“Exactly,” Penny said. “Some people say he had a mistress in France, a famous artists’ model, and was planning to leave his wife. The wife killed him before he could take his fortune with him. Maybe his body’s in the attic right now.”
“It’s hard to believe he’d leave the lodge behind. He put so much work into it. So much detail,” Joanna said, her fingers resting on octopus tentacles carved into the chair’s arms.
Bette topped off her peach schnapps. Bubbles’s collar jingled as she scratched an ear. “I met the son,” she said as she settled back into her chair. “Said the lodge hadn’t been regularly used since the 1960s. He did a little maintenance on it now and then, but that’s it. Another mother wouldn’t have gone to so much effort for her daughter’s wedding.”
Bette must have spent thousands raising Redd Lodge from the dead. Its fireplaces burned for the first time in years, and its beds would be slept in after decades unused. The son was probably counting his money right as they spoke.
“You didn’t tell me you met him,” Penny said.
“Sure. He owns the place now. Lives in Denver, of all things. He was a son-of-a-bitch to negotiate with, but we worked it out. He seemed to think Wilson would catch the draperies on fire or something.”
“Did you ask him about his father?”
“No. Why should I have? Let’s get on with this. It’s late, and I’ve got to get up at six for wedding prep.” She swirled the schnapps in her glass as if it were a fine brandy. “Of course, back in the seventies I often stayed up until sunrise.”
“Your Studio 54 days,” Joanna helped.
“All right.” Penny rested her fingertips on the Ouija board’s planchette. “Everyone, put two fingers here.”
“This is ridiculous, honey. I’d prefer to sit back and watch.”
“No, Mom. We all have to do it. Put your fingers next to mine.”
Bette scooted her chair closer. After a moment, five sets of fingers rested lightly on the planchette. The room’s dark corners crept inward.
“It’s moving,” Penny said in a low voice. The planchette scratched to the letter “H.”
“H,” the Reverend said.
The planchette hovered, then skittered to “O” then “R.”
“O and R,” the Reverend added. “HOR.”
Joanna’s breath caught. Horror?
“N” came next.
“HOR—” he started.
“We got it, Tony,” Bette said. “We can spell, too.”
The planchette finished “HORNET” and paused. “Amazing. I really feel it moving,” Sylvia whispered.
Reverend Tony’s face blanched. He sat back and gripped his glass of birch water.
“Freaky,” Penny said. “Hornet? What does that mean?”
A shiver darted down Joanna’s arms. The planchette jerked up to the exclamation point once, then twice, then three times. Sylvia yanked her hand away and clutched it in her lap. Bubbles began to bark, shrill and loud.
Just then, the bedroom door opened, letting in a burst of cold air. A tall brunette shook snow off her coat.
“Portia.” Bette set her schnapps glass on the table and rose, open-armed. “You made it.”
The brunette looked past Bette and Penny in her mock-Schiaparelli hat. Her gaze rested on the Reverend. “Hi Tony,” she said. “Fancy seeing you here.”
For a moment, the room went silent. Penny frowned, and Tony pulled his kimono closer. Sylvia’s face registered clear fascination. Finally, not getting the hug from Portia she sought, Bette sat and Bubbles leapt into her lap. Something was going on.
Portia tossed her coat over a chair and moved to the fire. She picked up Bette’s glass and drained the schnapps in one gulp. “Jesus Christ it’s cold out there.”
Penny stared at the Reverend then Portia. “How do you know Reverend Tony?”
“Reverend, huh?”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Penny’s mouth was set tight. “And you.” She turned to the Reverend. “You had to know I was her sister.”
“No. I’ve never seen her in my life.” He sounded truly mystified.
“Tony and I go way back. Old story. I’ll tell you about it sometime,” Portia said. “You got anything to eat? Nice hat, by the way, Penn.” She glanced at the Reverend. “Digging that kimono, too. This is some crazy lodge.”
Stunned, Joanna looked first at Portia then Penny. It wasn’t Portia’s knowing the Reverend or her nonchalant arrival that surprised her, it was the woman herself. She was an exact replica of Penny. An identical twin. No one had told her. Portia’s figure was a little more lush and her expression more knowing, but in dim light even their mother would have trouble telling them apart.
