Contents
Title Page
Dramatis Personae
Lodge Floor Plan Ground Floor
Lodge Floor Plan Second Floor
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Afterword
Note to Reader
SLAIN IN SCHIAPARELLI
Angela M. Sanders
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Joanna Hayworth, a Portland, Oregon, vintage clothing store owner tasked with helping a customer dress for her wedding at Redd Lodge in a borrowed, priceless Schiaparelli gown.
Penny Lavange, the bride-to be, young and self-centered and somewhat fascinated with new age spirituality, but sweet as they come.
Wilson Jack, the groom and retired musician known as the J. D. Salinger of rock music. A good twenty years older than Penny, he fronted the world-famous band, the Jackals.
Bette Lavange, Penny’s mother and former Studio 54 habitué, as she won’t let you forget.
Portia Lavange, a photojournalist and Penny’s identical twin sister.
Reverend Anthony Rosso, aka Reverend Tony, Master Tony, and Father Tony. Penny’s “spiritual advisor.”
Daniel Jack, Wilson’s brother and a bike shop owner.
Clarke Stiles, the Jackals’s former manager, now Wilson Jack’s financial advisor.
Sylvia Motter, Wilson’s former long-time lover and mother of his child. She runs a center in Los Angeles for women with eating disorders.
Marianne Motter, Wilson and Sylvia’s plump six-year-old daughter.
Chef Jules, young Michelin-starred French chef hired by Bette to cater the wedding.
Others: a maid, a member of the ski patrol, Detective Foster Crisp, and a ghost.
Chapter One
Joanna Hayworth gripped the steering wheel as the windshield wipers batted at the whirling snow. Her headlights barely pierced the darkness on the mountain road.
The little Toyota hit an icy patch and fishtailed. She gasped, but was able to right the car. She let out a long breath and glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure her precious cargo—a 1938 Schiaparelli Tears gown—was still strapped in its archival box on the backseat. Yes. It was safe. Although why Penny had insisted on this gown with its Dali-rendered print of torn flesh for her wedding was beyond her. Still, this weekend would be the highlight of Joanna’s career in vintage clothing. If she arrived in one piece.
Through the trees she made out the glowing windows of Timberline Lodge. Skiers swarmed its parking lot as they packed up to return to the city. She’d been driving for nearly three hours through ice and snow, battling Friday afternoon traffic out of Portland and then the hazardous old highway up Mount Hood. Her back and shoulders ached. Not too much longer to Redd Lodge.
Snow-laden firs thinned then disappeared as Joanna’s car crawled above the tree line. When she emerged from the forest, Joanna did a double take. Redd Lodge loomed over the white-cloaked moonscape like something from a fairy tale. The building rose two stories high with two wings and a central tower topped with—could it be?—a bronzed satyr. Windows blazed with light, and smoke drifted from five or six chimneys into the falling snow.
Only a handful of guests, including Joanna, would be here tonight, but tomorrow another hundred would swarm the lodge for Penny’s wedding to reclusive rock star Wilson Jack.
She edged her Corolla next to a Lexus, turned off the engine, and took a few seconds to pull herself together. She might be here only to help the bride and her sister dress for the ceremony, but no rock star was going to see her like this. She reached into her purse for her lipstick, and her hands brushed the day’s mail from her vintage clothing store, Tallulah’s Closet, which she’d tossed in her bag in a hurry as she’d left. Her fingers lit on thick linen paper. She snapped on the overhead light, and her jaw dropped. It had been years since she’d seen that handwriting—her mother’s. This did not bode well.
She turned the envelope over in her hands, unwilling to open it, yet curious, all the same. Her mother wanted something, she was sure. The only question was what, and how much would it take out of Joanna to satisfy her.
Without warning, her car door yanked open. “Joanna!” Penny, flushed and laughing, held the door. Snowflakes gathered on her hair, and clumps of ice stuck to her satin evening sandals. “You made it. Close your eyes.”
Joanna dropped the envelope into her bag. “But I—”
“Come on.”
“My bags—” The Schiaparelli had to be kept at a stable temperature.
Behind Penny, a uniformed maid picked her way across the driveway. “Take those to her room, the one across from mine,” Penny told her. She turned again to Joanna. “Now close your eyes and follow me.”
“If anything happens to that dress—”
“Never mind that. Eyes shut? Come on.” Penny took Joanna’s elbow. “We’re going in.”
The lodge’s ground floor was completely snowed in, but the driveway and a small parking area were plowed, and a tented enclosure tunneled through the snow to the ground floor entrance. The packed snow turned to stone under Joanna’s boots. She stumbled, but Penny’s arm kept her upright.
“Keep your eyes shut. Here are the steps. We’re going up.” Penny’s fingers still gripped tight. “It snows so much here that all the main rooms are on the second floor.”
Warmth, smelling of wood smoke and lilies, hit her face. Was Wilson Jack here? She hadn’t even had time to put on lipstick. As they turned a corner, Joanna fluttered her eyelashes just enough to make out a large room and the shapes of furniture. They must be at the lodge’s center, directly under the tower she’d seen from the driveway.
