The background report had said he’d taken courses at the Art Institute. It was probably helpful with his counterfeiting. “Why did you want to see him?”
“Just to say hi. That’s it. But listen—” Portia grabbed Joanna by the sleeve. “Don’t tell him I told you, okay?”
Portia’s bedroom door burst open. Penny stepped inside and slammed it behind her. She looked at both women. “I admit it. I went to see Tony last night.”
“What are you talking about?” Portia said.
“What?” Joanna said at the same time.
Penny stepped forward. “There’s no way he could have killed the chef.”
“You?” Joanna pointed at Penny. “But Portia just said—”
“Portia said what?” Penny asked. She grabbed the bedpost with both hands and leaned against it.
“Portia said she was in Tony’s room,” Joanna finished.
Portia dropped into an armchair. “I wasn’t, actually. I just said that to shut you up. I don’t know what got into you that you had to know so badly.” The room was now shrouded in darkness. Portia’s face made a pale spot, but Joanna couldn’t read her expression.
“What were you doing in there, Portia? What is this thing between you and Tony, anyway?” Penny said.
“Joanna said she saw one of us come out of Tony’s room last night, when the chef was locked out. She wouldn’t leave it alone. I told her it was me, but it wasn’t.” She lifted a slippered foot and examined it. “It was you all along. Not me. I wasn’t there.”
Penny’s mouth was open. “You’re lying. You were down there, all right.”
Bewildered, Joanna looked from sister to sister. Who was telling the truth? “One of you was with Reverend Tony, I’m sure of it.”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” Penny said. “I just said it to get Tony off the hook. If I was with him, he couldn’t have killed the chef. But since I know you were with him—”
“Now you’re lying,” Portia responded.
“Am not,” Penny said. “You’re just jealous. You’ve always been that way. You can’t stand it that I was going to get married and that Reverend Tony is my good friend.”
Portia was standing now. “Tony isn’t exactly a friend to brag about, if you knew what I know.”
What everyone knows now, Joanna added silently.
Portia continued. “And I’m not jealous of you. On the contrary, you’re jealous of me. I’m the one who’s traveled, who meets with important people, who has an education. Until you moved to Portland to be with Wilson, all you did was hang around Mom’s pool.”
This conversation was going nowhere. Let the sisters fight it out. If she wanted an answer, she’d have to get it from Tony.
***
What would an ex-con, yoga-teaching vegan want to eat? Hands on hips, Joanna stood in the kitchen. The roast boar was out of the question. Besides, it was just about gone anyway. She opened the refrigerator to blackness. Oh yes, no power. At the bottom of the refrigerator in the crisper drawer was a plastic bag lumpy with vegetables. She pulled it out. The bag contained radishes carved into rosettes and elaborate carrot curls, probably intended to garnish the appetizer plates for the wedding. Tonight they’d be Tony’s dinner.
She arranged the vegetables in a bowl and tucked a bottle of birch water under her arm. She grabbed her candlestick with her remaining hand. Daniel still sat outside Tony’s door, his foot propped on a chair. A pillar candle wafting orange blossom burned on the stone floor next to him. “What’s going on upstairs?”
“Oh, the usual.” Penny and Portia shouting at each other, Bette snoozing in an alcoholic stupor in the great room, Clarke still at work in the dining room, Sylvia and Marianne settled on the couch like it was a bunker. “How’s your ankle?” Joanna asked.
“Not bad. Sylvia brought me some snow to pack it in.” He pointed to a sodden dishtowel wrapping something big enough to rest his foot on. A puddle surrounded it on the stone floor. “You didn’t bring that for me, did you?”
A plate with a few crumbs next to Daniel’s chair showed he’d already eaten. “No. For Tony.”
“I don’t know,” Daniel straightened in his chair. “Did Clarke send you down?”
“Does Clarke need to decide everything?” Joanna gambled on Daniel’s animosity toward him. “The man needs to eat, after all.”
“All right. But leave the bottle out here. We don’t want him breaking it into shards.” Joanna set the birch water in the hall. “He’s been quiet,” Daniel added.
“I can hear you, you know,” came the Reverend’s voice through the door.
“I brought you some food. Can I come in?”
