A Groom With a View (9 page)

“Just that we don't know much about her. What if she was one of old O. W.'s elderly mistresses?" Shelley whipped her head around. "Oh, my gosh! You couldn't think so!"

“No, I don't, really. But anything's possible. You said it yourself, Shelley, to Officer Smith. She was terribly cautious of the stairs. She went up them like a crab, with both hands on the rail, getting both feet on each step before going on to the next one. This isn't a woman who would dream of skipping down the steps in the dark."

“Maybe not. But you're ignoring the nosinessfactor. Maybe she heard whoever was down there and shined the flashlight on you, and simply couldn't resist investigating. Or possibly she'd left something really important to her — medication or such — in her car and it was vital enough to her to take the risk. She was too busy shrieking during dinner to eat much. Maybe she just got so hungry that she risked the stairs."

“Maybe," Jane said.

“Not maybe. Probably," Shelley said firmly. "And you have to quit worrying about it and get your mind back on the wedding.”

Further speculation was cut off by the arrival of more of the wedding party. An enormous, shining black luxury car was first. Livvy herself was in the passenger seat and Jane assumed the distinguished-looking driver was her father, Jack Thatcher. She and Shelley hopped out of the station wagon and went to meet them.

Jack Thatcher was a handsome, silver-haired man with a golf tan, casual but expensive clothing, and an arrogant air of being a "captain of industry." Livvy insisted on introducing her father to Jane even though he clearly wasn't interested in meeting the hired help.

“Ah, Mrs. Jeffry. You've been helping Livvy plan the wedding," he said, appearing to dismiss her with the rest of the necessary riffraff.

Helping?
Jane thought.
There wouldn't have been a wedding without me.

“
Yes, I've 'helped' a bit," she said. Her tone should have warned him, but it didn't.

“The van following us has the wedding gifts," he said. "You can set them out for display."

“I beg your pardon?" Jane said. "This is the first I've heard of this. I hadn't planned—"

“You'll find a place for them," he said.

Jane could think of a perfect place, but it would be vulgar to suggest it.

“Mr. Thatcher, I'm sorry to say that just isn't done anymore," Jane said, then recklessly added, "I believe in most circles, it's considered ostentatious and in poor taste.”

He'd leaned into the car to pick up some paperwork and now turned and glared at her. "You dare tell me—"

“Daddy!" Livvy all but screamed. "It's my fault. I forgot to tell Jane you wanted the gifts displayed. We'll find somewhere to put them. Maybe on tables in the upstairs hallway."

“Do whatever you like, Livvy. It's your wedding," he said, clearly not meaning a word of it.

Now that Jane and Jack Thatcher had pretty well established themselves as enemies, she decided to let him have the bad news as bluntly as possible.

“Mr. Thatcher, there was a death here last night."

“
What?"

“
The seamstress fell down the stairs and died. I'm afraid the police may want to discuss it with you."

“With me? Why? I don't even know this person.”

“It did happen on your property," Jane said.

“Mrs. Crossthwait is dead?" Livvy asked. "That's awful. What happened? What can we do?"

“It's not up to us to do anything," Jack said. "There was no reason for her to be here that I can imagine. If Mrs. Jeffry invited her, Mrs. Jeffry can sort it out.”

He strode off, flapping his paperwork angrily against his leg. Livvy gave Jane a frantic, upset look, then went running after her father calling, "Daddy… wait…”

Shelley took hold of Jane's arm. "Sit down right here and now. You're as white as a sheet. We can't have you fainting from fury."

“What makes him think he can talk to me like that—" The rest of the sentence stuck in her throat as she swallowed back a sob of frustration.

“He's just a hateful bastard, Jane."

“I'm tempted to just pack my bag and go home," Jane said, her voice shaking. "Let
him
put on the damned wedding."

“You know you won't do that," Shelley said. "You're not a quitter."

“Neither am I a medieval serf! That… that…”

“Jerk?”

Jane shook her head. "Oh, 'jerk' doesn't even come close, Shelley. In fact, the only phrases that pop to mind are things I've heard but never said out loud. One of them starts with 'mother'—”

Before she could consider revising this lifelong record, the gift van arrived. A harassed-looking young man climbed out and asked, "Where am I supposed to put this stuff?"

