Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3)

by Angela M. Sanders

  “You were sleeping,” the Reverend said.

  “Between sleeps.”

  Between Bette’s pills and Tony’s herbs, Joanna thought. Before she went up to the tower room.

  Penny continued. “He was thin and white. Bald, too. He appeared for just a second at the end of the hall. I heard a rustle, and before I could even focus my eyes he vanished.”

  Clarke exchanged a knowing look with Daniel. The drugs, it seemed to say. Joanna remembered the portrait in the attic. A fair description.

  “We’ll all be seeing ghosts soon, no doubt,” Sylvia said.

  “Let’s look at those books,” Penny repeated.

  Joanna already had a volume on her lap. The book smelled of mildew and old cedar, almost like incense. She opened the red leather cover to marbled endpapers. February 3, 1932, Joanna read. She turned the page. Black ink, faded to brown in spots, scrawled tightly across the page, leaving barely a margin. But the writing made no sense. Mouth agape, she raised her head from the page and looked at the others.

  Tony had taken a volume from Penny and examined it near the great room’s fire where the light was best. Sylvia, Daniel, and Penny leaned around him, with Marianne’s head obscuring the page until Sylvia asked her to stand back. Stunned, they stared at the words.

  “Well? What does it say?” Clarke asked.

  “Gibberish.” Penny said. She picked up another journal, then another, opening and shutting their pages and pushing them to the side. “I don’t get it.”

  “Listen to this.” Joanna read from the journal in her lap. “‘Dog eats sun while ants dance rainbows on salty mountain.’ What does it mean?”

  “Here’s another one,” Daniel said, the few fingers on his right hand clenching the book. “‘Beam a fairy to scour the world’s pans.’”

  “What?” Clarke said. “Let me see.”

  “Maybe it’s code.” Sylvia flipped through one of the journals Penny had discarded.

  “Automatic writing,” Portia offered from the sofa. “Learned about it in art school. The surrealists were big into it. They believed logic was a barrier to true art, and that you could directly connect to the collective unconscious by letting your hand go loose on the page. Redd obviously bought into it.”

  The Reverend nodded. “She’s right. Interesting, but hardly valuable. That is, unless we stumbled onto Chirico’s journals or something like that.” He ran his fingers tenderly over the spider-like words on the page.

  If the journals were nothing but arty gibberish, why did Redd hide them away? Could be he was embarrassed. Or—as Sylvia had suggested—maybe it was some kind of code. Joanna decided to take them to her room for closer examination. Penny would love it if she found some sort of clue to Redd’s disappearance.

  Penny had lost interest in the journals and wandered into the library again to scan the shelves. “What a drag. Is there anything else to read?” She tugged a few random novels by their spines and pushed them back again. “Here’s something.” She lifted what looked like an oversized ledger from a bottom shelf and opened it. “Oh. An old guest log.” Disappointed, she dropped it back on the shelf. “This looks better.” She pulled a bright orange paperback, probably left by a long-ago guest, and plopped into the great room’s clam chair before tossing the book to the side. “Forget it. It’s too dark to read, anyway.”

  “Would you like some more herbal tea?” Tony asked. “Or we could do a few inverted poses to reverse your energy.”

  “No. Thank you though, Master. I don’t feel like standing on my head right now.” She slumped. “I’ll be so happy when this day is over.”

  “We could get out the Ouija board again. Or play cards,” Sylvia said.

  “No cards,” Clarke said firmly.

  Daniel’s face fell first, then Penny’s, as they remembered last night’s poker game. Wilson had played with them.

  Chapter Eleven

  Journals discarded, the group lounged in the great room. Bette had returned in a new caftan—this one aubergine velvet with a charmeuse lining—and set to grooming the vases of flowers intended for the wedding. She must have packed enough caftans to suit up a sultan’s harem. With expert fingers Bette plucked faded petals and droopy blooms, trimming stems for a new arrangement.

  “You have a way with flowers,” Sylvia said.

