Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3)

by Angela M. Sanders

  “Clarke suspects Tony, doesn’t he?” Daniel said. “I knew those two didn’t get along.”

  “Why shouldn’t he suspect him? He’s an outsider, and he’s been antagonizing everyone,” Bette said. “I only put up with him for Penny’s sake.”

  A door slammed down the hall. Yelling, in Penny’s higher pitch, reached the great room. Sylvia poked her head in from the library, then, still holding her novel, joined them near the fire, leaving Marianne slumped in a chair with a book. “Is everything all right?”

  “Not any more,” Joanna said.

  “You accuse me.” Tony’s voice boomed down the hall. “You accuse me.” Now the voice was closer. His face roiling red, Reverend Tony stood at the great room’s door. Despite the anger in his voice, he looked to be on the verge of tears. “When the truth comes out—and it always does—you will all be very, very sorry. Mark my words.”

  With that, he fled down the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Oh shit,” Bette said.

  Blank-faced, Clarke returned to the great room.

  Joanna raised an eyebrow. “Everything squared away now with Penny?” He ignored her and went to the fireplace, where he picked a piece of lint off his sweater sleeve.

  Bette’s face reddened and her eyes tightened. Oh God, Joanna thought, she’s going to cry. Bette took a shuddering breath. Tears began to flow. “I just wanted the best possible wedding for my daughter. And now see what’s happened.”

  Sylvia and Joanna looked at each other. Who was going to comfort Bette? It was a stand-off. Joanna had ended up slapping Bette the last time she had an episode. Sylvia was understandably on her last nerve with Bette. Clarke steadfastly pretended no one else was in the room.

  “Now isn’t a good time,” Sylvia said. The ice in her voice surprised Joanna. “We’re all under a lot of stress. Stay calm.”

  “What? I can’t help my feelings. You want me to bury them? Is that what you tell the girls in your clinic, to bury their feelings? No wonder you’re going under.”

  Sylvia clenched her jaw and looked away. If what Bette said were true, it would be yet another motive for Sylvia to want access to Wilson’s estate.

  “What do you mean by ‘going under’?” Joanna asked.

  “She’s broken ground on a new facility, and everyone knows she can’t raise the money to finish it,” Bette said.

  “It’s been difficult, but I have full faith that—” Sylvia began.

  “I can see this is hard for you.” Daniel hoisted himself and, lifting his hurt leg with both hands, settled next to Bette. “Let’s not talk about distressing money things.” He shot a warning glance at Joanna.

  Wide-eyed, Bette looked up at him. She scooted an inch closer. “I just don’t know what to do anymore,” she said.

  “It’s all right.” Daniel patted Bette’s arm with the few fingers on his right hand. “You just relax and let us take care of everything.”

  “I try and try so hard, but everything I do fails. All I wanted was the best life for my twins, and now here we are stuck in this lodge and everyone keeps dying—”

  Without looking at Bette, Sylvia rose. “I’ll go to the kitchen for candles. There are a few on the mantel, too. May as well bring them up before it gets dark.”

  “You’re not going alone, not with Tony down there. I’ll come, too,” Clarke said.

  “Marianne?” Sylvia called to the library. “Honey, I’m going downstairs for a minute.”

  The library was quiet. A log popped in the fire.

  “She must be asleep. I’ll just check on her quickly, Clarke. Won’t be a moment.” None of them could miss the uneasiness in her voice.

  Joanna tensed. So much had already gone wrong this weekend. She braced herself for more disaster.

  “Marianne?” Sylvia called from the library’s door. “Honey?” Her voice rose. “She’s not here.”

  Adrenaline shot through Joanna. It couldn’t be—not another death, not again. In a second, she was in the library, with Daniel limping close behind her. Sylvia’s breathing came fast and hard. Daniel gripped her arm, and she leaned against him. Joanna’s glance went straight to the hidden staircase, but it was firmly shut. The hornet was too high for Marianne to have opened it herself. Where could she be?

  “Maybe she went back to your room, or to see Penny,” Joanna said. Please God, let her be with Penny.

  “Yes. Penny,” Sylvia said, her gaze unfocused. “Maybe she slipped out when we were talking. She heard—she heard the discussion and went to find Penny.”

