Dead and Breakfast

by David Crossman

“It was my husband’s wish that the patent on the seventh genome cluster not be sold, but that it become public domain, for use by the scientific and medical communities. And that is what I wish. Since neither Amber nor I are willing to take control of the company, we will allow it to go public provided this stipulation is abided by.”

  Epilogue

  Ambrose Piper, normally a beer and peanuts man, had unexpectedly acquired a taste forQuercy Noix. He swirled the deep amber fluid around his snifter and watched with a kind of admiration as it coated the glass. “Good stuff, this.”

  Beside him at the bar, Jeremy Farthing propped his head on his arm and watched a waitress through his Budweiser. He blew a cloud of pungent blue smoke. “Mm. Too sweet for me.”

  It had been an impromptu celebration, resulting from an accidental meeting outside Fenway a few days after the sentencing. There was a lot to celebrate. The Capshaws and Avril Cummings had been unstinting with their bonus.

  “You going to keep working?” said Piper.

  Farthing stretched. “I suppose. Some of us just aren’t cut out for a life of leisure.”

  “Same thing?”

  “I don’t know . . . maybe I’ll take up writing.”

  “Not that stuff you read us that night in France!”

  Farthing laughed. “No, I think I might write up our little adventure as a mystery.”

  “Nobody’d believe it,” said Piper. “Damned good story, though.”

  “Might even go back to the chateau to write it. Jill’s invited me.”

  Piper was astonished. “She didn’t have enough of you the first time?”

  “That particular edition of me, yes. Apparently, though, enough of my sterling character shined through that she’s willing to take the risk.

  “You played a pretty convincing businessman, Piper. Maybe you should start up a company of some kind.”

  “Maybe I will,” said Piper, without conviction.

  For a while the two men, unknowingly on the verge of a friendship that would last a lifetime, talked about life and death and the Red Sox – much the same thing to devoted fans. Inevitably, though, conversation returned to recent events.

  “No lasting effects from your little bump on the head, I gather?”

  Farthing massaged his temple. “I’ll be okay. Though I’m seeing two of you now, which is a little hard to take.”

  Piper laughed. “That’s not the bump, it’s the beer.” They lapsed into a prolonged silence. “Ever find out who dragged you to the doorstep?”

  “Damnedest thing, that. Some kind of Dordognian Sasquatch, for all I know.”

  Piper looked at his drink and smiled. “You must’ve crawled there yourself.”

  Farthing was genuinely baffled. “I suppose,” he said. But there was no sign of his having crawled, or been dragged. Someone had picked him up and carried him to the doorstep. Must have.

  “Son-of-a-bitch that Ray Sabien,” Piper said at his beer. “Pardon my French.”

  “Thought I’d find you here.”

  The intruder was Leo Dosty, Piper’s partner in crime. He lifted himself onto a stool and ordered a Poland Spring, neat. “Only place suitable for a man of your means these days, ain’t it Pipes?”

  “Ah, you’re back. Did you find what you needed in Maine?” The reference was to another case.

  “Pretty much. I found her in a cabin on Moosehead Lake.” Piper introduced Farthing. “So,” said Dosty, when his drink arrived. “How’d the sentencing go?”

  “Well, there won’t be any hangings, unfortunately,” said Piper.

  “Too bad. Hope my testimony helped. I hated to have to dash out afterwards.”

  Farthing ground out his cigar in the ash tray and leaned back against the bar. “The good people of Massachusetts are a little too squeamish to cut out the cancer altogether. They prefer the Band-Aid approach to punishment.” The large windows of Rose Wharf allowed an expansive view of the harbor but, apart from the comings and goings of the commuter ferries, there wasn’t much to see. “They still have to face charges in New Hampshire and France.”

  “They didn’t have much about it in the paper’s up north. I got a copy of theHerald about a week ago, but only had time to skim it. I gather this Sabien was behind the whole thing?”

  “Practically from the girl’s birth,” said Piper, once again mesmerized by the fluid in his glass, and its salubrious effect on his senses. “He was just out of school, cutting his teeth onpro-bonowork for Marcot, Hendricks, and Lipscomb. He was tapped to handle the adoption of Evelyn Wagner’s twin daughters by the Capshaws.”

  “Of course, Capshaw was just a struggling young computer programmer at the time,” Farthing chimed in. “Bright prospects, but not much else.”

  “The Capshaws never met the birth mother?” Dosty asked. “Apparently not. All she wanted was to sign the papers, take the money, and get ‘em out of her life,” said Piper. He resumed. “When Capshaw’s business started to take off, he asked Sabien to suggest a firm to handle his corporate business. Ray suggested his brother’s,Yance, Harrow, Sabien & Metz.”

  “A powerful bunch,” said Dosty, masticating an olive. Farthing looked at him askance.

  “Vegetables,” said Dosty.