“Okay, open.” Penny released her arm.
Joanna inhaled sharply. My God. The room was awash with pattern—hand-loomed rugs stretched over the wood-plank floor, and heavy curtains hung on floor-to-ceiling windows. Vases crammed with tropical flowers crowded side tables. Her first impression was of rich color. Then she focused on patterns and saw gryphons wielding knives. Strangest of all was the fireplace, crafted as a gaping mouth with bleached river stones set into the chimney as eyes and jagged rocks as teeth. Flames roared within its maw.
She scanned the room again. No rock star. A bald, meaty guy in a Mao jacket sat near the fire, but he definitely wasn’t Wilson Jack.
“What do you think?” Penny asked.
“I hardly know what to say.”
Penny laughed. “Isn’t it the best? All period Surrealist. I knew you would love it. Look at this chair.” She patted an armchair shaped like an open clam.
It started to come together. “So that’s why you ins
isted on the Tears dress. Because of its Dali print.”
“Uh huh,” Penny said. “The guy who built the lodge was obsessed with the Surrealists. The whole place is an ode to them.”
“You’re late,” said a woman on a couch shaped like carmine lips.
“Oh Mom, she had a long drive. Leave her alone. Joanna, this is my mother, Bette.”
Bette wore a silk caftan, late 1970s Yves Saint Laurent safari collection, if Joanna’s memory was right. Aside from her platinum hair, she could have been an older, more heavily made up version of Penny. A Papillon as blonde as its owner poked from the caftan’s folds and jumped down to sniff Joanna’s boots.
“Pleased to meet you.” Joanna bent to shake Bette’s hand. She’d refused to rise from the couch. “The ride up was a little treacherous. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it earlier.”
Bette’s gaze flicked up and down Joanna’s length. “Candy Darling, from the Factory, you know, always said one could be late but never be without lipstick. But of course you look lovely.”
“Here. Take this.” Penny lifted a champagne coupe from a maid’s tray.
At the cold fizz of the wine on her tongue, Joanna thought of her mother’s note in her bag. Whatever she’d been writing about, it couldn’t be good.
“Let me introduce you to Reverend Tony.” Penny led Joanna to the man in the Mao jacket. “He’ll be officiating at the wedding tomorrow. He’s the one who told me about Redd Lodge. Isn’t it fabulous? Plus, he’s taught me so much about important spiritual things like—” Her eyebrows drew together. “What’s that thing where you pay attention to what’s happening right now?”
“Mindfulness, child.”
“That’s it. Mindfulness. Reverend, meet Joanna. She’s helping me get ready for the wedding.”
The Reverend stood. “Pleased to meet you.” In his jacket, he looked more like a gangster at a Star Trek convention than a man of the cloth, but who was she to judge?
From behind her, a voice with a British accent said, “You must be the woman who found Penny’s wedding dress. She’s shown us photos.”
Joanna turned to see a smiling blonde with a dark skunk streak. She’d entered from the wing Joanna assumed led to the bedrooms. With her was a plump girl of kindergarten age. “Yes, I am. Joanna Hayworth.”
“Sylvia Motter,” she said. “Pleased to meet you. And this is my daughter, Marianne.”
Joanna knew Sylvia from the tabloids. She’d been Wilson Jack’s longtime lover, before Penny. Strange to be at her ex’s wedding, although maybe she had to accompany her daughter.
“Pleased to meet you,” the little girl said. “Are you interested in insects? I have a very good book here you might like to read to me.” She held up a picture book with a large grasshopper on the front.
“Marianne, Joanna just arrived. She probably wants to relax after her drive. Besides, you practically have that book memorized.”
Penny’s mother, Bette, didn’t even look up from her magazine. “Dinner’s in ten minutes, Penny. Shall I tell the chef to prepare a plate for—uh—”
“Joanna,” Joanna said.
“—For Joanna in the kitchen?”
“Mom, she’s eating with us,” Penny said. Joanna opened her mouth to say she’d be fine taking something in her room, but Penny shook her head.
Bette tossed her magazine to the side. “Fine.”
“I’ll show you your room.” Penny took Joanna’s arm.
“Where are the others?” Joanna asked. Like Wilson, for instance.
“Getting ready for dinner. Come on, we don’t want to be late.”
***
When Joanna arrived at the dinner table, others were settling into their chairs, including Wilson’s brother, Daniel, and his longtime business manager, Clarke. But not Wilson Jack. The salad course came and went, and the tapers burned lower, but still no rock star.
Penny seemed unperturbed at her fiancé’s absence and launched into a story about Redd Lodge’s original owner. “He walked off in a snowstorm one night and never came back.” She leaned forward for emphasis. “Murdered. It was January then, too. Nineteen-forties.” Her cocoa-brown eyes sparkled as she relished the horror. “They say his ghost still walks the lodge.”
“Dear, don’t be so dramatic. We don’t know he was murdered,” Bette said, popping a quail egg topped with salmon roe into her mouth. The Papillon poked its head up from her lap.
A gangly man in chef’s whites emerged from the butler’s pantry with a large platter. “Sanglier rôti,” he said.
