Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) (7 page)

“I don’t see why you all are getting so excited,” Bette said. “I told you, I hired a snow plow to clear the road. Besides, the wedding guests know we’re here. It’s only a matter of hours until we’re home.” She stood. “I’m going to my room to pack. Come, Bubbles.” Her caftan whipped behind her as she started down the hall.

Daniel shook his head. “Have you seen it outside? The snow plow people are going to have bigger priorities than us.”

“What is going on?” Chef Jules stood at the top of the stairs from the lower level. Ear buds dangled from the breast pocket of his chef’s whites. “The lights—poof! I wait, but they do not return.”

“No electricity,” Joanna said. “Don’t worry, though. There’s a generator. We’ll get it running.”

“The sooner is the better. I have put some fish
sous vide
, and it is imperative that the temperature remain just so.”

Sylvia returned from the dining room, candlesticks in one hand, candles in the other. “I found these in the butler’s pantry. It’s a start, anyway.” She set them on the hearth.

Clarke, in a thick sweater, stocking cap, and carrying leather gloves, returned from his room. He dropped the gloves on a side table and approached Chef Jules. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” the chef asked.

“About the sandwiches you gave us last night. You know very well that Wilson couldn’t have shellfish—”

“I prepared no shellfish. I brought no shellfish into this house. I did not put—how do you say?—clam sauce on that sandwich.” He stood defiant, chin lifted.

“And yet the sandwich had clam dip on it,” Clarke said.

The chef narrowed his eyes and huffed past him, down the stairs. Clarke shook his head at the chef’s retreat. “The second we get out of here,” he muttered, leaving his thought unfinished. “That man will not leave the country without answering for this.”

A momentary silence fell over the great room. Daniel and Joanna exchanged glances. Fanning the flames of anger while they were all trapped—and now without electricity—was not smart.

“Ready, Clarke?” Daniel asked. “It’s dark downstairs. We’d better take candles.”

“I’ll come with you.” Joanna lit three taper candles, each in holders shaped like thick-lipped fish.
 

Daniel halted at the entrance to the downstairs lobby. Their candles threw pale washes of gold on the stuffed bear and stone floors. “Something is different down here—it’s darker.” He strode to the front door and peered out the door’s window. “Shit. The entry tent outside collapsed.”

That was the way in. And out. Joanna’s glance grazed the stone floor, wood-timbered ceiling, and darkened walls. The stuffed bear hulked beside her. “How do we get out, then?”

“The windows upstairs, I guess. We’d never make it out down here,” he said. Daniel stared at the blackened windows in the door, then turned and headed right, to the corridor under the bedrooms.
 

They passed Reverend Tony’s and the chef’s rooms before arriving at a large storage closet at the end of the hall. Beyond the closet was the door leading outside to the garage. Directly across from the storage room was another door, likely a service staircase.

Daniel pointed to the storage room. “In there, Joanna. Why don’t you leave the door open? We’ll stack the wood against the wall.” The door shut behind them, leaving Joanna alone.

***

Joanna automatically flicked a switch by the storage room’s door before remembering that the power was out. Candlelight showed that the room was efficiently organized, everything in its place. On the left wall hung a grid of open shelves stuffed with ski boots sorted by size. Skis leaned bundled in the corner. A wooden bench stretched to the right of the door. This must be where skiers came to suit up for a cross-country jaunt. Along the right wall firewood was neatly stacked. No radio here.

Oh, but on the shelf was a flashlight. She clicked it on. Its beam was weak but easier to manage than the candle. She blew out the candle, gray smoke curling above it. A faraway rumble started then stopped. The generator. Thank God Daniel knew his way around a motor. The rumble started again, and the fluorescent light in the storage room flickered, casting a blue glow. She smiled at the whooping she heard from the garage.
 

As she stepped back, Joanna’s hair brushed against something. She gasped and spun around. A spider’s web wavered in a current of cold air, and a shiny coal-black spider with a red hourglass on its stomach skittered to the side. A black widow. Prickles raced down her back. A white egg sac, as delicate as a puff of cotton candy, adhered to the wall behind the web. Joanna batted at her hair to make sure no spider had leapt into it.

