Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3)

by Angela M. Sanders

  The chef’s brows were drawn together. “Of course, of course. Pas de problème. The Jackal Wilson is dead. Oh la.” His head shot up. “And they want to blame me, n’est-ce pas? They say I put clam dip on his sandwich?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Jules. He might have died of something else altogether. That’s for the medical examiner to determine.” When he finally arrived, that is.

  Chef Jules stood and rocked foot to foot, then hurtled to the door. He led Joanna past a stuffed bear standing on his hind legs, across the stone-floored lobby, to the kitchen. “Voilà. No guests, we have lots to eat.” Platters of food—smears of pâté on crackers, tiny potato tarts with slivers of black truffle, rounds of farmhouse cheeses—covered the kitchen counters and sideboard. He gestured to a towering wedding cake adorned with melting clocks of fondant. “Plenty of cake, too.” He sighed. “Gluten free.”

  ***

  Chef Jules had been adamant not only that he didn’t make sandwiches with shellfish, but that he didn’t even know what clam dip was. Maybe what Clarke thought was clam dip was something else. She’d check, look at the sandwich again. Joanna mounted the two flights of stairs to Wilson’s tower room.

  She opened the door and stopped cold. In the past half hour, the room had been transformed. The tumbled shoes and socks Joanna had seen earlier were put away, and the window was cracked just enough to give a crisp edge to the air against the heat from the now crackling fire. Daylight bounced off the snowbanks, through the whirling flakes, and filled the room, supplemented by the glow of a dozen candles set on the hearth and desk and nightstands. A fresh white sheet, creases still showing, lay over Wilson’s body.

  Next to the hearth sat Bette.

  Joanna’s gaze shot to the bedside table. “What did you do with the sandwich?”

  “That half-eaten thing? Burned it.” Bette was pulling bright yellow stems of orchids from one of the vases flanking Wilson’s bed and setting them to the side, perhaps to give the arrangement a more masculine feel. She had changed into a new caftan, this one Stevie Nicks cream.

  “Bette, you shouldn’t have. It might be what killed him.”

  “It had some kind of seafood in it. It was going to smell up the place, so I tossed it in the fire.” Her lower lip protruded a fraction of an inch, just as Penny’s had this morning when she wanted to try on the Tears gown. “We couldn’t just leave Wilson like that.”

  “He was allergic to seafood. We needed that sandwich to show the police.” Joanna exhaled in frustration. “What else did you burn?”

  “Nothing. Just that.” Bette eased into the chair behind her. “I shouldn’t have, I guess. I’m so sorry. I just thought, you know, Wilson was going to be my son-in-law. And Penny was so upset. I wanted to make his last earthly home nice for him.” Her eyes began to moisten. Joanna tensed, but unlike the histrionic scene that morning, Bette’s tears were soft. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Bette said. “I’m not myself. I’m sorry I—I lost it this morning.”

  Keenly aware of Wilson’s body a few feet away, Joanna sat in the armchair across from her. “I’m sorry I slapped you. I guess I wasn’t myself, either. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “That’s all right. I was kind of going off the rails.”

  “We’re going to have to close off the room for the police, you know. We don’t know how Wilson died, and they’ll want to examine everything,” Joanna said gently. “We’ll need to tell everyone to stay out of the room. No more logs in the fire.”

  Bette’s gaze softened. “Penny will want to say her goodbye.”

  “I’m so sorry, but she’ll have to wait until Wilson’s services. We need to keep the tower room like it was first thing this morning.” She glanced at the massive bouquets now flanking the bed, flowers Bette must have brought up from the great room. “If the medical examiner can’t easily pin down how and why he died, there’ll be an investigation that will bother Penny a lot more than waiting a few days to see Wilson. Where is Penny, by the way?”

  “Sleeping. Reverend Tony made some kind of herbal tea, but when he left I gave her something that will really help her relax. Poor darling.” Bette dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of her caftan. “Can we stay here just a minute longer? I can’t hurt anything that way, can I?”

  Joanna leaned back and closed her eyes. “I guess not.”