“Ask Mr. Thatcher," Jane snapped.

Shelley stepped in and said in her kindliest manner, "Do you work for Mr. Thatcher?”

“I'm afraid I do," the young man said.

“See, Jane," Shelley said. "Here's someone who has to deal with him more than you do and he's not rolling around chewing sticks and frothing at the mouth."

“I've come close though," he said with a sudden grin.

Jane took a deep breath and returned the smile. "Okay, we'll find somewhere to show this stuff off. I hope all the cards are with the proper gifts. I have to give Livvy the list so she can write the thank you notes.”

Jane stomped off, walking hard on her heels. Fortunately, the people who'd brought the folding chairs had an extra table along, which Jane asked them to put in the side room where the bride's shower was to be held shortly. They draped it with one of the linen sheets that had returned from the laundry the day before and Jane and Shelley hastily arranged the gifts so that the places that had been darned didn't show.

While they were setting out and drooling over the Steuben and Waterford items, Larkspur returned from the city. "What are you doing? What's this extra table? Am I supposed to floralize it? Is this that scene from
High Society?
Issomeone going to burst into 'True Love' with full orchestration?”

Jane only picked up on one word and it tickled her. "Floralize? Please tell me you didn't really say that!”

Larkspur blushed slightly. "A technical term," he said. "This is so tacky, Jane. Do all these things still have their price stickers on them?"

“It's not my fault," Jane said. "Livvy's dad's idea. And if you're smart, you'll stay as far from him as you can. He'd mop the floor with you. He's already scraped the windows with me."

“Daddy Dearest?" Larkspur asked. "I love strong-minded men."

“Well, you're not going to love this one," Jane said. "And if you do, I don't want to hear about it. Ever!"

“Have you met the groom's family yet?" Larkspur asked. "They were just coming in as I drove up. Not quite crème de la crème."

“I hope this meeting goes better than the last one," Jane said. She fluffed up her hair, took a deep breath, and forced a pleasant smile as she went back to the main room. The Thatchers and the Hesslings were chatting. Jane hung back, pretending to be studying one of her notebooks rather than interrupt.

Dwayne Hessling, the groom, was easy to spot. He was a stunning young man. Curly dark hair, blue eyes, a Cary Grant cleft in his chin. But as Eden had said, there was a touch of the cheap gigolo about him. His stance was cocky, his hair a bit too long and shiny, his trousers just a bit too tight. While the others spoke, his gaze was darting around the room in an acquisitive manner.

Dwayne's brother Errol was standing next to him. He was to be the best man. Superficially, they were alike in coloring and features, but Errol was burly, and he smiled a lot and when he did, his eyes crinkled. Jane thought that Livvy had picked the wrong brother. Errol looked a lot more open and friendly and was staring at Livvy with the unabashed admiration of a hunting enthusiast for a really good dog.

The third member of the family group was their mother, Irma, who was clearly out of her element. She was a short, dumpy woman who was wearing what was probably the best dress from a cheap store. Her ensemble was a shell blouse, a skirt, and lightweight coat that might have been fashionable ten years ago if it had been linen and an attractive color. But it shouted polyester in mustard tones. She kept oozing back away from the group, and Errol kept taking her arm and bringing her back. She answered the few remarks addressed to her with a nervous giggle.

Jane felt enormously sorry for her and now understood why Irma had insisted that she and Errol would stay in the nearby motel rather than at the lodge. She'd known, or feared, she'd be out of place with the Thatcher crowd. Dwayne was the one marrying into the Thatcher clan, not his mother.

Jack made a gesture that seemed to be an orderto take a tour of the house. Livvy and the Hessling brothers followed obediently. Irma slipped the noose and sat down in a high-backed chair, took her right shoe off, and started rubbing her foot. Jane approached her and Irma hastily shoved her shoe back on with a grimace.

“New shoes," she explained. "I should have known better."

“Mrs. Hessling, I'm Jane Jeffry. I'm the wedding planner. We've corresponded."

“Yes, yes. I've appreciated you keeping me up on the plans. I'm a waitress, you know," she added as if it were relevant.

