Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3)

by Angela M. Sanders

  At last Penny spoke, and the force of her voice rang through the room. “Shut up, Mom. He’s dead. Wilson is dead.” Shaky, she rose from the bed. “It’s always all about you, isn’t it? Even the wedding. About you and about how nice you make everything. Well, this isn’t about you anymore. Oh Wilson.” Penny ran from the room, the gown’s faux ripped flesh now more hideous than clever.

  ***

  Clarke left to call the police. Mumbling something about checking on Sylvia and Marianne, Daniel followed him.

  Once the police arrived, there’d be a lot of questions to answer. The spring before, when she’d become involved in a murder investigation, Detective Foster Crisp had pulled her aside at the trial to talk about the case. The silver-plated tips of his bolo tie dangled as he leaned over the wooden bench outside the courtroom. “It’s about seeing without judgment. You’ve got be like a doctor diagnosing an illness. You don’t prove your hunch, you look at the symptoms and follow the evidence. Observe and document.”

  Joanna turned to examine the room. Flanked by nightstands, the bed rested ten feet or so from the fireplace, its head facing the front of the lodge. Two armchairs and a coffee table stood on a rug at its feet. Wilson’s motorcycle boots were toppled next to a chair, and a pulp thriller and partially eaten sandwich sat on the table. Joanna approached the sandwich, but Bette’s expression stopped her.

  Bette hovered near the fireplace. “Wilson is dead.” She dropped Bubbles to the floor, and the dog circled her feet, barking once, then twice.

  “Bette, maybe you’d best go to your room and lie down for a moment. This is distressing to all of us.”

  Bette seemed not to hear her. “I worked on this wedding for months. Did everything to make it perfect for my girl. And now we’re trapped. In the middle of nowhere. And he’s dead.”

  “I’m sure it will all be fine. We’ll figure out what happened and work it out. Now, you go lie down. Clarke will have the police here soon. They’ll take care of everything.” She stepped forward. “Penny mentioned you might have Xanax? This would be a good time to take one.”

  “Who are you to tell me what to do? What do you care, anyway? You’re not even family.”

  “Someone needs to stay level-headed, and as you say, I’m not family.”

  “Trapped,” Bette said, ignoring her. “And he’s dead. Oh my God!” Feeding off her mistress’s hysteria, Bubbles ramped up her barking.

  “Calm down,” Joanna said in her sternest voice. “We’ll be fine.”

  Bette’s breath came more quickly and broke into sobs. “I tried so hard. I failed. We’re trapped.”

  The dog’s shrill barking rang in Joanna’s ears. She took a deep breath. Model calm, she told herself. Be calm and Bette will take your lead. “No, we aren’t trapped. I saw a garage when I drove in. Surely there’s a snowcat or a snowmobile out there. The police will figure out a way to get us home. We’ll be fine,” she repeated.

  “The maid took the snowmobile. Besides, it’s too stormy to go anywhere.” Joanna barely made out Bette’s words between sobs. You’d almost think it was her lover who died. “I didn’t rent a snowcat. I didn’t think we’d need one.”

  They were in a mountain lodge in January with only one lousy snowmobile—and that was gone? Joanna’s calm began to slip away. “One thing I know for sure is that crying about it isn’t going to change anything.” As if Bette had anything to cry about, anyway. Penny’s fiancé, Marianne’s father, and Daniel’s brother lay dead a few feet away. All Wilson was to Bette was bragging rights.

  The dog’s high-pitched barking drowned out everything else. Joanna put her hands to her ears. “Shut up, both of you!”

  Bette’s sob took on a keening edge, instigating a string of French curses from the floor below. Chef Jules must be setting out breakfast.

  Joanna stared at Bette. She’d had it. She slapped Bette across the face, hard, Joan Crawford-style.

  The noise from Bette’s mouth ceased like a switch had been flipped. The dog fell silent at the same time. Bile rose in Joanna’s stomach as Bette’s lips stretched into a grin.

  Reverend Tony appeared behind Bette, his kimono sleeves waving. “My child, violence is no answer, especially on this sacred day.”

  To hell with tact. “There’s not going to be a sacred day, Master. Wilson’s dead.”

