Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) (20 page)

“You two had a long history together.”

“Like brothers. He’d get himself into all these scrapes, and I’d help him out. There’d be some girl, or he wouldn’t want to talk to anybody, or he’d stay in bed for days and threaten to miss a show, and I’d always pull him out of it. Once, in Pittsburgh, we were backstage at the arena, and he refused to go on.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? There were forty thousand people chanting for him, stamping on the floor, and he sat on a smelly couch in the dressing room and told me he wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t go on.”

“He was sober?” Like everyone else, Joanna had heard about the overdose in Berlin that almost killed Wilson.

“It wasn’t that. It was like—it was like he was possessed by this sad spirit. ‘They don’t know me,’ he kept saying. There was a bitterness in him.”

“But you got him on stage.”

“That time I did. I told him to close his eyes and perform only for himself. I told him the rest of the world wasn’t real, it was only him. We went on almost an hour late, but we went on.” He met Joanna’s eyes. “The Jackals couldn’t have made it without me.”

“It sounds like Wilson really owed a lot to you,” Joanna said.

Clarke stared out the half snowed-over window, lost in thought. “I was lucky to be there.”

The past few days, Joanna had tiptoed around Penny, Sylvia, and Daniel’s loss, not recognizing Clarke’s long history with Wilson. Really, he’d lost family, too.

Finally, Clarke tapped a finger on the table. “I know you’re trying to get to the bottom of this, but I don’t think the deaths had anything to do with Wilson’s money.”

Their eyes met. “You have another idea?”

“The so-called ‘Reverend’ Tony.”

Joanna leaned back. The background report Clarke had mentioned. “I know you’re suspicious of him. You’ve mentioned him a few times, but he seems harmless enough, and Penny likes him.”

Clarke shook his head. He stood and grasped one of the tooth-shaped rocks circling the fireplace. “I don’t trust the man.”

“Assume he does have a rap sheet. What does he gain from killing Wilson and the chef?”

“Hard to say. Maybe Wilson confronted him about his past, and he didn’t want the truth getting out. I wish I could see that background report. And we know he didn’t like the chef. Or maybe—and I hate to say this—but he has an unnatural bond with Penny.”

The image of Penny slipping out of the Reverend’s room crossed her mind. But she was upset about Wilson and probably had been talking it out with Tony. Hell, they’d not even been there three days, and she’d heard Tony insist that violence was not the answer more times than she could count. Then she remembered his iron grip. Could it be? No. Instinct told her no. She needed more reason than that to label him a murderer.

“I’ve been wondering if I should talk to Penny about it,” Clarke said, “and I think it’s time. It’s too dangerous for us here with these kind of secrets. Yes. I’m going to talk to her.”

Joanna’s eyes widened. “Wait, Clarke. Stop. It would be better to have Bette mention something to her. Or even Portia. Penny’s so attached to him.”

“It’s not safe to wait any longer. Two people are already dead.”

Sylvia had mentioned that Clarke wouldn’t let go once he got an idea in his head. “I’m not sure she’ll listen to you, Clarke. You know how Penny is. Besides, she’s fragile right now.”

He flattened his palm on the dining room’s wall. “I understand your concern, Joanna. You want Penny happy, and no doubt you appreciate her business. But you need to leave this to family.”
 

“This has nothing to do with my business.”

“Whatever. I know what’s better for this family than you do. It’s best for you to butt out.” With purpose, he strode through the great room and down the hall to Penny’s bedroom.

Uh oh, Joanna thought. This was not going to go well. Still staring down the hall, she went to the great room and lowered herself on the couch with Daniel. He had put down his guitar. “What’s going on?” he asked. “I couldn’t help overhearing you and Clarke.”

“He’s gone to talk to Penny about Reverend Tony.”

“He has?” Bette said. She’d quit arranging flowers and sat in the opposite lips couch with a bottle of nail polish and an emery board. She was putting the finishing touches on a thumb. She stopped waving it dry and joined the others in staring down the dim hall to the bedrooms.
 

“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.

“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.”