Portia made a quiet noise in her sleep. Joanna envied her ability to drift off. The killer. Was he—or she—awake, too, planning his next move?
Besides the proof the chef claimed to have, someone could have locked the chef outside in revenge for Wilson’s death. And Wilson? If he was murdered—and now it looked likely—why? Joanna stared into the darkness toward the ceiling. If he had married Penny, depending on the terms of their pre-nup, a good chunk of his estate might have been open to her. Sylvia had mentioned Wilson took care of them financially.
Not to forget the non-financial reasons. Bette said Penny was better off without Wilson in her life. As twisted as it sounded, maybe she cared enough about her daughter to kill Penny’s fiancé. And Daniel. Didn’t Sylvia say he’d been kicked out of Wilson’s band years before? Could be he was resentful. Then there was Tony.
The answers were here somewhere—in the lodge, in the minds of its guests. Every moment gone by was a moment the murderer could be covering his tracks. One thing was sure, she couldn’t let him get away with it.
Chapter Fifteen
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Penny said from her bed. “Everyone else is up but us.”
Joanna opened her eyes. Mattresses with crumpled sheets and blankets littered the floor. How had she not heard everyone getting up? You’d think at least Bette’s moaning about spending another day at the lodge would have roused her.
“What time is it?” Joanna asked.
“What does it matter?” Penny leaned back in the bed, covers pulled up to her chest. Her pale face and slow words were a far cry from the exuberance she’d shown the morning before when she’d bounced into Joanna’s room to try on her wedding dress. “I stayed behind so you could sleep. We can’t go anywhere alone, remember?”
Oh yes. The chef. Finding his body, trembling as she hurried toward the staircase. And seeing Penny leave the Reverend’s room…
“Penny?”
“Hmm?” She bit a fingernail.
“What were you doing in the Reverend’s room last night? I saw you come out after I found Jules.”
Penny jerked into a seated position. “What do you mean, you saw me?”
“Just that. When I went to get firewood, I saw a light under the Reverend’s door. Then, when I came out of the kitchen, you dashed through the landing downstairs. I called out your name, but you just kept going.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Joanna tossed off her blankets. She flinched as her feet hit the frigid floor. “I guess it was Portia, then.”
“No,” Penny said quickly. “No, it wasn’t her.”
“I wasn’t imagining things, you know.” Joanna looked at her, waited for a response.
Penny slid out of bed and pushed aside the curtains. “The storm seems to be letting up a little. See?” The snow now fell in big, white flakes. It must be getting warmer, although still below freezing.
“You’re not going to answer me, are you?”
Penny picked up Joanna’s sweater and skirt and tossed them on her mattress. “You’d better get dressed.”
Joanna shook her head. “It won’t be long now before someone comes for us.” They had to get to the police. “They’ll be asking a lot harder questions than I am.”
“Whatever. Get dressed,” she repeated.
Both women dressed, then joined the others. In the great room, Reverend Tony sat reading A Taxonomy of Beetles to Marianne, Bubbles in her lap. When he saw Penny, he set down the book, and Marianne picked it up. “Penny. Good to see you’re up. I’ve made some mushroom tea to give you strength, and I still have some spelt crackers.”
Through the archway, Joanna saw a few people in the dining room, as if it were a normal morning, as if dead men didn’t lie in rooms above and below them. “Thanks for waiting for me, Penny,” Joanna said. “I’ll leave you here and get some coffee.”
Daniel, Sylvia, and Portia leaned back around the dining room table, with plates dotted with curds of scrambled eggs. The coffee maker’s carafe, partially filled, and a bowl with a dishtowel draped over it sat near the fireplace keeping warm. The remains of the hors d’oeuvres covered another plate.
Daniel poured Joanna a cup of coffee and handed her the carton of cream, then scooped her some eggs. After he set them on the table, he pushed another log on the fire. His right hand moved deftly, despite the missing fingers.
“Like it?” Sylvia pointed to the breakfast spread. “Daniel and I did it. Those are hearth-cooked eggs.” Despite last night’s histrionics, she looked calm.
