A Whisker In The Dark

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.