  A gargled noise rose from Tony’s throat as he saw the body. He started toward Wilson, but Joanna put up a hand.

  “Penny needs you. As you can imagine, she’s taking it pretty hard. She’s probably in her room. Take Bette,” Joanna said, more to clear the room and gather her thoughts than anything else.

  “But Wilson—”

  “Later. Go.” Somebody had to take charge here, and right now candidates were thin. Reverend Tony reluctantly took Bette by the shoulder and led her down the stairs, Bubbles trotting after them.

  What a disaster. They had to get the police here, and soon. Evidence was getting stomped all over. The medical examiner would need to make a determination of the cause of death. And the fact that it was Wilson Jack—well, the determination would have to be thorough and accurate. Penny didn’t need to spend her life fending off rumors about her fiancé’s death.

  Joanna swallowed hard and forced herself to examine Wilson’s body. Other than his open eyes, he looked peaceful. Maybe alcohol poisoning killed him, although a man with Wilson’s experience would know when to stop. Or maybe his heart gave out. Would that cause him to vomit? She walked to the coffee table and, sheathing her hand in the skirt of her dressing gown, picked up the half-filled glass. A sniff told her it was whiskey.

  “I’d be surprised if he died of alcohol poisoning,” said a voice behind her. Joanna started. Clarke had returned from the library. “I’ve seen him drink far more than we did last night.”

  “I don’t know what else might have done it. He vomited, which leads me to think it was something he ate or drank. Did he take any medication?”

  Clarke shook his head. “I don’t know. All we had last night after dinner were sandwiches. Like that one.” He flipped the top off the partially eaten sandwich on Wilson’s nightstand and stared at her, his mouth agape. “Yes. That’s it. That’s clam dip, isn’t it? He can’t have that. He’s deathly allergic.”

  Blue cheese stuck to roast beef under the top slice of grainy bread. Smeared over the roast beef where horseradish might have been was a similarly white spread, but with chunks of clam. Clams on roast beef?

  “He was allergic. I don’t get it. Why would Wilson eat something he knew would kill him?”

  “I don’t know. We—” He wandered to the window, as if to look away from Wilson’s body, then turned again to Joanna. “The chef had made us some sandwiches for the poker game last night. Wilson must have taken one back to his room later. That’s all I can guess.” He rubbed the gray stubble on his jaw.

  Joanna had never heard of putting clam dip on a sandwich, but it could happen. Maybe the chef had some sort of surf-and-turf brainstorm. If Clarke was right, it was all an accident—a horrible accident. “Did you get through to the police?”

  “No. That’s the other thing. The phone is dead.”

  Chapter Five

  “The storm must have taken out the phone lines,” Clarke said.

  No phone. That meant no medical examiner, no police. And with this snow, no way out.

  “It can’t last forever. The wedding guests were supposed to come today. They know we’re here, and someone will be up the mountain as soon as they can,” Joanna said. How long would that be? A day? Two? Hard to say.

  “Oh God,” Clarke repeated. “I’ve seen Wilson through some scrapes, but I never thought it would come to this.” He paced the room, worrying at the sash of his bathrobe.

  “You were Wilson’s manager, right? I’m so sorry.”

  “We were like brothers. We met in middle school.” He rubbed his eyes. “I was even one of the original Jackals until it became clear that I’d do better behind the scenes. We spent
months together on the road, in recording studios. I must have bailed him out of jail a dozen times. I always had his back, and he knew it.” Clarke’s voice cracked.

  “Let’s go downstairs. There’s nothing more we can do here,” Joanna said gently.

  On the way down, they met Daniel, on his way up. “Are you—? Is there—?” Even in the darkened hallway Daniel’s strain showed.

  “There’s nothing we can do now, Daniel,” Clarke said, repeating Joanna’s words. Uncertain, he paused at the foot of the stairs before wandering in a daze toward the bedrooms.

  Daniel put out a hand to stop Joanna. “What about the police? Isn’t someone calling them?”

  “Clarke tried. The phone line is down.” With a pang, Joanna realized she wouldn’t be able to call home and warn Paul about her mother, either. She should have phoned him last night, taken the phone from the breakfast room and pulled it around the corner. Now it was too late.

