Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3)

by Angela M. Sanders

  “So you locked her in?”

  “No. Uh uh.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I signaled for her to be quiet, and I skedaddled up and out the attic door. The suction from opening the attic door—you know, all that wind up there—must have pulled the bottom door shut.”

  “You had to have heard all the yelling.”

  “Sure I did. And I got the heck out.”

  As Joanna was lost in thought, her scissors slipped from her hand and tumbled to the rug. Reggie leapt forward and grabbed them. She gasped and pressed herself against the back of the armchair.

  “Ma’am,” he said and handed her the shears, handle side toward her. He returned to his chair and settled in again.

  “Thank you.” When her pulse calmed, she caught his gaze. “There’s something else you should know.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “There’s another body downstairs. The chef.”

  “The chef who made the roast boar and those potato tartlets?” He scratched his chest. “Hot damn. You’re joking. That man was an artist.”

  “Put that last log on the fire. I have a story to tell you.”

  ***

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Joanna lifted her head from the cushions she’d laid out in front of the tower room’s fireplace. Reggie? No, he’d returned to the garage as they’d decided. She laid her head down again. Her eyes burned and body ached. Frankly, she was surprised she’d slept at all, but nature must have taken over.

  Tap. Tap. Silence. Joanna shot to her feet. It was the window. Someone had come.

  She blinked against the brilliant sun pouring in. The snow had stopped, and daylight streamed around the silhouette of head and shoulders disappearing toward the horizon. She pushed the casement open, tossing the veil inside. “Come back,” she yelled. He wasn’t far. He must hear her.

  The figure stopped, turned on his skis, and returned. Thank God. The cold breeze ruffled Joanna’s hair, and a thin sheet of ice crystals whisked onto the window sill from the snow just a few feet below. The man, in a head-to-toe ski suit with the Timberline Lodge logo stitched on its chest, pulled down the mask covering his mouth and nose.

  “Ski patrol,” he said. “I found this this morning.” He pulled one of her parachutes from a zippered chest pocket. “Is there trouble here?”

  “Yes. Yes. We’re out of power and food, and—well—there have been two murders.”

  Even with goggles obscuring half his face, Joanna could tell the ski patrol man didn’t believe her. He pulled back his head and lifted his goggles. The skin they had protected was white next to his ruddy cheeks. “Say that again?”

  “Stay there,” she said. She ran back to Wilson’s body, drew a breath, and lifted the sheet.

  The ski patroller came as close to the window as his skis permitted and leaned in. “That’s not—? I’d heard he was up here getting married, but—”

  Joanna was back at the window. “Listen. Did anyone see you arrive?”

  “No. I came from the valley side.”

  “Do you have a pen and paper?” Thank God, thank God he’d come. With the hint of their ordeal being over, emotion washed over Joanna. She swallowed the urge to cry.

  “No.” He tilted his head.

  “Then you’ll just have to remember this.” Her voice trembled. “It’s very, very important. When you get back to Timberline, you need to call the police in town and ask for Detective Foster Crisp. Got that? Foster, like to take care of something, and Crisp, like the weather.”

  Wide-eyed, the ski patroller nodded.

  “And that’s not all.” Joanna leaned forward and gave him instructions, emphasizing speed and detail.

  After a few minutes, he pulled up his mask and adjusted his goggles and swished down the hill, snow flying behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  There was no way around it. She had to do it. She had to go downstairs and pretend everything was normal. No spiders, no Reggie, no ski patrol. Her plan depended upon it.

  Joanna looked down at her disheveled robe. She smoothed her hair and tried to work out a few of its knots with her fingers but gave up. There was no way she was going back to her room for a change of clothes. She’d have to wing it.

  In the ice-cold tower bathroom, she splashed water on her face, patting her skin dry with Wilson’s hand towel. Then she went downstairs.

  Where the tower room’s stairs met the hall to the bedrooms, she turned sharply to make it look like she’d been in her room. Everyone except Daniel and Tony, on the ground level, of course, were in the great room. Clarke was trying to build a fire while Bette looked on. Sylvia and Marianne curled up on the couch with a blanket over them. Portia examined her fingernails.