“Terrific,” came a voice from the doorway. “I’m starved.” All heads turned. At last, Wilson Jack. Joanna knew her eyes were widening, but she couldn’t help herself.
He was a little older and more gaunt than on his album covers, but there was no mistaking the razor sharp jaw and full lips. He had to be twenty years older than Penny. His hair thinned where it was pulled tight against his temples into a ponytail. He slipped into a chair at the head of the table and unfolded a napkin over his lap.
When the Jackals had announced their last concert years ago, Joanna and her best friend, Apple, then in junior high, had written love notes on the back of a Jackals poster. In mourning, Apple even hacked out a Jackals song, “Bitter Roses,” on the guitar. They’d laughed about it just the month before, when it was announced that Wilson would be breaking a long, self-imposed music fast by releasing a solo album. Why he’d quit performing in the first place was a mystery no one had solved, but Joanna credited Penny with his return to recording.
Glancing nervously at Wilson, the maid lifted a slice of meat from the platter. He didn’t seem to notice her fumbling. After so many years of fame, he must be used to being stared at.
“Daddy,” Marianne said.
“Hi honey, Hi Penn. You look beautiful,” he said, his gaze on Penny. She did, too. Her hair shone the brown of the inside of a mussel shell, and her skin was porcelain clear.
“Hi.” A happy sigh escaped Penny. “Tonight is perfect. Mom, you did such a great job planning everything. All my favorite people are here, too. Wilson, I’d like to introduce you to Joanna.”
“Oh yes. The dress peddler.” He winked at Joanna, and her cheeks warmed. “Penny’s shown me some nice stuff she bought at your store.” If anyone else had called her a “dress peddler” she would have given him a piece of her mind, maybe even pointed out that she’d turned down a career in law before opening Tallulah’s Closet. Somehow, Wilson made it sound charming.
“Penny looks good in everything. She’ll be stunning tomorrow in her wedding dress,” Joanna managed to say.
Down the table, the Reverend lifted his hand. “‘Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment’,” he said. The guests at the table, except Wilson, stared at him. “That was from the Buddha,” the Reverend added. When no one responded, he turned to the chef. “Where are the alternative meals?”
“Bon, oui,” the chef said. “In the dumbwaiter.”
The chef had prepared quite a spread. The first course was sea bean salad garnished with chive flowers. Now a root vegetable puree—spiked with black truffles, Joanna guessed from the aroma—and a leek gratin were passed around the table, plus the roast boar and poached salmon with huckleberries.
“Isn’t the chef divine?” Bette asked. “He cost a fortune, but Cuisine Sublime named him one of the best young chefs in France.”
“He’s been smoking,” the Reverend said when the chef passed into the butler’s pantry. “You know we talked about that. Penny shouldn’t breathe those toxins.” He eyed the platter of roast boar. “It’s bad enough we have to be around all this carnage.”
Joanna helped herself to the leek gratin. If they made his new age aphorisms into a drinking game, they’d pass out before dinner was over.
“Reverend Tony, you take such good care of me,” Penny said. “But I haven’t smelled a thing. My spleen energy feels really vital tonight.”
Wilson sm
iled at Penny. The smile fell away when his gaze passed to the Reverend. He stabbed his fork into a slice of meat.
“Just a little of the boar, please,” Clarke said. He’d been quiet up until now. Back in the day, he’d been Wilson’s manager. Unlike Wilson, he bore no trace of the grunge era and could have passed for a well-to-do university professor with his knife-pleated khakis and Turnbull & Asser shirt. “And maybe a slice of the salmon.”
The passed platter seem to startle Wilson’s brother, Daniel, whose eyes had been on Sylvia. “Thank you,” he said and with his left hand poured himself another glass of wine. He was bearded and huskier than Wilson. When he raised his right hand to the table, Joanna was surprised to see he was missing two middle fingers. Pale pink scars marked where the fingers had been joined to his hand.
“I said, if you wouldn’t mind, some of the boar, please.” Clarke’s voice had taken a cold edge. Without making eye contact, Daniel held the platter for him. Curious, Joanna looked from man to man. There was no love lost there.
The chef returned with a casserole dish.
“Gluten-free as I asked?” the Reverend said.
The chef nodded.
Wilson lifted his head. “And there’s no shellfish in any of this, right? No prawns or anything like that?”
“No. Absolutely not. Madame Lavange told me you were allergic. I also have the goat milk and kombucha for mademoiselle. And the steak hâché for the dog.”
“The only thing that could make this better would be if your sister were here on time.” Bette’s consternation turned to a smile. “Of course, Andy always said—Andy Warhol, that is—”
“Christ,” Wilson muttered. In the short time Joanna had spent with Bette, she’d already heard three stories of her Studio 54 days. Stretch the drinking game to include Bette’s disco-era stories, and they’d never have made it sober past the salads.
“She’ll show up eventually,” Penny said.
“Yeah, this elusive sister,” Wilson Jack said.
“She’s an artist,” Bette said. “She travels all over the world taking photographs. She’s barely back from Afghanistan as it is.”
Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) Page 1