Dead and Breakfast (Caitlyn Craft Mysteries Book 1)

by David Crossman

  “This is hardly New York,” said Mrs. Wagner. “What do you think, Harold?”

  Harold had had a perfect day. At the professionally ripe old age of sixty-three, he had discovered a love of travel and of photography for which, Caitlin assured him, he had a natural aptitude. It had been a surprise, after so many years, to peer through the veil of carefully regulated jots and tittles that circumscribed his existence and find a three-dimensional world. He hadn’t really been paying attention to the conversation until Mrs. Capshaw upset the chair, and even the ensuing talk of murder failed to expunge from his mind the beauty of a shot he’d framed that day at Rocamador. “Evelyn, calm yourself.” He reached for his wife with a reassuring hand.

  Evelyn bridled at the touch. Caitlin ached for the man whose tender gesture had been so pointedly rebuffed. He seemed to take it in stride.

  “Scenes of domestic bliss always make me weepy,” said Farthing.

  “You’re an ass,” Piper announced. “If there weren’t ladies present, I’d add a hole to that, and stick you up it, ‘til pigs fly.”

  The twisted contortion of metaphors had the odd effect of diminishing the tension in the room. Farthing, apparently feeling any repartee would be wasted, lapsed into a thoughtful silence, though the smirk on his lips hinted that it wouldn’t be long-lived.

  “Well, now that it’s out, you may as well tell us about it,” said Mr. Piper. “What happened?”

  Jill sighed and turned pleadingly to Caitlin. “There’s not much to tell, really,” she began haltingly.

  Caitlin, sensing her friend’s discomfort, quickly took up the narrative. “According to the newspapers, the girl was found in her bed.”

  “Strangled, I believe,” Farthing elaborated. Frances drew a sharp breath. “The poor thing!”

  “Yes,” said Caitlin. “Breteneau is a small town, so it was no secret she had dumped one man for another.”

  “Let’s not overlook the homely little fact that the party of the second part was married,” said Farthing.

  “Thank you, Mr. Farthing.” Caitlin choked down a sharper response. Farthing seemed to have made it his day’s mission to provoke an outburst from her – tears, anger, anything. It was as if he sensed that, emotionally, she was floating very close to the surface, and he wanted to see what would happen if she broke. Thus far, she had turned aside his malice with the pretense, at least, of professional equanimity. But it was late, and her reserves of good cheer had been worn to a nub by long hours of mental thrust and parry. She was determined not to give him the satisfaction of falling apart. That she would do in the privacy of her room. Nevertheless, tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “Yes. He was married.”

  “Wouldn’t that make the man’s wife as likely a suspect as anyone?” Piper speculated.

  Caitlin rose from the table and began to help Jill clear away the dinner things. “She’s some kind of invalid. I couldn’t make out exactly what she suffers from – I speak French better than I read it. But I gather she’s incapacitated. Unable to get around.” In the corner of her eye, she caught Jill glancing at the clock. “Now, who’s having dessert?”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Mrs. Griffeth bubbled. “I couldn’t possibly! Just out of curiosity, though, what are you having?”

  “Creme caramel with raspberries and brandy sauce,” said Jill. She forced a convivial smile. “All fresh today.”

  “I can only hope that doesn’t apply to the brandy,” Farthing said.

  His inability to leave even the simplest, most innocuous misstatement alone infuriated Caitlin beyond expression, and it was evident from the look Piper shot across the table at Farthing that the feeling was not peculiar to her. In fact, Piper’s expression brought forth the words “if looks could kill” with such force they were almost audible. Sensing her watching him, Piper turned to Caitlin, the blank hatred dissolving with disconcerting ease into bland conviviality.

  “I don’t see how I can pass that up.” Piper turned with a smile to his companion. “How ‘bout you, my dear? Sounds right up your alley.”

  “This trip is doing no good to my figure,” Miss Tichyara replied good-naturedly, her heavily accented voice curiously low and breathy. “It doesn’t seem fair that calories should count on holiday, does it?”

