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

least another day, we need to seal off the tower room. The police are going to have to make a conclusive determination about the situation, and the less confusion up there the better. We’ll need to keep the tower room off limits. We can at least do that, right?”
    “Sure. Good point,” Clarke said.  
    “Thank you for thinking of it,” Daniel added.
    With that, Bette resumed her exit, Portia close behind.  
    ***
    Joanna stayed behind in the attic. She wanted to get a look in that trunk. Chances were it didn’t contain anything better than old yearbooks and moth-eaten blankets, but you never knew. She took a deep breath and rubbed her temples. Away from the others, a little tension drained away. Everyone else could bicker downstairs while she had a moment or two to herself.
    Francis Redd had abandoned the lodge in the 1940s and might well have left clothes from the 1930s—her favorite era for vintage clothing. Watching Carole Lombard movies made her yearn for the era’s marabou-trimmed dressing gowns and bias-cut afternoon dresses with handkerchief hems. The men’s suits were gorgeously cut, too, especially the dinner suits with nipped waists and elegant shoulders. If the trunk did contain a few items of clothing, maybe she could make a deal with the lodge’s owner to sell them on commission. It was worth a look.
    “Curious about that trunk, eh?” The Reverend stood by the door. With his black suit, he nearly disappeared into the attic. His face appeared to float in the dim light.  
    “Occupational hazard,” Joanna replied. She turned away from him, hoping he’d get the message and leave her alone. She set a candle on the floor next to the trunk. Daniel had taken the flashlight.  
    “Looking for anything special?” He moved closer.
    “Why? Should I be?” Still ignoring him, she lifted the painting with the broken frame she had seen earlier, then looked up. “That’s funny—it looks like you.” Her candle barely illuminated a dirty oil portrait of a thin, bald man in a pensive pose.  
    “He’s bald, that’s all,” Reverend Tony said. “I get that all the time.”
    The painting had the muddy colors and broad strokes of the 1930s. A small brass plaque tacked on the frame read ‘Francis Redd.’ “The lodge’s first owner. Too bad Penny isn’t here to see it. Penny and her ghost.” Even as she spoke, her attention drifted from the portrait back to the trunk.  
    Tony lifted the portrait from her hands. He turned it to the wall. “We don’t need to encourage that kind of superstitious nonsense. Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s open the trunk.”
    She sighed. He clearly wasn’t leaving. “Hold that candle a little closer, will you?” She fidgeted a moment with the trunk’s latch before heaving it open. The scent of mothballs and mildew rose.  
    Tony dug his hands into the trunk and felt around. He pulled out a small case and snapped it open, only to find wire-rimmed glasses with one of the lenses broken. He dropped it back into the trunk. “Just clothes.”
    Just clothes. Just the words Joanna wanted to hear. On top was something shaggy that filled most of the trunk. She lifted it by its shoulders. A cape. Monkey fur, she was sure of it. Its hide was stiff and nearly rotted—not quite wearable—but a real artifact. Joanna set the cape to the side and dug back into the trunk. A white corner of fabric caught her attention. The Reverend’s breath grazed her cheek, and she moved a few inches away.  
    “Is there something you’re looking for?” Joanna asked.
    He stepped back. “Not really. It’s just this lodge. So much surrealism here. As far as I can tell, it’s mostly derivative, nothing from the masters, but you never know. Could be a forgotten Dali stashed away.”
    “I didn’t know you were interested in art,” Joanna said absently as she sorted through the trunk. From the Reverend’s faintly New Jersey accent, the pronunciation of “Dali” sounded pure Spanish.