  “My grandfather, and his father, and his father, too, were florists.” She cocked her head and pulled a bird of paradise forward. The arrangement had transformed from severe shapes exploding with color to a gentler, though still vivid form. “It’s meditative work.”

  “They really are beautiful,” Joanna said. She’d chosen a seat apart from the rest of the guests near the fireplace so she could better watch them. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for, but the group’s odd behavior—Penny and Portia in the tower room, Bette’s erratic moods, Tony’s mysterious past, and of course the unexplained clam dip in Wilson’s sandwich—left her with the distinct feeling she should be on guard. Or maybe the strange house itself had put her on edge. “Have you thought about doing it professionally?”

  “I’ve been considering it, actually,” Bette said. “Only for exclusive events.”

  Clarke slipped a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and opened a briefcase. “No one minds if I do a little work, do they? It’s more comfortable here by the fire than in my room.” He moved a candelabra to the end table next to his chair.

  Portia leaned over the ottoman where Penny sat and brushed her sister’s hair. “Go ahead,” she said. Penny stared into the distance. Her head bent back slightly with each stroke of the brush, but she didn’t seem to pay attention. If only there was something Joanna could say or do to distract her.

  “Uncle Daniel, tell me again how you lost your fingers,” Marianne said. She and Daniel sat on the floor with the coffee table and a checkerboard between them. Candlelight cast a golden aura around her head. Sylvia lifted her eyes from her magazine.

  “Well, I was playing tennis with a bear, see, and I was winning—”

  “Bears can’t play tennis,” Marianne said.

  “Bears are a lot more agile than people think. Ever see a bear run? They’re fast. Anyway, I was winning, and the bear got really mad and jumped over the net to grab my tennis racket. Unfortunately, my hand was attached to the racket.”

  Marianne howled with glee. “What about the hotdog factory? I thought they came off in the hotdog factory.”

  “That was another time. Never put your hand in the weenie chopper.”

  “King me.” Marianne’s fingers rested on a red checker. Daniel stacked another chip on top of it.

  “Seriously, though, how did you lose your fingers?” Portia set down the hairbrush and moved next to her mother. Sylvia put down her magazine altogether.

  Daniel focused on the checker board. “It’s not interesting.”

  “I’d like to know. If you think the story’s too gruesome, don’t even worry about it. In my work I’ve seen it all—legs blown off by land mines, shot up bodies, gangrene—”

  “Honestly, Portia. That’s enough,” Bette said.

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” Daniel said. “Not now.”

  “Armagnac?” Chef Jules appeared from the dining room. He must have come up from the kitchen by way of the service staircase in the butler’s pantry. One hand held a bottle of amber liquid, and small glasses dangled from their stems between the fingers of the other hand. “Left over from deglazing the sanglier.”

  “No thank you,” came Reverend Tony’s voice from the breakfast room. Joanna leaned sideways to see beyond the poppy chair. The Reverend sat in a lotus position. “Is that cigarette smoke I smell?”

  “Mais non. See?” The chef plucked the shirt from his chest. “Fresh as a winter night.”

  “I’d love some Armagnac,” Joanna said. Bette swiveled her head to see who was talking. Probably forgot Joanna even existed.

  “Avec plaisir.” Chef Jules handed her a cut crystal glass and fille
d it to the rim.

  “I might try some,” Bette said.

  “Madame.” Bette’s portion was considerably smaller.

  “Me, too, please.” Clarke set down his papers.

  The chef straightened, his bottle hovering. “No.”

  “Go ahead,” Bette said. “Pour him some.”

  “I will not,” Chef Jules lifted his nose and pointed his face away from Clarke.

  “Why not? Clarke is a guest here, and you’re paid to make him happy. Pour him some brandy. I’m sure it’s good.”

  “Of course it’s good. You think I don’t have taste? You think perhaps I have bad taste and put clam dip on a roast beef sandwich?” He refused to look at Clarke. “You think I earn my Michelin star by killing people with clam dip?”

  The room fell silent.