  Using a ski pole as a crutch, Daniel hurried down the hall. Muffled voices, the low one Daniel’s, the higher one Penny’s—or Portia’s—drifted in.

  Turning to Sylvia, Joanna said, “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.” They had to. There were only so many places she could be.

  “I just left her for a minute,” Sylvia said. “When she’s reading, she can usually stay put for hours. I don’t understand.”

  Joanna had never seen anyone wring her hands in real life, but Sylvia was squeezing her palms one after the other, the bones on the back of her hands stretching white under her skin like those of a skeleton.

  “We’ll find her, Sylvia. I promise,” Joanna said. Wilson and Chef Jules were bad enough. But a little girl?

  Daniel returned to the great room alone. Before he could open his mouth, Sylvia exploded. “You,” she shouted at Bette. “If you weren’t going on and on about yourself, Marianne wouldn’t have got away. If anything happens to her—anything at all—I swear I’ll kill you with my bare hands.” She looked half wild, her lips curling and cheeks taut with rage.

  Daniel stepped between her and Bette. Bette’s jaw dropped. She pressed herself back into the lips couch, then sprang forward. “You can’t yell at me. You’re the guilty one here. Everyone knows about your stupid nonprofit going broke. You only came here to try to get money out of Wilson.”

  Sylvia blanched and clasped her hands as if she were afraid she’d strike out otherwise.

  “Calm down. Both of you. We’ve got to find Marianne,” Daniel said.

  “Tony. Where’s Tony?” Clarke said. “I’m checking his room.”

  “Joanna, you look in the far stairwell and the attic,” Daniel said. “Sylvia will come with me. We’ll search the kitchen.”

  Sylvia tore her eyes from Bette and nodded.

  Joanna mouthed “dumbwaiter,” and Daniel nodded. “Check the storage room, too.” She had shown a lot of interest in the spiders’ nest when Joanna mentioned it the night before.

  “Go,” Clarke said.

  Joanna hurried down the bedroom hall. Sylvia’s voice, shouting her daughter’s name, echoed through the lodge’s north wing. Penny’s door was ajar, and she and Portia sat on the bed, heads together in deep discussion. Portia waved her hands as if explaining something. Daniel must have only asked about Marianne but not told them she was missing. Joanna pushed open the stairwell door, releasing icy air. “Marianne?” she said. Her words seemed to make little progress against the thick air and log walls. “Marianne?” she said more loudly.

  No response.

  Would she really have gone to the attic? Maybe. Maybe she saw an interesting insect and wanted to check it out. Joanna took the stairs two at a time and arrived breathless at the attic door. It was ajar. She hadn’t remembered leaving it like that when she discovered the radio in pieces. She pushed it open and stepped inside.

  “Marianne?” Her shout echoed through the attic. Please let her be here. No response.

  The attic was bone-cold, and the roof’s timbers creaked with wind and the weight of the snow. The tiny windows, intended more for decoration than utility, cast little light. She’d left her candlestick on the coffee table in the great room. Fear coalesced in Joanna’s gut. Maybe Marianne wasn’t here now, but it would be an ideal place to hide a body.

  Joanna took a few steps forward. The radio was still flung in pieces around the trunk it had sat on. The hay-like scent of
old wood thickened the air. “Marianne?” Joanna called again. She wasn’t here. Couldn’t be. But was someone else?

  Apart from the scuffed dust surrounding the trunk, footprints marred the dust leading away, toward the wall separating the attic and the tower room. None of them had walked that deep into the attic the night before. Joanna knelt. The prints were large, made by a man. Not a little girl. They had thick treads like hiking boots. Daniel was wearing slippers, and the Reverend was barefoot. Clarke wore leather-soled shoes, if she remembered right. She squinted into the dim light. Slowly, her back against the wall, she crept parallel to the footprints.

  Her heart thudded wildly. Silly, she told herself. There’s no one up here. Or if there is, there’s no reason now to creep. It’s too late. He knows I’m here. The creak of the roof and bite of the cold vanished. She was intent on the wall separating the attic from the tower room.

  Then she heard it. A whimper and a sharp bark. Bubbles. Marianne was in the secret staircase between the library and the tower room. Had to be. How the hell had she got in there?

