“Out of fuel. Bette forgot to have it filled.” Daniel shut the attic door behind him.
“That’s Mom for you,” Portia said. “You can bet we won’t run out of champagne any time soon, though.”
Daniel squinted. “Penny? No. You must be Portia. I’m Daniel, Wilson’s brother.” He and Portia shook hands. That’s right—they wouldn’t have met until now.
“I’m so sorry to hear about Wilson. I can’t tell you how awful I feel. A freak allergic reaction, it sounds like,” Portia said.
“Yeah.” His gaze dropped. Daniel’s eyes, like Wilson’s, easily showed strain in their dark shadows. “Clarke and I got a few armloads of wood in from the garage. That place is creepy. I kept feeling someone was watching me.”
“The ghost Penny keeps talking about,” Joanna said.
“Let me help here. I can’t just sit around downstairs.” Daniel scanned the attic. “What’s this?” He strode to a waist-high wooden cabinet with a jumble of wires and odd metal pieces scattered across its top. “Looks like a radio.”
“Oh good.” Joanna trained the flashlight on the cabinet. “Not like any radio I’ve seen.”
“Could I borrow your flashlight? Thanks.” Daniel examined a bundle of wires. “A ham radio, I think. I bet it’s here for just this kind of situation.”
“I wonder if it still works?”
“It has a battery.” He poked at its rusted connectors. “My guess is it’s dead. Too cold up here.”
“Could we pull a battery from one of the cars?” Portia said.
“The front entry collapsed,” Joanna said. “We can’t get to them. We couldn’t possibly dig it out in the storm.”
“Bette parked in the garage. We’ll lift her battery.” Daniel’s movements took on more focus. “Clarke will help. The reception is probably best up high, so let’s leave the radio here.” He glanced out an attic window at the driving snow. “If we can get it to work, at least we can send a message, get an idea of when the storm will blow over.” He lowered his voice. “The police, too. They’ll need to know about Wilson.”
Portia’s gaze roamed the attic then returned to the dismantled radio. “I’m not sure I’ll be much help. Let me fetch Clarke and send him up for you. Anything else?”
“Candles or another flashlight would be good if you can find one. Thanks, Portia.” Daniel lit his candle and tipped it to make a pool of wax on the table. He stuck the taper in it, upright. The flame flickered in the drafty attic. “Point your flashlight here, if you don’t mind.”
“Can you put it back together?”
“These wires are pretty badly corroded.” He held up a wire with crumbling insulation. “We need cord that can handle high amperage. Everything else looks fine.” He snapped his fingers. “An iron. I saw an iron in my room. We might be able to do something with that.”
“There’s a tool box in the storage room. I’ll bring it up,” Joanna said.
When she returned to the attic with the tool box, Clarke and Daniel were huddled around the table. Pocket knife in hand, Daniel sliced the cord off an electric iron. Joanna opened her mouth to lament the ruined iron, but shut it again. Calling out for help was a lot more important at this point than crisply pleated trousers—even if the power ever did return.
“Anything else I can do?” Joanna asked.
“No. Should have this going soon,” Daniel said. “Unless you could bring up some coffee?”
“Got it.”
Chapter Seven
Bette sat in the kitchen with a smoked salmon canapé in each hand. A glass of champagne rested on the counter next to her, wedged between tiered platters of hors d’oeuvres and a lit candelabra. “What are you doing? You look a wreck.”
“I’ve been up in the attic with Clarke and Daniel. We found a radio. They want coffee. Is it still warm?” Joanna searched the cupboards for coffee mugs.
“I’m going up with you.”
Sylvia paused at the kitchen doorway a moment before entering. “Hullo. Where’s Chef Jules?”
“Sulking in his room,” Bette said. She dug a cashew from the nut bowl and popped it in her mouth, her rings sparkling.
“Why’s that? I thought I’d see if I could help him with lunch. If anyone can stand to eat, that is. I can’t bear just sitting around with nothing to think about but, well—” her voice trailed off.
“Moody. You know the French,” Bette said. “Are you coming upstairs? Clarke found a radio in the attic. They’re going to call a helicopter or something to get us out of here.”
