“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.