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
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
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