  Penny put her face in her hands. Joanna’s heart seized. Poor girl. This was supposed to be her wedding night. She rose and slipped next to Penny, rested an arm around her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Lavange.” The chef’s voice was softer now. “I should have not said that. Here.” He tipped the bottle into a glass. “Bas Armagnac. Very nice.” He knelt next to the ottoman Penny sat on. “I did not poison Mr. Jack. Never. I can prove it, too. When we are out of this terrible place, I will prove it.”

  “I know.” Penny pulled away from Joanna. “I know. I’m going to bed.” She stood, leaving her glass untouched.

  “I will make you a tisane for to help you sleep.”

  “I’ll take care of her, thank you,” Reverend Tony said. He come in from the breakfast room and held a ziplock bag of herbs. “We’ll make her tea from this.”

  A cold look in his eyes, Clarke stared at the Frenchman as Chef Jules passed back into the dining room and presumably to the kitchen below. Clarke reached for Penny’s brandy and tossed it back with a swallow. “That man is not leaving the country until he takes full responsibility for Wilson’s death.”

  “It was an accident, Clarke,” Portia said. “Calm down.”

  “I’m not saying it wasn’t an accident. I just think he needs to be held accountable.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Joanna built a small fire in her room—just enough to take the edge off the cold. The storm still raged outside, cloaking the doors and windows in impenetrable blankets of snow.

  On the nightstand she’d stacked as many of Francis Redd’s journals as she could carry and set her glass of Armagnac on top. She unfolded an extra quilt over the bed and fluffed her pillows. She hesitated before getting into bed. Would she be warm enough? Socks. That’s what she needed. She’d put an extra pair in her suitcase.

  Reaching around the side of her suitcase, her fingers touched the wool of her socks—and paper. What was this? She pulled a sheet of lined notebook paper folded in thirds from her suitcase and opened it. Her heart leapt at Paul’s handwriting. He must have put it in her suitcase yesterday afternoon before she left. She took the letter to the fireplace’s light and sat down.

  “Jo,” the letter read “I miss you already and you haven’t even left yet. I’ll be waiting to hear about the weekend when you get home. Paul.”

  A knot formed in her chest. What if she arrived home to find her mother camped out? She should have warned Paul about her long ago. She’d opened up to him about everything else. He shouldn’t have to be put through the emotional wringer she’d already suffered.

  They usually had such clear understanding. Only a few weeks ago at home, she’d carefully untangled a bag of silk stockings someone had brought to the store to sell. With their slick, delicate texture they were fiendishly difficult to ease apart without snagging. She soaked the stockings in gentle soap and warm water, then slowly, one by one, draped each of the two dozen stockings over a rack made of wooden dowels and covered with fine cotton pillowcases to protect the silk. Then the rack came crashing down.

  Paul heard the noise from upstairs and appeared for a second in the doorway to the basement’s laundry area before vanishing. She had sunk to the floor and put her head in her hands. It had already been a long day, with a cranky customer insisting she take back a wedding dress. Then, mothers who’d seemed deaf to their screaming babies’ racket lingered forever by the coats, clearly with no intention to buy. Plus, the steamer had been acting up again.

  Paul returned to the basement with a brimming martini glass, and he didn’t even drink. “Take this upstairs,” he said. She’d returned to the basement half an hour later and found Paul gently laying the last stocking over the now-sturdy rack.

  “Oh, Madame Eye.” The portrait flickered in and out of sight as the fireplace’s flames danced. “I’m an idiot.”

  A knock at the door disturbed her thoughts. “Can I come in?” came Penny’s voice from the hall.

  “Of course,” Joanna said.

  “I didn’t want to be alone.” Penny shut the door behind her and sat on the hearth. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine. If anyone should be asking, it’s me. It’s been a hellish day for you. The only thing I can offer is that it’s just about over.”

  “Oh Joanna, I don’t want to talk about my troubles. That’s all I’ve done all day, with you, Portia, and Reverend Tony. Do you mind if I borrow this?” She pulled a blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it over her lap. “No, tell me what’s bothering you. I need the distraction.”

