‘Good idea,’ Marlowe trotted along after him. ‘But I hope Josie starts catching on a little quicker, because if she doesn’t, she may be in for a big surprise when Ed really gets going on that room renovation.’
2. A WHISKER IN THE DARK
One
I’m fairly certain that having a guest die before breakfast is a once-in-a-lifetime event. Even so, I was feeling a bit nervous as the guests at my newly acquired Oyster Cove Guesthouse dug in. Never mind that the memory of how a previous breakfast had been spoiled in a most alarming manner was still fresh in my mind, the reason I was nervous aboutthis breakfast was that I was trying out a new pumpkin-bread recipe on my guests and, seeing as my culinary skills were meager at best, I was worried they might not like it.
My worries were not unfounded. Though the guests had filled their plates, the brown loaf sat on the antique mahogany serving table, alone and uncut, shoved to the side like an overweight schoolboy on the playground. It was probably because of the dark edges. Admittedly, I’d left it in the oven a bit too long. Who knew that baking had to be that precise? But it was important I get this right. Millie Sullivan, my mother’s best friend and the guesthouse’s previous owner, had stressed the fact that having a winning loaf cake to serve at the town’s 250-year celebration would be vital to the future of the guesthouse. And, since all my retirement savings were tied up in the purchase of the place, I very much wanted it to have a good future.
I eyed the room with satisfaction. It was the lavish dining room of the grand old mansion that was now a bed and breakfast, boasting a twelve-foot ceiling, ornate green-and-gold wallpaper and a gigantic green oriental rug. Ten-foot-tall Palladian windows with a coveted view of the sparkling Atlantic Ocean ringed the far wall. They were open, causing the sheers lining the inside of the gold-and-green silk drapes to flutter from a cooling, salty sea breeze.
On the buffet, eggs steamed in a warming tray, toast glistened with melted butter, bacon practically sizzled on its platter and pancakes dripped with maple syrup. But, more importantly, all the guests were accounted for, so there would be no chance of discovering that one of them had met their maker in a most unsavory manner inside my establishment. It wasn’t so much the welfare of the guests themselves I was worried about, more that I didn’t want to get a reputation for being a place where people only checked out in a body bag.
It was a positive sign that the two resident cats, Nero and Marlowe, weren’t wailing like they’d done a few weeks ago to announce said dead body. In fact, it was relatively quiet, the only sounds the faint cry of gulls drifting in through the window and the far-off sounds of hammering from my carpenter, Ed O’Hara, as he worked to renovate one of the dilapidated sections of the mansion.
I had nothing to worry about other than that no one seemed to want my pumpkin bread. Unless it was the concern that a brawl might break out amongst the guests. I should have known it could be troublesome to rent all the rooms to one peculiar family—especially one that was in business together. Making cheese sculptures. Yes, you heard me. The Biddefords had a cheese-sculpture business. You’d wonder how that would sustain a whole family, but apparently cheese sculptures were quite popular for parties. I mean, who didn’t want a swan carved from a block of Swiss or a rendition of Michelangelo’s David chiseled from Muenster on their dining table?
I hadn’t known they were peculiar when they checked in. I thought it was kind of cute that the descendants of the shipping magnate who had built the mansion wanted to stay in it for the town’s 250-year celebration. Jedediah Biddeford had been an important figure in town back then, and even though ownership of the mansion had passed out of the Biddeford family a couple hundred years ago, I guess they still felt a kinship with it.
How was I supposed to know that every member of the family seemed to have a grudge against the next? From what I could gather—not that I was eavesdropping or anything but sometimes one overhears things by accident—their animosity was a combination of sibling rivalry and jockeying for position in the company. It was all nice-nice on the surface, but I could feel the tensions boiling underneath.
The family had requested that I push the individual tables for four that dotted the antique room together to form one long table. Seemed like a good idea to me since there were no guests other than Biddefords. So there they sat, plates loaded with the sumptuous breakfast for which the guesthouse was known. All homemade, of course, except the pancakes. I confess I made those from a mix.
Doris Biddeford, the matriarch, sat at the head, a look of disapproval on her face as she surveyed her children. She had to be eighty if she was a day. The“children” were in their fifties and I couldn’t really say I blamed Doris for scowling. Her kids left a bit to be desired.
Doris’s critical gaze zoned in on one of her daughters, Paula. Paula was in her mid-fifties but had the look of someone who’d had more than their share of late nights. Not surprising though—I could tell Paula liked to imbibe. In fact, as I watched, she retrieved a little nip bottle out of her purse and dumped the entire contents into her coffee.
Seated across from Paula was her brother Earl, who, along with his wife Arlene, were precisely the opposite of Paula. Fastidiously groomed, they both wore expensive clothes, and Arlene’s hair was perfectly coiffed, her fingers glittered with bejeweled rings. Their expressions echoed the mother’s disapproval.
“Honestly, Paula, can’t you get through one day without the help of Mr. Jack Daniel?” Earl asked.
“Shows how much you know, that wasn’t Jack Daniel’s, it was Baileys Irish Cream. I would never mix Jack with coffee.” Paula hiccupped and practically fell off her chair.
Doris rolled her eyes and shook her head.“Earl’s right, you need to straighten up. No wonder the business is going down the crapper.”
Earl turned to his mother.“Mom, it is not going down thecrapper.” He glanced back at me as if he was thinking they shouldn’t be airing their dirty laundry in front of the innkeeper. It would have been prudent to quietly fade into the hallway so as not to witness the family argument that appeared to be brewing, but I was nosey. Besides, I liked to know who was arguing with whom under my roof, just to keep an eye out for any trouble.
“Might as well be, with all you shady characters running it,” added Bob, the other son, who I’d determined was the black sheep of the family. Unlike Earl, who dressed to the nines in designer clothing and Italian leather footwear, Bob was wearing a navy-blue hoodie, jeans and sneakers with the laces undone. He was probably in his late forties and had salt-and-pepper hair that swooped over his forehead in a comb-over. I don’t know if he was just a sloppy dresser or trying to look younger, but his clothing choices did nothing for him. It was no surprise, given the way he dressed, that Bob didn’t appear to have a significant other.
Carla, the other sister, gave Bob a raised brow.“Like you should talk. You’re the one who has a suspicious past.”
I could tell Carla was the most normal one of the bunch. But that wasn’t saying much. She was also the most annoying, insisting on using her navy-blue Yale coffee mug for breakfast, as if she had to show off her pedigree. I mean, she was in her mid-forties and college was a long time ago. I figured she probably handled the legal aspects of the business. Her husband, Henry, sat quietly beside her as always. I got the impression that Henry only spoke when Carla gave him the okay.
“I do not. That’s Paula,” Bob said.
Paula took offense.“I don’t have a suspiciouspassht. Mypassht is wide open. You should be looking at Arlene when talking about a suspiciouspassht.” She eyed her sister-in-law. I didn’t like the way Arlene was clutching her knife as she glared back at Paula.