In this weather? Where did she get that idea? Not even Evel Knievel would be foolish enough to risk it. “Maybe we can get an idea of when the storm will let up.”
“So here’s where the party is.” Portia pushed past Sylvia and sat on a stool next to Bette.
Party? Did they not remember Wilson’s body upstairs?
Bette poured more champagne. “Want some, honey?” she asked Portia. “Clarke’s in the attic with a radio. He’ll make sure the snow plows are clearing the road. They signed a contract, you know. I could sue. Besides, I have an important appointment tomorrow in town.”
“Right. A pedicure, I bet,” Portia said.
“Acupuncture. I need it.”
Now Reverend Tony appeared in the doorway dressed in a black suit with a black shirt, probably what he’d intended to wear when he officiated at the wedding. At least he showed some decorum. “Acupuncture is an ancient healing art. I commend you for avoiding the false promises of western medicine.”
“Well, if it isn’t Johnny Cash,” Portia said. She turned to her mother. “It’s an acupuncture facial, isn’t it Mom? Better than Botox, isn’t that what they say?”
Bette ignored her. “We’d better get upstairs to hear when our rescue team arrives.”
Joanna poured lukewarm coffee into mugs. Sylvia took two, and Joanna gathered the rest. They climbed the stairs and passed through the great room, Sylvia calling for her daughter to come along. Bubbles jumped off the couch to join the procession. They turned down the dim bedroom corridor toward the service staircase at the far end.
“Sleeping,” Reverend Tony whispered, nodding at Penny’s door. Penny was resilient, but getting over Wilson’s death—on their wedding day, no less—wasn’t going to happen soon. Joanna hesitated. The Schiaparelli gown. Should she slip into the room and hang it up? Penny probably hadn’t thought of it. She could even take it back to her room and return it to its archival bag. No. She’d best leave Penny to rest.
Upstairs, neither Daniel nor Clarke seemed surprised to see the rest of the household, minus Penny and the chef, file into the attic. The men had pried the battery from Bette’s BMW and must have used a towel as a sling to carry it up two flights of stairs—grease-stained terrycloth lay over the chair’s back. Marianne leaned against Daniel’s side. He looped an arm around the girl’s shoulders.
“Coffee—thanks.” Clarke wrapped both hands around the mug.
The radio emitted a burst of static. Daniel nudged its dial. “Redd Lodge here, Redd Lodge here,” he said into the handset.
A voice replied, too fuzzy to understand.
“We can’t quite hear you.” Daniel edged the dial another millimeter. Bette leaned closer.
“Redd Lodge, this is Mount Hood Forest Service,” a voice replied. Joanna’s heart leapt. The voice was clearer but still difficult to make out. “What’s going on? Over.”
“We’re snowed in,” Daniel said, “And we have—uh, we have a medical issue. We need the police. Over.”
“The storm is a big one. Won’t let up until tomorrow, tomorrow night. We can’t get in before then. Is it urgent? Over.”
Daniel’s face fell. Undoubtedly he was thinking of Wilson. It could hardly be called urgent now. And if they were careful, they had enough wood and food for at least another day. It would be wrong to call in help when other people’s lives might be at stake. “No. I suppose not,” he said.
“Check in tomorrow, Redd Lodge. Over.”
Bu
t another night at the lodge meant another night with a dead body. At least they should report it, let the authorities make the decision about how urgent it was. She leaned toward the handset just as Daniel replaced it. “Wait. Don’t hang up.”
Too late. Only static came from the radio.
“Is it important?” Daniel asked. “I could try to get them back.”
The crowd gathered around the radio looked at her.
“We should radio them back and tell them that Wilson…you know,” Joanna said, looking at Sylvia with a quick glance toward her daughter. “Maybe they’ll still wait until the storm is over to come get us, but maybe they’ll decide it’s more important than that. The point is, it should be their choice. Plus, it looks suspicious if we’re in radio contact but hiding it.”
“I’ll take Marianne downstairs,” Sylvia said. “Come on honey, we’ll look at your beetle book.”
“But I want to see the radio work again,” the little girl said.
