Dead and Breakfast

by David Crossman

  She would wait. Instead, she explained how the girls said they were simply out on a picnic and stumbled upon the hiding place of the fugitive by accident.

  “I’m sure that’s the way it happened,” said Mrs. Griffeth. “Surely they’d never keep company with a murderer.”

  For the next few minutes Jeremy Farthing was pilloriedin absentiaand, by the time dessert was cleared, Heather and Delilah had been exonerated and their accuser flung to the abyss.

  “You have to get them out,” said Mrs. Wagner in conclusion.

  “Me?” said Caitlin, surprised by the suggestion. “They’re not part of this group. I have no . . . ”

  “Then she should,” Mrs. Wagner interrupted, turning to Jill. “They’re your guests.”

  “What my guests do off the premises is not my business,” said Jill coolly. “That includes whatever trouble they get themselves into. I spoke to the officer who detained them, and he assures me they’re being well looked after.”

  “But they can’t be held for simply going on a picnic,” Mrs. Wagner protested. “The rest was all coincidence. Heresay. Someone should call the American Embassy.”

  For once, Caitlin thought, she was not the one caught off balance. If she could continue to stir the pot, things might continue to unravel. “With leftovers?” she asked simply.

  Mrs. Wagner looked at her with cat’s-eyes. “What?”

  “That’s all the girls were carrying, leftovers from the breakfast table.”

  “You’re saying you believe Farthing? That they were deliberately aiding and abetting this wife killer!” said Piper, his sense of chivalry offended.

  “I’m saying that I suspect the police will consider the evidence, and a serviette full of leftovers makes a curious picnic. That’s all. Besides there’s something else.” She paused with a glance at Jill as if seeking in her friends eyes approbation for what she was about to do. “It turns out Heather is not who she says she is.”

  The connection between Amber and Mrs. Wagner this time was unmistakable, both Jill and Caitlin saw it. Mrs. Wagner was first to recover. “That’s absurd.”

  Caitlin explained about the passport, while omitting mention of her part in its discovery.

  “The little fool,” rasped Mrs. Wagner contemptuously, though in relation to what exactly it was impossible to say.

  “Who is she then?” said Mr. Wagner, with no more curiosity than might be expected.

  Caitlin watched Amber out of the corner of her eye. “Her name is Brianna Chase,” she said flatly. “Jill, could I trouble you to warm this custard? Just pop it in the microwave for a few seconds.” Jill was standing behind Amber, so Caitlin, in making the request, was able to gauge the girls’ reaction. Whatever lingering doubt she might have had that Amber was, in fact, Gayla, was utterly dispelled by the look of shock that briefly overwhelmed the girl’s customarily expressionless face.

  In the corner of her eye, she saw Miss Tichyara feel across the table for Piper’s hand, which he took and gripped tightly. Piper furrowed his brow thoughtfully and lowered his eyes to the table. Nothing out of the ordinary, or that Caitlin herself might not have done in similar circumstances. Mr. Wagner and Mrs. Griffeth registered intense interest, but nothing more. No one could be that cool. Caitlin’s conspiracy theory was dealt an unbalancing blow.

  Caitlin rebelled inwardly against the remote possibility that Miss Tichyara’s uncanny resemblance to Amber might, after all, be only coincidence. It couldn’t be.

  Or could this be a conspiracy of which all were a part, but none were aware of the complicity of the others? Is there someone at the table brilliant enough – bold enough – not only to conceive and orchestrate such a convoluted arrangement, but to modify the scheme on the fly as all the inherent permutations evolved?

  The only person she could imagine capable of such a thing wasn’t at the table, and hadn’t been seen for hours.

  In the time it took these thoughts to flicker through Caitlin’s brain, Amber had recovered herself completely, and not a trace of her previous discomposure remained. “Jill, if mother’s tray is ready, I’ll take it up to her. I’m sure she’ll find all this fascinating.”

  “It’s on the warmer,” Jill replied. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  “By the way,” said Mrs. Griffeth, who had been trying to remount the pedestal at the center of attention for several minutes. “I found my fairy picture! It was in my purse, of all places. Though how it got there I can’t begin to imagine. The last thing I remember . . . ”

  “May we see it?” Mr. Piper intervened. “I’ve never seen a real live fairy.”

