Read Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) for Free Online

cold crept through the glass. “I shouldn’t have left him alone last night. He seemed upset about something, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He’d had a lot to drink.”
    “It’s too late for a doctor,” Joanna said. “But we should call someone.”
    “Who do you call when someone has died?”
    “The police. We’ll call the police. They’ll know what to do.”
    “But the wedding. And what about the press?” Bette said. She’d come up behind them. “What will happen when they find out?”
    At last Penny spoke, and the force of her voice rang through the room. “Shut up, Mom. He’s dead. Wilson is dead.” Shaky, she rose from the bed. “It’s always all about you, isn’t it? Even the wedding. About you and about how nice you make everything. Well, this isn’t about you anymore. Oh Wilson .” Penny ran from the room, the gown’s faux ripped flesh now more hideous than clever.  
    ***
    Clarke left to call the police. Mumbling something about checking on Sylvia and Marianne, Daniel followed him.
    Once the police arrived, there’d be a lot of questions to answer. The spring before, when she’d become involved in a murder investigation, Detective Foster Crisp had pulled her aside at the trial to talk about the case. The silver-plated tips of his bolo tie dangled as he leaned over the wooden bench outside the courtroom. “It’s about seeing without judgment. You’ve got be like a doctor diagnosing an illness. You don’t prove your hunch, you look at the symptoms and follow the evidence. Observe and document.”  
    Joanna turned to examine the room. Flanked by nightstands, the bed rested ten feet or so from the fireplace, its head facing the front of the lodge. Two armchairs and a coffee table stood on a rug at its feet. Wilson’s motorcycle boots were toppled next to a chair, and a pulp thriller and partially eaten sandwich sat on the table. Joanna approached the sandwich, but Bette’s expression stopped her.
    Bette hovered near the fireplace. “Wilson is dead.” She dropped Bubbles to the floor, and the dog circled her feet, barking once, then twice.
    “Bette, maybe you’d best go to your room and lie down for a moment. This is distressing to all of us.”  
    Bette seemed not to hear her. “I worked on this wedding for months. Did everything to make it perfect for my girl. And now we’re trapped. In the middle of nowhere. And he’s dead.”  
    “I’m sure it will all be fine. We’ll figure out what happened and work it out. Now, you go lie down. Clarke will have the police here soon. They’ll take care of everything.” She stepped forward. “Penny mentioned you might have Xanax? This would be a good time to take one.”
    “Who are you to tell me what to do? What do you care, anyway? You’re not even family.”
    “Someone needs to stay level-headed, and as you say, I’m not family.”
    “Trapped,” Bette said, ignoring her. “And he’s dead. Oh my God!” Feeding off her mistress’s hysteria, Bubbles ramped up her barking.  
    “Calm down,” Joanna said in her sternest voice. “We’ll be fine.”
    Bette’s breath came more quickly and broke into sobs. “I tried so hard. I failed. We’re trapped.”  
    The dog’s shrill barking rang in Joanna’s ears. She took a deep breath. Model calm, she told herself. Be calm and Bette will take your lead. “No, we aren’t trapped. I saw a garage when I drove in. Surely there’s a snowcat or a snowmobile out there. The police will figure out a way to get us home. We’ll be fine,” she repeated.
    “The maid took the snowmobile. Besides, it’s too stormy to go anywhere.” Joanna barely made out Bette’s words between sobs. You’d almost think it was her lover who died. “I didn’t rent a snowcat. I didn’t think we’d need one.”
    They were in a mountain lodge in January with only one lousy snowmobile—and that was gone? Joanna’s calm began to slip away. “One thing I know for sure is that crying about it isn’t