  Just across the coffee table lay the corpse of a rock star. Downstairs was a Dali-esque wedding cake and several hundred puff pastry canapés. The bride was drugged. Outside the snow whirled like sparkling buckshot. This wedding wouldn’t be featured in Bride magazine any time soon.

  “I guess it’s for the best,” Bette said.

  Joanna opened her eyes. The best? Really?

  “I’m not sure Penny would have been happy. I’ve tried to talk to her about it. Famous artists aren’t known as family men.” She sighed and shifted her gaze toward the window. “They can’t help it. They’ve had so much adulation that they’re like little boys.”

  “Penny really loved him. She has a child-like quality, too. They seemed to bring out the best in each other.”

  Bette shook her head, her chandelier earrings swaying. “No. Penny and I are a lot alike. Sure, things might be good now, but what about next year? And the year after? Wilson didn’t seem very happy last night. Maybe he already had a foot out the door.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Sure, they weren’t the traditional couple, and their age difference set some people to talking, but Wilson’s demeanor last night had been pure and deep affection.

  “You don’t know Penny like I do. She treats people like stray dogs. Wants to help them. Wilson was the biggest, stray-est dog of them all,” Bette said.

  Penny was kind-hearted, true, in her charmingly narcissistic way, but Bette was going too far. “Their relationship was built on more than pity, I know it.” Then she struck on something she was sure would appeal to Bette. “Besides, Penny would have been well-off for life.”

  Bette snorted. “You can bet I had a thorough look at Wilson’s finances before I let Penny marry him. Very thorough. Not that it mattered once she signed that pre-nup.”

  “They loved each other. That’s what mattered.”

  Ignoring her, Bette continued. “Plus, she had something to prove to her sister. Portia was always the smart one, the one who got all the kudos, who traveled the world. Penny wanted to show she had something Portia didn’t by marrying Wilson. It’s too bad. Those two need to stick together.”

  Joanna couldn’t reply. The fire’s warmth pulled the perfume from the lilies and orchids, blending it with the rum-cumin scent of the fire’s hot wood. Her own family was pretty much nonexistent—the grandparents who raised her now dead, her father God knew where, and her mother. Her mother who might at that moment be knocking on she and Paul’s front door. She turned her head toward Wilson’s white-draped body. Her chest tightened.

  “I don’t tell many people this,” Bette said, “But I know what I’m talking about. I’ve had a lot of experience with that type of man.”

  “Studio 54.” Joanna only half paid attention.

  Bette nodded. “Plus, I’ve had four husbands, all of them musicians or former musicians. I know what they’re like. Penny wouldn’t listen to me, but I tried to tell her she was making a mistake. In the end, she’ll see she dodged a bullet with this one.”

  “Come on. You’re going too far.” Who cared if Bette flipped out again? “Listen to yourself. No one—not one single person—could say Wilson’s death is fortunate. Really.”

  “I know what I’m talking about. The girls—Penny and Portia—their father is—” She shuffled a bit in her chair and lowered her voice. “Mick Jagger.”

  Well. Joanna sat back.

  “At least it can’t get any worse than this,” Bette added.

  All at once, the lights flickered and shut off. Voices downstairs rose in shouts.

  The power was out.

  Chapter Six

  Downstairs, Jo
anna found Daniel leaning against the fireplace, staring at the flames, while Reverend Tony reclined in the clam chair. Sylvia and Marianne huddled on the couch. Even without the lights, the room glowed from daylight off snow.

  “Power’s out,” Reverend Tony said.

  “A regular Sherlock, aren’t you?” Bette said. She seemed to have shaken her reflective mood from upstairs. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The lodge has a generator. We just have to figure out how to turn it on.”

  “How are we for firewood? In case we can’t get it running,” Joanna said. Knowing how Bette didn’t bother to make sure they had a way out in case of a storm, she didn’t hold out much hope for the generator.

  “If we stick to the central fireplace, we should be good for a couple of days,” Daniel said.

  “I saw the generator. In the garage,” the Reverend said.

  “Better bring in more wood before the storm gets worse,” Joanna said.

