A Groom wirh a View

of lodges of any sort.”
    That was understandable. The previous fall, Shelley and Jane had been part of a committee investigating a resort facility that had put in a bid to provide a camping experience for their local high school. The weekend had quite included a double murder and the two women had spent a number of harrowing hours in the main lodge of the resort.
    “Nothing like the Titus place,“ Jane assured her. “It just looks like a monastery that was turned into a hunting lodge. Really big. Old. Sprawling every which way. Additions that look like they might peel off the main building any second. The Thatchers must be very fond of the place to want to have a wedding there.“
    “I thought you just said they were letting it be torn down.”
    Jane nodded. “Fond enough, at least, to have one last big party there before making a killing on the country club deal.”
    After an hour, they stopped at what they judged to be the last outpost of civilization that served breakfast and Shelley asked, “Has the seamstress finished the wedding dress?“
    “Oh, yes. And it’s beautiful. Mrs. Crossthwait is a very difficult woman, but her work is fantastic. It’s just the bridesmaids who might have to wear pattern pieces and swatches. They all agreed to come today for their final fittings.“
    “What are their dresses like?“
    “All different. I picked a cherry pink slubbed silk and let them each choose whatever kind of dress suited them.“
    “Jane! What a good idea. Bridesmaid dresses usually are to the taste of the bride, not the wearer, and hang around useless in closets the rest of their lives. I still have the revolting yellow pinafore thingie I had to wear in a cousin’s wedding just because I can’t stand to get rid of something I’ve only worn once. Can you picture me in a pinafore-style dress?”
    Jane laughed at the image. “I understand these girls—there are three of them—are very different shapes and sizes. One is wearing a little slip dress with a matching shawl scarf. The plump one picked a boxy jacket and A-line skirt and the third is froufrou. Sort of ‘plantation prom,’ from the looks of the pattern. But at least they’ll all have the same color and fabric. And the bride is carrying a bouquet of matching pink tulips.“
    “Jane, I hate to admit it, but I’m really impressed. You figured this all out yourself?“
    “I’m not a complete cretin. And it’s fun when somebody else is not only paying for it all, but paying me as well.“
    “What are these girls like?“ Shelley asked.
    “I’ve never met them. I just sent them samples of the fabric, told them to choose a style and go to the seamstress. It was a breeze... until I called each of them last week to see how their dresses had turned out and realized Mrs. Crossthwait was falling behind in her sewing. I think we’re almost there. Check the map.”
    There was a split rail fence running along the right side of the road with heavy woods behind it. The turn into the drive was unmarked and almost invisible. The long drive twisted and turned through the woods and emerged at the erstwhile monastery. It was an old unadorned clapboard building, suiting the simplicity of the religious order by whom it had been originally constructed. It had a vaguely barn-like look due to the scarce and small windows on the first floor, but the second floor, while obviously old as well, was clearly an addition. It had a steep roof with scattered dormers. There was a long wing to the left of the two-story section. It, too, looked like the ground floor was original and the upper story was an addition. The structure had a number of outbuildings and additions as well.
    “It’s not where I’d pick to get married,“ Shelley said. “What would you call this style? Midwestern wooden Gothic?“
    “It looks vaguely Russian to me,“ Jane said. “All it’s lacking is the onion dome.
    As she spoke, an old man came shuffling around the corner of the house, stopped abruptly, and eyed them with suspicion. Jane hopped out of the car and approached him. “You must be Joe,“ she said, feeling the honorific “Uncle“ was inappropriate and having no idea what his surname might be.
    “That’s right, missy,“ he growled. “And who might you be?“
    “I’m Jane Jeffry. The wedding planner. I wrote you that my friend and I would be here today.”
    He scratched his head. “Yeah, I reckon you did. I got everything ready for the big day. Had the plumbing