Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) (28 page)

“If we ever get out of here.” The earnestness had dissolved, and a forlorn note crept in.

“We will. I’m sure of it.” For a moment Joanna was tempted to tell Penny about the ski patrol man that morning, but she held her tongue. It would have to remain a secret for a few more hours.

Penny seemed to have already moved on. “I’m hungry. Is there anything here left to eat, or did the ghost get it all?”

Bette barged through the door. “The fire, Joanna. You promised. What’s holding you up, anyway?”

“I’ll get something to help the fire catch,” Joanna told Bette.

“And I’ll come with you,” Penny said. She was doing it—she was staying with Joanna like she’d asked.

Joanna led the way to the kitchen.

“Why are we going down here? Mom has magazines we could burn.”

How much should she tell Penny? She’d already slipped by almost telling the Reverend about the clam dip container. No, she’d have to rely on a few white lies. It was for Penny’s own protection. “We can get something easy to catch, like paper towels, from the garbage.”

In the kitchen, Joanna took a wooden spoon and poked through the garbage. Nothing of interest there. She pulled a crumpled paper sack from the trash, then tied shut the garbage bag. “Let’s take this out and see if there’s some paper in the can outside.”

“I still don’t get why we have to go through the trash. It’s smelly. There’s wrapping paper upstairs. Wouldn’t that be better?”

“Great idea, but we’re taking the trash out anyway. We might as well check.” She lugged the trash bag over the stone floors toward the door at the end of the service wing. The hall was nearly as dark as it had been the night before. Daniel sat in front of Tony’s room, his head tipped against the door.
 

“Hey, Joanna,” he said.“What’s going on upstairs?”

“Making a fire. I’ll heat water for coffee and bring you some. First I want to get rid of this garbage. How’s your ankle?”

Daniel lifted it from the chair it rested on. “Swelling’s going down. I saw that the snow has stopped. Maybe if I bind my ankle I can ski out.”

“That’s not safe,” Joanna said. “They’ll send someone for us. I know it. Now that they can get a snowcat out, they’ll be here before the end of the day. Have to.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Icicles clung to the roof of the breezeway. The garbage can, a tall brown plastic bin, was near the house. Joanna pulled newspaper from the bin and set it on the ground. The
Wall Street Journal
. Probably Clarke’s. It would be perfect for the fire—she wasn’t sure why they didn’t save it to begin with.
 

“Good.” Penny folded the paper and tucked it under her arm. “Now let’s go in. It’s freezing out here.”

“Just a few more seconds. I want to make sure there’s not another paper buried in here.” Now for the dirty work. Using a paper towel to shield her hand, she sorted through the rest of the plastic bag of trash but came up empty.

“Joanna, this is ridiculous.” Penny looked back at the door to the lodge through the tunnel of snow.

“Really. I’m almost finished.” She ripped into the trash bag below, releasing a shower of coffee grounds.
 

“Hurry up.” Penny stamped her feet and hugged herself in the cold.

At last her fingers found what she sought. She slipped it into the caftan’s pocket. “Okay. Done.”

***

Later, after washing her hands and rekindling the fire in the great room, Joanna gratefully took a cup of coffee from Daniel. Clarke had swapped places with him outside Tony’s door, and he had taken over coffee duty. Penny had wanted to follow, but Joanna had convinced her she’d be fine in the library, still within sight.

Joanna rested the cup on the side table next to the armchair in the library and pulled some of the guest logs from a lower shelf. Arranging the caftan’s folds around her, she settled in, making sure she had a clear view of the great room, as well as the bookcase hiding the secret staircase. The caftan was marvelously warm over her legs. Maybe she’d try to get one made with a cashmere lining.

Daniel’s voice from the hearth was clear. “Ceramic burr grinder. It’s old fashioned technology, really—people have been grinding coffee this way for centuries, no electricity needed.”

Good. She glanced at the grandfather clock, but it had stopped. No one had wound it. How long had it been since she’d talked to the ski patroller? Maybe two hours? Three? Say it took him an hour to get back to Timberline Lodge, then another half hour to track down Detective Crisp. The trip from Portland was at least an hour and a half, and with road conditions probably closer to two or three. Please,
please
let the ski patroller remember all her instructions, she prayed. In the meantime, she’d see if she could firm up her hunches.

