Free Never Thwart a Thespian: Volume 8 (Leigh Koslow Mystery Series) by Edie Claire

(which definitely would not be coming to Leigh’s house), a dog bed (which her father’s clinic probably could use), a fake horse harness covered with sleigh bells (say what?), a giant framed painting of a man with holes where his eyes should be (also hopefully bound for Cara’s house), and an oversized plastic machete painted with fake blood (ditto).
    “Why did the Young Businessmen’s Chamber leave so much of their haunted house stuff here?” Leigh asked, frowning with disgust at a collection of fake rats with bloody fangs that Mathias was in the process of moving to the “keepers” pile.
    “We always left everything here,” Chaz piped in cheerfully. “We didn’t know from year to year if the building would be available again, and we didn’t have anyplace else to store it anyway. When the borough finally got ready to sell, they gave the President notice to come and get it, but he was a do-nothing jerk and it all just got left. And that was before last Halloween — the organization’s disbanded now so there’s nobody to do anything with it anyway.”
    “Very intriguing,” Bess chirped, examining a leather case presented to her by Ethan that appeared to hold dental instruments. Instruments that were — like a disturbingly high proportion of items in the room — coated with some sort of fake blood. “We might be able to use this. I’ve always had a hankering to produce Little Shop of Horrors.” She zipped up the instrument case and handed it back to Ethan. “Props pile, please!”
    “Mom?” came Allison’s small voice. “I think you should see this.”
    Leigh looked down to find her daughter standing quietly at her elbow, her nose twitching as she adjusted her heavy eyeglasses. The twitching was a subconscious gesture Allison shared with her grandfather Randall. But it was also a tell. They both twitched more when they were excited or alarmed, and it was often the only sign they gave of such emotion.
    “What is it?” Leigh asked, her own alarm obvious.
    Allison held up a man’s leather briefcase, once stylish and probably expensive, but now scorched and blackened along half its width as if it had been tossed sideways into a barbecue pit. Leigh took the case from her daughter’s hands, opened the various pouches, and looked inside.
    “It’s empty,” Allison said simply.
    “I see,” Leigh replied, noting that all the zippers still worked. The charring was only superficial. Still, it would hardly be of much use to anyone in a professional capacity — unless they wanted to hear wisecracks about tripping into an open flame. “What about it?” she asked finally. “Do you want to keep it?”
    Allison shook her head. “You didn’t feel it. Here, right above the latch. See?”
    Leigh moved her fingers to the area Allison pointed out. The scorching had made the lettering difficult to see, but the debossed monogram was still intact. Leigh traced the letters with her index finger. “A. J. M?”
    Allison’s eyebrows rose meaningfully. “Now you get it, Mom?”
    Leigh’s breath caught . Andrew J. Marconi?

    But how could Allison know about —
    She broke off the thought. The question of how Allison knew anything was, as always, rhetorical.
    “I think it’s strange that the police wouldn’t have removed it from the building when they searched,” Allison said calmly, twitching her nose again. “Don’t you?”
    “Yes,” Leigh said uncertainly. “That is strange.” Not that the monogram alone would be proof positive that the case belonged to Marconi — but it was certainly too good a possibility to ignore. “Maybe the case wasn’t here when the police searched. Maybe it got tossed into the pile later. Where did you find it?”
    Allison pointed to the same area of haunted house paraphernalia in which Ethan and Mathias were still digging. “It was tucked under the electric chair,” she replied.
    “The electric—” Leigh looked over to see a monstrosity that did indeed resemble an