Dead at Breakfast by Beth Gutcheon

with pink linens. Mrs. Poole also made sure that her daughters were, like her, accomplished equestriennes. Riding clothes were so becoming to a woman. Theirs was a sunny, sporty childhood, uncomplicated except that being a twin is never uncomplicated.
    Gloria was her father’s girl. One summer when Lisa was confined to a darkened bedroom, not allowed to read or watch TV or think, basically, as she recovered from a severe concussion suffered in a horse show accident, Mr. Poole took Glory on a trip all the way to Vancouver on the TransCanada Rail Express train, just the two of them. They played backgammon for hours as the scenerystreamed by, and ate fancy meals in the dining car. She had her own roomette. They saw the Rockies and Beautiful Lake Louise and Vancouver Island. Then they flew down to L.A. for a couple of days, because her father had some business there. What the business was Glory never knew, but they had dinner every night with a woman named Marie Elise whom her father seemed to know extremely well. Marie Elise was chic, funny, and apparently rich in her own right; Mr. Poole reported with something like awe that she was on the boards of several major corporations. Glory learned that everyone in Los Angeles was thin and beautiful and drove exciting cars. The last night they were in town Warren Beatty, a movie star whom their mother had a fantastic crush on, joined their table for dessert; Marie Elise was his financial adviser.
    When Glory got home from that trip, she knew what world she wanted to conquer. By the time she was twenty, she was slimmer than Lisa, had had two years of acting classes, and knew all about her best camera angles. A man who had briefly loved her once described her to a casting director as being like a smart animal. Glory assumed he meant she was talented, instinctive, and valuable, like a racehorse, and rather liked it, though the casting director never called.
    Wednesday morning, when the mists were hanging low on the hilltops and Maggie joined the morning hikers, there was Glory, in becoming velvety sweats, doing her own set of stretches while she waited for the hike to start. It took all Maggie’s restraint to keep from staring at her as Bonnie led the rest of the group in a warm-up routine. After Martin Maynard took off on his run, and Bonnie led the hikers toward the mountain at a brisk clip, Nina Maynard and Maggie fell in with Glory.
    â€œI’m so sorry about Artemis,” Maggie said.
    â€œIt’s really sad,” said Nina. “So much talent.”
    Glory was very fit and it was going to be a strain to keep up with her and still be able to talk.
    â€œYou know, it’s probably a blessing,” Glory said. “She was a mess, that girl. Trouble as long as I’ve known her.”
    Maggie and Nina looked at each other, but Glory had her chin up, and her gaze was on the hills, from whence her help might or might not cometh.
    â€œHave you been able to learn any more . . . I mean, do they know why she did it?”
    â€œWas there a note, you mean? It seems not. But the girl was an addict. I think she just saw no way out. There wasn’t ever going to be a good way for it to end.”
    â€œAddicted to what?”
    â€œShe never met a drug she didn’t like. The first time she got drunk, she was like eleven. Found a bottle of some disgusting melon-flavored booze someone had given my sister and drank the whole thing. The nanny found her passed out in her bed covered with vomit.”
    Nina said, “Wasn’t she on that Disney show when she was eleven?”
    â€œExactly,” said Glory. “She had everything a child could want. I mean, what other children dream of. Every comfort. Beautiful parents, adorable brother and sisters. And she was famous. She was earning a fortune before she was a teen.”
    â€œSounds like a lot, for a child,” said Maggie.
    â€œExactly,” said Glory, missing her point. “She had it all. But