A Groom With a View jj-11

by Jill Churchill

  After a bit, Jane realized the temperature had dropped and it was getting really chilly. She opened her doorway to the hall. "There's a very bad draft out here. I wonder if a door's been left ajar?”

  There was a low wailing sound from somewhere.

  “What was that!" Shelley exclaimed, rushing through the bathroom to Jane's room.

  Jane was wide-eyed. "I don't know. I don't hear it now."

  “Open the door again," Shelley said.

  The wail began again. Jane started to laugh, albeit a bit nervously. "It's the wind down this hall. I lived in a dormitory once that was like that. Get the right combinations of doors along the hall opened and a good wind outside and you get an eerie howling noise."

  “You're real certain that's what it is?'

  “Certain enough that I'm not going to go check it out.”

  Shelley went back through the bathroom that led to her room.

  A minute later, Jane called through, "I'm in charge here. I do have to check it out."

  “Want me to go along?" Shelley was trying to read a magazine by the light of her small bedside kerosene lamp.

  “No, of course not," Jane said, mentally pleading, Please insist on joining me!

  But Shelley took her at her word. Jane put on a robe, lighted her lamp, and opened the door again. The howling, which wasn't audible with the door shut, sounded louder and more ominous. Don't be a big baby, Jane told herself. Just check that the main doors are locked and don't go all spooky and stupid.

  This resolve lasted down the hallway and into the main room. As Jane approached the front door, which was open slightly, an enormous gust of rain-laden wind blew it all the way open. The heavy door crashed against the wall, and bounced back, nearly smacking Jane in the process. The wind had blown out her lamp, which she set down on the floor.

  She closed the door, tested it, and discovered that the latch was old and didn't quite fit. After a bit of experimenting, she discovered that closing the door, then flinging herself against it, caused a nice snick as the bolt actually went home. Now that she'd solved the door problem, all she had to do was go back to her room.

  In the dark.

  Without a lamp.

  Or flashlight.

  But there was lightning. And if she got her bearings with each flash and took it slowly, she could return without running into anything. She stood quite still, peering blindly into the main room, ready to get a good fix on just where she was the next time there was a flash of light.

  Something brushed against her ankle.

  Jane screamed just as a great noisy blast of sound and light seemed to strike only feet away. Over the sound of her heart thudding, she could hear the distinct ripping sound of a big limb peeling off a tree outside the house.

  There was a creature in the house. A raccoon? A possum? Or something bigger and scarier. Or, worse yet, a person! But what would a person be doing at ground level? Crawling? The thought gave her the creeps even worse.

  She tried shuffling briskly in the direction shethought she needed to go, but cracked her foot against a chair leg. She was disoriented. There shouldn't have been a chair there. Dear God, why hadn't she brought along a flashlight?

  Something bumped her leg again.

  And meowed.

  Jane nearly collapsed with relief. She'd seen the big gray tabby cat earlier in the afternoon, once when it was snoozing on an easy chair and again when it wandered up the steps just after dinner. She knelt down and said, "Kitty? Kitty?"

  “Mrrreow," the cat said chummily.

  She picked it up, with a loony sense of comfort.

  “Now," she told it, "we're going to go back to my room. Very slowly, very carefully. You can probably see perfectly well in here, but I can't, so I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me if I'm about to run into something."

  “Mrrreow." It sounded like consent to Jane in her fevered state.

  Another flash of lightning. The cat and Jane both tensed, but it gave her a few more feet of movement. But when the lightning flash was over, there was the flicker of another light. Right in her eyes. Someone had turned on a flashlight, and seeing her, quickly turned it back off.

  “Who's there?" she called down the length of the main room.

  Her only answer was another rumble of thunder.

  This was not good. There might be half a dozen reasons someone else was roaming around the house, but no good reason for not responding when spoken to.

  She kept her blind gaze directed at the direction the light had come from and the next time the room was briefly illuminated by the storm, she cast a quick, thorough look around the far end of the room. But there was no sign of anyone. There was so much furniture that whoever it was could have just ducked behind a sofa or chair, waiting for Jane to leave.

  Which was precisely what she intended to do. As quickly as possible.

  Still holding the cat, which was purring as if nothing were wrong at all, Jane made her way, a few feet at a time, back to the door leading to the hallway where the tiny guest rooms were. She was feeling her way along the left-hand wall, trying to remember which door was hers, when the cat suddenly hissed.

