Dead and Breakfast (Caitlyn Craft Mysteries Book 1)

by David Crossman

  “I caught her and Amber . . . excuse me, Gayla, in earnest conversation. I was too far away to hear what they were saying, but their emotions were evident. Not the type of intercourse likely to take place between relative strangers.” A laugh leapt suddenly to Farthing’s eyes. “I think I’ve made a pun – relative strangers – that’s just what they were!”

  The forced smiles told him he was playing a tough room. “Anyway,” he continued, “after their little interview, their behavior was a little too conspiratorial. They went out of their way to seem only superficially aware of one another’s existence.

  “There was something else,” he said in conclusion. “Did anyone else notice their eyes?”

  “Still, what about this man of whom she spoke?” Amber intervened. She leaned forward intently.

  “Sounds like she was building a defense, if you ask me. Some nonexistent third party she could shift blame to.”

  The explanation didn’t sit well with Amber, nor with Caitlin. “Getting caught was the farthest thing from her mind at the time,” Amber argued. “As far as she was concerned, the fire would solve all her problems. You must have heard that from mother’s room.”

  Farthing shrugged and sighed. “Well, I don’t know who it would be. But I’m still certain it wasn’t the mister.”

  “It would have to be someone who knew both Gayla and Mrs. Wagner,” Caitlin guessed. “Or at least the connection between them.”

  “I can’t imagine anybody knew that,” said Amber. “I certainly never told anyone for fear of hurting my parents – all of my parents.” She squeezed Joanna’s hand.

  “And they wouldn’t have let on themselves, because their whole plot hung on that secret,” said Caitlin. “I don’t think even Heather knew they were mother and daughter.”

  “Who else could possibly have known?” Joanna wondered.

  “What agency did you hire to find your mother for you in the first place?” Farthing asked.

  “It wasn’t an agency. It was a lawyer,” said Amber. “He knows, of course.”

  “What’s his name? Where is he?” Farthing queried, his interest rising.

  “He’s in Boston. His name is Ray Sabien.”

  Caitlin’s jaw and coffee cup dropped simultaneously.

  “You know the name, Caitlin?” said Farthing.

  “It’s my . . . he’s my fiancé’s brother! I can’t believe . . .

  It was a reflexive statement, but it forced thoughts she couldn’t shout down. Over the course of the next few minutes, she told them everything she knew about Ray, her heart sickening with every word. Because every word was true.

  “He’s the one behind it all,” said Amber. She had no trouble believing it of him.

  Farthing had begun to smile as Caitlin’s monologue came to an end, and now he was grinning from ear-to-ear.

  “Time to out-master the mastermind,” said Farthing. “Joanna, hire the man!”

  Chapter Thirty-One– Rape of the Sabien Women

  “It is my sad duty to inform the board that Joanna Capshaw has been committed to an asylum in southern France,” said Ray Sabien as he slowly circumnavigated the large conference room table, “after attempting suicide.”

  A number of men and women at the table dropped their eyes, shook their heads, and stared at their carefully manicured fingers. Some, no doubt, felt a genuine human sympathy for the woman, with whose sorrows they were well acquainted; but at a practical level, such feelings were mitigated by the likelihood her absence would ensure that the company would go public, making each of them millionaires many times over.

  “As you know,” Sabien continued after a suitable interval, “control of the Capshaw votes devolves upon Amber Capshaw, in accordance with the stipulations of Paul Capshaw’s will. It is she whose interests I represent.

  “Miss Amber Capshaw has asked me to inform the board, prior to the vote, that she does not feel equal to the task of running the company. Her reasons are her own,” he said, positioning himself almost unconsciously behind the chairman’s chair at the head of the table, “but I’m sure we all appreciate the emotional impact of the tragedies she has experienced. She’s so young . . . ”

  He allowed his hearers to conclude the thought themselves. No one betrayed the palpable eagerness to get on with the business at hand. Decorum would be preserved at all costs. Nevertheless, Sabien’s words were far sweeter than the opening strains of any symphony.