  Daniel wore flannel pajama bottoms and a tee shirt. He was barefoot. He stood forlornly looking up the stairs, then back down. Poor man. “My brother.”

  “I’m going to the dining room,” Joanna said. “Why don’t you join me?”

  He let out a long breath. “All right.”

  The dining room was empty, but chafing dishes full of scrambled eggs, tiny pancakes, and bacon warmed on the sideboard. One dish held a sort of casserole Joanna couldn’t identify. Probably something vegan for Penny and Reverend Tony. She passed up the food and filled a mug with coffee. Daniel filled his mug, too, but paced the dining room, cup in hand.

  “How about if we sit in the great room by the fire for a moment?” Joanna asked. “It will give us the chance to let things soak in, I guess.”

  “Sure.” He glanced at the fireplace, the table, the breakfast room, clearly distracted. “I mean, thanks.”

  “How are Sylvia and Marianne?” Joanna asked once they were settled, Joanna in the clam-shaped armchair, and Daniel on the cushiony lips that formed the sofa. Joanna’s chair smelled of lavender from the steam cleaning Bette must have ordered the week before.

  The mention of Sylvia drew Daniel’s full attention. “She’s all right. She has so much calm. Amazing. I don’t think Marianne has figured out exactly what happened yet.”

  “I feel awful for Marianne. This isn’t going to be easy for her.”

  Daniel set his mug on the hearth and leaned forward. “I wasn’t upstairs for long. Did you see—could you tell how he died? I mean, you didn’t see any evidence of drugs, did you?”

  “No. No drugs.” Whiskey, but no drugs. “He might have died from an allergic reaction to shellfish. Clams.”

  Incredulous, Daniel drew back. “Where did he get clams? He never ate clams.”

  “In his roast beef sandwich, apparently.”

  Daniel shook his head. “No. Couldn’t have been clams. There’s no way he would let one in the same room with him.” He began to fidget again and tossed a log on the fire. Sparks flew. He closed the fire screen. “Only a French guy would put clams on a roast beef sandwich.”

  “It is odd.” A thought occurred to Joanna. “Daniel, did you have one of the sandwiches?”

  “Sure. Ham and cheese. No clams on that one.”

  Clarke was the third part of the poker game last night. Did he have the roast beef, too? She’d ask. She might as well gather information for the police while it was still fresh. She wondered if her old friend Detective Foster Crisp had jurisdiction this far out of town. She chastised herself. Chances were it was an open and shut case of an allergic reaction. Still, she should make sure the tower room remained undisturbed. Who was in charge here? Surely not Bette.

  Daniel looked again toward the staircase leading to the tower room. If memory served her right, Daniel was Wilson’s only sibling. Certainly no other member of his family was at the lodge. Well, not counting Marianne.

  “I’m so sorry,” Joanna said. She thought of her estranged parents, her dead grandparents. “It’s hard to lose family.”

  “Yes.” He picked up the poker and jabbed at the fire. “The funny thing is, Wilson was just starting to come around. Before he met Penny, I hadn’t seen him in months. We’d meet around the holidays, then he’d hole up again somewhere for the rest of the year. Wouldn’t even return my calls. But once he and Penny got together, he seemed to loosen up, you know? Once, he even—” He looked toward Joanna with a questioning look.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I know it sounds corny, but Penny was in California visiting Bette, so I went to his house for a couple of beers and to help sort tracks for his solo album. We ended up playing guitar in his living room.” He lifted his hand with its few fingers. “I can still play a little, even with this. He apologized to me for—well, for a few things.” He shook his head at the memory. “Whatever. It had been years and it was so good to see him. I thought, ‘I have my brother back’.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. She knew it wouldn’t be the last time she’d say it today. Maybe putting Daniel to work on something practical would help. She let a few minutes elapse as she finished her coffee. “Bette says the lodge doesn’t have a snowcat, but I wondered if there might be something in the garage. Then we could leave, call the police. Would you mind checking?”

  He nodded, first slowly, then faster. “If we can’t get a vehicle, I can ski out. Not in this blizzard, but when the snow settles. There’s a room of ski equipment on the ground floor. I saw it when I went to get wood last night. I’m not sure what shape it’s in, but I can check.” He stood and seemed to notice he was still in his pajamas. “After I change.”