  Penny lounged on the couch opposite, eyes half shut. Seeing Joanna, she sat up. “What’s wrong? You look awful.”

  Joanna crouched next to her. “Could we go to your room?” Bette glanced at her, letting her gaze rest for a moment on Joanna’s knotted hair before turning away. “I want to show you something,” she added for Bette’s benefit.

  “In my room?”

  “Come on.” Joanna pulled Penny to her feet.

  “Look at that sun,” she heard Portia telling someone in the great room as they left. “We’ll be out of here today. For sure.”

  Penny opened the bedroom door and let Joanna enter first. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Sit down.”

  Penny took a chair near the fireplace. It was only last night that Penny took scissors to the Schiaparelli gown. It wasn’t too late to make an excuse and back out, simply wait for the police to arrive. But she had the chance to prove who the murderer was, and she needed Penny’s help. She’d have to trust her.

  “Last night someone tried to kill me,” Joanna said. Penny bolted to her feet, and Joanna put a finger to her lips. “Shh. No, it’s all right. I’m fine. Sit down.”

  “Someone tried to kill you? What happened?”

  “They put a black widow spider’s nest in my bed.”

  Penny gasped.

  “But I noticed it before it was too late. I ended up sleeping in the tower room last night.”

  “With Wilson?”

  “On the floor, but yes, with Wilson.” Penny had seemed genuinely shocked. Joanna had been right to trust her—she hoped.

  “Why you?” Penny’s expression changed. “It’s because you’ve been asking questions, that’s why. Someone wants to shut you up.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s not Tony, then. He’s been watched all night. See? I told everyone he was innocent,” Penny said.

  “I know.” Joanna moved closer. She thought about Reggie and her S O S parachutes. How much should she reveal? Not too much. Penny’s reactions needed to be authentic. “That’s why I wanted to tell you. I need you to stay near me the rest of the time we’re here. It won’t be long now, I promise. Someone will come and get us.”

  Penny pulled a strand of hair to her mouth and chewed it. “But what about the others? Shouldn’t we tell them? The real murderer is out.”

  “And he—or she—thinks he’s safe, because right now the blame is on Reverend Tony. I’m the one he wants, Penny. Please. Just keep me in your eyesight. It won’t be much longer. They have to come for us today,” she repeated.

  Penny drew a deep breath. “All right. But you’re going to have to get dressed and cleaned up a little. You look awful.”

  And feel worse, Joanna thought.

  “Plus, people are going to get suspicious if we’re in here too long together. We’ll go into your room and get your suitcase.” She picked up Bette’s Vogue and rolled it up. “Come on.”

  Joanna shook her head. “No, Penny. The spiders.”

  “They’re just bugs. Come on.” Penny rose and crossed the hall to Joanna’s bedroom door, Joanna behind her. Penny opened the door and charged across the room to push aside the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room. Joanna’s jaw dropped. What had happened? The pillows that Joanna had shoved under the
covers were now arranged at the head of the bed, and the blankets were pulled up neatly. Joanna’s hands dropped to her side.

  “I don’t see a single spider. Where are they?” Penny said.

  Joanna stood in a daze. “I guess—I guess they’re gone.”

  Penny’s gaze searched Joanna’s face. “You told me someone put a nest of black widows in your bed. But the room’s immaculate. It doesn’t even look like you slept here.”

  “I—I know. I can’t explain it.”

  “Did you get any sleep last night? Everyone’s been on edge, and maybe you—”

  “I’m telling you, there was a nest of them. In my bed.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  Penny strode to Joanna’s suitcase and flung it open. “Look. Since we’re here, we’ll get some clothes.”

  “No.” Joanna caught Penny’s hand and yanked it away from the clothing. “Don’t touch that. They might have got in there.”

  Penny slowly withdrew her hand from Joanna’s and looked at the suitcase. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” she whispered.

  Joanna nodded. “Wait. See here.” She knelt near where she’d smashed the black widow with her slipper and scooped it into a tissue. “Here’s one of them.”