Pull yourself together.
She raked her fingers through her hair once again and shook her head, then backed into the hall and calmed her breathing.
Now, think.
Where else would a radio—if there was one—be? The best signal would come from the lodge’s top floor. The tower room had the highest access, but that was a bedroom. Maybe a radio was in there somewhere, but searching a room with a body in it was her last choice. Surely the lodge had an attic she could check first. Joanna eyed the door across from the storage room. She tested its knob.

The door opened to a staircase with a plain metal railing. A service stairwell. She gripped the railing and climbed. At the second level where the bedrooms were, voices drifted from the hall. The stairway continued up another level. It had to lead to the attic. Joanna had advanced only a few steps when the second floor door burst open.
 

Penny? No, it was Portia, Penny’s twin sister, with a camera slung around her neck.

“Hullo,” Portia said, backing up. “Oh, the vintage clothing dealer. You scared me.”

“Joanna. You startled me, too.” What was Portia doing on the far staircase? To get to the kitchen or great room, guests would normally use the central staircase. Then Joanna remembered Portia might not have heard yet about Wilson. “Did you—have you talked to your mother yet?”

Portia zipped her fleece jacket over her camera. “Yes. Yes, I did. I slept in—jet lag—and Mom woke me up. It’s awful about Wilson. Poor Penny. Looks like we’re stuck here for a while, too.”

For a moment, neither woman spoke. The stairwell’s single light bulb cast shadows on Portia’s face. She seemed determined to wait Joanna out.
 

Joanna spoke first. “I’m looking for a radio or something to call out. The phone’s dead. I thought maybe this staircase led to the attic.”
 

“I’ll come with you.”

Joanna relaxed a bit knowing she’d now have company on the visit to the attic. As they mounted the remaining stairs, the stairwell’s light bulb went out. She clicked on the flashlight. “The generator,” she said. “Daniel and Clarke are trying to get it started.”

“Must not be going well.”

The attic was colder than downstairs. A plain wooden door—no melted clocks or carved lobsters on this one—greeted them. Joanna turned the doorknob and pushed, but the door remained shut.
 

“Here, let me,” Portia said, stepping in front of Joanna. She gave the door a hip check with the full force of her body. The door groaned against the jamb and opened.

Inside, a long, dark attic spanned the top of the lodge’s north wing. Clerestory windows ran along both sides of the room, but whether because of dirt or the storm, they let in scant light. The air smelled faintly acidic of mouse scat.
 

Wind whistled through Redd Lodge’s roof, and cold penetrated its walls. Joanna pulled her cardigan closer and scanned the darkened room with the flashlight. Normally she loved poking around in attics. The possibility of opening a trunk and finding a beaded 1920s flapper dress or a crisp Grace Kelly-era wedding gown fueled her dreams. It wasn’t just the clothes—overstuffed armchairs, old books, and orphaned dishes sang their siren songs too. But this attic felt more like an abandoned storage unit than a treasure trove. Old storm windows leaned against one wall, and two broken chairs and a painting with a tarnished frame leaned next to them. A love seat with torn upholstery was pushed into a corner.
 

Portia coughed and brushed something away. “Cobwebs,” she said.

“Be careful. I saw a black widow spider in the storage room.” Joanna ran the flashlight along the webs hanging from dusty beams. If they didn’t find a radio, maybe they’d find kerosene lanterns or more candles.

The door creaked as Daniel entered. “Anyone up here?”

“Yes. Any luck with the generator? It was going for a minute,” Joanna said.

“Out of fuel. Bette forgot to have it filled.” Daniel shut the attic door behind him.
 

“That’s Mom for you,” Portia said. “You can bet we won’t run out of champagne any time soon, though.”

Daniel squinted. “Penny? No. You must be Portia. I’m Daniel, Wilson’s brother.” He and Portia shook hands. That’s right—they wouldn’t have met until now.
 

“I’m so sorry to hear about Wilson. I can’t tell you how awful I feel. A freak allergic reaction, it sounds like,” Portia said.

“Yeah.” His gaze dropped. Daniel’s eyes, like Wilson’s, easily showed strain in their dark shadows. “Clarke and I got a few armloads of wood in from the garage. That place is creepy. I kept feeling someone was watching me.”

“The ghost Penny keeps talking about,” Joanna said.
 

“Let me help here. I can’t just sit around downstairs.” Daniel scanned the attic. “What’s this?” He strode to a waist-high wooden cabinet with a jumble of wires and odd metal pieces scattered across its top. “Looks like a radio.”