  Someone bumped into them and quickly fled. The footsteps were soft, perhaps made by socks or slippers or bare feet, but distinctly footsteps.

  Jane, still holding onto the cat, plunged into the next doorway she came to, hoping desperately that it was her own bedroom.

  It was.

  “Where have you been all this time?" Shelley called. "Jane?" Shelley got out of bed and came through the bathroom. "Good Lord! You're as pale as a ghost. And what are you doing with that cat?”

  Jane sat down on her bed and the cat settled inher lap. "I've had a real adventure," she said breathlessly.

  She recounted to Shelley how the main door had all but attacked her, her lamp had blown out, the cat had scared her half to death, and someone who would not answer had shined a flashlight at her.

  “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.

  “Shelley Nowack. I live next door to Jane and came along to help with the wedding. I just wanted to mention that I watched Mrs. Crossthwait go up the stairs twice yesterday and she was extremely wary and cautious. She held onto the banister with both hands and took each step very slowly. I can't imagine her just skipping lightly down the stairs in the dark. I didn't see a flashlight anywhere near her and the power was out overnight.”

  Officer Smith made more notes.

  Shelley said, "Jane, don't you have something to contribute?”

  Jane sighed. "Okay, okay. I came out here late last night because the front door had blown open. When I started to return, I saw someone at that end of the room. Well, I didn't see them, exactly. But somebody was there and shined a flashlightin my eyes for a second, then wouldn't answer when I asked who was there."

  “And what did you do then?" Smith asked.

  “I picked my way through the dark to my room. Shelley and I came back here with a flashlight, but there wasn't anybody in here. We went to bed," Jane said. "I assumed somebody couldn't sleep. Was maybe coming down to the kitchen to get a glass of milk or something, and just didn't feel like talking to me."

  “When was this?" Officer Smith asked.

  Shelley and Jane glanced at each other. "I didn't look at my watch," Jane said, "but it must have been about ten-thirty."

  “And there wasn't a body on the steps then?" the officer inquired.

  “Of course not!" Jane said.

  “But there might have been another reason for somebody to be roaming around in here," Shelley said, urging Jane along. "The pictures. Remember?"

  “Oh, yes. When we came back out here with a flashlight, the pictures on that wall were miss- ing—”

  “

  They all turned to look where she was pointing. The pictures were all back in place.

  Without a word, Smith went back to the other end of the room and talked briefly with the ambulance attendants. They had been getting ready to put Mrs. Crossthwait on a stretcher, but now sat down on a couple of nearby chairs while Smith used a mobile phone.

  “Now we've done it," Jane said. "This guy is going to think somebody bumped her off and we'll h
ave police all over the place."

  “Police at the Wedding," Shelley said. "Isn't that the title of a book?"

  “Police at the Funeral. Allingham," Jane said, preoccupied. "Nobody had any reason to harm her. Except me, maybe. And I certainly wouldn't have shoved her down the stairs. At least not before she finished the dresses."

  “It's out of our hands," Larkspur said. "Always better to be honest, you know. Even if it is a nuisance. I wonder if I can go now. I've got to get back to the city and get the flowers."

  “I wouldn't ask for a while yet," Shelley said.

  The police were very thorough. A photographer showed up and took pictures of Mrs. Crossthwait's body, the stairs, the stair rails, and the upper landing from every possible angle. A severe-looking middle-aged woman turned up with a fingerprint kit and coated the banister with dust and took prints of everybody else. Nobody regarded this with favor and Iva threw a full-blown fit, but ended up having her fingerprints taken anyway. Another police officer arrived and began questioning everyone.

  The power had been restored, and Mr. Willis, doing a real loaves and fishes act, managed to prepare breakfast for everyone, guests and law officers as well.

  “What are all these dreadful people doing here?" Iva complained. "You'd think it was a murder or something."

  “I think they're just being overenthusiastic about assuring themselves it wasn't," Jane said as soothingly as she could manage.

  “Do you think they suspect 'foul play,' as they put it, Shelley?" Jane asked later when they went outside for a breath of fresh air.

  “I don't know. Maybe they're just bored out here in the country and are hoping for something juicy to get their teeth into."

  “There's really no reason to think it wasn't just an accidental fall, is there?" Jane said, then thought for a moment. "Although you were right about her being extraordinarily cautious about going up the stairs. She took them with baby steps. Maybe she was sleepwalking."

  “Or maybe you were right when you told Iva they were just making sure," Shelley said. "The fact is, there's nothing we can do about what the police think. But the dresses have to be finished."