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

going to change anything.” As if Bette had anything to cry about, anyway. Penny’s fiancé, Marianne’s father, and Daniel’s brother lay dead a few feet away. All Wilson was to Bette was bragging rights.  
    The dog’s high-pitched barking drowned out everything else. Joanna put her hands to her ears. “Shut up, both of you!”
    Bette’s sob took on a keening edge, instigating a string of French curses from the floor below. Chef Jules must be setting out breakfast.
    Joanna stared at Bette. She’d had it. She slapped Bette across the face, hard, Joan Crawford-style.  
    The noise from Bette’s mouth ceased like a switch had been flipped. The dog fell silent at the same time. Bile rose in Joanna’s stomach as Bette’s lips stretched into a grin.  
    Reverend Tony appeared behind Bette, his kimono sleeves waving. “My child, violence is no answer, especially on this sacred day.”
    To hell with tact. “There’s not going to be a sacred day, Master. Wilson’s dead.”
    A gargled noise rose from Tony’s throat as he saw the body. He started toward Wilson, but Joanna put up a hand.
    “Penny needs you. As you can imagine, she’s taking it pretty hard. She’s probably in her room. Take Bette,” Joanna said, more to clear the room and gather her thoughts than anything else.
    “But Wilson—”
    “Later. Go.” Somebody had to take charge here, and right now candidates were thin. Reverend Tony reluctantly took Bette by the shoulder and led her down the stairs, Bubbles trotting after them.
    What a disaster. They had to get the police here, and soon. Evidence was getting stomped all over. The medical examiner would need to make a determination of the cause of death. And the fact that it was Wilson Jack—well, the determination would have to be thorough and accurate. Penny didn’t need to spend her life fending off rumors about her fiancé’s death.  
    Joanna swallowed hard and forced herself to examine Wilson’s body. Other than his open eyes, he looked peaceful. Maybe alcohol poisoning killed him, although a man with Wilson’s experience would know when to stop. Or maybe his heart gave out. Would that cause him to vomit? She walked to the coffee table and, sheathing her hand in the skirt of her dressing gown, picked up the half-filled glass. A sniff told her it was whiskey.
    “I’d be surprised if he died of alcohol poisoning,” said a voice behind her. Joanna started. Clarke had returned from the library. “I’ve seen him drink far more than we did last night.”
    “I don’t know what else might have done it. He vomited, which leads me to think it was something he ate or drank. Did he take any medication?”
    Clarke shook his head. “I don’t know. All we had last night after dinner were sandwiches. Like that one.” He flipped the top off the partially eaten sandwich on Wilson’s nightstand and stared at her, his mouth agape. “Yes. That’s it. That’s clam dip, isn’t it? He can’t have that. He’s deathly allergic.”
    Blue cheese stuck to roast beef under the top slice of grainy bread. Smeared over the roast beef where horseradish might have been was a similarly white spread, but with chunks of clam. Clams on roast beef?
    “He was allergic. I don’t get it. Why would Wilson eat something he knew would kill him?”
    “I don’t know. We—” He wandered to the window, as if to look away from Wilson’s body, then turned again to Joanna. “The chef had made us some sandwiches for the poker game last night. Wilson must have taken one back to his room later. That’s all I can guess.” He rubbed the gray stubble on his jaw.
    Joanna had never heard of putting clam dip on a sandwich, but it could happen. Maybe the chef had some sort of surf-and-turf brainstorm. If Clarke was right, it was all an accident—a horrible accident. “Did you get through to the police?”
    “No. That’s the other thing. The phone is dead.”

Chapter Five

    “The storm must have taken out the phone