  Penny recoiled from the dead spider. “It’s all right. I believe you. You want to borrow something from me?”

  Joanna let out her breath. “I don’t think I’d fit into anything you have.” Penny had the body of a twelve-year old boy. She’d rip out the seams of her jeans.

  “Wear something from Mom. She brought loads of stuff. Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Penny led her down the hall to the great room. “Joanna can borrow something from you, right Mom?”

  “What were you girls doing in there?” Bette replied.

  “Nothing. Joanna is embarrassed because she doesn’t have anything clean to wear.”

  Joanna scanned the room. Someone in the lodge knew she was calling his bluff, and she was almost sure who. All she needed were a few more pieces of information.

  Bette rose from her seat near the fireplace. Clarke had given up his attempts to keep a fire going, and Sylvia had taken over. “If you help us make a fire so we can heat some water for coffee, I’ll let you wear anything you want.”

  Dark circles marred Bette’s usually flawless complexion. Joanna would be willing to bet she had a wicked hangover, too. “Done.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “I have a caftan with a stain on it. You can borrow that,” Bette told Joanna. Bette started toward her bedroom.

  Joanna followed her. Caftan? Maybe with long underwear and thick socks. She didn’t have a fox fur coat to toss over it like Bette did. “Are you coming?” she asked Penny.

  Penny caught up with her mother and Joanna. “Sure. You’ve dressed me often enough. This time I’m helping you out.”

  In her room, Bette threw open the closet door and pulled a caftan off a hanger, handing it to Joanna without looking at her.

  “Mom, Joanna can’t wear that. Don’t you have something normal—a sweater and pants or something?” Penny said.

  Joanna felt the heft of the tan silk. Wow. Vintage Yves Saint Laurent. Stain or not, she couldn’t wait to put this baby on. “I’m too tall for Bette’s pants. Really, Penny, this caftan will be perfect.”

  “At least put a turtleneck under it. Here.” Penny pulled a cashmere turtleneck from the dresser.

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  “Hurry up. We need to get coffee started.” Bette headed back toward the great room, Bubbles close behind.

  Joanna took the clothing to the bathroom and shut the door. “How do you feel today?” she said to Penny through the door.

  “Okay, I guess. I mean, considering.”

  “Did you sleep all right?” As Joanna untied her robe, she spotted Bette’s makeup case next to the sink. She dropped the robe on the floor and slowly unzipped the case so not to make noise.

  “Not super great. I did some meditations Reverend Tony taught me and they helped.”

  “Poor Tony, stuck down there in his room,” Joanna replied absently as she poked through the case. A Dior eyeshadow compact, some expensive makeup brushes, and a couple of Guerlain lipsticks including the fancy one in the gold tube. She flipped it over. “Habit Rouge,” it said. A red. She nestled it next to a mini of Opium parfum. Basically, Bette had the value of a roundtrip airline ticket to Paris in cosmetics in her travel bag alone.

  “Tony didn’t kill anyone,” Penny replied. “How come we can’t let him out?”

  Bette would kill her if she knew Joanna were nosing through her makeup case. Behind a tub of Crème de la Mer was a tangled gold chain with black baroque pearls threaded intermittently along it. Underneath it lay a thin gold band. “I know.”

  The bathroom door burst open. “I knew you’d understand,” Penny said. Her eyebrows drew together. Why aren’t you dressed yet?” She looked at the open cosmetics case. “Are you going through my mom’s stuff?”

  Adrenaline pulsed through Joanna’s veins. “No. I mean, yes—I just thought I might wash my face. You know, freshen up before I change. You don’t think Bette would mind, do you? I was hoping to find some some soap.” In her nervousness at being caught, she talked too much. She shut her mouth.

  Penny plopped a washcloth and a jar of cleanser in front of her. “I need to tell you something.”

  “What?” Please let her have bought the story about needing to wash up.

  “I think I know who killed Wilson.”

  Joanna turned full face to Penny. “Who?”

  “Sylvia. And Daniel. Together.”

