Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) by Angela M. Sanders Read Free Book Online

clams on that one.”  
    Clarke was the third part of the poker game last night. Did he have the roast beef, too? She’d ask. She might as well gather information for the police while it was still fresh. She wondered if her old friend Detective Foster Crisp had jurisdiction this far out of town. She chastised herself. Chances were it was an open and shut case of an allergic reaction. Still, she should make sure the tower room remained undisturbed. Who was in charge here? Surely not Bette.
    Daniel looked again toward the staircase leading to the tower room. If memory served her right, Daniel was Wilson’s only sibling. Certainly no other member of his family was at the lodge. Well, not counting Marianne.  
    “I’m so sorry,” Joanna said. She thought of her estranged parents, her dead grandparents. “It’s hard to lose family.”
    “Yes.” He picked up the poker and jabbed at the fire. “The funny thing is, Wilson was just starting to come around. Before he met Penny, I hadn’t seen him in months. We’d meet around the holidays, then he’d hole up again somewhere for the rest of the year. Wouldn’t even return my calls. But once he and Penny got together, he seemed to loosen up, you know? Once, he even—” He looked toward Joanna with a questioning look.
    “Yes?” she said.
    “I know it sounds corny, but Penny was in California visiting Bette, so I went to his house for a couple of beers and to help sort tracks for his solo album. We ended up playing guitar in his living room.” He lifted his hand with its few fingers. “I can still play a little, even with this. He apologized to me for—well, for a few things.” He shook his head at the memory. “Whatever. It had been years and it was so good to see him. I thought, ‘I have my brother back’.”
    “I’m sorry,” she repeated. She knew it wouldn’t be the last time she’d say it today. Maybe putting Daniel to work on something practical would help. She let a few minutes elapse as she finished her coffee. “Bette says the lodge doesn’t have a snowcat, but I wondered if there might be something in the garage. Then we could leave, call the police. Would you mind checking?”
    He nodded, first slowly, then faster. “If we can’t get a vehicle, I can ski out. Not in this blizzard, but when the snow settles. There’s a room of ski equipment on the ground floor. I saw it when I went to get wood last night. I’m not sure what shape it’s in, but I can check.” He stood and seemed to notice he was still in his pajamas. “After I change.”
    “That’s great. Timberline Lodge isn’t more than a few miles away.”
    She set her mug on the hearth next to Daniel’s. She’d dress, too, then tell the chef the wedding was off. He couldn’t know about Wilson’s death yet. Plus, she had a few questions for him about the sandwiches, then she’d see about cordoning off the tower room until they could get in touch with the police.
    On her way out, she stopped and turned back. She found the phone on a side table in the breakfast room and lifted its receiver. Dead air.
    ***
    “ Entrez ,” said the chef.  
    Joanna leaned against the door jamb. The chef’s room gave off the air of a medieval frat house. A room originally intended for household staff, it was smaller and darker than the bedrooms upstairs. The window at the rear was snowed over. Clothes were draped over the back of chairs and strewn on the bed and stone floor. Of course, Chef Jules was barely twenty years old.  
    The chef sat, feet up on the desk, with a graphic novel in lurid colors propped in his lap. On seeing Joanna, he sat up and tossed the book to the side.  
    “ Eh bien , it’s the lady worker bee. Buzz buzz, eh?” He lowered his voice. “But don’t worry, we worker bees must stick together. I have set aside a few especially nice plats for us. They will eat the venison leg roasts up there.” He waved toward the ceiling. “But the most delicate morsel, the backstrap, I