  Joanna pounded the wall separating the attic from the hidden staircase. “We’re coming to get you,” she shouted. She ran back to the attic door, down the stairs, and flew to the great room.

  In the library, Marianne was already sobbing in Bette’s arms. “Honey, honey, it’s all right,” Bette said.

  “Grandma,” Marianne moaned. Cobwebs threaded Bubbles’s fur.

  Sylvia and Daniel appeared through the library’s door. Sylvia rushed forward and grabbed Marianne, crying into her hair.

  “She was in the hidden staircase,” Bette said. “I heard Bubbles barking. Somehow she must have got in there and shut it after herself.”

  “She’s here. She’s safe,” Sylvia said between sobs.

  No way, Joanna thought. The latch was too high for Marianne to have reached. There’s no way she got into that staircase on her own.

  ***

  Sylvia rocked Marianne in her arms. “My baby, my baby.” The minutes passed. At last, Marianne slipped onto Sylvia’s knee, then to an armchair in the library.

  “It’s a good thing I stayed here. If it weren’t for me, God knows how long she would have been stuck in there,” Bette said. “Bubbles, too.”

  Joanna’s lips tightened. Bubbles was the one who should be thanked. Bette hadn’t even bothered to help look.

  “Thank you, Bette, thank you. I can’t thank you enough.” Sylvia pulled another chair close to Marianne’s. Despite the drama of the last hour, Bubbles hopped up next to Marianne and snuggled close. Marianne’s hand dropped to the dog’s head.

  “I know what it’s like to be afraid for your daughter. I’m just glad she’s safe.” Bette sounded sincere. “You’re all right, aren’t you darling?”

  “Yes, Grandma.”

  Bette didn’t even flinch at the word. “That’s good. You’re safe now, sweetheart.”

  Marianne had tuned out of the adults’ conversation and stared at the ceiling, one hand petting Bubbles’s ear. Joanna knelt by her chair. “Are you all right?” Marianne nodded and grabbed her mother’s fingers. “Can you tell us how you got in the staircase?”

  Silent, the little girl stared at her hands.

  “It’s too soon, Joanna. I know you’re trying to figure out what happened, but she’s had enough trauma the last few days,” Daniel said.

  “I won’t let her leave my side now,” Sylvia added.

  “I just don’t see how she could have reached the lever to the hidden staircase, that’s all. With everything that’s happened, well—” Joanna said. She eyed the carved hornet. Even if Marianne had pulled up a chair, the hornet would be beyond her grasp. “Maybe—” She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe Bubbles did it.”

  Marianne’s eyes widened. “Bubbles? That’s silly.”

  “I thought I saw Bubbles flying around the kitchen looking for a bone earlier today. I bet she flew right up and grabbed that hornet’s stinger in her mouth and pulled the lever.”

  Marianne smiled. “You’re silly. Dogs don’t fly.”

  “But then how did you get in?”

  “The man let me in, that’s who.”

  Joanna looked first at Clarke then Sylvia. The footprints in the attic.

  “The man?” Sylvia prompted Marianne.

  “Tony,” Clarke whispered.

  Joanna leaned closer to Marianne. “Tell me about it.”

  “I was sitting here looking at my book. The shelf popped open, just a little bit.” Marianne held apart her index finger and thumb to give an idea of the how much. “I saw a man.”

  “Tony,” Clarke repeated. Sylvia sat frozen, as if ready to shut down the conversation any second, but Marianne’s tone was light.

  “What did he look like?” Joanna asked.

  “He didn’t have any hair. But he had eyebrows like Lepidoptera.”

  “Caterpillars,” Sylvia translated.

  “Tony.” Clarke stood and put a hand on the back of the chair.

  “What happened next?” Daniel asked.

  “He looked right at me, then he went—bip!” She flickered her fingers like running legs. “But he didn’t close the shelf all the way. So I went inside.” Her hand dropped to her lap, and her expression deadened. “My Dad’s up there.”

  “Marianne.” Daniel crouched again next to her chair. “Was it Father Tony?”

  “Master Tony? No.” The girl was a good listener.

  “Had to be,” he muttered. “Kind of, you know, chunky?”