“No, I didn't know," Jane said, confused. "Uh — you must meet a lot of interesting people."

“You do," Irma Hessling said, nodding sagely. "And you learn a lot about how they think and act. That Mr. Thatcher… he's the kind who'd send his hamburger back if it wasn't cooked just right and then refuse to pay because of the delay.”

Irma was sharper than she looked. Common sense in the place of fashion sense.

“I believe you're right," Jane said, thinking uneasily about the final payment that was due on her work at the completion. He'd probably dock her for Mrs. Crossthwait's death.

“And poor little Livvy would bury a burnt bit in her mashed potatoes before she'd complain.”

Jane thought for a moment and said, "You're not very pleased about this match, are you?”

Irma leaned forward and spoke in almost a whisper. "No, not really. It's not good for any- body. 'Course, the Thatchers are rich and Dwayne likes that, but it isn't the money that's wrong. Now, Errol, he could marry a rich girl and he'd stay the same person. And he could marry a shy little thing like Livvy and treat her real nice. But Dwayne's always been bossy unless I stood on him real hard." She'd taken her shoe back off and was massaging a bunion. "And Livvy, poor thing, is used to being bossed. It's going to bring out the worst in him.”

Jane took the woman's hand. "You may be right. But they're going to have to work it out themselves. Maybe when Livvy's married and has some children, she'll get a bit more backbone. Motherhood does that for a lot of women."

“I hope that's so. I really shouldn't have said anything."

“Let me know if there's anything you need or want," Jane said. The tour group was coming back and it wouldn't help either of them to be discovered in a secret little confab.

“Shelley," Jane said a little later, "I think this wedding is cursed.”

Shelley, who had been helping Larkspur arrange the flowers and enjoying his outrageous flattery, was cool. "You just have pseudo-motherof-the-bride jitters."

“I hope that's all they are," Jane said. "I need a nap and I don't see one anytime soon on my horizon.”

Aside from the aunts demanding better bath towels, one of the caterer's local helpers twisting her ankle, and Larkspur dropping and breaking his best flower vase, the rest of what remained of the morning went fairly well. Eden, Kitty, and Layla, under Aunt Iva's supervision, had almost finished their dresses. Probably not to Mrs. Crossthwait's exacting standards, but well enough to precede Livvy without looking bedraggled and half dressed. Mr. Willis set out a "do-it-yourself" luncheon of sandwich makings, green and pasta salads, chips, dips, and an assortment of drinks ranging from white wine to sodas to coffee. The growing crowd at the lodge helped themselves.

Jack Thatcher had assigned himself and his downtrodden assistant the job of hauling the nonresident guests back and forth from the hunting lodge to their motel. Jane tried at first to sort out who everyone was, having hand-addressed all the invitations, but soon gave up. They fell into identifiable categories though. Some of the older, better-dressed men appeared to be business associates of Jack's. A few younger women were either their middle-aged crisis replacement wives — or friends of Livvy's who were gathering for the bridal shower in the afternoon. Most of these stylish young women were probably serving in both roles, Jane thought, since Livvy seemed to be a bit short on close personal friends.

There was also a handful of young men who greeted Dwayne with slaps on the back and mildly raunchy jokes. They were friends of his who would be attending the bachelor party later in the evening.

Shelley and Jane stood by the door, introducing themselves to the newcomers as they arrived and helping them find their friends. During a lull, Shelley said, "Remember the high school rule? The prettiest girl surrounded herself by ugly friends so she could really shine in comparison."

“Hmmm. You mean that wasn't coincidence?" Jane asked with a grin.

“Seems that Dwayne has done the same," Shelley said.

Jane glanced at the small knot of young men surrounding Dwayne where he stood in a Lord of the Manor pose in front of one of the fireplaces. Jane had seen Jack Thatcher strike the same pose only hours earlier. Shelley was right: none of Dwayne Hessling's friends matched him for sheer good looks, although most of them were alittle too well-dressed. Trying, she guessed, to fit in among the upper crust to the best of their budgets. Dwayne's good luck in combining romance and finance might rub off on them, they might have thought.