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

“Oh, there you are, Jules. We need another bottle of champagne, see-voo-play.”
    With a grimace, the chef set the gratin of leftover boar and vegetables on the table. “Yes, Madame. Although, of course, you already know where it’s kept.” He plunged a serving spoon into the gratin. “And you will find no clam dip at this dinner.” He looked daggers at Clarke.
    Reverend Tony ignored the exchange between Bette and the chef. “I repeat, that’s Master, not Father. We all evolve during our lives—at least, those of us who wish to achieve spiritual growth do. The title Master was something I earned after years of devotion, meditation, and intensive introspection.” He rested a hand on Chef Jules’s sleeve as he passed by. “I commend you, son, for not smoking indoors. We are very grateful.”
    Neatly sidestepped, Joanna noted. The chef snapped his arm close to his body and disappeared into the butler’s pantry.
    “Where did you spend these years of introspection, Master?” Bette asked.  
    “San Quentin, I bet,” Portia muttered. Joanna raised an eyebrow. “Reverend Tony used to live in Chicago,” Portia said. “I met him when I went to the Art Institute. I don’t think he remembers me, but we all knew him in the print lab.” She speared a stuffed mushroom, its crumb topping now soggy.  
    Tony looked alarmed. “Many great buildings rise from the ashes of weak foundations.”
    “You were in architecture?” Bette asked.
    Daniel rolled his eyes and Sylvia suppressed a smile, but Joanna went on alert.  
    “Penny told me she had a spiritual advisor. Imagine my surprise last night when I came in and saw him here.” Portia calmly spooned a few more mushrooms to her plate before passing the platter.
    “If he’s spiritual, I’m the Virgin Mary,” Bette said.
    Daniel raised a hand. “Look. I know people are getting testy, but there’s no call to be rude. Tomorrow morning we’ll radio out, and with any luck our time here will be just a memory. Let’s not make it worse than it is.”
    Chef Jules returned with a bottle of champagne for Bette. “I assume you know how to open it?” He didn’t pause for a response before returning to the butler’s pantry.
    “The journals were in a hidden staircase,” Joanna tried again. “Francis Redd’s journals.”
    Daniel set down his fork. “Excuse me, Joanna, but there’s something I need to tell everyone. Please, don’t go, Chef. As I said, we won’t be here more than another day, but our firewood and candles won’t last forever. If we have to be here beyond noon tomorrow—”
    A chorus of moans went around the table. The sharp whisk of wind and snow against the dining room window underlined their plight. Joanna shivered.  
    “We have plenty of food for three, maybe four days. Hors d’oeuvres, but nice quality ingredients,” Chef Jules said.
    Bette’s champagne glass hit the table with a thunk. “You’re joking. You think we’re stuck here that long?”
    “Mom, it’s not that big a deal. It’s just a day. Remember? We’re radioing out again tomorrow. Good thing no one sent you to war zones to take photos,” Portia said.  
    “Are you implying I’m soft? I used to party all night and not take a shower until noon the next day. At Studio 54, Halston once—”
    Oh lord, here we go again, Joanna thought.
    “Bette, please,” Clarke said. Maybe he did have some backbone. Bette’s face dropped.  
    “I think he means we’re all so jealous thinking of the wonderful times you had in New York,” Sylvia said.  
    Bette appeared placated but wary. “It really was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Like when Bianca rode a horse across the dance floor. Did I ever tell you about that?”
    Heads nodded around the table. Daniel rose and tossed a log into the fireplace.
    “Did the horse have hay?” Marianne asked.
    “Honey,” her mother said.
    “They had a horse in a building, Mummy.”
    At this rate, they’d never finish dinner, and she’d never