“Oh good.” Joanna trained the flashlight on the cabinet. “Not like any radio I’ve seen.”

“Could I borrow your flashlight? Thanks.” Daniel examined a bundle of wires. “A ham radio, I think. I bet it’s here for just this kind of situation.”

“I wonder if it still works?”

“It has a battery.” He poked at its rusted connectors. “My guess is it’s dead. Too cold up here.”
 

“Could we pull a battery from one of the cars?” Portia said.

“The front entry collapsed,” Joanna said. “We can’t get to them. We couldn’t possibly dig it out in the storm.”

“Bette parked in the garage. We’ll lift her battery.” Daniel’s movements took on more focus. “Clarke will help. The reception is probably best up high, so let’s leave the radio here.” He glanced out an attic window at the driving snow. “If we can get it to work, at least we can send a message, get an idea of when the storm will blow over.” He lowered his voice. “The police, too. They’ll need to know about Wilson.”
 

Portia’s gaze roamed the attic then returned to the dismantled radio. “I’m not sure I’ll be much help. Let me fetch Clarke and send him up for you. Anything else?”

“Candles or another flashlight would be good if you can find one. Thanks, Portia.” Daniel lit his candle and tipped it to make a pool of wax on the table. He stuck the taper in it, upright. The flame flickered in the drafty attic. “Point your flashlight here, if you don’t mind.”

“Can you put it back together?”

“These wires are pretty badly corroded.” He held up a wire with crumbling insulation. “We need cord that can handle high amperage. Everything else looks fine.” He snapped his fingers. “An iron. I saw an iron in my room. We might be able to do something with that.”
 

“There’s a tool box in the storage room. I’ll bring it up,” Joanna said.
 

When she returned to the attic with the tool box, Clarke and Daniel were huddled around the table. Pocket knife in hand, Daniel sliced the cord off an electric iron. Joanna opened her mouth to lament the ruined iron, but shut it again. Calling out for help was a lot more important at this point than crisply pleated trousers—even if the power ever did return.
 

“Anything else I can do?” Joanna asked.
 

“No. Should have this going soon,” Daniel said. “Unless you could bring up some coffee?”

“Got it.”

Bette sat in the kitchen with a smoked salmon canapé in each hand. A glass of champagne rested on the counter next to her, wedged between tiered platters of hors d’oeuvres and a lit candelabra. “What are you doing? You look a wreck.”

“I’ve been up in the attic with Clarke and Daniel. We found a radio. They want coffee. Is it still warm?” Joanna searched the cupboards for coffee mugs.
 

“I’m going up with you.”

Sylvia paused at the kitchen doorway a moment before entering. “Hullo. Where’s Chef Jules?”

“Sulking in his room,” Bette said. She dug a cashew from the nut bowl and popped it in her mouth, her rings sparkling.

“Why’s that? I thought I’d see if I could help him with lunch. If anyone can stand to eat, that is. I can’t bear just sitting around with nothing to think about but, well—” her voice trailed off.

“Moody. You know the French,” Bette said. “Are you coming upstairs? Clarke found a radio in the attic. They’re going to call a helicopter or something to get us out of here.”

In this weather? Where did she get that idea? Not even Evel Knievel would be foolish enough to risk it. “Maybe we can get an idea of when the storm will let up.”

“So here’s where the party is.” Portia pushed past Sylvia and sat on a stool next to Bette.
 

Party? Did they not remember Wilson’s body upstairs?

Bette poured more champagne. “Want some, honey?” she asked Portia. “Clarke’s in the attic with a radio. He’ll make sure the snow plows are clearing the road. They signed a contract, you know. I could sue. Besides, I have an important appointment tomorrow in town.”

“Right. A pedicure, I bet,” Portia said.

“Acupuncture. I need it.”

Now Reverend Tony appeared in the doorway dressed in a black suit with a black shirt, probably what he’d intended to wear when he officiated at the wedding. At least he showed some decorum. “Acupuncture is an ancient healing art. I commend you for avoiding the false promises of western medicine.”

“Well, if it isn’t Johnny Cash,” Portia said. She turned to her mother. “It’s an acupuncture facial, isn’t it Mom? Better than Botox, isn’t that what they say?”