  “I’ll help,” Clarke said from the entrance to the dining room. “Let me grab my coat and gloves.”

  Sylvia stood. “I’d like to help, too. How about if I look for flashlights?”

  “Don’t forget candles and matches,” Joanna added. If only they could telephone out. She turned to Daniel. “Did you happen to see a radio—maybe a hand-crank one—or anything like that in the storage room downstairs? There must be something here for emergencies.”

  “No, but I was focused on the skis.”

  “I don’t see why you all are getting so excited,” Bette said. “I told you, I hired a snow plow to clear the road. Besides, the wedding guests know we’re here. It’s only a matter of hours until we’re home.” She stood. “I’m going to my room to pack. Come, Bubbles.” Her caftan whipped behind her as she started down the hall.

  Daniel shook his head. “Have you seen it outside? The snow plow people are going to have bigger priorities than us.”

  “What is going on?” Chef Jules stood at the top of the stairs from the lower level. Ear buds dangled from the breast pocket of his chef’s whites. “The lights—poof! I wait, but they do not return.”

  “No electricity,” Joanna said. “Don’t worry, though. There’s a generator. We’ll get it running.”

  “The sooner is the better. I have put some fish sous vide, and it is imperative that the temperature remain just so.”

  Sylvia returned from the dining room, candlesticks in one hand, candles in the other. “I found these in the butler’s pantry. It’s a start, anyway.” She set them on the hearth.

  Clarke, in a thick sweater, stocking cap, and carrying leather gloves, returned from his room. He dropped the gloves on a side table and approached Chef Jules. “We need to talk.”

  “About what?” the chef asked.

  “About the sandwiches you gave us last night. You know very well that Wilson couldn’t have shellfish—”

  “I prepared no shellfish. I brought no shellfish into this house. I did not put—how do you say?—clam sauce on that sandwich.” He stood defiant, chin lifted.

  “And yet the sandwich had clam dip on it,” Clarke said.

  The chef narrowed his eyes and huffed past him, down the stairs. Clarke shook his head at the chef’s retreat. “The second we get out of here,” he muttered, leaving his thought unfinished. “That man will not leave the country without answering for this.”

  A momentary silence fell over the great room. Daniel and Joanna exchanged glances. Fanning the flames of anger while they were all trapped—and now without electricity—was not smart.

  “Ready, Clarke?” Daniel asked. “It’s dark downstairs. We’d better take candles.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Joanna lit three taper candles, each in holders shaped like thick-lipped fish.

  Daniel halted at the entrance to the downstairs lobby. Their candles threw pale washes of gold on the stuffed bear and stone floors. “Something is different down here—it’s darker.” He strode to the front door and peered out the door’s window. “Shit. The entry tent outside collapsed.”

  That was the way in. And out. Joanna’s glance grazed the stone floor, wood-timbered ceiling, and darkened walls. The stuffed bear hulked beside her. “How do we get out, then?”

  “The windows upstairs, I guess. We’d never make it out down here,” he said. Daniel stared at the blackened windows in the door, then turned and headed right, to the corridor under the bedrooms.

  They passed Reverend Tony’s and the chef’s rooms before arriving at a large storage closet at the end of the hall. Beyond the closet was the door leading outside to the garage. Directly across from the storage room was another door, likely a service staircase.

  Daniel pointed to the storage room. “In there, Joanna. Why don’t you leave the door open? We’ll stack the wood against the wall.” The door shut behind them, leaving Joanna alone.

  ***

  Joanna automatically flicked a switch by the storage room’s door before remembering that the power was out. Candlelight showed that the room was efficiently organized, everything in its place. On the left wall hung a grid of open shelves stuffed with ski boots sorted by size. Skis leaned bundled in the corner. A wooden bench stretched to the right of the door. This must be where skiers came to suit up for a cross-country jaunt. Along the right wall firewood was neatly stacked. No radio here.