  “Anyway,” said Farthing, “years went by and one day Amber Capshaw got it into her head that she wanted to track down her birth mother, so she contacted the one person she figured who could track her down.”

  “Ray Sabien?”

  “The same. He’s the kind of person who doesn’t take long to connect the dots when it comes to seeing what he can get out of a situation. The Capshaw’s were richer than Croesus by this time and, knowing what kind of person Evelyn Wagner was . . . ”

  “The two of them started making plans, and once they discovered that Gayla was her mother’s daughter in every evil way, things began to gel.”

  “They really killed the first Mrs. Capshaw?”

  “Gayla’s handy work,” said Piper. “Ray showed her how to sever the break line. Both parents were supposed to have gone in the wreck, of course. Would’ve been nice and tidy. All they’d have to do next – because of the will, you know about that?”

  “Something about one daughter being pretty much cut out, and the other getting everything?” said Dosty, recalling what he could from the newspaper articles.

  “Or so it seemed.

  “According to the original plan, all they’d have to do next is have Amber and Gayla switch places at some time . . . which they often did . . . and Amber . . . the real Amber, has an accident . . . so everyone thinks it’s Gayla who died. Who’s left? Amber. Who inherits? Amber.”

  “Who would really be Gayla,” Dosty clarified for his own sake.

  “Didn’t work out that way, though,” said Piper. “And then Joanna . . . the present Mrs. Capshaw . . . unexpectedly entered the picture.”

  “Now they had three to get rid of,” said Farthing, holding up a commensurate number of fingers and ticking them off one at a time, “Philip, Amber, and Joanna. Philip . . . a fall from the roof, courtesy of his precious daughter who, it turns out, simply lifted the grips of the two story aluminum ladder while Philip was on the barn roof.”

  “Then Amber,” said Piper, holding up a finger of his own, “drowned. With Joanna as a witness.”

  Piper sipped his brandy, so Farthing took up the thread. “Then the only one left was Joanna. Another death in the family might have brought a little too much attention to the earlier mishaps. Besides which, they didn’t really need her dead, just judged incompetent when it came time to vote about the company’s public offering. Ray knew about her past mental history and decided it wouldn’t take much to compromise her. That’s when he got the idea to make use of the traveling photography class of his brother’s fiancé.”

  “It was brilliant, in a diabolical way,” said Dosty.

  “Wasn’t it, though?”

  “To a point,” said Farthing. “But Joanna wasn’t as close to the edge as they thought. And
when the women started improvising, things began to unravel.”

  “What about these college girls . . . roomates of Gayla’s?”

  “Hired help, basically,” said Piper. “It’s amazing what certain kinds of people will do for the promise of a few million dollars.”

  “From what I’ve found out about Heather, it wouldn’t have taken that much, morally speaking, for her to jump on the band-wagon. She’s always had a dark streak running through her. I pity her cell mates.”

  Jill had received a long e-mail from Caitlin, detailing the drama of the trial and, setting aside preparations for the dinner her guests would be expecting that night, had read as far as the last page.

  “I can’t imagine how I’m going to break the news to Michael, if he ever regains consciousness. (You notice I said ‘if’, and not ‘when’. Hope may spring eternal, but I’m beginning to realize the difference between hope and delusion. His body is a whisper. I find it hard to imagine there’s anything left of that special person I knew, so vivid and alive.)

  ‘Perhaps best he just slips away, rather than face the knowledge of what his brother has done.

  ‘I don’t know how I’ll live with it myself, quite frankly, knowing how Ray used me, setting up the trip so Mrs. Wagner and the girls would have free reign to torment poor Joanna out of her reason.

  ‘They might so easily have succeeded.

  ‘The ironic thing is they tell me he’ll probably get off with the lightest sentence of all. Unlike the women involved, he planned for both success and failure, good lawyer that he is. In every instance, he’d put at least two people between himself and the crime.

  ‘Gayla and Mrs. Wagner will get twenty years each, but they’ll be eligible for parole after seven. How can that be, when they’ve destroyed so many lives? There will be other trials, though. Which will probably go on forever.

  ‘I don’t understand the judicial system. I’m so frustrated. The only one who got off scot free was Delilah, because she was the first to turn State’s evidence. In the end, her involvement was minimal, but she certainly had been keeping her eyes and ears open.

  ‘The whole truth came out, as well, about the body on the back of the closet door. It had been Gayla, of course. Once more aided by Heather, who played the part of the sleeping figure in Gayla’s room. It was she and Mrs. Wagner who had hung Gayla there, whilst Mrs. Capshaw was taking one of her long baths, listening to music in her headphones. They cleaned up once Joanna went running from the room, while Gayla dried off and, ostensibly, went back to bed.

  “That was another piece of improvisation on the part of Mrs. Wagner, and they must have felt it had done the job. Imagine their surprise went Joanna didn’t even mention it! “It was shortly after that Amber . . . Gayla . . . tried to convince me that Joanna’s illness had returned with a vengeance. That she thought her husband was trying to kill her. All that.”

