Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3)

by Angela M. Sanders

  “I brought it with me from Lyon. My brother works in the vineyard. Pas mal, non?” He pulled his own glass from the dumbwaiter. “Hélas, I have only one bottle.” He groaned. “Just one more day. The sous vide, c’est fini without the power. I will make something of—how do you say?—leftovers.”

  “Does the delay mean you’ll miss your flight home?”

  “Non. I have plan to meet a friend, a chef de cuisine, in San Francisco. Then I visit Disneyland.”

  Joanna turned at the unmistakable rustle of Bette’s caftan.

  “Chef, I need more champagne. Bring it to my bedroom, will you?” Without waiting for a reply, Bette swished out of the dining room, Bubbles close behind.

  Joanna and the chef exchanged glances. Poor Jules. Little did he know he’d be cook and waiter. “One more day,” the chef repeated and headed for the service staircase in the butler’s pantry.

  Joanna settled into a library armchair. She savored another sip of Bordeaux and followed it with a tender mouthful of venison. Delicious. Whatever Bette paid Chef Jules, it wasn’t enough.

  The library’s fire was really going now. The library, just off the great room, was done up in an insect theme. Carved caterpillars and flies festooned the window jambs, and foot-long slugs crawled up the bookcases, trailing shellacked slime. A closer look showed that the slugs wore lipstick, and the caterpillars had tiny high heels. Through the library’s arched door, only the entry to the north wing was visible from her chair in its corner.

  Reading would be one way to speed the time until she could return home. Shelves lined two of the room’s walls and ran under the windows on the outside wall. Interspersed with real books were panels of faux carved books painted gold and turquoise blue, also crawling with carved insects. A collection of Modern Library classics from the 1950s occupied one shelf. Nice. Maybe she’d reread Love in a Cold Climate. That seemed fitting.

  On an upper shelf were some paperback mysteries. Considering the disappearance of Redd Lodge’s original owner and Wilson’s demise, a country house murder mystery would fit right in, too. Wilson. Unbelievable. On the bottom shelf rested leather-bound guest registers dating back to the 1950s, when the owner’s family must have abandoned the lodge and begun renting it out as a ski chalet.

  “May I join you?” Sylvia asked from the doorway. “It’s warm in here. Feels good.”

  “Of course.” Joanna gestured to the other armchair.

  Sylvia set a glass of wine on the table next to the chair opposite Joanna’s and sank into the coffee-brown leather. Everyone was drinking early today. Sylvia stretched her arms above her head, and her sweater’s collar slipped, revealing the swirled top of her green and blue Jackals tattoo. “Marianne’s sleeping, finally.” She folded her hands in her lap.

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s a bright kid, and she understands that her father had an accident, but I don’t think she really gets it. She keeps asking to see him.” Sylvia’s gaze fixed on the fire.

  “I’m so sorry. It’s been a horrible day. We’ll be home soon.” The mantra of the day, and the only comfort Joanna could provide. “Once we radio out tomorrow morning, I’m sure they’ll send someone with a snowcat.”

  “Thank God for Daniel.” Sylvia gave a half-smile. “Wilson should have never kicked him out of the band. They could have used his practicality.”

  “I didn’t know Daniel was in the Jackals.”

  “Sure. Drummer. Before they got big. When Daniel lost his fingers, Wilson let him go.” She twirled the stem of her wineglass between her palms. “Wilson told him they had to get a new drummer, and that was that.”

  Daniel didn’t seem like the type to hold a grudge, but she wouldn’t blame him if he did. “A shame.”

  “It’s been years. He had a hard time at first in practice, but it would have picked up.”

  “How did it happen—him losing his fingers?”

  “It’s funny, but he won’t say. Wilson never would, either. You should hear some of the stories Daniel has made up about it for Marianne.”

  “Daniel doesn’t seem bitter about not making it to stardom.”

  Sylvia shrugged. “The Jackals became huge, but I always thought dumping Daniel was a mistake. He has a perseverance and solidity Wilson never did. I’ve often wondered—” She set down her wineglass. “Well I guess it’s too late for wondering.”

  “It seems like Daniel’s done all right. I see him more as a bike builder than a rock star, anyway.”