  Joanna picked up the cleanser and made a weak attempt at cleansing a cheek. The water was ice cold. “Sylvia and Daniel? You mean because Marianne stands to inherit?” She wiped the cream off with a washcloth.

  “Think about it.” Penny boosted herself to the counter. “Sylvia will be in charge of Marianne’s money until she comes of age, and she really needs it to bail out the clinic. She says she talked to Wilson about it. Maybe he said no.”

  Penny had thought it through. “But what about Daniel?” Joanna asked. “What’s in it for him?”

  “He hated Wilson.”

  “Really?” That wasn’t the impression she had.

  “Okay, maybe that’s too strong. But they didn’t get along. Wilson kicked Daniel out of the band, and I don’t think Daniel ever forgave him. His hand, too. I think Wilson had something to do with Daniel losing his fingers.”

  “Daniel doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, which could mean he’s protecting Wilson. If that’s true, why would he kill him?”

  “It doesn’t mean he’s not still mad. Plus, Daniel clearly has a thing for Sylvia.” She leaned forward. “I saw him talking with Sylvia alone last night. They were sitting really close, whispering. He held her hand.”

  Joanna lifted the caftan from its hanger, and Penny modestly averted her eyes while Joanna shed her sweater and nightgown and slipped on first the turtleneck, then the caftan. The heavy, lined silk was surprisingly warm. She wondered if she could find a few caftans for Tallulah’s Closet. They had a sort of Anita-Pallenberg-in-Morocco glamour her customers would love.

  “Joanna, are you listening to me?”

  “I am. Sylvia told me about Daniel having to leave the band, and I was surprised. Wilson didn’t seem like the kind of man who would tell his own family to go.” She raked her hair with her fingers and pinned it up. “To tell the truth, I wondered if maybe Clarke was behind it. Maybe he didn’t think Daniel was as marketable as another drummer.”

  Penny swung her legs from the counter. “You could be right. Wilson always said Clarke made the big decisions. All he did was write songs and perform.”

  Maybe that accounted for the way Wilson set firm boundaries once he decided to break up the band. No more performances at all. No licensing songs. No reunion tour—not that any of the original performing band members were alive,
anyway. This was his way of asserting authority.

  “You’re still uncomfortable about Tony, aren’t you?” Joanna asked. “Is that why you’ve come up with this theory about Sylvia and Daniel? I told you I believe Tony’s innocent, and I’m sure the police will figure it out, too. But something isn’t sitting right with you.” Penny’s gaze dropped. “What is it? Did he say something? Do something?”

  “No. He’s innocent. I know it.”

  Penny was lying, Joanna was convinced. Sure, she wanted Tony to be in the clear, but some part of her hesitated. Why?

  ***

  Before they left Bette’s room, Penny said, “Wait here.” She dashed into her room through the connecting door and returned with an Indian cashmere scarf covered with pale green and orange paisley. “You’re going to need this to keep your neck warm.”

  “Thank you.” Joanna wrapped it around her shoulders and tucked the ends into the caftan’s neckline. “You’re a natural at taking care of people, Penny.” It was funny, really. Penny was so helpless and self-absorbed, but at the same time so sweet.

  “I’m sorry,” Penny said, her hands behind her back.

  “About what? You haven’t done anything.” For the moment, Joanna would ignore the damaged Schiap.

  “I invited you to come out here, and look what happened,” Penny said.

  “You didn’t know. It’s all right.”

  “I’m sorry about the dress, too. I loved that dress, and I destroyed it.” Penny bit her lip and looked away. “I guess—I guess I was just really angry and I wanted other people to be angry, too. Now you’re going to get in trouble.” She raised her face. “Reverend Tony told me Buddha says being angry is like holding a hot coal. The angry person is the one who gets burned.”

  Strictly speaking, it was Joanna who’d get burned on this one, not Penny. She returned with a quote of her own, but from her grandmother. “What’s done is done, Penny. No use crying over spilt milk.” Maybe Grandma wasn’t an Eastern deity, but she made a lot of sense.