Dead and Breakfast

by David Crossman

  Caitlin reminded her that it was hard to rush things in the country, and that local craftsmen were likely to respond to pressure by adopting an even more leisurely attitude. And that whatever the case, to be fair, Genevieve had nothing to do with it.

  Mrs. Griffeth accepted the logic, though not whole-heartedly. As far as she was concerned, her glasses were last in the possession of the maid who was, therefore, responsible for them. “Anyway, since we’re in the neighborhood . . . ”

  “Of course. No problem.” Caitlin turned left over a narrow bridge and onto a road that wound upward through leafy tunnels dappled with the yellow fire of a lowering sun.

  “I thought you’d lost that film,” said Mrs. Wagner.

  Mrs. Griffeth drew herself up in a middle-aged edifice of offense. “It was stolen.”

  “Now, Mrs. Griffeth,” Piper interjected. “We’ve been over all this. What on earth would anyone want to steal your film for? We’ve all been the same places, taken pretty much the same pictures. It doesn’t make sense that any of us would find it necessary to pilfer yours – however good they may be,” he added diplomatically.

  “I’m not senile, Mr. Piper, which is what you seem to be implying, judging from your tone of voice. I happen to be quite meticulous . . . anal, I believe is the word they use today, though what possible connection one thing has with the other I can’t imagine. Be that as it may, I pride myself on keeping things in exact order, and knowing when things are out of order. Mr. Griffeth will tell you. He often says I’m the most particular person he’s ever met.” She turned in her seat. “And that film was most definitely out of order.

  “However, whoever took it didn’t get what . . . ”

  “Did she leave it at the gift shop or the pharmacy, Mrs. Griffeth?” Caitlin asked peremptorily.

  “Pardon?”

  “The film. Where did Genevieve take it?”

  “There’s more than one place?”

  “Yes. The gift shop and the pharmacy both handle film developing.”

  Mrs. Griffeth was flustered to momentary silence. “I don’t know. Which one do you think is most likely?”

  “Probably the pharmacy.”

  “I’d have said the gift shop,” countered Mrs. Wagner.

  “That’s because you’re a tourist. The townsfolk don’t do much business there, so I wouldn’t be surprised if, in Genevieve’s case, the pharmacy was the first place to come to mind.”

  “You were saying?” Mr. Wagner prompted casually.

  “Oh, me?” said Mrs. Griffeth, realizing the comment was directed at her. “What was I saying?”

  “About the film . . . whoever took it.”

  “Oh, yes . . . ”

  Caitlin, grappling with the fact – however unlikely – that one of her students, which meant someone in the van at that moment, had taken the film, desperately wanted to avoid further conversation along these lines until hard evidence should present itself. But, short of running the van off the road or saying something imbecilic, she couldn’t think of anything off the top of her head to prevent the exchange she knew was about to take place.

  “It was taken from the bureau in my room while I was down at dinner.”

  “That let’s us all off the hook, then,” Mr. Wagner observed. “We always eat together.”

  “True enough,” Mrs. Griffeth allowed, “but people are getting up and down all evening from soup to nuts. Anyone of . . . anyone could have slipped up to my room. It’s no secret I keep it unlocked.”

  “Whoever it was,” she searched their faces with guileless eyes, “will soon know they ended up with a roll of blank film.”

  “Serve ‘em right,” said Mr. Wagner. “Any chance it could have been done by someone outside our little circle?”

  “Unlikely,” Mrs. Griffeth replied with a hint of indignation. “Both my grandmother Hurst’s cameo brooch – which, though priceless only to me – is probably worth a few hundred dollars, and my wallet, with two thousand six hundred and seventy four francs in it, were laying not a foot from the camera . . . and both were untouched.”

  Piper considered this. “You’re right. Hardly seems anyone in their right mind would run such a risk for a roll of film.”

  “Depends,” said Miss Tichyara, “on what was on the film.” This was precisely where Caitlin did not want the discussion to go. She looked at her passengers through the rearview mirror. “Who’d like a nicetarte au fraise? Let’s see hands.”

  “Oh, I would!” Evelyn Wagner accepted over-enthusiastically. “That’s strawberry tart, right?”