“How was the drive up? It’s snowing hard,” Sylvia said. Joanna had to give her points for poise.
Portia rubbed her hands near the fire. “All right, I guess. I rented an SUV at the airport, but I had to put on chains partway up the mountain.”
Bette replenished her glass of schnapps and set the nearly empty bottle back on the table. “Well, you’re here now, and you’ll have plenty of time to rest up before the wedding tomorrow.”
“If there’s a wedding tomorrow. A huge storm is blowing in tonight.”
“I paid to have the roads cleared. We’ll be fine,” Bette said, confident her will would be done.
“I don’t know, Mom. The radio says it’s expected to be the biggest storm in decades.”
Chapter Three
A thunk woke Joanna. She let her eyes adjust to the dark. She’d been dreaming she was trying to get home, but a black cloud of hornets chased her. Hornets caught in her hair and clothes, and as much as she swatted she couldn’t drive them away.
She rolled onto her back and breathed deeply to calm her racing heart. Soon the house would be waking up, and she’d be helping Penny get dressed for the wedding. Her wedding to Wilson Jack. If only Joanna were able to whisper in the ear of her twelve-year old self, “Hey, someday Wilson Jack will be sleeping just a flight of stairs away from you, and you’ll be having breakfast together.” Life sure dealt some strange hands.
Wind howled over the lodge, whistling through its rafters. At home, Paul would be sleeping. What if her mother showed up today? There’d been no way to warn him. She’d always avoided telling him about her mother’s drunken jags, driving with her mother and terrified they’d crash, how her mother had left Joanna so often to fend for herself until at last her grandmother had taken her in. Even Joanna’s tiniest comfort, a stuffed blue Scotty dog she’d taken to bed every night, her mother had thrown away when she was at school.
But worse was her mother’s manipulativeness. “We addicts are expert liars,” the man at Al Anon told her. Finally, the missed visits, broken promises, and outright lies grew to be too much. For her own wellbeing, she cut off contact. It was all too ugly to share, even with Paul.
Floorboards creaked, and not very far off. Joanna sat up and listened. There it was—another creak. She slipped from bed. The wind, though loud as organ bellows, was steady. The noise that roused Joanna wasn’t wind. She clicked on the bedside light and tipped up the clock with—in true Surrealist style—its hands running backward. Nearly three o’clock, if she read the dial right. She quietly unlatched the door and looked down the corridor toward the other bedrooms. The hand-shaped sconces cast a yellow glow through the hall. Except for the wind and a faint snoring from Bette’s room across the hall, all was quiet.
Joanna turned toward the great room. Her room was at the edge of the hall, closest to the great room and the stairs up to the tower room. A white figure passed in front of the fireplace.
Her heart leapt to her throat as she jolted back into the doorway. A ghost? No, that was ridiculous. The Ouija board must be getting to her. She pushed the door ajar and peered out again. The figure drifted closer, toward the stairwell. Joanna held her breath. It lifted an arm, and the sleeve of a kimono unfolded. Reverend Tony. He had a book under his arm and was headed down th
e staircase toward his bedroom on the ground floor. Probably couldn’t sleep and wanted something to read, although it was awfully late to be roaming the lodge.
She pulled the door shut and leaned against it. But that thunk, the one that first woke her. What was it? Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. She reached down to bolt the door but remembered that the rooms didn’t have locks. Her discomfort deepened. She reluctantly returned to bed.
Chapter Four
Joanna laid the green charmeuse dress she planned to wear for the wedding on the bed, but just in case she also set out yesterday’s skirt and sweater. With the storm, it seemed less and less likely the Lavange-Wilson wedding would take place. At least as originally planned.
She picked up her brush and absently pulled it over her hair. “What do you think, Madame Eye?” she asked the portrait over the fireplace. “Penny’s going to flip out. Although with the Reverend here, I guess the marriage itself can still happen.”
At a rap on her door, Joanna set down her hairbrush.
“Are you awake?” Penny asked.