  ‘I suppose there’s comfort in the knowledge that their plans came to nothing. The Capshaw company has gone public – very successfully from all reports. Joanna and Amber have gone in league to change the world. Last I heard they’d donated a small fortune to Mercy Ships International and were hoping to join them off the coast of Africa somewhere.

  ‘Maybe she stands a better chance of getting her own life back by devoting it to others. I pray she will.

  ‘Something must be said of Avril Cummings, as well, Philip’s secretary. There’s one determined lady. She’d baby-sat the girls countless times early on as Mr. Capshaw and Nancy were trying to get the business off the ground. As a result, she probably knew them better than anyone else . . . she was especially close to Amber.

  “They had a private joke between them. Wordplay of some kind, I gather. When she met Amber . . . that is Gayla . . . after the sister’s presumed drowning, she referred to that private joke and could see the girl hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. That’s when she got suspicious. But she had to prove it. EnterFarthing Confidential Services.

  ‘A full compliment of students have signed up for the next trip. I had to turn quite a few away. The trial generated a lot of publicity, but I suspect most of those who’ve signed up have done so from morbid curiosity rather than from a love of photography. (Speaking of which, you’ll be interested to know that Mrs. Griffeth has sold several of her pictures toNational Geographic Traveler, for an article they’re doing about French gardens! Can you believe it!)

  ‘I don’t know. I may cancel the trip. My heart’s not in it, at least not at the moment. And I’m not at all sure I could face seeing the chateau again. Maybe I’ll take them somewhere else. Tuscany is beautiful that time of year. Would you mind? A change in the itinerary would weed out the thrill seekers. I’ll let you know as soon as I decide. Forgive me, in advance.

  ‘However, it would be nice to see Jean-Claude again . . .

  ‘Sorry for rambling on. Maybe I should follow Amber’s lead and immerse myself in a life of good works. A nice long bath in the milk of human kindness to wash away this film of evil that clings to me . . .

  ‘Sounds a little too Shakespearean, doesn’t it?

  ‘I guess I feel a little like Hamlet at the moment, though. Sleep eludes me. I lay awake, wondering how people can do such things to other people. All for what?

  ‘I could go on . . . and on, and on . . . but I won’t. Thanks for letting me vent. I love you. Give my love to Joe.

  ‘Yours, Cait.

  ‘P.S. I’ll be good company again someday. Promise.’

  ‘P.P.S. I have to reiterate;Francis Griffethsoldtenof her photos toNational Geographic Traveler! (I’ve been sending stuff to them for years!) There is no justice. As if that’s not enough, she’s been invited to theThrough a Woman’s Eye show at Museum of Modern Art in New York. I mean . . . !

  ‘Off to lick my wounds and rail against injustice.’

  The reflective moment that followed, during which Jill battled back shadows that seemed to rise in the countless nooks and crannies of the chateau, was shortened by a loud splash and an ear-piercing squeal, testifying that the inevitable had happened: Robespierre had fallen into the aquarium – pushed, no doubt, by the Prime Minister – and the fish were exacting punishment on the floundering feline for his years of torment.

  Jill gathered some paper towels. “Justice prevails.”

  THE END

  BOOKS BY DAVID CROSSMAN

  from Alibi – Folio

  The Albert Mysteries

  Requiem for Ashes

  Dead in D Minor

  Coda* (2013)

  Winston Crisp Mysteries

  A Show of Hands

  The Shroud Collector

  Justice Once Removed

  Photo Club Mysteries

  Dead and Breakfast

  Bean and Ab Young Adult Mysteries

  The Secret of the Missing Grave

  The Mystery of the Black Moriah

  The Legend of Burial Island

  The Riddle of Misery Light (2013)

  Historical Novel

  Silence the Dead

  Fantasy

  Storyteller

  Night of the Full Moon Catch (2014)

  Thriller

  A Terrible Mercy

  David A. Crossman is a best-selling novelist, an award-winning lyricist and composer, a writer of short stories, screenplays, teleplays, and children’s books, a television producer/director (also award – winning), a video producer, radio/television talent, award – winning graphic, computer graphic designer, advertising copywriter, videographer, publisher, music producer, musician, singer, performer and . . . well, you get the picture. He’s shiftless. He divides his time between the home he shares with his wife Barbara and worlds that don’t exist outside his mind.

  www.davidcrossman.com

  davidcrossman@comcast.net

  GOT THE PHOTO/TRAVEL BUG?

  If you’d like to book a photographic tour (probably without the bodies in the moat), You may wish contact Barbara van Zanten: http://www.europaphotogenica.
com/BvZ.htm

  *In My Life John Lennon/Paul McCartney © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group, EMI Music Publishing, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.