  Mr. Wagner laughed at a private thought.

  “I’d be only too pleased,” Mrs. Griffeth understated as she rummaged the recesses of her reticule. “It’s in here somewhere. Ah!Voila, as the French say.” She proffered the photo with a flourish. “Hovering just above and to the right of the bird . . . goose or swan, or whatever it is.”

  Piper and Tichyara held a close conference as he examined the picture, describing it to her in detail.

  “May I see it?” said Mr. Wagner, holding out his hand, which was promptly seized and withdrawn by his wife.

  “I think you find reality sufficiently taxing, my dear.” She stood. “We’re going to our room.”

  “We are?” Mr. Wagner said, rising. Clearly Mrs. Wagner was being more overbearing that usual, and he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

  “Yes, my love,” his spouse replied, and though her tone was a little less emphatic, Caitlin thought, there was no softening in her eyes, “We have a lot of packing to do, and if we leave it ‘til later, I’ll end up doing it all myself.”

  Mr. Wagner protested in a modest way. “But I was just wondering if there might be another cup of custard . . . ”

  His wife patted his belly, which was only slightly rounded. “The last thing you need.” She smiled at the room. “See you all in the morning. What time?” She looked at Caitlin, a curious medley of emotions mixed in her expression.

  Caitlin looked at her watch, more to break Mrs. Wagner’s gaze than to ascertain the time. “We have to leave no later than nine-thirty, so I should think if we’re all down to breakfast by eight or eight-fifteen, so no one feels rushed.”

  “Very good,” Mrs. Wagner replied. She took her husband’s hand and drew him along behind her. “We’ll see you then.”

  A desultory chorus of “good-nights” followed them to the tower door and, with one slightly bemused backward glance on the part of Mr. Wagner, they were gone and quickly faded from the collective consciousness.

  “I don’t want to burst your bubble,” said Mr. Piper, leaning toward Mrs. Griffeth with the picture in his hand. She slid to the seat formerly occupied by Mrs. Wagner for a closer look. “But that’s no fairy. It’s someone in the background. A woman, I’d say, from the way she’s standing, though it’s too fuzzy to say for sure. Did you look to see if there’s anything there . . . a statue or a stump, or . . . ”

  “As a matter of fact, I had the same thought,” said Mrs. Griffeth, taking the picture and squinting at it through her glasses. “But there’s nothing there. This,” she added, tapping the picture with a long, red fingernail, “is a person.”

  Mr. Piper continued. “It looks to me like someone drying themselves off after a bath. Though I’m sure a hundred people would make a hundred things of it. Like a Rorschach test.”

  “Of course, I didn’t really think it was a fairy. But it would have been a lovely bit of serendipity, wouldn’t it?” Mrs. Griffeth stared at the picture with a melancholy expression. She darted a comprehensive glance at those around the table, then back at the picture. “This has all been very exciting, these past few days. What lovely times we’ve had, haven’t we? I’m going to miss you all.”

  For the first time, Caitlin considered what it must be like to be Mrs. Griffeth, a woman whose unfortunate personality had driven her to the periphery of her husband’s life, even to the point he’d rather be rid
of her. No children. No profession. Just a great deal of time on her hands. Not a large enough spirit to make herself useful to others, yet not so small a spirit that she failed to recognize she was not needed by anyone. A woman of no consequence who had imagined in the superficial companionship of the last few days, during which most people – Caitlin included – had tried to ignore or avoid her, the cornerstones of lasting friendships.

  Piper must have had similar thoughts. He was staring at Mrs. Griffeth with a new appreciation, and there was a distinct softness in his eyes. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure everyone feels the same,” he said quietly and, taking her hand in his, patted it gently once or twice.