“Which reminds me, I’ll bring up some more wood before I leave,” he said.
“So you’re going to do it—ski out?” Joanna asked. Anxiety fluttered in her stomach. She didn’t want to say what she’d have to say.
“Absolutely. It’s still not perfectly safe, but it’s better now than yesterday. With cross country skis I’d guess it would be three, maybe four hours to Timberline. They can send up the snowcat for everyone then plow the road so we can get our cars later.” He looked away. “I’ll call the police, too.”
“I hate to bring this up, Daniel, but what if you’re the murderer?”
Portia and Sylvia fell silent.
With defiance, Daniel returned her gaze. “You mean, what if I escape, or what if I leave you all here to die?”
“No,” Sylvia said. “No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s not the—” She didn’t finish her thought.
“Look, what choice do we have? I’m the best candidate to get help. Either we forget about that and stay even longer with a killer in our midst, or you take a chance on me.” He pushed his chair from the table. “Well? What’s it going to be?”
“Joanna,” Portia said. “Daniel’s willing to go. I don’t think we have a choice.”
Sylvia nodded in agreement.
They were right, of course. Whether it was Daniel or someone else, they’d be taking a chance letting someone leave the lodge, but the alternative—staying with two bodies and a murderer—was much worse.
“I get it. I just had to say it,” Joanna said. At the thought of help arriving, her anxiety lifted a touch. Once they were at Timberline Lodge—maybe by this evening—she’d call Paul. God willing, she’d be sleeping in her own bed tonight.
“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Portia said. “I haven’t even been home yet. A quick flight to New York, then it’s on to California. Swimming pools and sun for me. If I never see snow again it will be too soon.”
“Have some more eggs, Daniel. You’ll need the calories if you’re going to ski out.” Sylvia reached for the casserole dish by the fire.
“Where’s Bette?” Joanna asked. She had to be with Clarke, if they stayed in pairs. It was a bit early to start on the champagne, but Joanna wouldn’t put it past her.
“Down in the kitchen, I think,” Sylvia said.
“The press will swarm this place when they find out about Wilson,” Portia said.
And Chef Jules. The French take their chefs seriously, Joanna added silently.
“It’s a private lodge. They might be able to get helicopter photos, but that’s all,” Daniel said. “Still, I guess we’ll have to hire a publicist to deal with all this. I’m sure Clarke will take care of it for us.” He hesitated. “Joanna, for us, dealing with the press has been a fact of life for years. Maybe for Portia a little less so—”
“I am part of the press,” Portia said. “I know what we’re dealing with, believe me.”
“But you may not be used to the pressure you’ll get if they find out you were here this weekend.” He leaned forward. “It can be tempting to tell your story, and a good reporter will make you feel like the most interesting person in the world. Plus, they’ll offer you money. A lot of money.”
“I signed that contract. I know I can’t say anything,” Joanna said. Too bad. This was a damned fine—if sad—story. She held up her fingers, scout style. “I promise.”
“I’m sorry to have to bring it up,”
Daniel said. “Clarke probably would have talked to you about it anyway. If anyone approaches you, just refer them to him.”
Sylvia had been staring at the fire. “I’m thinking of moving when this is all over. Maybe back to England.”
Daniel started. “Why?”
“I only stayed here for Marianne, so she could be near her father. Maybe it’s time to be with my family. I don’t know. I don’t want her always known as the rocker’s daughter. My parents live in a village where she’d be protected. We have plenty of money to get by for a while.”
“Especially now, I’d imagine,” Portia said.
Sylvia pursed her lips. “We’re all right. If you’re hinting that—”
“No, of course not,” Portia said. “I just mean you don’t have to worry about taking care of her. Since Wilson died, you’ll be comfortable. At least, I assume so.” Portia was either unusually blunt or unusually clueless. It was hard to tell which. But she was right. Of all the motives to kill Wilson, Sylvia’s was the strongest. Joanna watched their exchange closely.