  “I assured her I would make her wishes known, so that those of you inclined to vote against the proposal – through an understandable, I may say commendable loyalty to the company’s founder – would be encouraged to vote your conscience apart from that consideration.

  “Mr. Capshaw’s intention, his legal counsel assures me,” he gave a professional nod at Nathaniel Yance, senior partner of the firm Paul Capshaw had retained to represent the firm’s interests, who nodded back, “in making certain stipulations in his will, was that his family would maintain control of the company in the event of his death.

  “Tragically, that family no longer exits, as such, so those stipulations – those personal preferences – need not enter your deliberations.”

  Emphasizing the solemnity of the occasion, Sabien fixed each member of the board in turn with a brief, measured gaze. “Thank you for allowing me to address you.”

  “Well, thankyou, Mr. Sabien,” said Gerald Hatcher, the company’s chief operations officer and acting chairman. He stood and exchanged a grave handshake with Sabien. “I’m sure I speak for the board,” he scanned the faces at the table, “in extending our sincerest condolences to Miss Capshaw. To Joanna as well. I’m glad they hired you to protect their interests.” The heads nodded like grain in a gentle breeze. “As well as our thanks – our profound thanks – for absolving the members of the need to consider Mr. Capshaw’s preferences. I have no doubt the board will take Miss Capshaw’s wishes into consideration as we vote.

  “Which brings us to the business at hand.”

  Hatcher executed the parliamentary niceties and within five minutes the motion had been made to begin the process of assembling a board of disinterested third parties in preparation of taking the company public.

  Avril Cummings, who had been dutifully taking notes, cleared her throat. All eyes turned toward her as she spoke.

  “I’d like to speak to the motion, if I may.”

  Hatcher sputtered at this request from an unexpected quarter. “Miss, ah, miss . . . Cummings this is highly irregular.” He cast around the table warily. “I’m afraid only voting members are permitted to comment on . . . ”

  “Voting members or their representatives, I believe,” said Miss Cummings. She appealed to Kantrowitz.

  It was the turn of the elder lawyer, not accustomed to being put on the spot, to clear his throat. He had no wish to offend Avril Cummings who, though not a board member and therefore unable to vote, held a significant number of shares. Should the company go public, she would wield considerable influence as a majority stockholder. “That’s correct. According to the articles, legal, recognized representatives are, of course, free to speak.”

  Demurely, Miss Cummings retrieved a plain leather briefcase from the floor and, while the board watched, their expressions ranging the spectrum from curious, to amused, to puzzled, carefully placed it on the table, opened it, and removed a document which she handed the member to her right. “I believe this document will establish the necessary authority.” She folded her hands in her lap and waited as the document made its way around the table.

  As each member scanned the single-page and passed it along to the next, a murmur of bewilderment arose until, by the time Nathaniel Kantrowitz had read and reread the paper, all eyes were on Raymond Sabien.

  “What is it?” Sabien demanded, failing in his attempt to conceal his rising anxiety. He reached for the paper, but Kantrowitz withheld it.

  “It’s a writ of proxy,” said Kantrowitz, “authorizing Avril Cummings to vote on behalf of Mrs. Capshaw
.”

  The color drained from Sabien’s face. “Impossible,” he said, snatching the writ from Kantrowitz’s grasp. He read it hungrily and, affecting an air of professional amusement, fanned the air with it. “A forgery.

  “Who put you up to this, Miss . . . ?”

  “I’m simply following instructions,” Avril replied with a disinterested secretarial calm.

  “No doubt,” Sabien snapped. “But whose?” He held the paper by a corner and let it fall open. “You’ll notice, ladies and gentlemen, that it’s signed, witnessed, and dated with today’s date. A very amateur attempt to interfere with the vote.

  “This . . . this certificate,” he said, removing a paper from a folder on the table, “signed and attested to by French legal and psychiatric authorities, and dated the 18th – four days ago – establishes beyond question that Mrs. Capshaw was committed to the asylum of St. Francis de Burgoine for treatment of acute mental collapse after attempting suicide, an act which, in itself, testifies to mental incompetence according to the terms of Mr. Capshaw’s will. As you know,” he said, thrusting the document at Kantrowitz.