  “I prefer the raspberry,” said Mrs. Griffeth. “And as I said, there was nothing on the film. Well, only three or four shots that I took yesterday afternoon.”

  “No,” said Piper, reviewing the evidence. “But the thief couldn’t have known that. He didn’t know you’d changed your film.”

  “Or she,” said Miss Tichyara.

  Harold Wagner leaned forward as far as his seat belt would allow. “What was on it?”

  “On the film?” said Mrs. Griffeth, flushing demurely upon finding herself the center of attention.

  Piper shifted in his seat. “Yes. What did you take pictures of yesterday?”

  She tried to remember. “Well, just around the Chateau in the morning. I got a lovely shot of a swan . . . at least I hope I did. Everything was shades of blue that time of day. If it turns out half as well as I imagine, I’ll be very happy.” Mrs. Griffeth faced front and rubbed her neck. “Then we spent the afternoon at Martel, where I got the new film.”

  The van squeaked to a stop on the narrow street in front of the pharmacy, depositing Mrs. Griffeth on the sidewalk. “Do you want me to go with you, to translate?” Caitlin volunteered.

  “Would you?” The woman’s relief was evident. “I often wonder, lately, if I didn’t learn the wrong kind of French in high school. Nobody seems to understand me.”

  Caitlin took a quick inventory of the pharmacy through the window. The pharmacist was occupied with prescriptions, and his shop girl was casually attending to a small queue of customers, with each of whom, Caitlin knew, she would be exchanging news of the day. “Why don’t you go wait in line while I park at the overlook.” She turned halfway in her seat, addressing the others. “You folks can either get out here and walk, or come along for the ride. We’ll meet at the Patisserie.”

  “How far is it?” said Mrs. Wagner.

  “Oh, not half a kilometer.”

  Mrs. Wagner was dubious. “How far is that in English?”

  Caitlin concealed her amusement behind a generous smile. “About a quarter mile.”

  “Oh, we can do that, can’t we Harold?” Taking her husband’s acquiescence as a given, Mrs. Wagner pulled herself toward the sliding door, which her husband obediently opened.

  “What do you say, Miss Tichyara?” Piper asked solicitously. “If you’re willing . . . ”

  Piper and Tichyara disgorged with the Wagners. Amber remained seated. “I’ll keep you company.”

  “Great. See you all at the patisserie. You remember where it is?”

  “We’ll just follow our noses!” Piper sang out jovially.

  “Right, then.” Caitlin dropped the van into gear and eased up on the street.

  “I’m glad for a moment alone with you, Caitlin,” said Amber, as the giggle of their companions twisted into the still life tangle of cobbled streets. The girls over-careful diction, as always, had a jarring effect.

  “Something on your mind?”

  Amber didn’t answer immediately or thoughtlessly when the reply came. Caitlin had the impression every word had been carefully considered. “I’m very sorry that my stepmother troubled you last night. You have more than enough to worry about, I’m sure, without . . . ”

  “It was my idea, Amber,” Caitlin declared in Joanna’s defense. “Mine entirely.”

  “Yes, well, Joanna often expresses her needs in such a way that people leap to help, often before they really know what they’re doing
.”

  Caitlin knew she was easily manipulated. But had it been that way last night? She didn’t think so, but it certainly wasn’t impossible nor, she was honest enough to admit, even unlikely. “Well, no harm done. I quite enjoyed her company, actually.”

  “I expect she kept you up most of the night, talking?”

  It may have been a statement, but it sounded more like a question. There was a subtle eagerness in the voice that made Caitlin demure. She looked at the girl in the rearview mirror. “She talked, yes. I’m afraid I wasn’t a very good listener, though. I found myself nodding off more than once.”

  Was it her imagination or did Amber relax perceptibly. If so, why? Or, Caitlin wondered, had recent events simply given the most innocuous remarks sinister overtones.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear she didn’t interfere too badly with your sleep.”

  “Not at all. Ah, here we are.”

  The walls of the van seemed to close in on the brief ride and Caitlin was glad to get out, to break the concentrated stare Amber seemed to have fixed on the back of her head. She stretched exaggeratedly, hoping against hope the others would join them soon and diffuse the subtle Inquisition of the girl’s company.

