique detective in Winston Crisp, who uses his brains, not his brawn. With the help of a charming cast of supporting characters, both author and sleuth triumph with panache.”
Tess Gerritsen, New York Times best-selling author.
“It is the author’s intimate portraits of life on a Maine island that pull this book together and give it character. Neither Nero Wolfe, nor Columbo, nor most of the rest of the thousands of storybook sleuths ever came close.”
Brunswick Sun Journal
“David Crossman is a wizard. The Shroud Collector is a charmingly crafted, magically airy book, not to be mistaken for a lightweight.”
Kennebec Sunday Journal
The Bean and Ab Mysteries
“These well-structured tales never loses momentum. Bean and Ab are likable characters who move through the stories, unearthing clues that take them closer to solving mysteries past and present. Their youthful enthusiasm, investigative prowess, and endearing friendship make for interesting characterization. The carefully orchestrated chapters and the fast pace will hold children’s attention throughout.”
School Library Journal
“Impossible-to-put-down Maine mystery. Suspense builds neatly from chapter to chapter, and the ending is richly satisfying.”
Bangor Daily News, Sunday
“Crossman’s Secret of the Missing Grave is a gripping and well-imagined adventure mystery.”
The Horn Book (Boston Globe)
“Be warned…you’ll find this suspenseful volume as fascinating as your youngster will.”
Portland Press Herald
Dead and Breakfast
by
David Crossman
Alibi – Folio Publishers
Nashville, TN, U.S.A.
Copyright 2012 David Crossman
Published by Alibi Folio Publishers
2479 Murfreesboro Road, #170
Nashville, TN 37217
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012918591
All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotations for the purpose of review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission of the author.
ISBN 978 – 1 – 4800 – 3633 – 8
Other than those individuals familiar to history, the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to folks living or dead is entirely coincidental, but not surprising given that their characteristics are common to us all.
Cover Design: CiA
Cover Photo: Ariel Bravy
Dedication
To Barbara van Zanten and the Brownie
DEAD AND BREAKFAST
Chapter One–A Gathering of Shadows
Dordogne River Valley, France – 2004
“No. You’re going to want to open the aperture as much as possible in this light, Mr. Wagner,” said Caitlin. She leaned over the shoulder of the semi-retired accountant, who was on his knees, and reset the f-stop. “And you don’t want telephoto.” She adjusted the lens. “There. How’s that?”
The begonia at which the accountant had been squinting burst softly from the background in his viewfinder. “Ah! There!”
“Remember everyone,” said Caitlin habitually, “the brighter, the smaller. The darker, the bigger.” She felt she should copyright the refrain and put it to music. She wondered how many of the two or three hundred students who had gone through the workshop in the last six years remembered even that much. “The higher the f-stop number, the less light you’re admitting.”
Second verse, same as the first. Over and over again.
She stood up and massaged the hollow of her back, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply, absorbing the early morning. Had she been blind, the familiar grounds of the chateau would have taken shape in the smells and the sounds that rushed into the empty spaces in her senses: the geese fussing amiably at one another in the mill pond not twenty feet away, the rich residue of wood smoke, the earthiness of damp hay in the barn, the soft, unobtrusive overlay of the ivy. Crows tossed loud empty boasts from tree to tree, and the mindless, musical rush of the moat through the sluice of the gatekeeper’s cottage kept an indifferent cadence, punctuated now and then by worried snorts of the pigs in the distance as they greedily suckled the earth in search of some tasty treasure.
In the perfect stillness of the air she could almost feel the translucent train of mist that the night had left behind to whisper its regards to the dawn. She opened her eyes and smiled. It was going to be a perfect day. Within minutes the sun would unabashedly drench the Dordogne with the hazy gold peculiar to the region, and it would be impossible for the students to take a bad picture – providing they remembered to remove their lens caps. Thank God for single lens reflex cameras.
Though by nature a night person, on these annual pilgrimages to the mountainous regions of southwestern France she preferred this mystical hour or so before sunrise when, detached from the concrete reality of day or night, the comfortable old chateau and all its surroundings were done in supernatural shades of blue. In such an unsure light, the real and the unreal mingled closely.
Perhaps too closely.
It was always a struggle to convince the students that the world possessed any particular fascination at such an ungodly hour, especially after a late night at the Bistro in Rocamador. She understood that. Though English herself, she had lived in San Francisco long enough to appreciate the fact that her workshops were more a diversion than serious courses of instruction for most of these hardworking Americans – a curious breed of people who couldn’t even allow themselves to play without feeling they were “doing” something. Not that she empathized – her predilections were much more Mediterranean – but she unders
tood.