She hesitated before replying. “Yes.”
“You’d have to leave your clinic, though,” Joanna said. “All that good work with young women.”
Sylvia looked away. “I suppose so.”
“You won’t really leave, will you, Sylvia?” Daniel asked. “I mean—” He didn’t finish his sentence. At last, he stood. “Will one of you come down with me to the storage room while I suit up?”
“I’ll go,” Joanna said. “We should take someone else, too, so I’m not alone when you leave.”
“I’ll come with you,” the Reverend said from the doorway. Behind him, Marianne lay back, still absorbed in her book, one hand in Bubbles’s scruff.
Sylvia rose. “I need to stay with Marianne, but please, be safe.” She hugged him briefly, and his eyes stayed on her as she leaned away again.
Daniel led the way downstairs. They had passed through the lobby and were headed toward the storage room when Clarke called from the kitchen. “Tony—and Joanna,” he said. “You’re not skiing out with Daniel, are you?”
Joanna glanced back at Daniel, who had gone ahead, blatantly ignoring Clarke. “No. Just helping him suit up.”
“Those skis look old. Leather bindings, too. I just hope they’ll make it,” the Reverend said.
A clattering and a yell arose from down the hall. Joanna and Reverend Tony ran to the storage room, Clarke fast behind them. Moaning, Daniel lay crumpled on the storage room floor grasping his ankle. The faint light from the Reverend’s candle showed skis and poles surrounding him. “My foot,” he said.
“Hold still,” Joanna said. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”
“No. My foot caught something—maybe a ski pole—I lost my balance, and boom!” He groaned when Joanna touched his ankle.
She slipped off his shoes. “Can you wiggle your toes?”
The toes of his socks undulated. “Yes.”
She dropped her hands to her side. “Does it hurt now?”
“Only when I move my foot.”
“I don’t think you broke it,” she said. “It’s probably just a sprain. Still, there’s no way you’re skiing anywhere for a while. Let me look at it.”
Daniel’s accident was way too convenient. She pulled off his rag wool sock and noted the red band traveling partway across his ankle. She touched it, and Daniel winced. His accident might have been convenient, but it was genuine.
“Should I get something to wrap it?” the Reverend offered.
“He’s going to need some ice. That shouldn’t be a problem,” she said, thinking of the cubic tons of snow outside. “But you can be most helpful getting him on his feet.”
While Tony and Clarke supported Daniel as he stood, Joanna glanced through the dim storage room. She remembered the skis and poles neatly stacked to the side when she was there for firewood, just before she found Jules. She was sure. The skis couldn’t have flown off the walls by themselves.
Daniel’s face was contorted in pain. His hand dangled over Reverend Tony’s chest.
“Can you put any weight on your leg?” Joanna asked.
Daniel lowered his foot to the floor, then lifted it again, quickly. “No. I got it good.”
Without skiing out for help, they were stranded for at least another day, maybe two. Fear flickered in her chest. Daniel’s fall was more than just an accident, she was sure.
Daniel, with Clarke and the Reverend holding him up, shuffled out.
Standing in the storage room, Joanna felt rising panic. The one person who had seemed halfway competent to get them out of the lodge was now being helped up the stairs to a couch, where he’d probably spend most of the day. Their radio was in a dozen pieces in the attic. Meanwhile someone was picking them off, one by one.
Holding the candle Tony transferred to her when he took Daniel’s shoulder, she scanned the storage room once again. She wasn’t a strong skier, but maybe with some instruction she could do it. She pulled a ski from the ground. Its wood was dry, and the leather foot straps were stiff. She leaned the ski against the wall and crouched to examine a pair of snowshoes. Now, snowshoes she could handle. Once she and Paul had driven up to the mountain and spent the afternoon hiking a wilderness trail. He’d laughed that she hiked in a wool skirt, but with long underwear and a flannel slip it was perfectly toasty.
“Joanna, are you coming?” Clarke yelled from the hall.
She grabbed the snowshoes and hurried to follow.