Joanna opened the first guest book, from 1948. The first guests stayed for a weekend of skiing. Joanna flipped the pages, scanning names and comments. “Woke up every morning thinking of bugs,” one commenter wrote. “The fireplace in the red room smokes,” said another.
 

Joanna closed that guest log and picked up the next. The dregs of her coffee grew cold as she scanned the comments. Whoever owned the lodge in the early 1950s must have hired a great cook, because guests raved about flapjacks, omelets, and a particular stew with olives.
 

Bette’s voice drifted in from the great room. “I don’t understand why they haven’t already come. They know we’re here, and they know it’s us, not a bunch of no-names.”

“I’m sure they don’t have many piste bashers, or what ever it is you call them in America—” Sylvia said.

“Snowcats,” came Portia’s reply.

“Yes, snowcats, and they have a lot of people to check up on. I’m sure someone will arrive soon.”

“They’d better. I’m fed up with this place. All those damned clocks, running backwards. This surrealist gimmick is getting old,” Bette said.

“Are you drinking already?” It sounded like Penny’s voice.

“It’s a mimosa. You know, a brunch drink,” Bette replied.

“But there’s no orange juice in it. It’s just champagne.”

“We ran out.” A pause. “I’ll be so glad to have you girls home again.”

“I’m in Portland now. Remember? It’s my home,” Penny said.
 

“I thought now that Wilson was, you know—”

“I said Portland is home.” Her voice was firm.

Joanna picked up another guest log, thankful she wasn’t in the great room having to pretend to pay attention. She knew Penny was keeping an eye on the library’s entrance.

“When we get out of here, what’s the first thing you’re going to do?” Sylvia, always the peacemaker, asked. “I’m going to have a long, hot shower.”

“Mani-pedi, arugula salad with flank steak, and a glass of pinot gris. If I never see champagne again, it will be too soon,” Bette said. “And I’m going to lie by the pool and open all the windows. No more snow. In fact, I never want to see snow again, either.” Bette’s voice took a flirtatious edge. “I just might have a little surprise for everyone, too.”

Joanna shook her head at Bette’s mention of a “surprise.” She knew what she would do when she got home. Find Paul. That first. Then she’d tell him everything about her mother—no more secrets. Then a hot bath. Yes. She wanted to be at Tallulah’s Closet, too, with the dresses and hats displayed around her and Blossom Dearie on the stereo. She set down one guest log and picked up another. She’d made it to the early 1960s.

“I need to check on the shop,” Daniel said. “That’ll be my first thing.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’ll do when you get home?” Penny said. “Not me. I’m going to do yoga with Reverend Tony and treat him to a nice meal at his favorite vegan restaurant and an herbal colonic for all the horrible things he had to go through here.”

No one bothered questioning her statement of Tony’s innocence. They knew they were on the cusp of going home. They probably figured the police would sort it all out.

Joanna’s finger stopped at a name. She’d found it. Francisco and Natalia Rosso and son, March 1963. They’d stayed for five days. Joanna pulled the guest log closer. The handwriting was unmistakable. “In Redd Lodge I have found a great gift,” he’d written, and that was all. A “great gift.”

The bookcase nudged open an inch. Their signal. Joanna glanced toward the great room. No one had seen it. She set down the guest log. It was time to start.
 

Remembering every Agatha Christie adaptation she’d seen on TV, Joanna entered the great room with a flourishing wave of her caftan. “I’d like to gather everyone together. I have something important to say.”

“What?” Sylvia said. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”

Damn.
Everyone else was silent. Penny was in downward dog on the bear skin rug, Bette sipped champagne and flipped through a fashion magazine, Daniel played checkers with Marianne on the hearth, and Portia watched the game, giving hints to Marianne. Clarke and Tony, of course, were downstairs.

Joanna drew closer into the room. She kept to the front of the great room, opposite the library. “I said, I have something to tell you—all of you.”

Penny came to sitting on the rug and pulled her legs into a lotus position. “So, say it. Go ahead, Joanna.” The others lifted their heads, except for Bette, who closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the couch.

How did Hercule Poirot pull this off so well? “We’re on the brink of being rescued. But one of us is a murderer.”

“Is that all?” Portia said and tapped a square on the checker board for Marianne to consider. “He’s holed up downstairs, remember?”

“He is
not
,” Penny shouted.

