Dead and Breakfast

by David Crossman

  For a moment, Joanna seemed doubtful. “You trust her?”

  “I think so,” she said. “I know Michael did . . . does. Yes. I’m sure she’s dependable.”

  Joanna put her doubts aside and seized the lifeline. “All right. Yes. Call her. Tell her I need someone to keep an eye on everything until I can . . . until she can explain it all to me. Tell me what I should do.”

  “Now wait,” Caitlin cautioned. “Don’t you think you should meet with her? Get to know her! This is much too important to hire someone just on my say-so. I know as much about the law as I do . . . particle physics.”

  “There’s no time,” said Joanna, not willing to let go of the lifeline once it was in her grasp. Desperation rose in her voice. “I trust you, Caitlin.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but you don’t know me, either.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I have to trust someone and you . . . you’ve been so kind.

  “You can expect a lot of kindness from people when there are a few million dollars in the bargain,” Caitlin warned.

  “I have to do something,” Joanna rejoined. “Is she a good lawyer. A good person?”

  Caitlin hesitated. She knew the two weren’t necessarily the same.

  “You trust her?” Joanna pressed.

  Caitlin prevaricated. “I’m sure that if we can get her on board, she’ll be able to protect your interests until . . . until you’re able to make whatever decisions have to be made. If she can’t, she can suggest someone who can.”

  “That’s good enough for me. Call her.”

  Caitlin felt out of her depth, though no one had pushed her into the pool. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” said Joanna resolutely. “It’s time I did something proactive to make sure Philip’s wishes are carried out. I’ve been such a failure.”

  “All right. I’ll do it tonight. She’s in Boston.” She glanced at her watch. “They’re six hours behind us. I expect she’ll fax you something to sign . . . giving her whatever authority she needs.”

  “Of course.” Joanna grabbed Caitlin by the hand. “Thank you for making me see what a mess I’ve made of everything.” Caitlin inhaled to protest. “No, I needed that. It’s time I faced my responsibilities.”

  Caitlin could sense an incoming wave of self-recrimination and was determined to stem it. “You can’t undo what’s done. The important thing now is to do what you can now to get control back. I hope Lavida can help. What’s the name of your husband’s company again?”

  “MediStream.”

  Outside, a floorboard creaked loudly. Caitlin held a finger to her lips and tiptoed to the door. She flung it open sharply and stepped into the hall. In the thick stillness, a door latch clicked softly into place. A quick survey of the hall revealed two rooms with lights on, betrayed by thin ribbons of luminance framing their doors. To the right, Jeremy Farthing’s room. He might just be restless after nearly two days confinement. That light went off as she watched.

  She turned to the left, where she’d seen the light two doors down. Miss Tichyara’s room.

  Blind Miss Tichyara.

  She replayed the click of the door latch in her mind. In was impossible to tell from which room it had come.

  “Was someone out there?” Joanna asked when Caitlin closed the door behind her.

  “It’s hard to tell. An old place like this makes noises. I didn’t see anyone. Are you all right now?”

  Joanna steeled herself with apparent effort. “Yes. You go make the call. I’ll be okay.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Joanna nodded and Caitlin turned to leave. “Caitlin?”

  “Mm?”

  “Thank you. I know that . . . this is all above the call of duty . . . ”

  “Don’t mention it. Believe me, I want to get to the bottom of things almost as much as you do.” She was going to add ‘too many dead bodies are bad for business’, but caught herself in time to curb the quip. “Meanwhile, let’s keep all this under our hats. Don’t mention it to anyone.” She paused for effect. “Not anyone. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Try to get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Joanna nodded. Her eyes were heavy. Caitlin hoped exhaustion would see her to sleep.

  Caitlin pulled the door firmly closed behind her and listened as Joanna slipped the lock in place.

  The hall was perfectly still. A deep, abandoned snoring, issuing from Mr. Piper’s room, ripped the fabric of night into ragged swatches. Here and there a bedspring squeaked in impotent complaint.