Prepared to lend a shoulder to cry on, Joanna opened the door.
Penny’s smile spread over her face. “Good. I heard you talking. I was hoping you’d be up.”
The heat rose in Joanna’s cheeks. “I was just, um, saying something out loud to remember it. I’ve been up for a while.”
“No one else is. It’s almost eight o’clock, the lazy bums. I tried Mom, but she refuses to get out of bed. Portia won’t answer her door, either.” She plopped on the bed. “Anyway, I thought I’d have another look at the dress.”
Joanna drew a long garment bag from the closet. “It’s snowing quite a bit out,” she said tentatively.
“Yeah. I don’t think the guests will be able to make it.”
Joanna raised an eyebrow. She waited for Penny to elaborate, to bemoan her ruined day, but she was remarkably calm. Maybe Reverend Tony’s guidance did have something going for it. “Guests aren’t the most important part of getting married, anyway,” Joanna said. ‘It’ll just be a more intimate ceremony. At least your family is here.”
“We might postpone the wedding. I don’t know.”
Postpone it? Hadn’t she and Bette been planning this day for months? The kitchen counters were covered with plates and bowls prepped for the afternoon cocktail party. The living room was fragrant with flowers. French hand-poured candles stocked the bathrooms.
“You’ve done so much work to pull this off, ” Joanna said. “I thought you couldn’t wait to get married.”
“Maybe the snow’s for the best. Reverend Tony says there’s no such thing as a coincidence.” Her face softened at the sight of the dress through the garment bag’s window.
Joanna lifted the gown and held it out for Penny to examine. It was a long sleeveless sheath in off-white silk from Elsa Schiaparelli’s famous 1938 Circus collection. The gown was classically cut, but each hand-printed tear, drawn by Dali, conveyed the impression of raw sinew and blood. A small train with two tails slipped to the floor. In the closet hung a veil in the same print. The veil sported three sewn-on, ragged flaps—real tears attached to the fabric—and gathered in pleats at the back of the head. Pinned on, it flowed mantilla-like to mid-thigh.
For Portia, Joanna had brought a 1930s charmeuse silk gown in pale blue with satin ribbons dangling from its shoulders. Portia hadn’t seen the gown yet, let alone tried it on. Penny had simply said to fit it to her own body. Now Joanna understood why.
“Assuming you’re still getting married today” —Joanna glanced at Penny— “we should get this dress to Portia.”
“Hmm,” Penny said.
“Penny,” Joanna said. Penny touched the red flesh painted on the dress but remained silent. Joanna backed off. “All right, then. Did you ever find out how Portia knows Reverend Tony?”
Penny narrowed her eyes. “Master Tony says she’s misremembering.”
“An honest mistake, I’m sure.” Although Portia did know the Reverend by name.
“Who cares about Portia? Today’s my day. They must have flipped out when this dress was first modeled.”
“Schiaparelli’s showroom was in the Place Vendôme in Paris. In those days, models usually circulated holding a little card with the dress’s model number on it. Schiap did it up big for this show, though. She actually hired trapeze artists from Barnum and Bailey to swing out of the windows.”
Penny untied her dressing gown. “I want to try it on again.”
“Are you sure? Maybe we should wait until the ceremony. You know what the contract says.”
Penny folded her arms and stuck out her lower lip. “It’s my wedding day. I can do whatever I want.”
“I know, it’s just—” Penny’s lip protruded further. Joanna sighed. “All right. But please be gentle. Here, let me help you.” She gathered the skirt and train while Penny slipped the dress over her boyish body. “Careful of the armhole, it’s a tight fit. There.”
Penny’s petulance melted into satisfaction. “I love this dress so much.” She stepped out of her slippers and walked to the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The forked train trailed behind her. She twirled around suddenly. “I know. I want to show Wilson.”
“It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.”
“No. I want to show him. That’ll fix everything.”
Fix—as if something were broken. “Are you sure? Penny, is everything okay?”
Penny was already out the door, her bare feet soundless on the hall floor. She swished, almost laughing, to the end of the hall and padded up the steps to the tower bedroom directly above the great room. Joanna watched from the landing.