  “That’s great. Timberline Lodge isn’t more than a few miles away.”

  She set her mug on the hearth next to Daniel’s. She’d dress, too, then tell the chef the wedding was off. He couldn’t know about Wilson’s death yet. Plus, she had a few questions for him about the sandwiches, then she’d see about cordoning off the tower room until they could get in touch with the police.

  On her way out, she stopped and turned back. She found the phone on a side table in the breakfast room and lifted its receiver. Dead air.

  ***

  “Entrez,” said the chef.

  Joanna leaned against the door jamb. The chef’s room gave off the air of a medieval frat house. A room originally intended for household staff, it was smaller and darker than the bedrooms upstairs. The window at the rear was snowed over. Clothes were draped over the back of chairs and strewn on the bed and stone floor. Of course, Chef Jules was barely twenty years old.

  The chef sat, feet up on the desk, with a graphic novel in lurid colors propped in his lap. On seeing Joanna, he sat up and tossed the book to the side.

  “Eh bien, it’s the lady worker bee. Buzz buzz, eh?” He lowered his voice. “But don’t worry, we worker bees must stick together. I have set aside a few especially nice plats for us. They will eat the venison leg roasts up there.” He waved toward the ceiling. “But the most delicate morsel, the backstrap, I have kept it for us in the kitchen. With a premier cru Bordeaux—right bank, naturellement—it will be divine.”

  Bette had hired the chef away from a two-star restaurant in Lyon simply to prepare two days of meals plus appetizers for the reception. A team of foragers in Portland had met him at the airport with the crates of produce, locally raised meat, and wine he’d ordered ahead, then swept him up the mountain to the lodge.

  At the mention of food, Joanna’s stomach tightened. The coffee hadn’t gone far. As shocking as the morning was, maybe she should have had a few bites of scrambled eggs. “Chef Jules, I have some bad news—”

  He crossed his arms and smiled. “Oh, I know you appreciate the good food. I saw you admiring the artichauts. A little trick from Chef Passard—put the most tender bay leaves between the leaves. Each artichaut had twelve bay leaves, then they are gently cooked in a bain marie.”

  The artichokes last night were especially delicious. So meltingly tender, their green infused with the almond-herb sce
nt of bay. Even Wilson had commented on them. Her thoughts jolted to his body above them. “Thank you. But—”

  “What now? You’re worried because I’m reading a book? I need a break. Or maybe that lady wants special food for the dog again?” He leaned forward. “And I have not been smoking inside.”

  Would he ever stop talking? “I’m afraid the dog is the least of our problems. There won’t be any wedding.” She had the chef’s attention now. “The blizzard will keep away the guests today. And” —she trained her gaze on him— “Wilson Jack died last night.”

  His mouth dropped open. At last the chef was speechless. He reached around as if looking for a pack of cigarettes, then tucked his hands in his pockets. “Tu blagues.”

  “I’m afraid I’m serious. It looks like he ate some clams in a sandwich.”

  “Non!”

  “One of the sandwiches you prepared.” Joanna watched him closely. “Surely by accident.”

  “Clams?”

  “Clam dip, maybe.”

  “Impossible!” the chef said. “No clam dip. I have no clam dip. What is this clam dip? C’est fou. Besides, the Jackal, he tells me to keep the langoustines away from his food because he cannot tolerate them. No no no. Clam dip,” he sputtered. “Non. Absolument pas.” His body went limp as he sagged back into his chair. “He is dead you say?”

  She nodded. If Chef Jules was lying, he deserved an Oscar. Maybe they were mistaken about seeing clam dip. It could have been some other kind of chunky spread. After all, Wilson had had a rough life. Maybe the stress of the wedding was too much and he had a heart attack.

  “La la la. This is bad,” Jules said.

  “Maybe it was something that only looked like clam dip. What was in the sandwich?”

  The chef raised his fingers to tick off the ingredients. “Roast beef, cooked à point, mayonnaise fait à main with a hint of tamarind, blue cheese, lettuce, tomato, spelt bread, and c’est tout.”

  “One more thing. I don’t know how long the storm will last, but we might be here another day until the snow plows get through. Can you stretch the wedding food to cover us?”