  The conversation had stirred up an emotional stew. Thoughts of Michael. His family. She and Ray were not the best of friends. He’d always been superficially polite, and more than happy to keep her updated on Michael’s condition, but Caitlin knew he shared his mother’s Boston Brahmin disdain for her. She was just a poor British working girl, after all. Michael, on the other hand, had been namedNew England’s Most Eligible Bachelor– much to his chagrin – byBoston Magazine. The family expected nothing but the best as a wife for him. That meant another blueblood. Someone other than her.

  Still, Michael had often said his younger brother had a better legal mind than he did. But too often she had heard Ray singing the praises of lawyers whose victories, while no doubt legal, seemed, to her, profoundly immoral. In fact, his excitement seemed to rise in direct proportion to how successful the defense had been in manipulating the law.

  It all seemed to have little to do with truth or justice as she perceived it.

  So, she was naïve. So what?

  Still, surprisingly, it had been Ray, the black sheep of the family, who recommended she resume her workshops. “Time to get on with your life,” he’d said, his voice so much like Michael’s. Maybe that’s what gave the suggestion added weight. “It’s what Michael would have wanted.” The suggestion, almost solicitous, had been uncharacteristic of Ray, at least of her preconceptions of him. His womanizing and gambling were legendary in the family, as were the rows with his mother that his behavior elicited. His world, as far as she could tell, began and ended with himself. He was like a twenty-year-old who never grew up. How he’d ended up in family practice, she had no idea. Probably just rebellion against the Sabien tradition of corporate law: a little slap in his mother’s face. He was the poor one in the family. Perhaps, though, he was emotionally compensated by the fact that his field of practice was a social embarrassment to the family, particularly his mother. Caitlin wondered if he’d give it up once the old woman passed on.

  Still, he’d been almost happy when she told him she was planning this trip. Probably because he’d be able to tell their mother that Michael’s ‘little friend’ was leaving the country.

  “You’re cynical, Caitlin,” she said. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Chapter Eighteen– ‘And These Mem’ries Lose Their Meaning’

  “May I say who’s calling?”

  The receptionist’s voice, crisp and professional, came clearly over the line.

  “Just tell her it’s Caitlin.”

  “Caitlin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well,” said the receptionist dubiously. “Hold please. I’ll see if she’s in.”

  That meant ‘I’ll see if she wants to speak to you’ in corporatese, Caitlin knew. The receptionist’s voice was replaced by a taped Muzak rendition ofIn My Life. As she waited, the lyrics to the old Beatles’ song rang in her mind.

  ‘But of all these friends and lovers

  There is no one compares with you

  And these mem’ries lose their meaning

  When I think of love as something new

  Though I know I’ll never lose affection

  For people and things that went before

  I know I’ll often stop and think about them

  In my life, I’ve loved them all . . .’*

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she’d have loved nothing more than to slip into the easy, familiar cadence of sobbing that had
scored the movie of her life so often in the dull fog of months that had passed, but it was someone else’s life she was dealing with now, someone else’s problems. She mastered herself with difficulty and wiped away the luxurious tears – selfish, imperfect diamonds of remorse.

  “Caitlin?”

  The sound of Lavida’s familiar voice, and all its attendant feelings, rushed in on her thoughts.

  “Hello, Lavida.”

  “So good to hear you. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, I had a client on the other line.”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can call later, if you need . . . ”

  “No need. Where are you?”

  “I’m in France.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I heard through the grapevine. How does it feel to be back in the saddle?”

  “A little strange, frankly.”

  “I’m sure. No doubt it’s for the best that you get back to your life and begin to put things behind you.”

  The statement could be read a number of ways.

  A guilty thought of the attentive French constable sprang to mind. “Yes,” she said quickly. “I’m sure it is.” Then she asked the question she didn’t want to ask – or hear the answer to. “Have you heard any news . . . ?”

  The sigh was audible over the three-thousand miles that separated them. “No change.”