Penny knocked. “Wilson. Get up. I want to show you something.”
No response. She knocked again.
Penny turned to Joanna. “Wait here.” She opened the door a crack and slipped in.
Penny’s knocking had awakened someone in one of the bedrooms. Bedsprings creaked. Bubbles barked from Bette’s room.
Penny burst from Wilson’s bedroom, leaving the door gaping wide. Her face was white, and she breathed in gasps. “Joanna, get in here. It’s Wilson. Something’s wrong.”
***
Joanna raced up the stairs and pushed past Penny. The tower bedroom was decorated more soberly than the rest of the house. The room was round with a central fireplace extending from the great room below. Framed Dali prints lined the pine-paneled walls.
Wilson’s body lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. He was on his side, eyes open and lips apart, with an arm twisted under him, palm up. A pool of vomit trailed toward the fireplace. Joanna’s blood ran to ice.
She clicked on the overhead lights and threw open the curtains for more light. The fetid odor of alcohol hung in the hot, closed room. “Must be unconscious,” she said, moving toward him.
“Wilson.” Penny knelt and pushed him onto his back, shaking him by the shoulders. “Wilson.”
“What’s going on?” Bette stood in the doorway. Bubbles trotted over and nosed Wilson’s face.
Joanna shooed the dog away and lifted Wilson’s wrist. Cold. His arm was pasty white on top, but purplish where it had lain on the floor. She closed her eyes and felt for the slightest hint of a pulse. Nothing. She moved a hand to his neck and felt again. This was bad, really bad.
She drew a deep breath and looked at Penny. “He’s—he’s dead.” She laid the rock star’s hand next to his body.
Penny stared at Wilson’s face, then scooped his head in her hands. Her mouth was open, but no sound came out. Bette, now closer, shrieked.
A heaviness descended over Joanna. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to Penny. There wasn’t really anything else she could say.
Roused by Bette’s scream, Sylvia and her daughter arrived at the door. After a glance at Joanna, Sylvia drew Marianne’s head to her bathrobe and retreated down the stairs. Clarke and Daniel showed up almost simultaneously.
Daniel turned his head toward Sylvia as if uncertain whether to stay or follow her. Only Portia, Reverend Tony, and Chef Jules were missing. The Reverend and the chef’s bedrooms were on the ground floor, so they’d likely not heard the commotion.
Clarke was instantly at Joanna’s side, Daniel close behind him. “Oh God. Wilson,” Clarke said.
“What happened? Is he—?” Daniel asked. Joanna nodded. “I can’t believe it. Last night when I left him, he was fine. Sure, he’d had a little to drink. We all did. But—I can’t believe it.” He fell into an armchair.
Clarke ran his fingers through his bed-mussed hair. His bathrobe was monogrammed over the pocket. “And Penny. The wedding.”
Penny was standing now, gripping the fireplace mantel with both hands. Bette leaned over her, whispering in her ear.
They couldn’t leave him twisted on the floor. “Help me get him onto the bed. He shouldn’t stay like this,” Joanna said to Clarke.“You take his shoulders.”
Clarke slipped his hands under Wilson’s armpits, and Joanna lifted from his knees. With effort they lifted him to the still-made bed.
Her face wet with tears, Penny turned to watch Wilson’s body laid out. She gathered her skirt and crawled up onto the bed next to him, burying her face in his shoulder. The dress’s train slipped off the bed’s edge and pooled on the floor.
“No, no. Wilson, honey, wake up. I’m sorry,” Penny said, her whisper raspy with tears.
Joanna drew away.
Clarke followed Joanna to the front bank of windows. The snow outside fell in windswept sheets, and cold crept through the glass. “I shouldn’t have left him alone last night. He seemed upset about something, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He’d had a lot to drink.”
“It’s too late for a doctor,” Joanna said. “But we should call someone.”
“Who do you call when someone has died?”
“The police. We’ll call the police. They’ll know what to do.”
“But the wedding. And what about the press?” Bette said. She’d come up behind them. “What will happen when they find out?”
Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) Page 3