“No. It’s not Tony,” Joanna said.

“What’s all this drama about?” Bette raised her head from the back of the couch. “For God’s sake, girl. I thought you were one of the quiet ones.”

“Reverend Tony didn’t kill Wilson or Chef Jules, and I can prove it. The real murderer knows that and tried to kill me last night by putting a nest of black widow spiders in my bed.” That got their attention, especially Portia’s. The room went dead quiet. “Let’s bring Tony upstairs.”

“What are you talking about?” Portia said.
 

Joanna pulled the tissue from her caftan’s pocket and unwrapped it on the coffee table. Marianne scrambled closer for a look. A small black widow spider rolled out, its legs pulled up in death. Silence fell over the room.

“What’s going on, Jo?” Penny asked.

“You could have got that spider anywhere,” Portia said. “You’re losing it.”

“Go get Tony,” Joanna repeated.

“Do it. Listen to her,” Penny said.

Daniel looked at Sylvia then Portia. “I’ll go. Between me and Clarke, nothing will happen.”
 

“The
lactrodectus
,” Marianne said. “That’s the spider’s real name. They’re afraid of humans, you know. Unless you disturb their nest.”
 

Sylvia moved to the hearth and folded Marianne in her arms. “Hush, bug.”

“This better be good,” Bette said. “And quick. I’m going to take a nap. You can let me know when help arrives.”

Daniel and Clarke returned to the great room with Reverend Tony between them. Tony was quiet, and a spotty gray scruff had spread over his jaw. “Heat,” he said. “That feels great. Do you mind if I sit near the fire?”

“You stay on that side of him,” Clarke said.

“Don’t bother. Tony didn’t kill Wilson or the chef,” Joanna said.
 

Tony lifted his head, appearing only partly surprised.
 

Clarke shook his head. “We have his background report. The man’s a criminal. He has a rap sheet longer than
War and Peace
and as many aliases.”

“Oh, Tony’s no saint, and his motives for coming here weren’t pure, either.”

“Joanna,” Penny said. “You just said—”

“Tony was the one who interested you in surrealism and told you about Redd Lodge, right?” Joanna asked. Penny nodded. “He knew about Redd Lodge long before any of the rest of us did. His name is Antonio Rosso, remember. Rosso means ‘red’ in Italian. Then I looked through the guest logs and saw that Tony stayed at Redd Lodge for a long weekend in the early 1960s when he was a child. He came with his father, Francisco Rosso. Also known as Francis Redd, Redd Lodge’s original owner.”
 

Tony stood stone-faced. Everyone else’s attention was on Joanna. Even Bette put down her champagne glass and sat straighter.

“You mean Tony’s dad built this place?” Portia said. Penny moved next to Portia on the couch. Daniel left Tony and settled at Sylvia’s side.

“Exactly. Am I right, Tony?”

Tony looked around the room, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, my dad built the lodge. But so what? It’s an unusual place. I knew Penny would like it. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Plus, it’s private, good for the wedding.”

Penny looked confused. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He had his own reasons for wanting to come up here and stay for a few nights.”

“But, why not just come up by himself?” Penny asked. Tony looked away.
 

Penny probably had no idea how difficult—and expensive—it was to rent Redd Lodge. She had wanted to hold the wedding here, and Wilson and Bette took care of the rest. Just as with the Schiaparelli gown. “They won’t let just anyone in here, Penny. And he needed time.”

“For what?” Clarke asked. “To steal something?”

“Not steal. Take something that’s rightfully my family’s,” Tony said. At last he began to show emotion. “You have no idea what it was like. My father left Redd Lodge because he was broke. If it looked like he’d died, his family could cash in his life insurance. Living in Europe was cheap. So he left Redd Lodge and went to find the artists he loved so much. He staged his own death and changed his name. Moved to Trieste. But he kept talking about Redd Lodge, about the valuable gift he left behind. Get it? A gift. A gift for me.”

“I don’t understand. You should have inherited. Why couldn’t you come back and tell him Francis Redd was your father?” Penny said.

“He couldn’t,” Joanna said. “First of all, Tony isn’t legitimate. Francis was still married when he left, so his second marriage wasn’t legal. The estate went to his legal wife. Next, as far as everyone knew, Francis was dead. If he’d died, Tony couldn’t exist.”