  Oh, but on the shelf was a flashlight. She clicked it on. Its beam was weak but easier to manage than the candle. She blew out the candle, gray smoke curling above it. A faraway rumble started then stopped. The generator. Thank God Daniel knew his way around a motor. The rumble started again, and the fluorescent light in the storage room flickered, casting a blue glow. She smiled at the whooping she heard from the garage.

  As she stepped back, Joanna’s hair brushed against something. She gasped and spun around. A spider’s web wavered in a current of cold air, and a shiny coal-black spider with a red hourglass on its stomach skittered to the side. A black widow. Prickles raced down her back. A white egg sac, as delicate as a puff of cotton candy, adhered to the wall behind the web. Joanna batted at her hair to make sure no spider had leapt into it.

  Pull yourself together. She raked her fingers through her hair once again and shook her head, then backed into the hall and calmed her breathing. Now, think. Where else would a radio—if there was one—be? The best signal would come from the lodge’s top floor. The tower room had the highest access, but that was a bedroom. Maybe a radio was in there somewhere, but searching a room with a body in it was her last choice. Surely the lodge had an attic she could check first. Joanna eyed the door across from the storage room. She tested its knob.

  The door opened to a staircase with a plain metal railing. A service stairwell. She gripped the railing and climbed. At the second level where the bedrooms were, voices drifted from the hall. The stairway continued up another level. It had to lead to the attic. Joanna had advanced only a few steps when the second floor door burst open.

  Penny? No, it was Portia, Penny’s twin sister, with a camera slung around her neck.

  “Hullo,” Portia said, backing up. “Oh, the vintage clothing dealer. You scared me.”

  “Joanna. You startled me, too.” What was Portia doing on the far staircase? To get to the kitchen or great room, guests would normally use the central staircase. Then Joanna remembered Portia might not have heard yet about Wilson. “Did you—have you talked to your mother yet?”

  Portia zipped her fleece jacket over her camera. “Yes. Yes, I did. I slept in—jet lag—and Mom woke me up. It’s awful about Wilson. Poor Penny. Looks like we’re stuck here for a while, too.”

  For a moment, neither woman spoke. The stairwell’s single light bulb cast shadows on Portia’s face. She seemed determined to wait Joanna out.

  Joanna spoke first. “I’m looking for a radio or something to call out. The phone’s dead. I thought maybe this staircase led to the attic.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Joanna relaxed a bit knowing she’d now have comp
any on the visit to the attic. As they mounted the remaining stairs, the stairwell’s light bulb went out. She clicked on the flashlight. “The generator,” she said. “Daniel and Clarke are trying to get it started.”

  “Must not be going well.”

  The attic was colder than downstairs. A plain wooden door—no melted clocks or carved lobsters on this one—greeted them. Joanna turned the doorknob and pushed, but the door remained shut.

  “Here, let me,” Portia said, stepping in front of Joanna. She gave the door a hip check with the full force of her body. The door groaned against the jamb and opened.

  Inside, a long, dark attic spanned the top of the lodge’s north wing. Clerestory windows ran along both sides of the room, but whether because of dirt or the storm, they let in scant light. The air smelled faintly acidic of mouse scat.

  Wind whistled through Redd Lodge’s roof, and cold penetrated its walls. Joanna pulled her cardigan closer and scanned the darkened room with the flashlight. Normally she loved poking around in attics. The possibility of opening a trunk and finding a beaded 1920s flapper dress or a crisp Grace Kelly-era wedding gown fueled her dreams. It wasn’t just the clothes—overstuffed armchairs, old books, and orphaned dishes sang their siren songs too. But this attic felt more like an abandoned storage unit than a treasure trove. Old storm windows leaned against one wall, and two broken chairs and a painting with a tarnished frame leaned next to them. A love seat with torn upholstery was pushed into a corner.

  Portia coughed and brushed something away. “Cobwebs,” she said.

  “Be careful. I saw a black widow spider in the storage room.” Joanna ran the flashlight along the webs hanging from dusty beams. If they didn’t find a radio, maybe they’d find kerosene lanterns or more candles.

  The door creaked as Daniel entered. “Anyone up here?”

  “Yes. Any luck with the generator? It was going for a minute,” Joanna said.