A Groom With a View (11 page)

As they got situated, Mel and Officer John Smith emerged from the woods. They had old Uncle Joe walking between them. It was impossible to hear the conversation they were attempting to have with him, but not hard to guess the gist. Mel or the local police officer would speak. Uncle Joe would instantly shrug incomprehension. Joe's part consisted entirely of hands outspread in ignorance, negative shakes of the head, glares, and halfhearted attempts to shake the other two men off.

“He knows something about this," Jane said. "What makes you think that?" Shelley asked, staring at the small group.

“Because he's pretending to know nothing. Nobody knows nothing."

“You can say that because you don't know my cousin Alfred.”

Jane laughed. "Shelley, if somebody asks you something and you haven't got the answer, don't you at least pause and consider whether you might have some bit of information, no matter how trivial?"

“Yes, I guess so. But I'm not a cranky old recluse who isn't enjoying having his turf invaded."

“That's the point," Jane said. "It is his turf. In his view, anyway. He's apparently lived here, quite alone most of the time, for years. And for all his crabbing around, acting too feeble to be of any use, I think he knows every stick of furniture in the dark."

“You think he was one of the people roaming around last night during the storm?"

“I'd bet anything on it," Jane said. "And I'll bet he saw or heard things he's keeping to himself. That's why he's so vehemently denying any knowledge of what's going on here to Mel and Officer Smith. He doesn't seem to even like having family around. Imagine how he feels about The Law invading.”

The cat Jane had met up with the night before came strolling around the corner and sat down to evaluate them for a long moment before taking a really serious stretch and then jumping on Jane's lap. She scritched him behind his ears.

Shelley was staring toward, but not at, the football game. She was thinking so hard, Jane could almost hear the gears grinding. Finally Shelley said, with uncharacteristic timidity, "Jane, I know this is nuts, but everybody seems to know something about this story of a hidden treasure. But nobody admits to believing in it. Don't you find that a bit suspicious?”

Jane kept petting the cat. "I guess so, but let's define 'everybody.' Layla vaguely remembered the story. Eden more so, and it was she who said the aunts came up with the theory and Jack checked it out and denies that there is one. But that's all.”

Shelley shook her head. "Larkspur is roaming around with spade and shovel and a wild, greedy, non-floral gleam in his eye."

“That's right. I'd forgotten about him. How would he know?"

“We must ask," Shelley said. "If he's heard it, there are probably hundreds of other people who also have."

“So where's this leading us?"

“Well—" Shelley hesitated. "Not that I think this is necessarily right, but suppose there really is a treasure here—"

“If there were a hidden treasure," Jane interrupted, "why would it necessarily be at the hunting lodge? If I had a treasure, I'd buy a big old safe and stick it in there."

“But then it wouldn't be hidden, just locked up," Shelley said irritably. "Just hear me out, will you? Suppose there was a treasure, and it was in Mrs. Crossthwait's room. If I'd been O. W. and wanted to hide something here, I'd have hidden it in my own room or the one next to it so I couldcheck on it while I was here, and be sure nobody else would be staying in the room when I wasn't here."

“Okay," Jane said. "I'll buy that. So you think Mrs. Crossthwait found it?"

“She seemed to be a bit on the deaf side, but her eyesight must have been a wonder. You've seen her work. All that meticulous, tiny handwork."

“But Shelley, she was here for less than a full day. How could she have found something Uncle Joe has never noticed? And if the whole Thatcher family and circle of friends plus a few strangers have heard this rumor, how could he not know about it? He's had years and years to look for it. My God! I'm starting to sound like I think it exists.”

Shelley was prepared to counter this argument. "Look at the way he dresses. No one on earth has taste that bad unless they're at least color-blind."

“Wrong. My grandfather was very fond of checks, plaids, and stripes together in his old age. And he had good vision. Just no taste."

“Okay, I'll give you that one," Shelley said. "Paul's father wears the most awful hats in the world and doesn't seem to have any idea how silly he looks. But you do have to admit that Mrs. Crossthwait must have had exceptionally good vision."

