A Groom With a View (13 page)

They sat quietly for a few minutes, trying to absorb and process this new information about the Thatcher family. Then Shelley brought up Dwayne's room. "Who could have done that to his things, and why?" she asked.

“I suppose it could have been meant as a tacky practical joke. But it seems out of character for the boys — young men — who are here."

“My thoughts exactly. First, they don't look like hoodlums who would find vandalism amusing.

They're all a bit on the nerdy side. And secondly, while they might want to do something nasty to Dwayne, they're all so extraordinarily deferential to Jack Thatcher that I don't think they'd consider wrecking the bed and the plumbing on his property. Not a good way to impress a big-deal executive."

“I agree. But a couple of them were in and out of the house while the football game was going on. They had opportunity, if not motive," Jane said.

“But so did nearly everyone," Shelley pointed out. "The ladies at the shower were knocking back the champagne and running back and forth to their bathrooms."

“You think a woman might have done it?"

“I don't see why not. It didn't take any special strength or height. It could have even been the aunts, for that matter."

“Or Jack Thatcher. Or even Uncle Joe," Jane said. "But what was the point? Just to show dislike or contempt?"

“Maybe it was meant as a warning. Stop doing whatever you're doing, Dwayne, or something worse will happen to you."

“But what's he doing besides marrying Livvy?”

Shelley said, "That might be enough. Or it could be something else. We really don't know anything about him except that he's sort of low-rent and is very nasty to anyone close at hand when he's mad."

“I guess about the only person it couldn't have been was Jack Thatcher."

“Why's that?"

“Because all he had to do to stop the wedding was tell Livvy it was off," Jane said.

“You're probably right. And I can't see how Livvy and Dwayne getting married would mean anything to the aunts. So who's left?"

“Bridesmaids and Uncle Joe."

“I vote for Uncle Joe," Shelley said.

“Why? What would his motive be?"

“I don't know. But I'll think of something.”

They heard the front door open and footsteps approaching. "Mel? Is that you?" Jane called out.

Mel stepped into the kitchen and headed straight for the refrigerator. "Anything to eat?"

“Mr. Willis left us dinners," Jane said. "Pick whichever plate you like. Where have you been?"

“Just snooping around the grounds," he said, taking the foil off a plate and gazing at the food with disapproval. "Girly-girly stuff. Prissy chicken salad and tiny sandwiches. Is there anything substantial around? I'm starving."

“There probably is, but we don't dare touch it or we may mess up Mr. Willis's meal plans," Jane said. "There's a McDonald's a couple miles away."

“No, I want real food. A steak and a big baked

potato," he said, pouring himself a soft drink and

sitting down at the table with them. "Want to go

somewhere and see if we can find such a thing?"

"Any other time, I'd snap up that offer," Jane said. "But right now all I want to do is stay here and veg out while there's the chance. Did you know Uncle Joe is the illegitimate half-brother of Jack Thatcher and his sisters?"

“You're kidding!" Mel said. "Come to think of it, there is a vague look of an older Jack Thatcher about him. They have the same eyes and hairline."

“Don't you think that's significant?" Jane asked.

“In what way?"

“I'm not sure. It's just odd. They don't seem to have any affection for him. The aunts will hardly speak to him, in fact. But he gets to live here and even go to the rehearsal dinner."

“Every family's got its own rules," Mel said mildly. "This setup isn't half as weird or creepy as a lot I've come across. I had an aunt who invited two of her ex-husbands to her fourth wedding. And they came and had a wonderful time."

“Has anybody mentioned the treasure to you?" Jane asked.

Mel arched an eyebrow and smiled slightly. "The Treasure? Is it a hidden treasure?"

“As a matter of fact, it is," Jane said, suspecting rightly that he was having a joke at her expense. "If it exists at all."

“Okay," Mel said, leaning back in his chair. "Lay it on me."

“We've heard bits of this from several people, but mainly from Eden—"

“The glamorous bridesmaid?"

“I was hoping you wouldn't notice the glamour," Jane said. "Anyhow, according to the aunts, old Oliver Wendell Thatcher was supposed to have a lot more money than showed up when he died. He must have left tons, but they figure there was still a lot more that went missing somewhere."