  The secretary returned a steady gaze.

  “So you see, even if Mrs. Capshaw signed your proxy today, which is logistically impossible, it would have no legal validity.”

  He placed both hands flat on the table and, having recovered his professional aplomb, fixed Cummings with his most intimidating glare. “Amber Capshaw, whose interests I represent, is the only member of the family legally entitled to vote on the issue before this board. And I have stated her wishes.

  “I assure you, there will be repercussions for whoever put you up to this, and for you, I might add, if you submitted this – if you had any foreknowledge of its illegitimacy.

  “For the moment, however, I suggest you leave the board to its business, and take this with you.” He crumpled the paper and threw it on the table.

  Avril Cummings didn’t move, nor was her barrier of equanimity breached. “You don’t read French, do you Mr. Sabien?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “The certificate of commitment is, I assume, written in French?”

  All eyes turned to Sabien, who smiled coolly. “I’ve had it translated, if that’s what you’re getting at.” He retrieved another document from the manila folder. “All perfectly legal. Perfectly clear.”

  “And the signatures?” Miss Cummings replied.

  Sabien’s brow creased involuntarily. He read the signatures. “Two doctors signed, as required by French law. Dr. Donald Canard and Dr. Michelle Souris.” He looked up. “Your point?”

  Several of the members erupted in spontaneous laughter, while others quizzed one another with their eyes.

  “What?” said Sabien with another quick examination of the signatures, which failed to enlighten him. “I fail to see the humor . . . ”

  “So it would seem,” said Miss Cummings. “Canard is French for Duck. Souris means mouse. It would seem the document was signed by Doctors D. Duck and M. Mouse.”

  Sabien reddened deeply. “An amusing coincidence, but I assure you, the signatures are genuine.” It was clear that he was trying to convince himself as well as his hearers. “I’ve spoken with both men, and with Miss Capshaw herself . . . only this morning . . . in France . . . ”

  “Did you call them,” said Miss Cummings, “or did they call you?”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Sabien, stalling for precious seconds to calculate the implications of whatever reply he might make.

  Miss Cummings repeated her question.

  “They called me,” said Sabien. It would be too easy to disprove if he said otherwise. “It was a scheduled call that I had requested . . . from the asylum . . . in order to verify beyond doubt that . . . ”

  As Miss Cummings rose and walked to the door, further protestations died on Sabien’s lips.

  All eyes followed as the door was open. “You may come in now,” said Miss Cummings.

  Several members started from their seats as Amber Capshaw entered the room, followed closely by Jeremy Farthing and Piper.

  “Miss Capshaw!” Kantrowitz sputtered. He rose as quickly as his ancient bones would allow and extended a nervous hand. “This is most unexpected – a most pleasant surprise. We understood . . . were given to understand,” he amended with a pointed glance at Ray Sabien, whose stunned expression belied years of courtroom training, “that you were still in France. How is your stepmother? The board would like to extend its sincerest . . . ”

  Amber cut him short. “Thank you, Mr. Kantrowitz. I’m sure Joanna will be greatly comforted by your concern. I have something to say to the board, if you will allow me?”

  “Of course. Of course, please,” said Kantrowitz, gesturing broadly and somewhat spastically as he resumed his seat. “Please.”

  Amber walked to the end of the table formerly occupied by Miss Cummings and, still standing, launched into a succinct, carefully rehearsed précis of the conspiracy that was to have landed her in control of the deciding vote and of the crimes that had been committed toward that end, including the murder of her father, mother, and sister.

  The story, meticulously crafted by Jeremy Farthing, had been constructed to pointedly portray Amber as an innocent and unwitting tool in the hands of the conspirators.

  “These people,” she concluded, “had gained my trust with the expectation that, once I had gained control of the company, they would control me. No doubt,” she said, lowering her eyes, “they would have compelled me to make them my beneficiaries and - ”

  She left the implication unspoken.