  “And I ended up running a nonprofit. Can you believe it?” Sylvia laughed. “Rocker chick to social worker. Having Marianne really changed things for me.”

  “Mama.” Marianne stood in the doorway, her luminous blue eyes sleepy. She had the Jack family’s shadows under her eyes, but her hair was Tinkerbell-gold.

  “Come in, honey. Over here.” Sylvia drew Marianne into her lap and kissed the back of her head.

  “Insects.” Marianne smiled. “They’re fantastic.” She pointed a chubby finger to an orange and black butterfly. “Danaus plexippus, the Monarch butterfly. Only they don’t have purple eyes.” Her finger shifted to the large slug. “A gastropod mollusc with a Musca domestica on its back. A fly on a slug.” She tittered. “That’s silly.”

  “She’s been studying her insect books since she was old enough to open them herself and look at the pictures.”

  “Very impressive,” Joanna said to Marianne. “You’d love the black widow spider I found downstairs.”

  “Latrodectus! Oh mummy, let’s go see it.”

  Sylvia grimaced. “No. Maybe later.”

  “I’m a bug expert. I’m perfect in every way. That’s what Daddy says.” Satisfied, the girl lay back.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Sylvia said quietly. She kissed Marianne’s head again. “Wilson was so meticulous about not eating shellfish—not even having it in the same room if he could help it. And then an accident like this?” She shook her head. “Something’s not right.” She lowered her voice. “I got up for a glass of milk for Marianne last night and saw Reverend Tony wandering around. What do you think that’s about?”

  Tony again. Joanna opened her mouth to tell Sylvia she also saw him early that morning, but she thought better of it. Detective Crisp always held his cards close to his vest until he was certain of his hand. She’d do the same. “He was probably squeezing in a few sun salutations. He’s an odd one,” she said instead. “You and Wilson—did you keep in contact?”

  “You mean since Penny?” Sylvia craned her neck around Joanna and appeared to be satisfied no one was listening from the great room. “Not often. We’d talk on the phone. A little like the old days, actually. We’d start out talking about Marianne—” The girl had closed her eyes and rested her head against the chair’s back. “And drift into all sorts of subjects. One afternoon I did two loads of laundry while we talked. That’s how long we were on the phone. It had got dark outside, even.” She seemed lost in thought.

  “With Marianne, you’d have a lot to talk about.”

  “Hmm. I think we talked more about our relationship once it was done than we did when we were living it.”

  “You’d been together so long.”

  Sylvia sipped her wine. “Twelve years. I knew him better than anyone did. Maybe I still do.” Her gaze drifted off. “Especially after Marianne. I thought we’d always be together, a family.”

  She still loved him. She must. Sylvia was so even-tempered compared to the histrionic Lavange family that Joanna had overlooked how profoundly Wilson’s death must affect her. The lump in Joanna’s throat tightened.

  “Sometimes I wonder if we would have ever broken up, if—” Sylvia put down her wine glass. “Not that things were perfect. Wilson could be so withdrawn. Sometimes even bitter. And angry. But I knew when he resurfaced he’d come to me. If we’d stayed together.”

  Penny wasn’t the cause of their break up, was she? No. Joanna was sure they’d met after Wilson moved out. Or at least that’s
what Penny had said. “It’s no use going there, Sylvia.”

  “I just didn’t think we had to be married. Neither did Wilson. What did it matter?” Her expression hardened. “Clarke certainly discouraged it.”

  “Clarke?” Joanna said. What could he have to do with it?

  “I never thought he approved of me. I always wondered if he was the one who put the bug in Wilson’s ear about kicking Daniel out of the Jackals. I know he comes off as an absent-minded professor, but don’t underestimate him. When he gets something in his mind, something he thinks will help Wilson, he’s like a terrier. Won’t let go. And he was completely devoted to Wilson.” Her expression changed once again, this time to friendly indifference. “Well. I’m sorry to have gone on and on about that.” She gave a short laugh. “I’m sure you’re getting your share of family drama.”

  “I’m just sorry everything has turned out the way it has.”

  Sylvia jostled Marianne’s head affectionately. “Come on, my little princess. Let’s go back to our room and read a book. You really do need a nap.”

