Jill Churchill - A Groom With a View

“Jane, are you quite certain your imagination hasn't just gone into overdrive?" Shelley asked.

“Yes, and I'm not finished yet. Out there in the hallway, when I was almost to my door, somebody ran into me. And I didn't imagine it because the cat hissed at him or her."

“Okay," Shelley said briskly. "We'll just get to the bottom of this right now. I'll get my flashlight. Keep the cat in here so we don't trip over him.”

Pajama'd and robed, and equipped with Shelley's powerful flashlight, they set out. There was no one in the hallway, but there was a light shining under the door to Aunt Iva's room. Jane tapped lightly on the door. There was a scuffling sound and some whispering behind the door and finally Iva said, "Who's there?"

“It's Jane Jeffry, Miss Thatcher.”

The door opened a crack. Iva's wig was badly off center. "What is it?"

“Have you been out of your room recently?”

“Of course not. Why would I be?"

“Maybe to get a snack from the kitchen?" Jane suggested. "Did you hear anyone in the hallway here?"

“I did not," Iva said, rudely shutting the door in Jane's face.

“Let's go look over the main room," Shelley said.

The room looked just as it had before the power went out earlier in the evening. At least Jane thought so. But Shelley was more observant. She directed her light along the far wall. "Something's missing.”

Jane stared. "The pictures are gone. Weren't there a couple hunting prints or something on that wall?"

“Yes," Shelley said. "And I looked at them. They were trite and worthless. Who would steal them? And why?"

“I don't know, but it explains why somebody was in here and wouldn't answer me, doesn't it?"

“Maybe," Shelley said, sounding a bit shaken now herself. She shined her light around the rest of the room. They looked behind chairs and found no sign of anyone lurking. "Let's go back to bed. This is going to all seem very silly in the morning."

“I sincerely hope so. But I don't like spooky stuff and this whole night has been spooky to the max. And I can't imagine why the person who shined the flashlight on me wouldn't answer when I called out. Somebody's up to no good here."

“Jane, you just concentrate on the wedding and quit worrying about what anybody else is up to. Everything's going to work out just fine."

“No power, no bridesmaids' dresses, a flock of squabbling old ladies, a cat burglar, and everything's going to be fine?" Jane said. "Like hell.”

SIX

Larkspur was the one to find the body. He did not faint.

He tapped quietly, but frantically, at Jane's bedroom door at seven in the morning. "Jane, I have very bad news," he said. All his artifice had dropped away and he looked ten years older. "I was up early and thought I'd look at the stairs to see if there was a way to wind some flowers around the banister—"

“You woke me up to talk about flowers?" Jane asked.

“No, no. I was just explaining how I came to find her."

“Who 'her'?"

“Mrs. Crossthwait. She's dead.”

Jane, still half asleep, just stared at him, trying to take in what he was saying. "Dead? Mrs. Crossthwait's dead?" she whispered.

“At the bottom of the staircase. She must have fallen."

“Have you called for an ambulance?" Jane asked.

“Yes. And the police. I think she should be covered up so no one else sees her that way," Larkspur said.

“I'll dress and be right there," Jane said.

She woke Shelley and they flung on clothing, grabbed the comforter off Jane's bed, and joined Larkspur in the main room.

“No, no quilt," Larkspur said. "I've been thinking. It could contaminate evidence."

“Evidence?" Jane exclaimed. "Evidence of what? What are you talking about?”

Shelley said, "Larkspur's right. What if she didn't just fall?"

“Are you two suggesting somebody actually killed her?" Jane asked.

“Not suggesting," Larkspur said. "But it's always a possibility.”

Mrs. Crossthwait lay face-down on the bottom two steps, her neck twisted at an impossible angle. She wore a long cotton nightgown with red and white stripes and a somewhat yellowed white robe over it. There was a pink slipper halfway up the stairway and another on her right foot. Jane turned away, trying not to gag. "I think we should at least put up a barrier of chairs. If I were dead, I wouldn't want people gawking at me. Thank heaven there's no one else staying in the upstairs rooms yet who would have to edge around a body to come down.”

The three of them moved some furniture, but Jane's hope that Mrs. Crossthwait could be quietly removed before anyone else was up and about was dashed by the sirens on the ambulances and the police car that arrived a few minutes later. Iva and Marguerite came stumbling into the main room, their wigs askew. "What's going on?" Iva asked. "Is there a fire? Should we leave the building?"

“No," Jane said, doing her best to shoo them back to their rooms. "There's been an accident. The seamstress fell down the steps."

“Is she badly hurt?" Marguerite said. "I did a little nursing in my youth. I might be able to help—"

“There's no helping her, I'm afraid," Jane said.

“She's dead?" Iva screeched. "Someone has died here just before dear Livvy's wedding?”

Wedding, Jane thought. Dresses. Somebody would have to finish the dresses! Then she felt guilty. The poor old woman was dead and all Iva and Jane were thinking of was the wedding. Still, she had to ask. "Do either of you sew well?"

“I do," Iva said.

Mr. Willis, in a shocking red silk dressing gown, nearly knocked the old women down as he careened through the door. "What is it! Not a fire!”

Jane left Iva and Marguerite to explain the situation to him while she went to open the door to the ambulance. She could see Uncle Joe sprinting out from the woods. He could really move when necessary, she thought sourly.

The two men and a woman from the ambulance rushed past her and a tall, blond Viking of a police officer followed. Eden, Layla, and Kitty had joined the knot of people at the door to the bedroom hallway. Shelley and Larkspur stood with Jane at the front door. In a few minutes, the police officer joined them and introduced himself as John Smith.

“A likely story," Larkspur said with a nervous laugh.

Officer Smith ignored him. "Who's in charge here?" he asked.

“I guess I am," Jane said. "This is the early contingent of a wedding party and I'm the planner." She gave him her name and home address.

“And did you find the body?"

“No, I did," Larkspur said.

“And you are—?"

“The florist. Larkspur."

“A likely story," Officer Smith said without a trace of a smile. "And you put in the call for us?"

“Yes. I was up early. Couldn't sleep. I put some coffee on, then came in here while I waited because I wanted to consider putting flowers on the stairs. I saw her—" He shuddered.

“Did you touch the body?"

“No. Oh, no! I could tell she was dead, and even if she hadn't been, I wouldn't have known what to do.”

Officer Smith turned back to Jane. "Who is the woman?”

Jane gave Mrs. Crossthwait's name and agreed to supply him with an address and phone number. To all other questions — next of kin, age, and such — Jane had no answers.

“Do any of you have any reason to suspect foul play?" the officer asked.

“No, of course not!" Jane said. "She was old and not very steady on her feet and she must have come down the stairs overnight and lost her footing. The stairs are very slippery, as you can see.”

Officer Smith made a note of her comments.

Shelley cleared her throat meaningfully. "I don't mean to be an alarmist or troublemaker, but—"

“You are—?" Smith asked.