“That one I agree with."

“So suppose she dropped a pin on the floor, bent over to get it, and realized the joints in the flooring formed a little door?"

“The room has a linoleum floor."

“Don't be so picky. It was just an example," Shelley snapped. "Just suppose she spotted something that didn't look quite right, investigated, and found something valuable? It could have been something very small. The corner of an envelope barely visible at the edge of a rug or something."

“What if she had?" Jane said. "We don't know enough about her to guess whether she'd just pocket it among all that stuff she brought along and live the rest of her life in luxury or whether she'd have turned it over to the rightful owner."

“The rightful owner, who is presumably Jack Thatcher, wasn't here yet when she died—"

“That we know of," Jane reminded her. "We have no idea where he was last night and it's only about an hour and a half from Chicago to here."

“—but she might have dropped a hint to someone about having found something important. She was up in that room most of the time she was here and everybody else was roaming around wherever they wanted. Anyone could have visited her up there and no one else might have even noticed.”

There was a loud yelp from one of the football game participants. Jane watched in horror as two of the young men rushed over to where Dwayne Hessling was spread-eagled in the grass. But before she could act, he'd gotten up and was bending his arm experimentally. "It's okay," he said. "I can still move everything.”

Jane let out the breath she'd been holding. "All we need him to do is break an arm or leg," she said.

“We'd just have to have Larkspur do something with tulips and baby's breath on his crutches," Shelley said with a laugh.

Jane gave her friend the look she usually reserved for the mother of children who were misbehaving in the grocery store. "Get back to your theory. We're already about six 'supposes' away from any sort of reality. Might as well run the whole course."

“Hmmm. To tell the truth, I'm not sure where I was going with it. Except to say that it's possible Mrs. Crossthwait saw or found something valuable and put herself in danger by mentioning it."

“You're ruining my theory that somebody who has nothing to do with this wedding discovered that she was a Nazi collaborator and followed her here to bump her off as an act of revenge," Jane said.

Shelley smiled. "Sorry about that. But why would anybody follow her here to kill her? They wouldn't know the layout of the place, especially in the dark."

“Maybe it wasn't dark all night. We had lights on in the main room when the power failed. Maybe it came back on during the night."

“But unless they'd been lurking under the furniture all day, how would an outsider even know what room she was in?" Shelley asked.

Jane thought about this for a long moment and couldn't dredge up an argument. "Okay, okay. So if the police are right that somebody pushed her down the steps, and if it's somebody who was staying overnight, who do you suggest as chief suspect?"

“The aunts?" Shelley answered halfheartedly.

“Come on, Shelley! What threat could Mrs. Crossthwait have possibly been to either of them?"

“Well, there's the treasure story. From what we've heard, they're the ones who thought it up and the only ones, besides Larkspur, who seem to believe it. What if she found something valuable and mentioned it to them? Maybe something she didn't even recognize as being of value."

“And they wanted it for themselves, not to share with Jack, who had never believed the story to begin with…?" Jane said.

“Or maybe it was just one of them," Shelley said. "One who wanted to keep it all to herself.”

Jane thought about it for a while. "Maybe. But the aunts clearly snubbed her after dinner. A mere hireling daring to be chummy with them. They're really dreadful snobs."

“But last night they were the senior members of the Thatcher family present at the lodge. If she had discovered something and was being honest about it, wouldn't they be the ones she'd tell?"

“I guess so," Jane said. Then she thought for a long moment. "What if she actually knew them? Before now, I mean. Or knew of them?"

“What do you mean?"

“They're all of an age. And nobody waits until they're seventy to become a dressmaker," Jane said. "She said she'd sewn a wedding dress for Marguerite way in the past. What if her association with them caused her to know some secret about one or the other?”

Shelley's eyes lit up. "I like it," she said. "Maybe she made maternity clothes fifty years ago for the virginal-and-damned-proud-of-it Aunt Iva. They wouldn't remember someone as lowly as a seamstress, but she'd remember doing a secret job for a high society type."

“And the aunts knew perfectly well who she was and what she knew and despite their bickering, they'd stick together against an enemy.”