  He was a frustrating enigma in the conspiracy theory, Caitlin thought as she watched his simple, genuine gesture produce a powerful effect on Mrs. Griffeth, as it could not fail to do. For all his bluster, he seemed a kind man, one with strong character, deep convictions, and – if he was as much like her father as she imagined – an acute sense of right and wrong. Caitlin could imagine him motivated to extreme measures by compassion or duty, or to set things right, but not by greed or selfishness. The little tenderness he showed Mrs. Griffeth, who both understood and accepted the sympathy of his touch, affirmed Caitlin in this conviction. Whatever his relationship to Miss Tichyara, and whatever his reason for being here, she couldn’t imagine that he was wittingly complicit in the plot she envisioned.

  All the while, Miss Tichyara’s dark glasses were directed at the fire, the flames of which danced in their reflective surfaces. Caitlin stared at her unabashedly. After all, she was supposed to be blind, wasn’t she? If she exhibited discomfiture at being so scrutinized, that would put the lie to her blindness.

  That’s when it hit her like a lead weight. If the Amber who had taken dinner up to Joanna was really Gayla – then Miss Tichyara (if not simply Miss Tichyara) must be Amber. Which, it seemed, she must be, given her response to recent revelations.

  If that was so, why hadn’t Amber simply played herself and Gayla the part of Miss Tichyara?

  Or had they? No. According to Joanna, Amber had become more like Gayla.

  That’s because she was Gayla.

  Part of her brain seemed to be spinning conjecture of its own accord, and the other half was chasing itself in circles trying to keep up. ‘Who’s on first?’ Caitlin whispered to herself.

  Like a scientist who had built a career on a pet theory only to find it superseded by another, Caitlin was reluctant to let go of her deep suspicion that – somehow – despite powerful evidence to the contrary, Miss Tichyara was the missing twin, Mrs. Wagner’s other daughter. Somewhere, somehow, someone had pulled off a remarkable feat of legerdemain. But who in this crowd was capable of it?

  Mrs. Griffeth and Mr. Piper were sharing small talk about photography.

  Caitlin resumed staring at Miss Tichyara, and it struck her suddenly that neither Amber nor Mrs. Wagner had been caught in covert conversation with her. That neither had sought to catch her eye in the shock of recent revelations as they had one another.

  That meant one of three things: either Miss Tichyara was no relation to Amber and their resemblance was completely coincidental, which argument Caitlin was aching to discard, moreso since she had begun her careful study of Miss Tichyara’s face that in all but superficial aspects apart from the nose was the mirror-image of Amber’s in contour, size, and shape; or, the three women were playing their parts perfectly in regards to Miss Tichyara, if not to each other, which made no sense; or neither Amber nor Mrs. Wagner knew that Miss Tichyara was really Amber. The real Amber.

  A tingling of excitement tripped up her spine. Absurd? Yes. Impossible? No.

  But why? Accepting this line of reasoning, Amber couldn’t have seemed to be two places at once – both in the moat, and the first to arrive in Joanna’s bedroom when she screamed. Or simultaneously hanging in the closet and sleeping in the room next door.

  What must they have thought when, at Caitlin’s direction, Joanna failed even to mention the second apparition?

  Conjecture could go on forever, and it was likely that she’d go mad as anyone. Something had to be done. “Mr. Piper,” Caitlin said.

  Piper looked up from his conversation with Mrs. Griffeth. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I left my Panaflex case in the van, and I’m afraid there might be a frost tonight,” (which would make no difference to a camera in a Panaflex case, but could he know that?) “I hate to impose, but would you mind . . . ?”

  “Of course not. Not at all. Excuse me, Frances,” he said, rising.

  He took her hand and gave it a brief squeeze. “Ambrose,” she nodded.

  He smiled and turned to Caitlin. “Do you have the keys?”

  “It’s unlocked. I’d go myself, but frankly, with all the . . . excitement we’ve had lately. As Mrs. Griffeth said.” She tried to blush.

  “I understand. Perfectly all right,” Piper boomed, as he took his coat from the rack. “I’ll be back before you know it. That’s the silver case, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Reminds me of an Airstream trailer,” he said convivially.

  “Well, on that note,” said Mrs. Griffeth as she, too, rose from the table, the rare glow of fellowship warm in her eyes, “I’d best be off to bed. I’ve got a lot of packing to do as well. Good night, Caitlin. Miss Tichyara,” she said with a nod. “Good night, Ambrose.”

