Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) (15 page)

“What’s wrong?” the Reverend asked.

“Penny. I thought she was with us.”

“I’m here.” Penny sat on the floor by the fire, her head resting on the hearth, one arm stretched along its stone surface. “Did Sylvia come out?”

Joanna took a deep breath to calm her pulse. “You can’t just wander off like that. It’s not safe.”

“I’m all right,” she said in a robotic tone of voice. “The killer doesn’t want me. Only Wilson.”

“And Jules,” Portia added.

“Because of Wilson,” Penny said.

Joanna shook her head. “No. You’re being ridiculous. You can’t make assumptions like that.”

“Sylvia,” Clarke said, looking down the hall. “She’s out now.”

Sylvia stood in Daniel’s arms, crying.

***

“We’ll bunk together, men in one room and women in another. Penny’s room is largest, so the women can go in there,” Daniel said. “The men will room with me. It won’t take us long to move a couple of mattresses. Tomorrow morning I’ll ski out for help.”

“But the storm. It’s not safe,” Sylvia said.

“It’s decided. I’m going. I’m a strong skier. The Forest Service can get someone up here, even in this weather, if they know we need it. It’s only a few miles to Timberline Lodge. The ski equipment in the storage room is old, but workable.”

“I don’t know. It’s still coming down out there. Are you sure you want to risk it?” Portia asked.

“Positive,” Daniel said. “We’re not staying here a minute longer than we have to. All right, let’s set up the bedrooms. Remember, no one goes anywhere alone.”

Joanna reluctantly left the fire and followed the others down the hall, Bubbles trotting behind them. Bette instantly claimed the bed with Penny, and Daniel left with Sylvia to drag her mattress across the hall to share with Marianne. She seemed calmer now, steadier. After a few minutes of persuasion, Sylvia took the sleeping pill Bette offered.

Portia turned to Joanna. “Shall we share? I promise I don’t kick. My room is just next door. Between the both of us, we should be able to get the mattress in here.”

The next half hour was spent dragging mattresses and blankets and settling in. Sylvia yawned. “What time is it? It’s got to be almost four in the morning. My God, what a ghastly day. Maybe we can get a few hours of sleep, at least.” Bubbles cuddled next to Marianne on their mattress near the fireplace.

“I’ll never sleep. I don’t care what time it is,” Bette said.

“We need to try. For Marianne’s sake if nothing else,” Portia said.

They snuffed the candles, and within minutes Bette’s snore rattled from the bed. The room slowly filled with even breathing, but Joanna lay awake. With closed curtains and the cloud cover dampening any moonlight, the night was opaque as velvet. She snaked her fingers from under the covers and held them above her face. Couldn’t see a thing. Jules’s murderer must have thought the same, earlier in the evening when he or she crept downstairs to wait for the chef to smoke his pre-bed cigarette.
 

Jules would have crawled in the dumbwaiter in the kitchen, then reached around to flip the lever to the second floor. The door would have shut behind him. Once he was level with the butler’s pantry, all he’d have to do was open the door to the patio. The dumbwaiter would have given him a protected place to smoke. Toss the cigarette butts outside, and he was done.
 

A heaviness settled over her chest. What a funny, brilliant guy Jules had been. He’d been so sweet to save the best wine and a few special morsels for her, “the help” like he was. He said his brother worked at a vineyard in Bordeaux. It would be midday there now. His family was probably around the lunch table maybe even talking about Jules and the dinner they thought he’d prepared for a rock star’s wedding. They had no idea. She remembered his bloodied fingertips, the scratches in the frost on the dining room windows, and her gut tightened. So awful. The whole time he’d been panicked to get back inside, they were sleeping, unaware, on the other side of the lodge.

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.
 

“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.