The door opened a few feet. Tony’s bulk filled the crack. “I assume it’s all right to let the lady enter?”
“You don’t need to go in there,” Daniel said. “Just hand him the food.”
“I want to check on him, make sure there’s nothing else he needs,” Joanna said. “Please, Daniel. He’s a person, too. We’ve locked him up with no proof.”
He shifted in his chair. “All right, but leave the door open.”
Leading with the plate, Joanna entered the bedroom. Like the chef’s room across the hall, Tony’s room had only a bed, desk, and dresser. Taper candles flickered here and there, but shadows washed the room’s corners. A green yoga mat lay unfurled beside the bed. Despite the cold, Tony only wore a tee shirt and sweatpants. His feet were bare.
“Now aren’t these delightful.” Tony picked up a radish carved as a rose and examined it. “Did you do this?”
She shook her head. “Garnish.”
He tossed it back on the plate. “Why are you here? I thought you decided I was guilty.”
“Tony, look. I know—we all know—you have a record. Fine.” She lowered her voice. “But that doesn’t mean you killed anyone. The night the chef died, I saw someone come out of your room. That’s an alibi.”
His face turned stone blank. “I’m not talking without a lawyer.”
“But Tony—”
“Listen. I’ll be off papers at the end of the month—”
“Papers?”
“Parole. I don’t want to blow it by stirring the pot. Okay?” The bed creaked as he sat on its edge. “We’ll get out of here eventually, and I’ll talk to the police then. Besides, in here I’m safe. They can’t accuse me of anything if I’m under lock and key.”
“Are you all right?” Daniel peered around the edge of the door.
“Just fine,” Joanna said. She lowered her voice again. “It’s not just you, it’s everyone else, too. If there was someone in here with you, that person’s name is cleared, too. Plus” —she bit her lip then released it— “plus if you’re not the killer, someone else is.”
Tony pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling in a blatant show of “I’m not saying anything.”
“You need the alibi, Tony. Everyone has seen you sneaking around at some point over the past few days. Food’s disappeared. Marianne somehow got locked in the secret staircase. It all points to you. Don’t you want to clear your name?”
“I have every right—”
“Every right to what?”
He paced to the edge of the room, then back toward Joanna. “I don’t know who the real killer is, but you’d better watch out. Someone attacked Bette. All I know is that it wasn’t me, and the killer wants everyone to think things are safe now.”
His words took a moment to sink in. “Before striking again, you mean?”
“Bingo.” Turning his back to Joanna, he took the plate of garnishes to the desk and noisily bit into a radish.
“If that’s true, it means someone else is. You don’t want to ‘fess up to a nighttime visitor?”
He popped carrot curls into his mouth and shook his head.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. She shut the door behind her a little more firmly than was necessary.
Daniel raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t just about bringing him food, was it?”
“I thought—I thought I saw something last night, but I guess I was wrong.” Or not. No one seemed to want to tell the truth.
Daniel shifted his leg. “All right. If I were you, though, I’d stay in your room. Or go upstairs to the great room with the others.”
Joanna glanced across the hall at the chef’s room, then back to Daniel. It wouldn’t be such a bad idea to make sure her only piece of evidence that Wilson’s death wasn’t an accident was hidden somewhere safe. “You’re stuck down here, though. How long have you been in the hall, anyway? I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you get something to drink, see if you can switch off with Clarke or something?”
“Tony’s a lot bigger than you,” Daniel said. “If he decided to break out—”
“If he decided to break out there’s not much you can do with your twisted ankle. If anything happens, I’ll yell. It’s not like he can really go anywhere. Sylvia was asking about you,” she lied.
“I guess I wouldn’t mind getting a little more cake, maybe, or checking in upstairs.” He gingerly lifted himself from the chair and grabbed the ski pole to use as a crutch. “I’ll just be gone a minute. If you really don’t mind.”
“No. No trouble at all. I’ll be here.”
Daniel limped toward the stairwell. When he was out of sight, Joanna rose and pressed an ear to Tony’s door. Quiet chanting murmured from behind the heavy wood. Good. She crept across the hall and entered the chef’s room, closing the door behind her. She set her candle on the floor and crouched near the bed. The flattened clam dip container would be toward the bed’s head.