“Half the families in probate court believe the same thing, Jane," Mel said.

“But in this case, it seems like it could be possible," she replied. "And as Shelley has pointed out, it would have been likely that he was the sort of person who was clever enough to hide money away for his family to keep it from being taxed. Lots of very wealthy people are wary of giving the government more than their fair share of an estate. At least, that's what I hear.”

Mel looked rather blank. "Interesting, I guess, but what has it got to do with anything?"

“I think that's why shadowy figures were creeping around in the dark last night. The night Mrs. Crossthwait died," Jane said. "I feel pretty sure one or both of the aunts took down some of those pictures in the main room and took them apart to see if there might be valuable documents hidden in them."

“And accidentally knocked Mrs. Crossthwait down the stairs?"

“Or purposely, maybe," Jane said. "When I was in the main room, someone shined a flashlight in my eyes for a second, then wouldn't respond when I called out. And as I made my way back tomy room, somebody brushed by me going in the opposite direction. So there were at least two people roaming around to no good purpose. Maybe more."

“And you think this has to do with the hidden treasure," Mel said. Then he sighed. "Well, I'd feel pretty much of a fool if I ignored this nonsense and it turned out to be relevant. I think I'll drive into town and talk to the local officials again. Yes, in fact, that's a good idea. Cops always know where to get a good meal."

“Oh, Mel. There's something else. Dwayne Hessling's room was trashed this afternoon.”

“Trashed?"

“Everything dumped out of his suitcase, clothes deliberately rumpled up, Dwayne's foul aftershave poured all over the bed and toiletries assigned to the toilet."

“Probably his friends' idea of a practical joke."

“We don't think so," Shelley put in. "We think they're ambitious young men who have their imaginations fired up by Dwayne's financial/marital success. They'd be fools not to be on their best behavior while they're here. And Dwayne was furious about it. If he were part of a crowd that ran to that kind of 'joke,' I don't think he'd have been so angry.

Mel had listened seriously. "Okay. You two could be right. But what do you figure the real point was?"

“It looked to me like a threat of some kind. A warning, I think," Jane said. "Do such-and-such and worse things will happen to you. There was a very destructive, nasty feeling in that room."

“And do you figure this has something to do with Mrs. Crossthwait's death, the silly treasure story, or Uncle Joe's birth circumstances as well?"

“You're verging on sarcasm, aren't you?" Jane said.

“Not verging. Wading right in," Mel said.

Jane was tired and cranky. But she knew better than to say anything she'd later regret. "We're just telling you what we know and think that the local police might not have come across. If you want to pass it along, fine. If you don't, that's okay, too.”

Mel was more chastised by this approach than he would have been if she'd been nasty. "Okay. I see your point. I'll go hunt down Officer Smith and pass this along while I try to find out what else he might know. Sure you don't want to come along?"

“No, I like prissy chicken salad. The prissier the better," Jane said.

Mel ended
up having dinner with
officer
John
· Smith at an old roadhouse that didn't even have a sign in front. It was strictly a neighborhood male hangout and specialized in excellent chicken fried steak and mediocre beer.

“I'd be glad for the company," Smith said when Mel offered to treat him to dinner. "My wife's visiting her mother with the kids and I'm a lousy cook. Listen, if you'd like, let me invite somebody else along, too."

“Sure," Mel had said.

Smith made a phone call and they set out for the roadhouse. "I've asked Gus Ambler to meet us. He's a good man who was county sheriff for a dog's age. If there's any background on the lodge that would help us, Ambler'll know all about it.”

Gus Ambler looked like a tough, fat little fighting cock. What little hair he still had was short and white, but he had the coloring of a once-redhead. Mel knew from what Smith had said that Ambler had to be in his seventies, maybe early eighties, but he looked like a "rode-hardand-put-away-wet" fifty. He couldn't have been more than five feet tall and walked with the belligerent, rolling gait of an old sailor.

Ambler was already at the roadhouse and halfway through his first beer when Mel and Smith arrived. Smith performed the introductions and Mel said, "If you'd ever arrested me, I'd have been scared spitless.”

