Jane and Shelley remained in the car, reluctant to throw themselves back into the wedding plans. "Do you think Mrs. Crossthwait's fall was an accident?" Jane asked.
Shelley thought for a long time. "I hope so," she finally said. "I don't think I could bear to think of anybody in the house actually being a killer."
“If it was murder, it wouldn't necessarily have to be someone in the house. There are already friends and relatives gathering at that motel in town. And the family all knows where the place is," Jane said. "The front door was open, remember?”
Shelley frowned. "Jane, you're right about opportunity. But the important consideration is motive. Mrs. Crossthwait was a mildly irritating old lady. Nothing more. She apparently had no connection to the Thatcher family or friends except that someone recommended her to Livvy, right?"
“Uh-huh. But you heard her last night saying she'd made a wedding dress for Marguerite. So there is at least one connection."
“If it was true," Shelley said. "And even if it was, why would Marguerite have bumped her off for making a dress half a century ago?"
“Good point," Jane admitted.
“So if someone did topple her down the stairs, it had to be someone from her own circle of relatives, neighbors, friends. None of whom are involved in this wedding."
“That we know of," Jane said ominously. "What on earth do you mean by that?"
“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."