  “If they didn’t, I’d be on vacation all my life,” said Mrs. Griffeth with a giggle.

  “Someone should invent periods of time in which it is impossible to put on weight,” Caitlin suggested. “Or lessen the effects of gravity somehow.”

  “Done!” Piper announced good-naturedly. “From now ‘til we get on the plane in Paris, all foods are hereby declared kosher and calorie free.”

  The proclamation met with universal approval, excepting Farthing, whose mood at the threatened resurgence of goodwill was even blacker. He got up from the table and went to the coat rack, where he wrestled a cigar from the pocket of his tweed blazer. “I’m going to see if those young women are floating face-down in the mill pond,” he said, opening the door. Jill fled in tears to the wine nook. Farthing smiled. “Tell her to save my dessert. I’ll have it later.”

  “Farthing?” Piper called, as Farthing was about to close the door. He stopped. “Take care you’re not devoured by wolves.”

  Farthing, grinning evilly, closed the door quietly behind him. “That’d be animal abuse,” Piper added.

  “Hear, hear,” said Mrs. Wagner. “Did anyone notice if that man cast a reflection when he walked by the mirror?”

  “I’d lock the door on him,” said Mrs. Griffeth, “if those girls weren’t still out there somewhere. If this were a murder mystery,” she added, “that man would be found full of knives in the morning, with a house full of happy suspects.” She scooped a vengeful spoonful of raspberries. “I don’t suppose that’s very nice of me, is it?”

  Mr. Piper seemed about to say something, but instead just smiled.

  “I’m tired, Mr. Piper,” said Miss Tichyara in a quiet aside which only Caitlin heard. “Would you see me up the stairs?”

  “Of course, of course,” said Piper, rising. “I’d be happy to.” He helped her from the table, took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. “If you folks would keep the cats out of my custard for a few minutes, I’ll be right back.”

  Those at the table bade their goodnights to the blind girl. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned. “Caitlin?”

  “Right here, Ella,” said Caitlin.

  “It really was a wonderful day,” said the girl. “I know you kept Mr. Farthing occupied most of the time. It can’t have been pleasant. I just wanted you to know your sacrifice is appreciated.”

  Those around the table were abashed to realize it was true. Poor Caitlin had made it her business to entertain Farthing while the rest of them enjoyed themselves. Presently their thanks made a chorus.

  “You take the bitter with the sweet,” said Caitlin graciously. “And I’d say you lot are sweet enough to offset a roomful of Farthings. Thank you, my dear.” She nodded at Miss Tichyara. “You sleep well.”

  Miss Tichyara smiled. “Tell Jill to lock the knife drawer.” She squeezed Piper’s arm slightly, and he guided her up the stairs.

  Chapter Three–The Haunting of Joanna Capshaw

  Robespierre was batting leisurely at the bubbles in the aquarium, shaking his paw vigorously between each stab and licking the water with its tantalizing patina of frightened goldfish from between his paws before repeating the process.

  In the fireplace, the village maiden Jill had placed on the fire at dinnertime had become a charcoal effigy, ready to collapse in dust and ashes at the slightest touch.

  Everyone else had gone to their rooms, and the grandfather clock guillotined time to syncopated slices as Jill and Caitlin silently set the table for breakfast. Normally, Jill wouldn’t have allowed the help, but tonight she was glad of it.

  “An interesting group we’ve got this time,” said Caitlin, straightening the silverware Jill had already straightened t
wice in their ritualistic dance around the table.

  “Yes,” Jill replied mechanically. She suddenly braced herself on the chair, her palms clenched. “You know, I didn’t bargain for motherhood when I opened a B&B.”

  Caitlin stroked Jill’s hair gently. “Why don’t you have a seat and let me pour us a glass of wine. I’ll wait up with you.”

  That Jill didn’t object to being waited upon, or protest that Caitlin should go to bed, spoke volumes about the concern that was consuming her. She deflated slowly onto one of the overstuffed sofas that flanked the hearth and stared at the clock. “I’ll give them ‘til twelve, then I’m going to ring the police.”