  The words, though she’d anticipated them, formed a leaden ball at the core of her soul. “No worse, then?” she said perfunctorily.

  “No worse.”

  “And his mother? She’s holding up well?”

  “She’s learning to live with it. Like we all are.”

  Both of them knew that Michael’s mother blamed Caitlin for the accident, though she’d never have said so in so many words. Caitlin had been driving and though the police, the insurance company, and the truck driver himself asserted in writing that she was not to blame, the niggling worm of doubt in Michael’s mother’s voice was amplified by the prism of Caitlin’s own feelings.

  “What can I do for you?” said Lavida, severing the reverie.

  “I need some legal advice. A friend of mine needs some help.”

  There was a brief silence. “I see. Is this a proverbial friend we’re talking about, or an actual friend?”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  Lavida laughed. “Not really. What’s your friend’s problem?”

  As Caitlin outlined her story, she wondered if it sounded as absurd to Lavida as it did to her. If so, her response betrayed nothing but genuine concern.

  “Speaking purely as a legal person, sounds like an argument could be made for schizophrenia. Perhaps depression, as well.”

  “You don’t think there’s anything to it?”

  “Frankly? No. I wouldn’t believe it if I saw it onThe Practice.” There was a brief pause. “You said yourself there is no evidence. No body. No tangible sign of any kind. I’d say that the woman’s recent history, combined with that business of murders in the neighborhood, have just set her nerves on edge. The rest, I’m sure, is imaginary. Maybe a little paranoia. Not uncommon in people who suddenly find themselves wealthy beyond their wildest dreams . . . or potentially wealthy. I mean, if you were listening to the story you just told me . . . ?”

  Having ventured this far, Caitlin was determined not to be put off so easily. “Then you don’t think it’s possible someone is trying to manipulate Joanna. Capshaw?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Lavida replied. “I know about theMediStream IPO. And there is certainly a great deal of money at stake, but from where I stand, everyone stands to gain . . . Especially your Mrs. Capshaw . . . and no one to lose.” She hesitated briefly. “However, if she wants to foot the bill . . . and believe me, it’ll be a hell of a bill . . . I’ll nose around a bit. You’re sure she’s not already represented by someone, a personal lawyer?”

  “She says not. I have access to a fax here.”

  “Good,” said Lavida. “I’ll have to see if there’s any conflict of interest. I don’t think so. If there is, I’ll quit. Hell, I could start my own practice with a client like Joanna Capshaw . . . even if she is crazy!” She laughed again, the laugh Michael had often said sounded like a very contented donkey. “I’ll draw up the necessary papers and get them to you. You should have them in the morning. Give me the number.”

  Caitlin complied. Already she felt the insupportable burden lifting from her shoulders. “Thank you, ‘Vida.”

  “As I say, don’t expect much. More than anything, I just want to prove you have nothing to concern yourself about. You’ve just got one very unhappy, sick woman on your hands. The sooner you get her professional care, the better for everyone involved.” She drew a long breath. “Now, all business aside, how are you doing?”

  “I’m all right. I just want to get this nightmare over with. It’s surreal. You’re right, I think I’d laugh out loud if anyone told me the story I’ve just told you.”

  “No one’s laughing. It’s just a tragic family tragedy. I’m sure that’s all it is. Meanwhile, give me the names and addresses of everyone in your little rogue’s gallery. You never know what might turn up.”

  When she finished, there wasn’t anything left to say. “If Michael . . . if there’s any change.”

  “You’ll be the first to know. Don’t worry. Take care.”

  After she rang off without further comment, Caitlin held the phone to her ear for a long second, lost in thought. As unpleasant as it had been, mention of Ray had made her feel somehow closer to Michael, almost as if she were still at his bedside, as she had been day-after-day for months after the accident. The aching chasm in her heart, which time had begun to stitch, had been torn open like an old wound.

  Then she heard a distant click on the line. Someone had been listening on the extension.

  Jill responded sleepily to Caitlin’s persistent knocking. “Caitlin?” she said, drawing her friend into focus through eyes that had clearly been put to bed for the night. “What are you doing up? Is there a problem?”

