A Groom wirh a View by Jill Churchill

looking back and forth at them as if they were a tennis match.
    “Nothing,“ Shelley said. “Nothing that I can guess, anyway. Jane, you’re the only one who was seriously mad at her—don’t bridle up like that—and you’re also the one who had the most to gain from her staying alive and well and sewing her fingers to the bone.“
    “Well, if somebody deliberately killed her—and I don’t admit I believe that—then it was someone in her own life who simply followed her out here so as to cast suspicion on somebody at the lodge. I will not allow this to have some connection to my wedding planning.“
    “Ah,“ Mel said around a potato chip. “Now I get it, Jane. You think this is going to reflect on you somehow?“
    “Are the police checking on her private life?“ Jane asked, not answering his question because the honest reply would sound mean-spirited, even to her.
    “So far, they haven’t found evidence that she had much of a life,“ Mel answered. “A rented apartment above a bookstore, a bit of savings but not an impressive amount. She was a childless longtime widow with Social Security, a little pension from her late husband, and her sewing money. She lived a very quiet life, the bookstore owner says. Her only visitors, as far as he knows, were the ladies she sewed for, and a couple women from her church who held an occasional meeting at her place. Oh, and she took a trip once a year in January to visit a cousin in Florida or Texas, he couldn’t remember which. Somewhere warm, he said.“
    “But—“ Jane said.
    “It’s too early to know more, Jane,“ Mel said, holding up his hand like a traffic cop trying to stop a runaway eighteen-wheeler and believing he could do it. “They only started this morning. You may be right and she has some dark secret that will come to light. But right now, the only suspects are the people who are here for the wedding.“
    “Swell,“ Jane said. “I suppose in view of those bruises, presumably from a strong malicious shove, the local police are going to be back here. Casting a pall. Questioning the guests. Making nuisances of themselves.“
    “Afraid so,“ Mel said.
    “Okay,“ Jane said with a martyred sigh. “We can cope. I can get a grip. Figuring out a murder is, in the grand scale of things, more important than a picture-perfect wedding.”
    Mel muttered something that sounded like, “And a lot more interesting.”
    “What was that?“ Jane asked.
    Mel smiled. “Me? I didn’t say anything.”
    Shelley glanced at her watch. “Almost time for the bridal shower, Jane. Eat your lunch and then we’ll go make sure it goes well.“
    “I’ll consider it to have gone well enough if everybody comes out of it alive,“ Jane said.

Ten

    The bridal shower had a brittle atmosphere of ·· forced festivity. The air crackled with high-pitched laughter. Few of the women attending really knew each other terribly well. Some of Jack’s friends’ trophy wives were acquainted and regretted it and snubbed one another in the nicest possible way. Only Layla and Eden seemed to have formed a friendly bond with Kitty on the fringes of it. The aunts were pretending that the whole plan had rested in their capable hands, and were playing the role of cohostesses with relish—which irritated the stuffing out of Jane.
    She and Shelley had rounded up the guests and seen to it that the food and drinks were ready, then got out of the way. “I don’t suppose we can hang around and eat?“ Shelley asked. “Sort of lurk in the background and munch quietly?“ The menu for the party included puff pastries with raspberry filling, rich little handmade chocolate wafers in the shape of bells, and champagne cocktails.
    “There will be leftovers,“ Jane assured her. “And if we eat them in private, we can be much greedier. We can rub them straight onto our thighs if we want and skip the digestive process entirely. What a dismal party.“
    “Dismalish,“ Shelley admitted. “But