  As if reading her mind, Amber turned her attention to their surroundings, staring at nothing in particular, apparently occupied by thoughts of her own.

  Caitlin repented inwardly. The poor kid was a living anachronism, and had probably been an outcast all her life. Caitlin imagined her waiting breathlessly on the sidelines to hear her name called as sides were chosen for one impromptu team sport or another. Had she ever been invited to a sleep-over? Had she a best friend with whom, in the absence of her sister, she could share her most intimate thoughts? Did she have a boyfriend? Had she ever been kissed?

  In the few seconds it took to entertain these notions, Caitlin had recast Amber as the noble heroine of her own romantic tragedy; the perpetual victim of her own eccentricities. She chastised herself for her hardness of heart. She opened the door, climbed out, and poked her head in. “You coming? We’ll have the pick of the pastries if we get there first.” She hoped Amber couldn’t sense the forced cheerfulness in her voice.

  Amber looked up and focused slowly, as if being recalled from miles away. She flashed a quick, unreadable smile and climbed out of the van.

  Moments later they were in the patisserie, swaddled in the aroma of warm eclairs that the pert young attendant was drizzling with powdered sugar. She greeted them warmly in the midst of her task and asked them to wait a moment.

  During the interval, both women were released from earthly coils by consideration of the sublime – the meticulously orchestrated display of the fruits of the pastry-makers art: almond croissants lightly glazed with marzipan, an assortment of tarts in which blossoming mounds of fresh berries nestled in a light, creamy custard in a shortbread cup, velvety Black Forest gateau topped with shaved semisweet chocolate and powdered sugar.

  The attendant took her time, allowing the display to work its magic. The arrival of Piper and Miss Tichyara broke the spell.

  “I trust you girls have left us a crumb or two,” Piper said by way of greeting, his rich baritone much too large for the little shop. He helped Miss Tichyara to a table near the window, then joined the women at the counter, where his eyes widened to absorb the contents of the display case. “You know, I’ll tell you something about the French – they may surrender at the slam of a door, but damn, they know their stuff in the kitchen.

  “What’ll you ladies have? My treat.”

  Caitlin protested. “Oh, that’s really not necessary, Mr . . . ” Piper held his hand up peremptorily. “No nonsense. Be as gracious a receiver as you are a giver, and we won’t come to blows over it.” He looked past them to his companion. “Same as usual, T?” He called, though his voice would have carried sufficiently at a whisper.

  “Yes, please,” Miss Tichyara responded. Her voice, with it’s almost theatrical accent, unnaturally breathy and deep.

  Caitlin surveyed the empty plaza. “The Wagners aren’t with you?”

  “No. They lalligagged behind. Said they’d wait and walk with you and Mrs. Griffeth. Surprising will power for Mrs. Wagner, I’d say, given her appetite for pastries and whatnot.”

  “Speaking of Mrs. Griffeth,” said Caitlin, “I’d better see how she’s getting on. I trust your offer will be good when we get back?”

  Piper laughed and said it would.

  “I’ll get us a table,” Amber volunteered.

  Ever-mindful of opportunities to help her students interact, Caitlin said, “Why don’t you sit with them? Give you a chance to get to know each other.”

  “I’m afraid she’d find it crowded,” Miss Tichyara objected unexpectedly, her hands sweeping the circumference of the small round table. “Two seems about the limit.”

  Piper was momentarily nonplused. “Well, we could always pull up a chair,” he ventured indecisively.

  “Of course, she’s welcome,” said Miss Tichyara, refuting her words with her tone of voice. “I just thought . . . ” She turned toward the window.

  “Of course,” said Piper, “you may be right.” He looked at Caitlin. “The tablesare very small.”

  “I think I’ll sit over here, thank you, Mr. Piper. I’ll wait for you Caitlin.”

  Amber’s obvious attempt at face-saving was eloquently painful. With difficulty, Caitlin suppressed the motherly instinct to embrace her, which would only have magnified the awkwardness of the situation.