  “Perfect,” she said and stuck a finger into her soft middle. “Like me.”

  “Tony all right,” Clarke said.

  The Reverend had been nosing around enough, that’s for sure. But just moments before, he’d stormed to the lower level. How could he have slipped into the tower room unobserved? “So you went inside the staircase,” Joanna said.

  “And then the bookshelf shut and I couldn’t get out.” She squeezed Bubbles close, and the dog yipped. Her lip began to quiver.

  “Why didn’t you yell?” Clarke asked.

  “The man put his finger to his lips like this.” The girl demonstrated the “shush” sign, finger to lip. “So I did.”

  “That’s enough,” Sylvia said and drew her daughter close.

  Clarke rose and glanced toward the great room. “Tony. That charlatan will pay for this.”

  Bette rested a hand on Sylvia’s arm. “I’m sorry I was so unkind about your nonprofit. You’re doing good work. At Studio 54 I saw lots of girls who threw up or did coke to stay skinny. They really needed help. They ruined their teeth, for one thing.”

  “I shouldn’t have been so short with you.” Sylvia sighed and leaned back. “It’s been such an awful weekend, I didn’t think I could take one more thing. But you were right. We already have the foundation poured for the new facility, then one of our backers pulled out. Meanwhile, the lease on the building we have now will be up, and we’ve nowhere to go and no money to lease a new place, anyway.”

  “But surely you have lots of money. From Wilson,” Bette said.

  Sylvia shook her head. “That’s for Marianne.”

  “She’s right, Bette. It’s in a trust,” Clarke said.

  “I’d hoped Wilson might—you know, might lend me enough to finish the building. I’d have paid him back, of course,” Sylvia said.

  “But he said no?” Bette asked.

  “He said he needed to discuss it with Penny, but he’d think about it.”

  Joanna watched the conversation intently. So that’s what Sylvia talked to Wilson about the night of the rehearsal dinner when they went to the butler’s pantry. She glanced over to see Clarke watching Sylvia with equal focus.

  “Wilson said what?” Penny appeared at the library door, Portia behind her. Her hair was mussed, and she wore a long sweater—Portia’s?—over yoga pants.

  “That he’d think about lending Sylvia some money for the building for her nonprofit,” Bette said.

  Penny rubbed he
r eyes. “He never said anything about it to me.”

  “How are you, Penny?” Maybe Wilson hadn’t had time to talk to Penny about it. Or maybe he told Sylvia “no,” and she wouldn’t admit it.

  “All right. I mean, considering.”

  “What was all the racket out here? We heard the dog barking, Mom yelling,” Portia said.

  “Let’s go out by the fireplace. I think my champagne glass is somewhere out there. I’ll tell you about it. Thank God I was here, that’s all I can say.” Bette pushed by Joanna, her caftan flapping, and fell into the lips couch.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  At lunch, Joanna and Sylvia laid out the makings for sandwiches. Refusing to use the dumbwaiter, they carried up trays from the kitchen.

  “I’m not hungry,” Clarke said.

  “It’s because you couldn’t get Tony to admit to anything, isn’t it?” Portia said.

  After Marianne’s rescue, Clarke had charged down to the ground floor to have it out with the Reverend but returned, defeated, not long after.

  “He swears he was downstairs the whole time,” Clarke said.

  “See? Leave him alone,” Penny said. “Besides, someone would have seen him in here. Why would he go around locking little girls in staircases?”

  Joanna spooned a few crudités on a plate and wandered toward the library. Out its windows toward the mountain’s peak, the terrain was white and smooth as a calm ocean, and the snow had lightened to a dusting. On the valley side of the lodge, snow had blown up against the windows, now obscuring the view. Only someone in the tower room’s front window would be able to see the snow-shrouded trees disappearing down the mountain.

  Joanna returned to the great room and settled into an armchair. They couldn’t possibly be stuck in the lodge longer than tonight. Surely, when the Forest Service tried to radio back—and they must have tried at some point, she hoped—and didn’t get a signal, they planned to send someone up. She pushed away the thoughts of everyone else on the mountain who needed help, too.

  A book lay by Penny’s side, but she wasn’t reading. Every once in a while she’d turn a page, but mostly she looked in the fire or stared into space.