Ambler preened. "And you'da been right, boy! I had 'em shaking in their boots in my day. So what are you boys up to that you need to talk to an old geezer like me?"

“You heard about the death at the Thatchers' lodge?" Smith asked.

“I hear about everything, boy. Got a perp yet?"

“Nope," Smith said. "But we're pretty sure it was someone in the house. Thought you might tell us a bit about the lodge and the Thatchers.”

Ambler glared at Mel. "And what's your place in this?"

“I'm just a guest. A friend of mine is in charge of planning the wedding that's going on tomorrow and I'm watching out for her interests. Besides, I'm curious."

“And he's a good cop, too," Smith put in. He reeled off a list of some of the difficult cases Mel had been responsible for solving.

“How'd you know that?" Mel asked.

Smith looked surprised. "I checked you out. Just like I did everybody. Anybody can create a fake ID these days. Wouldn't you have done the same?”

Mel grinned. "Exactly the same."

“So you're one of us," Ambler said. While they were studying the menus, a waste of time since they were all going to have the famous chicken fried steak anyway, Ambler ran through a few of the cases he'd been involved in. They went clear back to Prohibition days when he was just a kid, hanging out with his uncle, who'd been a deputy.

Mel loved nothing better than to sit around with a tough old cop telling stories of the good old days, but Smith had apparently heard the stories before and gently guided the elderly man back to what he knew of the lodge.

“It was a monastery to start with. I guess you knew that. Bunch of sissy boys from back East came out here in long brown dresses with a rich guy who musta thought they could pray his way into heaven," Ambler said.

A tired-looking waitress came by and slammed three beers on the table and took their orders.

“Anyhow," Ambler went on, "the rich guy died after they'd been here a couple o' years and the money ran out. I guess he figured he didn't need the prayers after he was dead so he didn't leave them any money to get along on. The monks tried growing vegetables and keeping bees and weaving stuff and whatnot, even turned a hand at making soap for a while, but they gave up and sold the place to O. W. Thatcher. That musta been in about 1932 or '33. Bad times, those were. But O. W didn't seem to be hurting for money like the rest of us. He was a young man then, but ran his dad's company selling little junky stuff like folding rulers and toothpick holders and such. Can't imagine how he made a dime on toothpick holders, being as most of us then couldn't even afford toothpicks…”

Mel had the feeling this story might not ever really get off the ground. Smith apparently did, too. "So did O. W. spend a lot of time here?"

“Not at first. Only hunting season. He'd come down here with a bunch of his Chicago cronies and man, were they ever a terror! Drinking like fish, driving around the countryside like maniacs, picking off people's cats and dogs with their rifles."

“Not very welcome in the neighborhood, then?" Mel asked.

“Not welcome a'tall. No, sirree. But it got better after a bit. O. W. got married, had a couple kids, started bringing friends' families down instead of his drinking buddies. By that time, the money situation had eased up and there was less resentment of him on that account, too."

“Was the guy they call 'Uncle Joe' part of the family?" Mel asked.

“Lordy, no! He was O. W.'s bastard kid. The wife probably wouldn't have heard of having him around underfoot. Wasn't until she died when the other kids were in their teens that O. W. dragged Joe into the family. And he was a wild one. In all kinds of trouble when he got here, but then the war came and he went off. And he came back different."

“Different in what way?"

“Not wild, for one thing. Quiet-like and always sort of cranky. People said he had some kind of injury, but nobody seemed to know just what. Nothing showed. He didn't limp or have a deaf ear or anything like that. Rumor was that he had some shrapnel in his head, but I don't know that it was true. People'll make up what they need to think.”

The waitress brought their food, which was wonderful, and they ate in silence for a while. Eventually Ambler burped heartily and went on. "Anyhow, O. W. kept Joe on at the lodge. Guess he felt he owed the boy something, being as he wasn't quite fit to go out in the world. And I gotta give Joe credit. When O. W. got old and pretty dotty, Joe was the one who took care of him. O. W. spent a lot of his later years at the lodge."