“Uncle Daniel will tell us all about it in a little while. Come on.” Sylvia led her away.
“Okay,” Daniel said when the attic door closed behind Sylvia and Marianne. “I get it. I’ll radio them again.” Daniel lifted the handset, but Clarke took it from his hand and set it aside.
“We can’t go on the airwaves saying that Wilson is dead. Are you kidding? Every disaster fiend in the county is listening to their radios now, and once they got hold of this story they’d flip out. We’d be mobbed the second we left the lodge,” Clarke said. “Besides, it’s not respectful of Wilson.”
“True,” Bette said. “Penny doesn’t need that kind of scene right now.”
“I really don’t think it should be our decision, though. Doesn’t—” Joanna began.
“The matter is closed,” Clarke said. “We’ll tell them tomorrow, when the storm has died down and they can actually take care of it.”
Daniel clicked off the radio. Only the howl of the wind cut the silence.
“All right. I guess I’m outvoted,” Joanna said. “But don’t leave. Not yet, please.” Bette was halfway to the door and turned. “Since we’re all here—at least, most of us are—and we’ll be here at least another day, we need to seal off the tower room. The police are going to have to make a conclusive determination about the situation, and the less confusion up there the better. We’ll need to keep the tower room off limits. We can at least do that, right?”
“Sure. Good point,” Clarke said.
“Thank you for thinking of it,” Daniel added.
With that, Bette resumed her exit, Portia close behind.
***
Joanna stayed behind in the attic. She wanted to get a look in that trunk. Chances were it didn’t contain anything better than old yearbooks and moth-eaten blankets, but you never knew. She took a deep breath and rubbed her temples. Away from the others, a little tension drained away. Everyone else could bicker downstairs while she had a moment or two to herself.
Francis Redd had abandoned the lodge in the 1940s and might well have left clothes from the 1930s—her favorite era for vintage clothing. Watching Carole Lombard movies made her yearn for the era’s marabou-trimmed dressing gowns and bias-cut afternoon dresses with handkerchief hems. The men’s suits were gorgeously cut, too, especially the dinner suits with nipped waists and elegant shoulders. If the trunk did contain a few items of clothing, maybe she could make a deal with the lodge’s owner to sell them on commission. It was worth a look.
“Curious about that trunk, eh?” The Reverend stood by the door. With his black suit, he nearly disappeared into the attic. His face appeared to float in the dim light.
“Occupational hazard,” Joanna replied. She turned away from him, hoping he’d get the message and leave her alone. She set a candle on the floor next to the trunk. Daniel had taken the flashlight.
“Looking for anything special?” He moved closer.
“Why? Should I be?” Still ignoring him, she lifted the painting with the broken frame she had seen earlier, then looked up. “That’s funny—it looks like you.” Her candle barely illuminated a dirty oil portrait of a thin, bald man in a pensive pose.
“He’s bald, that’s all,” Reverend Tony said. “I get that all the time.”
The painting had the muddy colors and broad strokes of the 1930s. A small brass plaque tacked on the frame read ‘Francis Redd.’ “The lodge’s first owner. Too bad Penny isn’t here to see it. Penny and her ghost.” Even as she spoke, her attention drifted from the portrait back to the trunk.
Tony lifted the portrait from her hands. He turned it to the wall. “We don’t need to encourage that kind of superstitious nonsense. Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s open the trunk.”
She sighed. He clearly wasn’t leaving. “Hold that candle a little closer, will you?” She fidgeted a moment with the trunk’s latch before heaving it open. The scent of mothballs and mildew rose.
Tony dug his hands into the trunk and felt around. He pulled out a small case and snapped it open, only to find wire-rimmed glasses with one of the lenses broken. He dropped it back into the trunk. “Just clothes.”
Just clothes. Just the words Joanna wanted to hear. On top was something shaggy that filled most of the trunk. She lifted it by its shoulders. A cape. Monkey fur, she was sure of it. Its hide was stiff and nearly rotted—not quite wearable—but a real artifact. Joanna set the cape to the side and dug back into the trunk. A white corner of fabric caught her attention. The Reverend’s breath grazed her cheek, and she moved a few inches away.
