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

lines,” Clarke said.
    No phone. That meant no medical examiner, no police. And with this snow, no way out.
    “It can’t last forever. The wedding guests were supposed to come today. They know we’re here, and someone will be up the mountain as soon as they can,” Joanna said. How long would that be? A day? Two? Hard to say.
    “Oh God,” Clarke repeated. “I’ve seen Wilson through some scrapes, but I never thought it would come to this.” He paced the room, worrying at the sash of his bathrobe.
    “You were Wilson’s manager, right? I’m so sorry.”
    “We were like brothers. We met in middle school.” He rubbed his eyes. “I was even one of the original Jackals until it became clear that I’d do better behind the scenes. We spent months together on the road, in recording studios. I must have bailed him out of jail a dozen times. I always had his back, and he knew it.” Clarke’s voice cracked.  
    “Let’s go downstairs. There’s nothing more we can do here,” Joanna said gently.  
    On the way down, they met Daniel, on his way up. “Are you—? Is there—?” Even in the darkened hallway Daniel’s strain showed.  
    “There’s nothing we can do now, Daniel,” Clarke said, repeating Joanna’s words. Uncertain, he paused at the foot of the stairs before wandering in a daze toward the bedrooms.  
    Daniel put out a hand to stop Joanna. “What about the police? Isn’t someone calling them?”
    “Clarke tried. The phone line is down.” With a pang, Joanna realized she wouldn’t be able to call home and warn Paul about her mother, either. She should have phoned him last night, taken the phone from the breakfast room and pulled it around the corner. Now it was too late.
    Daniel wore flannel pajama bottoms and a tee shirt. He was barefoot. He stood forlornly looking up the stairs, then back down. Poor man. “My brother.”
    “I’m going to the dining room,” Joanna said. “Why don’t you join me?”
    He let out a long breath. “All right.”
    The dining room was empty, but chafing dishes full of scrambled eggs, tiny pancakes, and bacon warmed on the sideboard. One dish held a sort of casserole Joanna couldn’t identify. Probably something vegan for Penny and Reverend Tony. She passed up the food and filled a mug with coffee. Daniel filled his mug, too, but paced the dining room, cup in hand.
    “How about if we sit in the great room by the fire for a moment?” Joanna asked. “It will give us the chance to let things soak in, I guess.”
    “Sure.” He glanced at the fireplace, the table, the breakfast room, clearly distracted. “I mean, thanks.”
    “How are Sylvia and Marianne?” Joanna asked once they were settled, Joanna in the clam-shaped armchair, and Daniel on the cushiony lips that formed the sofa. Joanna’s chair smelled of lavender from the steam cleaning Bette must have ordered the week before.
    The mention of Sylvia drew Daniel’s full attention. “She’s all right. She has so much calm. Amazing. I don’t think Marianne has figured out exactly what happened yet.”  
    “I feel awful for Marianne. This isn’t going to be easy for her.”
    Daniel set his mug on the hearth and leaned forward. “I wasn’t upstairs for long. Did you see—could you tell how he died? I mean, you didn’t see any evidence of drugs, did you?”
    “No. No drugs.” Whiskey, but no drugs. “He might have died from an allergic reaction to shellfish. Clams.”
    Incredulous, Daniel drew back. “Where did he get clams? He never ate clams.”
    “In his roast beef sandwich, apparently.”
    Daniel shook his head. “No. Couldn’t have been clams. There’s no way he would let one in the same room with him.” He began to fidget again and tossed a log on the fire. Sparks flew. He closed the fire screen. “Only a French guy would put clams on a roast beef sandwich.”
    “It is odd.” A thought occurred to Joanna. “Daniel, did you have one of the sandwiches?”
    “Sure. Ham and cheese. No