“Sorry, Jules, to have to do this again,” she whispered. “It’s for your own good.”
She slipped her hand under the mattress and widened her fingers. No, couldn’t be. She slid her hand wider, up and down the mattress’s full length. Nothing. The clam dip container was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I just want to be gone,” Portia said.
Other than Portia’s lament, the great room was quiet. Night had fallen, and candlelight danced over the room’s seashell moldings. Bette had gathered the scented candles from each of the bedrooms and bathrooms and arrayed them throughout the great room—on the mantel, side tables, and hearth. The faint scent of sandalwood and cinnamon hung in the air. A fire crackled in the grate.
The lodge’s guests slumped on the couches and chairs, and in Daniel’s case, the floor in front of the fire. It was too dark to read, but no one seemed to want to talk, either. A sense of relief—or was it resignation?—pervaded the atmosphere. With Tony downstairs in his room and Clarke guarding the door, they were safe. They could sleep in their own rooms tonight.
Or so they assumed. That they’d caught the murderer, Tony, and all they had to do was sit tight until help came. Joanna was less sure.
“The snow has almost stopped,” Daniel said. He rotated his ankle, as if thinking about trying to ski out.
Joanna moved to the library windows. The clouds were still thick enough to muffle the moon’s light, but Daniel was right. Only a few flakes fell here and there. Thick, unmarred snow blanketed the slope.
Somewhere down the mountain behind her, deep in the valley, Paul was home. Maybe dealing with her mother. Her stomach clenched. He’d been expecting Joanna home Saturday night, but he would have checked the weather report and figured it explained the delay. What she’d give to be home now. She returned to the great room.
“How’s your ankle?” Sylvia asked Daniel. She sat on the lips couch with Marianne and Bubbles draped around her. A plaid wool throw covered the little girl up to her shoulders.
“Better. I should be able to get around pretty well by tomorrow morning.”
“Well enough to ski out?” Portia said.
“Maybe. I hope so.”
“Don’t push yourself,” Sylvia said.
“We’ve got to do something. We have enough wood for two, maybe three, more fires and that’s it,” Daniel said.
“We won’t be here another day,” Bette said. Joanna was surprised she’d been listening. She seemed completely in her own world in the armchair pushed to the side. The colorful fabric of her caftan—the Pucci again—flowed over the chair’s front. “The rent’s up on the lodge, and someone will be in to kick us out and clean up.”
“It’s awful, but—” Sylvia said.
“But what?” Daniel said.
“Well, in some ways I’ve enjoyed being here. Oh, I know it’s heartbreaking, and it’s not over yet, but in a small way it’s nice to be completely out of touch.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Bette asked.
“It’s just that I feel suspended from real life here. I shouldn’t have even said it. Really, I’d give anything to change what’s happened over the past few days.”
“I understand,” Daniel said. He might have put his hand on hers, but it was too dim for Joanna to tell for sure.
“You mean because of the scandal down at your clinic,” Bette said. “Creditors will be waiting at your door, I’m sure. What are you going to do about everyone who’s already given now that you can’t pay them back?”
“Oh, Mom, leave her alone.” Penny’s voice rose from behind the couch where she was doing yoga stretches. “I know what she means. I haven’t spent time with you and Portia for years.” Joanna remembered them deep in conversation that afternoon—but fighting later on. Sisters.
“Well, I’m not happy we’re here,” Portia said.
“Why not?” Bette suddenly changed tacks. “I hadn’t thought about it, but Penny’s right. Besides, you’re home. Once you’re back from New York, that is.”
“I don’t think I’m going to go,” she said. “I changed my mind.”
“What?” Bette raised her eyebrows. “I thought you had an assignment there.”
“Just a business meeting. I’m canceling it. I’m going straight to L.A.” Portia tossed the background report on the coffee table. It had been making the rounds of the lodge’s guests. “Did any of you know Tony grew up in Italy?”
“Sure,” Penny said. “He learned English from watching The Godfather.”
“I’m happy to be here,” Marianne said solemnly. “I get to be with my grandma.” She slid off the sofa and pushed onto Bette’s lap. Bette kissed the top of her head while Sylvia watched with a wary eye.