  “And to you, Francis. Sweet dreams.”

  No fear, thought Caitlin. Thanks to you, Mr. Piper, Mrs. Griffeth is going to have the most pleasant dreams in many a moon.

  A moment later she was alone with Miss Tichyara for the first time.

  “Such a lot of activity,” said the blind girl to the uneasy silence.

  “Miss Tichyara,” said Caitlin. Tichyara turned toward her. “Catch!” She tossed a bread roll, and the blind girl caught it only inches from her face.

  “Hello, Amber.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight–Dirge for Puppeteer

  Miss Tichyara fondled the bread roll for a moment, without saying a word. Finally, she put it down on the table and removed her glasses, confirming beyond a shadow of doubt that she was one of twins – and Mrs. Wagner’s other daughter. “I usually keep my eyes closed,” she said softly, “to avoid giving myself away by mistake.” Her voice was no longer low and raspy, but the exact tone and timber of her sister’s, though there was a subtle difference in the shading. “How did you find out?”

  Caitlin ignored the question. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Amber took time to collect her thoughts. “Does anyone else suspect?”

  Again, Caitlin was unsure how much to say. Part of her wanted to blurt everything out, just so she could get at some answers, but it was one of the questions that kept her from doing so: Why had Amber kept her identity secret? Why would she have allowed her stepmother to go on thinking she was dead? It seemed the height of cruelty.

  She turned aside the question with a statement of the obvious. “You didn’t drown.”

  “Evidently not,” Amber replied, with a curious upturn of the lips.

  “What happened – that day on the lake?”

  “It’s a long story.” Amber lowered her eyes and knit her fingers nervously. Clearly the memory was painful.

  Caitlin, to put her at ease, leaned on the table, resting her chin in the crook of her arms. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

  Amber deliberated. “I’m really not sure I should. It’s really a family matter, you see . . . ”

  “That you’re trying to drive your stepmother mad?” Caitlin ventured casually, though her heart was in her throat. Everything rested not on Amber’s reply, but on the way she replied to the bald statement.

  “I’m not!” Amber cried emphatically. “I’m trying to protect her! Gayla’s the one trying to drive her mad, she and . . . .”

  “The body in the mote?” Caitlin said, in spite of herself. She felt she was getting close to something actual, something tangible and t
ouchable. She needed to know.

  “You don’t think she imagined it?”

  Caitlin decided to venture beyond the facts, in hopes of eliciting new information, some telling comment or slip of the tongue. “I know she didn’t.” She nodded at the chair recently occupied by Mrs. Griffeth. “The fairy in Mrs. Griffeth pictures – someone drying themselves off behind the gatehouse, as Mr. Piper said. That was the body in the moat. Whoever it was didn’t reckon on such a cloud of witnesses to their theatrics. Much less a witness armed with a camera.”

  “Cloud? Who else?”

  “Mr. Farthing,” said Caitlin, to whose mind an explanation for Farthing’s having been rendered unconscious sprang to mind fully-formed, “who was clobbered by a falling branch.”

  “But that happened the next morning.”

  This is what Caitlin had been waiting for, the opportunity to test another of her theories. If it died, it died. “The first attempt had failed. They had to try again, the French call it acoup de foudre.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’ve heard the saying that idiocy is doing the same thing the same way and expecting different results? That’s basically what it means. The triumph of hope over experience. And they were just about to give it another go, when Farthing showed up.”

  “Who hit him?”

  Caitlin decided to venture all. “Brianna Chase or,” she said, watching carefully for Amber’s reaction, “your mother.”

  It was Amber’s turn to start. “My mother? Why on earth would . . . she was in her room. You said yourself the whole thing was for her benefit!”

  “Not your stepmother,” said Caitlin, investing the words with their full meaning. “Your real mother.”

  Amber reacted as if she’d been hit in the stomach. She peered more deeply into Caitlin’s eyes. “You know that, too?”

  It was too late to turn back. “Did you know Heather . . . Brianna . . . and Delilah were your sister’s classmates at Dartmouth?”