Nevertheless, as the sleep left their eyes and the world came into focus in the narrow confines of their viewfinders, and flowers woke with a start to find themselves the object of microscopic inspection and preened themselves like lingerie models, even the dullest among the students couldn’t help but sense a magic so primeval and deep that for a few moments at least, they actually fancied themselves artists of a sort.
“I can see why they did it though, can’t you?” Unaware, Caitlin had drifted into the conversational orbit of Frances Griffeth, a lean, matronly bundle of kinetic energy from somewhere in Massachusetts, whose ceaseless monologue defied conventional logic.
Perceiving herself the only one within earshot, Caitlin reluctantly took the bait. “I beg your pardon? Did what?”
“The fairies. Well, not the fairies. The girls. Those girls in England. Where was it? Cornshire? Yorkfield? They made a movie about it.” The woman’s mouth seemed to be operating entirely independently of her brain which, if the meticulous actions of her fingers were any indication, focused entirely on forcing three sleepy flowers into a suitable formation for a portrait. She punched the glasses up her nose. “This one doesn’t want to cooperate. I need a rubber band. I have one on the dresser in my room. Can’t think where it came from. Oh, yes I do! I kept it around my little bag of coins. I collect coins. Well, I don’t, actually. But I’d like to. My husband says I should. Poor thing. Too bad his having to cancel out at the last minute. He insisted I come along alone. Poor thing.”
Having in the last few days been roped into some of the most absurd conversations with this perfectly benign, completely frustrating woman, it was against her better judgment that Caitlin spoke. “What about fairies?”
“Oh, you know. Those little girls . . . well, maybe they weren’t so little. I think they were in their teens, weren’t they? You know . . . they cut out paper fairies and took pictures of them posed on flowers and things.”
The statement was the closest thing to a complete thought Frances had voiced since her arrival at the chateau, and it resounded with crystal-clarity among the archives in Caitlin’s brain. “Oh, yes. Of course, it was in Yorkshire, toward the end of World War I.”
“Yorkshire, that’s what I thought. You know what I’d like? A staple. ‘Course it’d kill the little suckers, but at least I’d get the picture. If I did that, you could airbrush the staple with the computer, couldn’t you?
“I’m getting hungry. I thought I’d never look at another bite of food after dinner last night. Seems like all I’ve done since we got here is eat. But I’m always hungry when I travel. There was real butter in the croissants we had yesterday morning. Makes all the difference in the world.” Throughout the fractured monologue, she wrestled patiently with the flowers, to no avail. “I hope we have croissants again this morning. I love those raspberry preserves. Screw it,” she said finally, letting the overwrought blooms go limp. They, in turn, seemed to sigh almost audibly in relief. She bent over their nodding heads like the shadow of death and framed them in the viewfinder. “I’ll call this shot: ‘family enmity.’ How’s that?”
It was a rhetorical question, like most of them, and Caitlin could have left it alone and ambled off on her merry way. It was clear Amber Capshaw was having trouble with her camera. Nevertheless . . . “So, what’s this about fairies, then?” Why? Why hadn’t she just shut up and gone away? No one would have noticed, least of all Mrs. Griffeth.
Frances pressed the button, and the film had auto-advanced through three frames before she knew it. “Oh . . . Oh! Crap! I mean rats. Pardon my French. Actually, I guess since we’re in France I should say pardon my English. Oh, you’re English, aren’t you? Is ‘crap’ English? No?” she said, without bothering to wait for a reply. “Then, pardon my American!” She lisped when she laughed. Like a snake surprised by some private joy. “This thing is so much faster than my Instamatic. I’ll never get used to it.” She got up off her knees and studied the camera as if demanding an explanation for its behavior. “What were you saying?”
Reprieve. “Oh, nothing. You seem to have everything pretty well under control. Just remember, don’t hold the button down too long. Hold the camera steady, frame your picture, and press once gently. One click is all it takes.”
“One click.”
Caitlin was about to detach herself when Mrs. Griffeth tossed a harpoon and reeled her in. “Oh, the fairies! That’s what you were talking about.”
Caitlin looked longingly out over the countryside. There was a rich, green field embossed on a hillside some half mile a way. She could be there. Way up near the top. “Yes. I was wondering how you happened to mention them.”
“Oh! Yes. The girls who took pictures of them and passed them off as real fairies. Fooled everyone. Even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – though I doubt they’d have fooled Holmes, do you? That’s what I was thinking when I was looking at those flowers, ‘wouldn’t it be something if a fairy appeared,’ I thought. ‘And I got its picture!’ Silly, isn’t it? Then I remembered that movie, and those girls. Heavens,” she looked up, her milky gray eyes the very embodiment of surprise. “I didn’t realize I’d been talking out loud. You sure you’re not a mind-reader?”