  “One of these people was Mrs. Wagner . . . my birth mother,” she continued, her eyes still lowered. “The other . . . ”

  Sabien shot a desperate glance at the door, which was blockaded by the substantial and glowering Mr. Piper. “Be careful, Miss Capshaw,” he snapped, summoning what little remained of his professional bearing. “As your legal representative, I must caution you that you’ve said too much already. Much too much. I’ve allowed this amusing little piece of theater to continue in the confidence that the directors – men and women of standing and intellect – would attribute this bizarre bit of fiction to the overactive imagination of a young woman whose troubles – tragedies,” he addressed his comments to the board, “have clearly overwhelmed her.”

  He turned dangerous, caged-animal eyes on Amber. “Must I remind you of what you stand to gain, Miss Capshaw? Or what you stand to lose?”

  Amber raised her eyes and, with a provocative smile, choreographed by Farthing for delivery at the precise moment, concluded. “The other is you, Mr. Sabien. You planned it all.”

  Sabien fumed, his defenses crumbling around him. He cast a broad appeal to the board. “You’re all witnesses. This is libel!”

  Amber received a reassuring nod from Farthing, which strengthened her to remain calm in the face of her own rising emotions. “Mrs. Wagner, my birth mother, is now in prison in France. She’s confessed to everything. We have copies of her signed statement – implicating you.”

  “I don’t even know the woman!” Sabien blurted.

  Mrs. Cummings approached the table and, withdrawing a sheaf of papers from another envelope, distributed one to each board member.

  “You’ll also find phone records on the last page,” said Miss Cummings. “Showing calls made from Mr. Sabien’s private line to Mrs. Wagner over a period of months.”

  Sabien read the record with widening eyes. “This is a forgery!”

  “They are official phone company records, Mr. Sabien,” said Mrs. Cummings. “I obtained them myself.”

  “They are not,” said Sabien, playing the only card he had left. “There are calls missing, aren’t there Miss Capshaw? I have the originals, you know. They’ll show the full record of my calls.

  “You’ve obviously gone to great lengths to implicate me . . . and your birth mother, unfortunate woman.” Sabien spoke to the room at large. “Who knows who
you’ve paid off. Anyone can be bought with the kind of money you stand to realize. Perhaps it’s not too late to retract your reckless and irresponsible statements; the board will no doubt forgive you, given the stresses you’ve been under, but I warn you, there will be consequences . . . grave consequences to you . . . should you persist.”

  “I’ve already reaped the consequences of your actions, Mr. Sabien,” said Amber, departing from the script as her emotions overtook her. “My father is dead. My adoptive mother is dead. If you think I wouldn’t give every last penny to have them both back . . . ” She burst into tears. “They were good people. Honest. Caring. You killed them for their money . . . and I’ll spend all of it, if I have to, to see you pay for their lives with your own. Behind bars. Where you belong.”

  “You duplicitous little bitch!” Sabien exploded. “Did you think you could cut me out like that?” He snapped his fingers. His nerves were raw, and a surge of raw emotions overrode his reason, precisely the outcome Farthing had been banking on. “All your amateur theatrics will get you nothing. Nothing!” he screamed. “You have no rights at all. Only Amber can vote, and she’s dead, isn’t she? You saw to that yourself.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this isn’t Amber Capshaw,” he flung an accusing finger at the girl. “It’s Gayla. She murdered her sister and took her place.”

  It was too late. The words were etched on the air as if in stone, and the horrified look in Sabien’s eyes intensified as he was struck by the realization of what he had done. In one unguarded burst of emotion, the kind he himself had so often elicited from overwrought witnesses, he’d confessed to everything.

  “You’re wrong,” said Amber, reigning her tears.

  Farthing cleared his throat and, with a nod to the anteroom, stood aside to admit Gayla and two female police officers.

  “That is Gayla.”

  Gayla flung a withering glare of contempt at her sister. “All you had to do was die. You couldn’t even do that right.” She spat an epithet as the officers removed her and Ray from the room.