  Marianne’s eyes opened and fastened on the bookshelf. “Look at that.” She pointed at a hornet as big as her palm with eyes that were almost human. It was carved just a few feet below the ceiling. “Vespa crabro. Hornet.”

  “Sure is, babe. Now let’s go.” Sylvia gave Marianne’s hind end a gentle push and led her from the library. “See you at dinner,” she said to Joanna.

  “Yes,” Joanna murmured, her gaze still on the shelf. A hornet. Just like the Ouija board had said.

  The hornet was carved more ornately than the other insects in the library, as if it were meant to stand out. Its eyes glittered ruby red, and iridescent paint streaked its wings. On impulse Joanna stood and stretched toward it. Her hand swiped the hornet’s handle-like stinger, and it swung down with a clunk. She leapt back. Had she broken it? No—it seemed to have snapped back into place unharmed.

  But something else about the bookshelves was different. Then Joanna noticed: a two-foot row of faux books jutted half an inch from its old position flush with the real shelves. Could it be? Her pulse quickened. She pried her fingers into the crack between the faux and real bookshelves and tugged. The heavy shelf swung forward. She sucked in her breath. From the amount of dust that fell out, it hadn’t been opened in a long time.

  On the reverse of the shelf with the faux books was a real shelf crammed with books bound in red Morocco leather. For God’s sake. The great room next door was silent. Everyone else must have gone to their rooms to nap and process Wilson’s death and try to pass the long hours until they could radio out again for help tomorrow morning. Joanna reached behind her for a sip of Bordeaux and stared.

  Something was strange about the back of the opening. Rather than plastered-over timbers like the rest of the lodge, it was a flat panel of wood. Almost like a door. Joanna felt around the edge of the panel and found a niche carved for fingers. Heart racing, she pushed, and the door swung open with a whoosh of stale, cold air.

  Her jaw dropped. A bonafide hidden staircase. This was too much.

  There was nothing to do but see where it led.

  Chapter Nine

  Joanna pulled the bookcase closed behind her, enveloping herself in darkness. The stairway was so narrow that she had to angle her body. One hand in front and the other trailing the wall on her right, she hitched her way up the curving steps. She fought the urge to cough in the staircase’s dusty air. There was no reason to be secretive, but on instinct she moved quietly.

  Several steps up, she arrived at a small, shut-in landing. She had to be somewhere in the tower room above the library—either that or in the attic. To the side, waist high, was an open compartment as large as an easy chair set into the wall. She got on her hands and knees and felt around its edges for an exit. No, nothing. Must just be a quirk of the architecture. She backed out of the compartment, her hair raking spiderwebs. Remembering the black widow in the storage room, she combed her hair with her fingers.

  Once in the stairway again, she stood on the landing, flattening her palms against the wall. There must be a door here somewhere. Anxiety rising, her fingers traced the edges of the panel in front of her, searching for a finger-shaped niche similar to the one downstairs. Nothing. Damn. She’d closed the bookcase at the bottom of the stairs. What if it wouldn’t open from the inside? The walls were so close. A momentary panic overcame her. Would anyone hear her if she pounded on the wall?

  Calm down. Relax. She took a deep breath and bent to try again. There had to be some way to get out of here. At last her fingers found a latch at hip-height. She shoved and released it probably a dozen times before it gave—and broke off, clattering to the floor. Now what? She stuck a finger in the hole the latch had occupied and lifted. The door opened. She was in another small, dark space. A closet?

  She rose and stumbled over a pair of leather boots. Just as she stuck out an arm to keep from toppling, the closet door opened. Her heart leapt to her throat.

  It was Penny. She swallowed a shriek, then said, “Shh. Quiet.”

  Joanna blinked at the sudden light and lily-scented air. The tower room. The two women stared at each other a moment before Joanna said, “I didn’t say anything. You were the one who almost yelled. What are you doing up here, anyway? We’re supposed to stay out.”

  “Look who’s asking.” Penny said. “What about you? Why are you in the closet?”

  “I asked first.” Joanna stepped over the boots—Wilson’s boots, no doubt—and out of the closet. His sheet-draped body still lay at the other end of the cavernous room.