  “You’re so sweet.” Joanna fidgeted with a journal, then pushed it back to her bedside table. “It’s just family stuff.”

  “What family? I thought you didn’t have any brothers or sisters.”

  “It’s my mother.” Joanna hesitated before finishing her thought. “I haven’t spoken to her in years, but she sent a note the other day.”

  “Really?” Penny appeared unfazed. “What did she want?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to find out.”

  “So then don’t answer her.”

  So easy. So matter of fact. “You don’t think I’m a bad person? I mean, for not talking to her?” Joanna searched Penny’s face.

  “No. I don’t know what your business is, but I’m the last person to judge. I mean, look at my mom.”

  Bette wouldn’t be an easy mother, not by any stretch. Still, although her actions might be twisted by her own egocentricity and crazy reasoning—not to mention alcohol—at her core seemed genuine caring. “At least you talk to her,” Joanna said.

  “I get where she’s coming from. Mostly,” Penny said. “I worry about her drinking, and she annoys me to no end sometimes. But in the end, it’s easier to talk to her than not. It sounds funny to say it, but I don’t take her personally. Plus, I know she’d never do anything to hurt me. Get on my nerves, yes. Hurt me, no.”

  That was where their mothers parted ways. “I wish I could say the same.”

  “She’s betrayed you in some way,” Penny said.

  Joanna nodded. “It’s complicated, and I don’t want to go into details, but, yes. Definitely.”

  “Then why keep in touch?”

  She looked at Penny with fresh respect. People might call her spoiled, but she had wisdom beyond her age. “I felt obligated, I guess. Felt like I had to try to make her happy.”

  “You can always say no, you know. You always have a choice.”

  Sure, Joanna knew she had a choice. She knew it intellectually. But apparently not emotionally. It was easier to remove herself from having to say no, than actually turning her mother down to her face. Why that was, she couldn’t say.

  “There’s one more thing,” Joanna said. “I haven’t told Paul anything about her. I’m afraid she’s going to show up while I’m away and make a scene.”

  “A scene?”

  “You know, try to get money, or tell him I’m an awful daughter, or do something to drive a wedge between us.”

  Maybe it was the late hour, or maybe the fireplace’s warmth at her back, but Penny seemed more drowsy than when she’d arrived. “You’ve got to trust Pau
l.” She yawned. “Lots of stuff happens. You’ve got to trust him.”

  Easy for her to say. She’d led such a protected life. She had no idea what people were capable of. “You’re sleepy. It’s been an awful day,” she said softly. “Want to take that blanket with you?”

  Penny rose. “No, I have plenty in my room. Thanks for the distraction. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep now.” She dropped the blanket on the bed. “Trust Paul and don’t worry about it. Really. Goodnight.”

  She’d have to take Penny’s advice. She didn’t have any other choice.

  ***

  After Penny left, Joanna tucked another pillow behind her back and pulled one of Francis Redd’s leather-bound journals onto her lap. She listened for a moment to the crackle of the fire and howling wind before opening the book.

  Redd’s writing was hard to decipher, especially by candlelight. The entries made no more sense than they had in the great room after dinner. He had spent hours on these journals. Surely some of his motivation had slipped through.

  After all, what kind of man built a home he clearly loved, filled it with art, then abandoned it? Redd wanted something, searched for something, and he thought he could find it in surrealism. Real life must somehow not have satisfied him. Unless Penny was right, and he didn’t leave the lodge voluntarily. If Joanna looked carefully enough, maybe some pattern would emerge from the journals.

  She took a sip of Armagnac and turned another page. Was it all about hairless goats and paella? No. This entry seemed a little more coherent than those they’d read aloud earlier in the evening. She pulled the journal closer. It was titled “A Dream” and involved a story about taking the “hornet” down the mountain for a “delivery” but no one was there. There it was again, a hornet. When Redd returned, the lodge was burnt to the ground. She flipped ahead looking for another dream entry and found one ten pages later. In this dream, he was running from a one-legged woman with no torso toward a golden tower.