“The press will be at us the second we’re out of here,” Portia said.
Yoga over, Penny moved to the hearth and sat down. “But they don’t know about Wilson.”
“They don’t know he’s not alive. Yet. They’ll want to see him either way. Timberline’s rooms are probably full of tabloid reporters,” Portia said.
“They’re not so bad. You get used to it after a while,” Sylvia said. “Of course, this time—”
Silence fell for another few minutes as the group mulled over the insanity that would erupt once it got out that Wilson Jack had been murdered.
“Anyway, it’s our last night here,” Sylvia whispered. “Must be.”
“Has to be,” Daniel echoed.
“Thank God,” Bette said.
***
Everyone rose from their places near the hearth’s dying embers and said goodnight. Joanna took a two-stick candelabra from the butler’s pantry with her. At least tonight they’d be able to sleep in their own beds. Daniel had switched places again with Clarke and was outside Tony’s door, but everyone else went to their rooms. The faraway sounds of doors slamming and Bette’s voice talking to someone—was it Portia?—drifted from the hall.
Joanna’s room was bone-chilling cold. She set the candelabra on the desk and looked around. Nothing had been disturbed since the last time she was there, but she felt uneasy. The ruins of the Schiaparelli gown still lay over the foot of the bed, her suitcase was open on the ledge under the window, and her book sat on the nightstand. All as she had left it. She peered into the bathroom. Everything looked as it did before in here, too. Occasional snowflakes pelted the window. She pulled
the curtains shut. It must be all the talk about ghosts that put her on edge.
Quickly, she changed into her nightgown before pulling her wool sweater over its top and two pairs of socks on her feet. Too bad she didn’t have a stocking cap, or she’d wear that, too.
She gazed at the carnage of the Schiaparelli dress. The curator was going to flip out. The paper she’d signed had a lot of fine print on it, and she had only glanced at it before picking up her pen. Bad move, especially for an ex-law student. She might be liable for the dress’s value. Right now the contract was in her desk at home.
She folded the tattered gown and bundled it with its veil. It didn’t matter now if it wrinkled. God, what she’d give for a hot bath. She sat on the edge of the bed, and her hand rested on a shallow lump under the covers. A sock? She was wearing both pairs of the socks she’d brought. Maybe the sheets were lumped up.
She pulled back the wool blankets. Whatever it was, it was near the foot of the bed and squishy. Holding the candelabra in one hand, she peeled the blankets back further.
Gasping, she leapt back against the wall, splashing candle wax on her nightgown, but she hardly felt the burn. The bed swarmed with small black dots. Black widow spiders. Her heart raced. Someone had put a nest of black widow spiders in her bed.
She ran to the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Her stomach roiled. She lifted the lid to the toilet and heaved up the odd assortment of garnishes and canapés that had made dinner. Deadly spiders. In her bed. Someone wanted to kill her. First Wilson, then Chef Jules. Then an attempt on Bette. Now her. They knew she was getting closer to finding the murderer, and they wanted to stop her. There was nowhere for her to go, either. She couldn’t even lock herself in her room—black widows saturated her bed.
After rinsing her mouth with the tap’s ice cold water, she splashed some on her face. The candelabra had tumbled, and now only one taper was lit, pooling wax on the tile floor. She sank to the floor next to it and pressed her hands over her eyes.
For a long time, she sat on the cold tile floor. She thought about the family that raised her—her grandparents. They’d raised her to be independent, but they hadn’t stinted on love. Sure, she’d grown up in a mobile home on the outskirts of a long-abandoned lumber camp, but it was her grandmother’s attention to detail that nurtured Joanna’s sense of beauty. Even when cutting cucumbers for her homemade bread and butter pickles, her grandmother had sliced them in perfect ovals to fan around the inside of the jar so they looked like art deco wallpaper studded with dill seed. She sewed her own wardrobe. Mostly it was pants with elastic waist bands and loose tunics, but her grandmother had chosen vivid turquoise and mauve and tangerine fabric with swirling vines and stylized flowers. Joanna played with her spools of thread for hours, arranging and rearranging them in rainbows.
Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) Page 19