  “You know, that business in Breteneau has nothing to do with those girls. Much as I hate to agree with Jeremy Farthing, his crack about their taking up with some locals is probably closer to the mark.”

  “Very sensible,” said Farthing, emerging from the shadows at the foot of the stairs, making his way across the room. Clearly he relished the shock on the women’s faces in the brief instant that followed. Caitlin wondered how long he’d been standing there, listening, and why they hadn’t heard the familiar groan of the heavy oaken door through which he must have come.

  “Mr. Farthing,” said Caitlin, with all the calmness she could manufacture, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You weren’t supposed to.”

  “I’d have thought you were dead to the world by now,” said Jill, recovering from the shock of his appearance.

  Farthing smiled. “The devil never sleeps.” He lowered himself to the arm of the sofa and ran his finger around the rim of Caitlin’s glass. “Is the wine included with the room, or do you charge extra?”

  Caitlin started toward the wine closet, but Jill, glad for any excuse to absent herself from Farthing’s company, however briefly, got quickly to her feet. “I’ll get it.”

  “Easy on the strychnine, I haven’t had the chance to Mithridatize myself,” said Farthing airily. “So, the bimbos still haven’t turned up on the doorstep.” This he addressed to Caitlin. She was exhausted to the point of dizziness and had only forced herself to stay up to keep Jill company. Her emotional reserves were depleted, and she’d had no time to throw up defenses at Farthing’s unexpected appearance.

  “I’m sure they will,” said Caitlin, smiling artificially. “I know you’re disappointed they haven’t turned up in the millpond.” She wanted to kick herself for failing to bite off the comment. How could he make her say and think things she didn’t intend?

  “Oh, the night’s young,” Farthing rejoined cheerily. Jill returned with the wine. “Afraid I’m fresh out of strychnine.”

  Farthing took the proffered glass and sniffed it. “A trace of almond?”

  “Arsenic was the best I could do on short notice.” Farthing laughed and swilled half the glass.

  “We have a long day tomorrow, Mr. Farthing,” said Caitlin. “Shouldn’t you turn in?”

  “And miss the fun when the bodies are dragged in?” With that comment the borders of Jill’s equanimity were breached.

  “Mr. Farthing, this is my house, in which you are a guest. Since common etiquette seems to have been overlooked by the hyenas who raised you, I will give you a brief education. It is boorish and puerile to say things simply for effect. It takes no particular wit. Any three year-old can do it, and any four year-old knows better.

  “It is rude to eavesdrop on someone else’s conversation, it is obnoxious to insinuate yourself where you are manifestly not wanted, and deriving some kind of perverse enjoyment from the discomfort and genuine pain of others suggests an illness far worse than the lack of common manners – and for that I hope you will seek professional help.”

  Farthing smiled, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Well rehearsed. Too bad you haven’t the courage to tell Piper all that to his face. As for me,” he quaffed the last of his wine. “I’m feeling a bit woozie. The arsenic seems to be kicking in, and it’ll be easier on everyone if I’m horizontal when it lays me low so, good night, ladies. See you in the morning!”

  Both women watched carefully until the door groaned its customary groan and clicked shut behind him. They looked at one another and sighed.

  “That man makes you wonder if there shouldn’t be such a thing as capital punishment just on general principle,” said Caitlin.

  “Now you’re starting to sound like him.”

  “Oh, my word. Don’t say that. I recant.”

  The uneasy laughter that followed strained to be amicable and had just oozed amongst the rafters when the terrace door blew open and two water-logged girls stumbled in, dripping with apologies. Jill sprang to her feet and, fighting back the impulse to throttle them within an inch of their lives, began removing their coats.

  “We’re so sorry,” Heather repeated for the fourth time in as many seconds, blowing a soggy clump of hair from her mouth as she helped her companion to the wooden bench beside the door. “Delly’s twisted her ankle or something.”

  Delilah was evidently in pain.

  “What happened?” asked Jill, as she hung the jacket from the coat rack. “Should I call a doctor?”

  “Oh, no. Please,” said Delilah. “It’s really just a sprain. I’m sure.”