“Is there something you’re looking for?” Joanna asked.
He stepped back. “Not really. It’s just this lodge. So much surrealism here. As far as I can tell, it’s mostly derivative, nothing from the masters, but you never know. Could be a forgotten Dali stashed away.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in art,” Joanna said absently as she sorted through the trunk. From the Reverend’s faintly New Jersey accent, the pronunciation of “Dali” sounded pure Spanish.
“Of course. Who wouldn’t be? Although spiritual matters are my chief field of study.”
“Naturally,” Joanna said. “Penny.” The white fabric turned out to be part of a christening gown, fine cotton batiste with tatted edges.
He lifted the christening gown from Joanna’s fingers. It lay as delicate as cobwebs in his big hands. “Penny is an exceptionally open-hearted person. She needs to learn to protect herself, especially with that family. Fate has seen that I’m able to help her.”
“Hmm.” Joanna looked at the christening gown. “Wouldn’t be surprised if Francis Redd himself—and his son, of course—were baptized in it.”
He held the tiny gown tenderly a moment before handing it back to Joanna.
“So, you believe in fate, then?” Joanna laid the gown to the side. “I wouldn’t have thought the Buddha weighed in on that.”
“Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed, the Goddess, whatever. Life’s forces are a crazy quilt.”
“That’s not a Buddha quote, is it?” Joanna imagined a jade Buddha statue swaddled in a velvet Victorian crazy quilt.
“Honestly, child. What I mean is that we need to make the most of what we can’t control.” He seemed to lose interest in the trunk and wandered to the radio. “I guess we’re here until tomorrow at least.”
“Are you missing anything in town?”
“No. While Penny was on her honeymoon I planned to take care of some business in Chicago. My flight doesn’t leave for a few days. What about you?”
She thought of her mother, and of Paul. “Nothing. At this point, an extra day or two doesn’t matter.”
The rest of the clothes in the trunk were men’s trousers and shirts neatly folded. Some of the shirts were streaked with mildew. Maybe when Redd disappeared, his wife bundled up his things and put them up here to keep his memory safe.
Joanna closed the trunk’s lid and stood, candle in hand. If she wanted any privacy, she’d have to go to her room or squirrel away in
the library. The candle cast shadows on the Reverend’s face. “I imagine you’ll be a lot of help to Penny over the next couple of days.”
“Strangely, the Buddha doesn’t have much to say about death.”
Chapter Eight
Later that afternoon, Joanna leaned over the library’s fireplace, setting sticks of cedar over crumpled newspaper. Her rural upbringing came in handy once again. Aside from Daniel, the rest of the guests were stymied without a working furnace. Lucky for them, so far the lodge had held the heat fairly well. Sylvia had rounded up some tapers, and thanks to Bette’s enthusiasm for scented candles, they would have light once night fell.
With Daniel’s help finding cardboard and a marker, Joanna had made a sign reading, “Please do not enter” and leaned it against the door to the tower room. It wasn’t the police tape Detective Crisp would have used, but it would have to do.
All she wanted was to relax a few hours after the morning’s drama. One more day, one more night. In the morning they’d radio out again and go home. She went to the breakfast room next door and lifted the phone’s receiver. Still dead.
When the fire caught, Joanna positioned a log. Chef Jules had roused from his funk long enough to set out a buffet of cold hors d’oeuvres in the dining room. People came and went from the dining room taking plates of potato tartlets with black truffle and poached salmon with sea beans with them back to their rooms or to huddle around the hearth in the great room.
When Joanna’s growling stomach finally led her to the buffet, Jules raised a finger to tell her to wait and went to the dumbwaiter in the butler’s pantry. He returned with a few slices of meat, center still pink, and a bottle of Carruades de Lafite. “Un Pauillac,” he whispered and poured her a glass. “Don’t tell the others. I roasted the venison last night with the boar. We need it.”
The wine on the sideboard was a respectable Oregon pinot noir, but it didn’t beat first growth Bordeaux. She lifted her glass to him before sipping. The wine’s scent was tobacco-deep and lush with cedar and late summer blackberries. “Where did you get it?”
Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) Page 6