The cat jumped off Jane's lap and walked away, as if disapproving of the conversation. Jane laughed. "So we know what the cat thinks of that theory."

“Pretty bad, huh? A bit of a stretch?" Shelley asked.

“Just a bit. Shows a good imagination though. You get an A for effort."

“Okay, forget the aunts for the moment. It's easy to imagine them destroying someone with a few well-chosen words, but not with raw physical effort. If it has to be someone here, what about Uncle Joe?"

“Motive? And let's try to stay away from secret pregnancies and Nazi connections."

“The treasure, of course," Shelley said confidently. "He's been here for ages, diligently searching, pulling up floorboards, checking the backs of drawers, peeling up bits of linoleum, pawing around in the stuffing in the animal heads, tapping on walls for secret passages—"

“Digging up the gardens?" Jane put in.

“Yes, and he's found nothing. Then this cranky old lady whose heavy sewing machine he has to take upstairs finds the treasure. And it's going to be turned over to Jack and the aunts. Not a penny for loyal Uncle Joe. So he pushes her down the stairs, nips into her room — or wherever she said it was — and snags it.”

Jane nodded. "And why would she have chosen to tell him, of all people, about it?”

Shelley slumped in her lawn chair. "Good question. Unless it was a complaint. 'Here, my good man,' " Shelley said, pretending to be Mrs. Crossthwait, " 'when you've got that sewing machine in place, get rid of that rolled-up document stuck down the throat of that awful bear rug's head.' How's that?”

Jane grinned. "Let me guess. The rolled-up document is proof that Uncle Joe was once a mass murderer."

“Or Nazi sympathizer," Shelley said cheerfully. "Take your pick.”

one of the football players broke
away
from the game and went inside, nodding politely to Jane and Shelley and coming back out a few minutes later with his hands full of sodas, which he passed around. Another went inside the lodge as the first was coming out and he, too, returned a few minutes later.

“I guess I should check on how the shower is going," Jane said lethargically.

“They'd find you if they needed anything.”

“Still, I need to appear to be earning my keep. Be right back. If Jack Thatcher catches me sitting down, he'll probably take a hundred bucks off my fee.”

“Where is he, anyway?"

“He and his pals are off looking at a lake somewhere on the grounds, I think," Jane said. "Probably planning where the ninth green ought to be. Wait here."

“You plan to leave me here watching an amateur football game? No way," Shelley said.

As they approached the side room, Jane was pleased to hear lots of chatter that sounded downright friendly. Apparently the earlier ice had been broken. Eden and Layla were coming out the door. Eden was heading toward the hallway to the monks' rooms, presumably for a potty break, and Layla was halfway to the kitchen. "Do you need something?" Jane asked Layla.

As she was speaking, Mr. Willis shoved open the kitchen door, balancing a tray of more champagne cocktails. "That's what I was looking for," Layla said. "We're all getting giggly-tipsy. Aunt Marguerite is telling what she considers risqué stories.”

Layla looked so girlish and happy Jane had the urge to hug her. "You're having fun, aren't you?"

“If it weren't for Mrs. Crossthwait, this would have been my best weekend in years."

“You're not missing your children?”

Layla laughed. "No, not a bit. Should I feel guilty?"

“Absolutely not," Jane said.

Jane and Shelley oozed in the door and caught Livvy's eye. "Anything you need?" Jane mouthed.

Livvy was surrounded by a pile of wrapping paper and ribbons. Somebody had fetched a rather wicked-looking knife from the kitchen to help open gifts. Jane guessed nobody wanted to go to Mrs. Crossthwait's room for scissors.

Livvy pushed the paper and ribbon aside, got up, and came over. "I need a box to put everything in so none of the little things get lost. There might be some in the attic. Would you mind—?”

“Not at all," Jane said.

As she and Shelley went up the stairs, Shelley said, "She was actually smiling slightly. And it looked like a real smile."

“I can't wait for this to be over," Jane said. "Things seem to be going well now and maybe we'll just coast on through the rest.”