  “Caitlin, grab some towels from the locker by the fire.” The towels, warm to the touch, were duly fetched and the girls, after a cursory rubbing off, were stripped of all but their underwear and made comfortable in front of the fire, which Jill prodded back to life. Caitlin unfolded blankets from the backs of the sofas and wrapped them around the new arrivals, as Jill made perfunctory introductions.

  Minutes later, fortified by ham and cheese baguettes and a warming glass of wine, the girls were talking animatedly and at once.

  “So, we’re talking to these guys at the bar – we’d just gone in to get directions,” said Delilah, massaging her ankle with her thumbs.

  “And one of them was really cute. Like Johnny Depp in Chocolate . . . the movie, not the sauce.” Her eyes sparkled. “Although . . . ”

  “A low-rent Johnny Depp, at best,” said Delilah. “And he didn’t speak a word of English . . . ”

  “And I don’t think he understood our French very well.”

  “So, we’re talking with our hands and pointing and talking too loud, trying to get directions, and he didn’t seem to have a clue where the Chateau D’Arnac was . . . ”

  “It’s called Plessy, hereabouts,” Jill interjected. “That was the name of the original estate.”

  “That explains it!” the girls chimed in unison.

  “Plessy?” Heather asked. “Maybe that’s what the guy kept saying.”

  “Well, anyway, between bad French and worse English . . . ”

  “The bartender got his two cents in, too . . . ”

  “Right, but he talked so fast I couldn’t make any sense of it. He was worse than the other guy.”

  “Anyway, we finally figured out they were trying to tell us there was a shortcut through the woods and over the hill . . . ”

  “The first guy took us outside and showed us the path . . . just behind the village. We had to leave our bicycles there. They’ll be all right, won’t they?”

  “Yes,” said Jill. “Yes. Of course.” She shuddered unwillingly. She knew the path well and used it often herself. It was a pleasant walk in the daytime, but that a local should send them that way in the rain, with night coming on, was unthinkable. There were several places where the hillside fell away sharply, and others where one had to hopscotch stones to cross streams, as well as an ancient wooden footbridge, without railings, over a shallow gorge. Not least worrying was the possibility of an encounter with a wild boar, less likely at night than in the early morning, to be sure, but still not impossible. The locals knew better.

  “We figured it was just the other side of the hill, so we struck out . . . ”

  “But when we got to the top of the hill, we saw this big valley, and another hill.”

  “We thought about
turning around, but figured it was six of a dozen or . . . that’s not right. How does it go?”

  “Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” said Delilah. “That’s it,” said Heather, her quick smile flashing rows of perfect teeth. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other, so we slogged on.”

  “It was pitch dark by the time we got half way up the path on the other side of the valley.”

  “That’s when Delly slipped.”

  “Great athlete, huh?” said Delilah, raising her injured foot from the floor. “I feel like such an idiot.”

  Jill rearranged the girls damp clothes on the iron rack near the fireplace. “Well, I’m impressed that you made it at all. And surprised that anyone would have sent you that way in the first place, at that time of day.”

  “We sure were glad to see the lights, especially after . . . ”

  Heather shot Delilah a hushing glance. It was fleeting, but Caitlin saw it, and it was unmistakable. “After what?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Heather, even as Delilah was inhaling to speak.

  “Delilah?” said Jill, sitting on the arm of the sofa. “Did something happen?”

  “Well,” Delilah replied with a hesitant appeal to her friend. “She thinks I imagined it, but . . . ”

  “You did imagine it,” said Heather.

  “Imagine what?” Caitlin prompted.

  “Several times I thought I saw a flashlight on the path behind us.”

  “I never saw it,” Heather added dismissively.

  “Flashlight?” said Jill. “Oh, you mean a torch. Where did you see it?”

  “Once coming down the hill behind us, after we’d cross the valley, and again after we stopped when I fell.”

  Caitlin caught the worry in Jill’s eyes. “Then what?”

  Delilah shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Because therewas nothing,” said Heather. “Who’d be out there on a night like this?” She exchanged an odd glance with her roommate.