Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) (8 page)

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.”

But 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.”

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?”

“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.