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

it didn’t beat first growth Bordeaux. She lifted her glass to him before sipping. The wine’s scent was tobacco-deep and lush with cedar and late summer blackberries. “Where did you get it?”
    “I brought it with me from Lyon. My brother works in the vineyard. Pas mal, non ?” He pulled his own glass from the dumbwaiter. “ Hélas , I have only one bottle.” He groaned. “Just one more day. The sous vide , c’est fini without the power. I will make something of—how do you say?—leftovers.”
    “Does the delay mean you’ll miss your flight home?”
    “ Non . I have plan to meet a friend, a chef de cuisine, in San Francisco. Then I visit Disneyland.”  
    Joanna turned at the unmistakable rustle of Bette’s caftan.  
    “Chef, I need more champagne. Bring it to my bedroom, will you?” Without waiting for a reply, Bette swished out of the dining room, Bubbles close behind.  
    Joanna and the chef exchanged glances. Poor Jules. Little did he know he’d be cook and waiter. “One more day,” the chef repeated and headed for the service staircase in the butler’s pantry.
    Joanna settled into a library armchair. She savored another sip of Bordeaux and followed it with a tender mouthful of venison. Delicious. Whatever Bette paid Chef Jules, it wasn’t enough.  
    The library’s fire was really going now. The library, just off the great room, was done up in an insect theme. Carved caterpillars and flies festooned the window jambs, and foot-long slugs crawled up the bookcases, trailing shellacked slime. A closer look showed that the slugs wore lipstick, and the caterpillars had tiny high heels. Through the library’s arched door, only the entry to the north wing was visible from her chair in its corner.
    Reading would be one way to speed the time until she could return home. Shelves lined two of the room’s walls and ran under the windows on the outside wall. Interspersed with real books were panels of faux carved books painted gold and turquoise blue, also crawling with carved insects. A collection of Modern Library classics from the 1950s occupied one shelf. Nice. Maybe she’d reread Love in a Cold Climate . That seemed fitting.  
    On an upper shelf were some paperback mysteries. Considering the disappearance of Redd Lodge’s original owner and Wilson’s demise, a country house murder mystery would fit right in, too. Wilson. Unbelievable. On the bottom shelf rested leather-bound guest registers dating back to the 1950s, when the owner’s family must have abandoned the lodge and begun renting it out as a ski chalet.
    “May I join you?” Sylvia asked from the doorway. “It’s warm in here. Feels good.”
    “Of course.” Joanna gestured to the other armchair.
    Sylvia set a glass of wine on the table next to the chair opposite Joanna’s and sank into the coffee-brown leather. Everyone was drinking early today. Sylvia stretched her arms above her head, and her sweater’s collar slipped, revealing the swirled top of her green and blue Jackals tattoo. “Marianne’s sleeping, finally.” She folded her hands in her lap.  
    “How’s she doing?”
    “She’s a bright kid, and she understands that her father had an accident, but I don’t think she really gets it. She keeps asking to see him.” Sylvia’s gaze fixed on the fire.  
    “I’m so sorry. It’s been a horrible day. We’ll be home soon.” The mantra of the day, and the only comfort Joanna could provide. “Once we radio out tomorrow morning, I’m sure they’ll send someone with a snowcat.”
    “Thank God for Daniel.” Sylvia gave a half-smile. “Wilson should have never kicked him out of the band. They could have used his practicality.”
    “I didn’t know Daniel was in the Jackals.”  
    “Sure. Drummer. Before they got big. When Daniel lost his fingers, Wilson let him go.” She twirled the stem of her wineglass between her palms. “Wilson told him they had to get a new drummer, and that was that.”
    Daniel didn’t