  Caitlin was too agitated to feel guilty. “What phones do you have on the home line?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Phones. I was just making a call and someone was listening in. I need to know who it was.”

  Jill looked at her wrist as if there were a watch there. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Caitlin snapped, taking Jill by the shoulders. “Where are the extensions?”

  Alarmed by Caitlin’s intensity, Jill massaged her face and eyes. “I have one in here. There’s one in the kitchen and one in the maid’s closet on your floor.” She lowered her hands. “Who’d’ve been listening in on your conversation? Why?”

  “That’s what I want to know,” said Caitlin over her shoulder. She was halfway to the kitchen before Jill could reply.

  The kitchen was dark. The rear door was locked from the inside. No one could have gotten past her while she was on the phone in the alcove just off the living room. That left the maid’s closet. As she ran to the second floor, Jill fell in behind her, tying her robe around her as they raced up the stairs.

  “You’ll need a key,” said Jill breathlessly. “We keep the door locked.”

  “I bet I won’t,” Caitlin shot back.

  In whispers on the way up the stairs, she told Jill of the most recent apparition in Joanna Capshaw’s room.

  “I can’t believe it!” said Jill, her heart sinking within her. Caitlin was right. The door to the maid’s closet, tucked in a corner off the tower, stood wide open.

  “But I’ve got the only key,” said Jill, bewildered, “apart from Genevieve’s. And I know she keeps that with her.”

  Caitlin entered the closet, a bizarrely angled wedge of space beneath the circular stairwell, similar to the one directly below it, and flicked on the light. Jill entered behind her and, ever mindful of disrupting her guests, closed the door part way.

  The shelves that lined the walls were stocked with crisply laundered linens. An arra
y of cleaning products stood at regimental readiness, arranged according to purpose, on a table that folded down from the wall. The only other furnishings in the room were a small spindle-backed chair, painted black and heavily chipped, and a little round table where the telephone sat securely in its cradle. Caitlin picked up the receiver and held it to her cheek. “It’s warm,” she said, pressing it against Jill’s bear arm.

  “It is!”

  Caitlin sat in the chair and drummed her fingers on her knee. “But how can we find out who was using it?”

  “Maybe someone just wanted to make a call and was waiting ‘til you rang off,” Jill ventured.

  “Someone who broke into your closet? At this time of night?”

  “Mm. Well,” Jill looked at the receiver. “Too bad we don’t have a fingerprint kit.”

  “Too bad we don’t have Sherlock Holmes,” said Caitlin, “as long as we’re wishing.”

  Jill became animated. “Maybe we do!” She flipped the light switch off. “Stay here and keep an eye on the hall,” she said, as she left the room and started down the stairs. “Stay out of sight, whatever happens. Watch.” She turned away. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “What?”

  There was no reply. Jill had already reached the floor below and disappeared through the dining room door. A moment later all became clear as the fire alarm bell sounded. “Well done,” Caitlin whispered under her breath. She closed the door, allowing a crack through which she had a clear view of the hallway, with the help of a full-length mirror on the opposite wall.

  The guests, made familiar with the alarm during Jill’s welcome orientation during their first day at the chateau, began emerging from their rooms.

  Piper was first. He was in his pajamas, his hair matted – seemingly from long contact with his pillow. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to wrap his bathrobe around his shoulders as he rushed to Miss Tichyara’s room, the lights of which turned quickly on and off. The door of which flew open as he reached for it. He guided the occupant into the hall. She, too, was in her pajamas – a beige silk ensemble, the flowered print of which was not designed to conceal what lay beneath. Piper quickly doffed his robe and threw it chivalrously over her shoulders, saying something as he did that Caitlin couldn’t make out. Miss Tichyara’s hair, too, betrayed the ravages of sleep. Anchoring herself to the door casing with her hands, with her eyes closed, oddly enough, she refused to leave without her dark glasses, despite Piper’s objection that there was no time.