“God forbid,” Caitlin thought. And God doubly forbid that Mrs. Griffeth be a mind reader, especially at the moment.
Once again, a lighthearted hiss of laughter escaped like gas between the older woman’s tongue and teeth. “Oh! Look at the goose! My father had a little porcelain ashtray shaped like a goose. He stole it from a hotel in . . . ” She caught up her tripod and waddled toward the millpond, framing the witless bird as hungrily as a hunter through the cross-hairs.
Caitlin cast a sympathetic glance at the exhausted trio of flowers. “I know how you feel,” she said under her breath.
The scuffling of feet on the gravel drive recalled her to the business at hand. Amber Capshaw, in defiance of the beauty with which she was surrounded, was taking pictures of a freshly-killed rabbit the groundskeeper had hung on a hook by the kitchen door.
“Curious subject,” said Caitlin, approaching quietly.
Amber didn’t respond. As if the animal, it’s wide-eyes moist with the residue of life, might bolt at any minute, she held her breath, the way Caitlin had taught her to, and gently squeezed off a single shot. This done perfectly, perfunctorily, she lowered the camera. “It’ll still be blurry I expect?”
“Probably,” Caitlin replied. “The camera really needs to rest on something steady this time of day. It’s a long exposure.”
“It’s too high up for the tripod,” said the girl. She turned her pretty, still-sleepy eyes to the window of her mother’s room on the second floor.
Caitlin followed her gaze. “I hope she’s feeling better this morning.”
“She’s too fond of sweets,” the girl replied softly. “They upset her metabolism.”
In the few days of their acquaintance, Amber had made a profound impression on Caitlin. She seemed a living anachronism, a feeling that was emphasized every time she opened her mouth. She seldom said or did what one might reasonably expect of a twenty year-old American girl. Her responses to the world around her were one moment hopelessly naïve, and the next unsettlingly profound. She spoke deliberately. Carefully. Almost as if rehearsing her words.
“Too fond of sweets.” The phraseology was like something out of a Jane Austin novel.
Amber returned her attention to the rabbit.
Caitlin’s hobby was nude photography. She had a deep appreciation for the beauty of the human form, male and female, and she surveyed the young woman with a professional eye. Taken in bits and pieces, she was imperfect: her legs a little too skinny, her breasts a little too large, her hair – a vibrant copper-red, long and curly – suggested a fiery temperament that was emphatically denied by her deportment. It had been cared for, but never loved. Like the girl residing beneath it? Caitlin wondered. Her neck was a little too frail, her skin a little too white, so that a delicate tracery of bl
ue veins could be seen on the backs of her hands and around her eyes, eyes of a curious gray-green flecked with gold that existed nowhere else in nature, to Caitlin’s knowledge. It was they that, in some supernatural way, united all the odds and ends in perfect harmony. Even Caitlin, after a critical appraisal, couldn’t resolve upon an improvement. If any of the components were perfected, the balance of the whole would have been compromised. “Slap a pair of wings on her,” Caitlin thought, “and Mrs. Griffeth would have all the fairy she could want.”
Amber, pointedly braless in a whiteParis! T-shirt, corduroy jacket with the collar turned up, blue jeans, and white sneakers – as one would expect of the modern fairy – set the lens of her digital camera on Macro, stood on tip-toe, and pressed as close to the rabbit as physics would allow, taking an extreme close up of the perfect, round, dead eye. Caitlin could imagine it filling the viewfinder. She shivered and walked away, with now and then a backward glance at the gruesome tableau.
It was during such a backward glance she ran into Mr. Piper, the most enigmatic of an eccentric group. Enigmatic not in type, in fact he seemed if anything too much the archetypal American businessman – never hesitating to register his opinion on any subject,grande voce, as if volume were an acceptable substitute for familiarity with the subject matter. Rich and boisterous, he could at times be the prototypical ugly American.
At times.
But he wasn’t consistently prototypical. There was a vulnerable side to his nature that he left exposed at all times, as if unaware that it might be mistaken for weakness. Of course, he could be so rich and so powerful that he actually didn’t give a damn what people thought. But Caitlin, in her careful observation of human nature, had come to the conclusion that the person who didn’t care what others thought didn’t exist. Quite the contrary. She had developed the conviction that people were motivated, in word, deed, and thought, solely by what others would think – or what they thought others would think.
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