  Penny folded her arms in front of her chest. “I’m here to mourn my fiancé.” Her hair was tousled and her face splotchy. She’d changed to fleece leggings and a pullover. Comfort clothing.

  Joanna’s thoughts leapt to the Schiap, hoping it was safe somewhere. Still, what part of mourning involved snooping in a dead man’s closet?

  The door next to them—the real door to the tower room—opened. Both Penny and Joanna spun to face it.

  “Oh.” Portia entered and stumbled back a step. “I didn’t think anyone—” Her camera dangled from her neck. “Wow—nice change. The flowers and everything. I bet it was Mom. Although it looks like Wilson wasn’t super tidy.”

  Bureau drawers jutted at odd angles, a sock trailing from one of them. Wilson’s suitcase lay open. It hadn’t been like that when Joanna was there that morning with Bette. Penny had been searching for something. And why was Portia here? Couldn’t simply be morbid curiosity, could it? Apparently Joanna’s sign had been for nothing.

  “Yes. Bette arranged the flowers,” Joanna said. “This morning. But didn’t you see the sign outside? We have to keep this room off-limits, for the police.”

  “You and Mom up here together, huh?” Portia ignored Joanna’s question. “Did she feed you that bullshit about Mick Jagger being our dad?”

  “She did mention something about four husbands—”

  “Three,” Portia corrected. “For God’s sake.”

  “You didn’t answer me,” Penny said to Joanna. “What were you doing hiding in the closet?”

  Joanna looked from sister to sister, so eerily alike. “There’s a hidden staircase that lets out in the closet.”

  Penny snorted. “Please.”

  “Give her a break, Penny. She does have cobwebs stuck in her hair. May I?” Portia picked something from Joanna’s shoulder.

  “Look. I’ll show you.” Joanna led them to the closet and pointed to the door flush with the closet’s back, now ajar.

  Penny pushed in front of her. “Wow. Where does it go?”

  “The library. I found it by accident.” A flash from Portia’s camera startled Joanna.

  “This house just gets weirder and weirder,” Portia said. She turned to the main part of the room and raised her camera.

  Joanna looked at Portia with alarm. Photographing Wilson’s body—really?

  “No.” Penny backed out of the closet. “I
said you could take pictures of the wedding, for family, but not this. Put that away.”

  “But I—”

  “Do it, Portia.”

  Portia lowered her camera. “Okay. Sorry, Penn. I won’t. That was wrong.”

  Somber, they stood a moment, taking in Wilson’s body surrounded by flowers. Something Portia said niggled at Joanna’s brain, but she couldn’t pin it down.

  They had to stay out of this room. There’d be nothing left for the police to analyze. “What do you say we get out of here and go downstairs?”

  ***

  Thanks to the great room’s massive fireplace, the hall to the bedrooms was much warmer than the tower room above, where the fire had burned out hours before. A trace of wood smoke hung in the air. Portia led them to Penny’s room, where Penny made a beeline for the bed and piled a down comforter over her slender body. “Everything’s so wrong here.”

  Portia deposited her camera on the mantle and sat next to her sister. The upside-down bed frame hovered a few feet above her head. “I’m sorry about Wilson. It’s a nightmare, I know.”

  “Not just that. Everything. This place is cursed.”

  Joanna scanned the bedroom for the Schiaparelli dress and found it wadded in the corner. Not ideal, but at least it was out of the way and unlikely to be stepped on. At least, she hoped so.

  “I was surprised to see you upstairs, Penny,” Joanna said, trying to keep her tone casual as she edged toward the dress. “I thought you were napping.”

  “I was.” She didn’t elaborate. “How did you find the secret staircase?”

  “You know, it’s possible that Wilson’s death wasn’t an accident. The police are going to want to know where everyone was all last night and today.” Joanna knelt and lifted the Tears gown from its shoulders. She quickly examined it for damage. Other than a few creases, it looked fine, thank God. She’d transfer it to its archival storage bag later, but for now she hung it in Penny’s closet.

  “Why today?” Portia asked. “It was an allergic reaction, and it happened last night. An accident.”