***
Daniel settled on the lips couch opposite Marianne, and Sylvia wrapped his foot with a wool scarf. Penny left with Portia to make a snowpack for his ankle.
“I can’t believe I tripped.” He shook his head. “I feel so stupid. What are we going to do now?”
“Don’t worry. Someone will be here eventually,” Sylvia said. “I’m sure Bette didn’t rent the lodge forever. Someone will come for clean-up, maybe even souvenirs of the wedding. It won’t be long.” She couldn’t hide the uncertainty in her voice.
“I’m going to snowshoe out,” Joanna said. The others turned as if they only then realized she was in the room.
“No,” Daniel said. “Bad idea. Skis might work—they’re faster. On snowshoes, hypothermia would get you before you’d make it anywhere, and that’s if you could figure out the direction anyway.”
Joanna was already on her way to the great room’s window to gauge the direction to Timberline lodge. No, the windows at the front of the lodge, even on the second floor, were blanketed in snowdrifts from the wind up the mountain.
“The door to the patio won’t open with this snow. You’d have to leave through the dining room windows on the side,” Daniel said. “At least, that’s what I was going to do. But don’t risk it.”
“How else are we going to get help?” she said. “Look around you. We have no power and not much food.” She lowered her voice and came closer so Marianne couldn’t hear. “Wilson and the chef are dead. Killed. One of us did it.”
“That’s not a good enough reason to add your body to the casualties.”
“But you were going to ski out.”
“Skiing’s different. Faster. Besides, I’ve done a lot of telemarking, and I’m used to it. None of us should be snowshoeing in this weather. I don’t trust the snowbanks to hold you. Plus—no offense—but I don’t know that you have the stamina.”
“Who else will do it?” Joanna asked. Penny and Bette were out of the question. Portia was a little more rugged, but definitely the urban type, as was Clarke. Sylvia and Marianne needed to stay together. The Reverend was a possibility. Joanna turned to him.
“No way,” Reverend Tony said. “Uh uh. Not safe. And you’d be an idiot to try.”
Joanna pursed her lips. “I’m in decent shape. I should be able to handle a hike out. Besides, there’s a child here.” She looked from guest to guest for some kind of support. Surely at least Sylvia would understand. “There’s no way we can keep track of everyone in th
is monstrosity of a house.” She was a regular walker, but truth be told she had no idea how long she could handle slogging through the snow in sub-freezing temperatures. But it was their last hope. “I’ll take a cell phone and keep trying it as I go. Maybe I’ll hit signal range. Do any of you have one that still has power?”
“Mine does, I think,” Sylvia said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m convinced you should go.”
Joanna strode to the dining room window. Snow came up to the sills. It had taken her probably another twenty minutes, maybe a bit longer, to reach Redd Lodge once she’d passed Timberline. Twenty minutes at ten miles an hour was three miles. Three miles wasn’t far. Normally, at least. Above the timberline, it wouldn’t be easy to find the road. But if she could, and if she could follow it…
“Yes. I’ll do it,” she said when she returned to the great room.
Penny and Portia arrived with a towel full of snow. “We chipped this out of the tunnel on the way to the garage. Put up your ankle,” Portia said.
Sylvia set it on an ottoman covered with a blanket. “Thank you.”
“Joanna says she’s going to try to snowshoe out for help,” Daniel said. “I told her it’s a bad idea.”
“Why not?” Bette said. Apparently she’d been listening in the library the whole time, and now she stood at the doorway, her caftan filling its frame. “Someone has to do it. My girls can’t, obviously, and if the Reverend refuses, well, what alternative do we have? If she’s so hot on trying, let her do it.”
Joanna turned her back on Bette. “Penny, will you go with me to my room to get suited up?”
Chapter Sixteen
Joanna sat on the dining room’s window sill, then swung her legs out onto the vast, white expanse that rolled into the distance toward the ice-laden pines. Already she felt a little more free. Free of the lodge’s oppressive mood and the grief, fear, and suspicion that infested it.
Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) Page 12