  But why would Miss Tichyara, whose blindness must have often found her on the outside looking in, figuratively speaking, be so insensitive to a misfit like Amber? They were of an age even if, in Amber’s case, from different centuries. The reaction had been both unexpected and unsettling.

  “Good idea, Amber,” she said lightly. “You go ahead and save us a place. That table’s a little bigger. Yes, the one by the window. There. That’s right. Mrs. Griffeth can join us.” On her way to the door, she shot a querying look at Mr. Piper, who could do nothing but arch his eyebrows and shrug. “I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  Chapter Thirteen–The Eye of the Beholder

  Caitlin felt all eyes upon her as she crossed the plaza, a sensation so visceral it snapped like a rubber band as she turned down the narrow street and out of sight.

  A few feet further on she stopped and leaned back against the wall of a closedcharcuterie, giving way to emotional exhaustion.

  This whole trip was becoming a nightmare, and her little group – far from coalescing into a convivial fellowship of the photographically challenged, as usually happened – seemed polarized, even antagonistic. Of course, conflicts in personality were to be expected, but she’d always been able to leverage the common appreciation for photography and the adventure of the French countryside to create an ambiance of forbearance, if not outright good will.

  This time, though, things were rapidly getting beyond her, as if the malignant spirit of Jeremy Farthing had infected them all, the aggressively oblivious Mr. Piper notwithstanding. A tension was building beneath the surface . . . and the disturbing little instances – the stolen film, Farthing’s accident, Mrs. Capshaw’s apparition of a body floating in the moat, the Peeping Toms – while none, perhaps, was inexplicable, seemed a manifestation of a greater calamity that threatened to erupt at the slightest provocation, no matter how unintended.

  It was her job to get between the match and the fuse in every instance, but she couldn’t be all places at once.

  Of course, if things did blow up, it might clear the air. But could she take the risk that no one would be irredeemably hurt? Both Amber and Mrs. Capshaw seemed near breaking as it was. Understandably, Caitlin thought, given their Kennedyesque series of losses.

  Nothing resolved by her brief respite, she walked on. Mrs. Griffeth had probably worked her way to the front of the queue at the pharmacy and, by now, had the poor shop girl utterly baffled with her high school French.

  Her head be
nt in contemplation, Caitlin was startled when she rounded a corner and nearly collided with a fellow pedestrian.

  “Mr. Wagner!” she said, releasing the breath that had caught in her throat.

  Wagner, who had taken her reflexively by the arms, smiled. “Ah! Then I’m not lost.” He patted her lightly and let her go. “Or have you come to find me?”

  “No. You’re on the right road. Straight ahead,” said Caitlin, pointing the way she’d come. “You can’t miss it. Is your wife with Mrs. Griffeth?”

  “Went back to see if she needed any help.” Wagner rummaged through his pockets for his pipe and tobacco pouch, which Caitlin knew weren’t there. At his doctor’s insistence he’d quit smoking just prior to their departure on this trip. It was a mechanical activity that ultimately turned up a little plastic pack of breath mints, which he regarded with surprise, his equitable face falling perceptibly as he realized why they were there. He offered one to Caitlin.

  “A friend of mine once said ‘never refuse someone who offers you a breath mint.’ They probably know something you don’t.’” Caitlin tapped a candy into her open palm and popped it in her mouth. It was overwhelmingly minty. “Goodness!” she said, inhaling through the ‘O’ of her lips. “They’re strong!”

  “Mm,” said Wagner, who had taken one himself. “Spit it out if you want. The taste will probably spoil your pastry. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Caitlin had already swallowed. Her mouth and throat tingled as if she’d drunk a bottle of mouthwash. “No. That’s all right. Thanks. Whew!”

  Wagner put the mints back in his pocket where they’d be forgotten until the next time he searched for his pipe. “Evelyn told me to get us at table at the pastry shop. I got looking in shop windows and apparently misplaced myself down these little streets. You didn’t pass them on the way, apparently?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Caitlin reassured him.

  “Silly question. Of course you didn’t.”

  “I’m sure they’re still at the pharmacy. Why don’t you go on. We’ll see you there.”

  Mr. Wagner looked relieved. “Good idea. Good idea. I’ll see you there. Straight this way, you say?” He pointed.