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

 
    “Of course. Who wouldn’t be? Although spiritual matters are my chief field of study.”
    “Naturally,” Joanna said. “Penny.” The white fabric turned out to be part of a christening gown, fine cotton batiste with tatted edges.  
    He lifted the christening gown from Joanna’s fingers. It lay as delicate as cobwebs in his big hands. “Penny is an exceptionally open-hearted person. She needs to learn to protect herself, especially with that family. Fate has seen that I’m able to help her.”
    “Hmm.” Joanna looked at the christening gown. “Wouldn’t be surprised if Francis Redd himself—and his son, of course—were baptized in it.”
    He held the tiny gown tenderly a moment before handing it back to Joanna.
    “So, you believe in fate, then?” Joanna laid the gown to the side. “I wouldn’t have thought the Buddha weighed in on that.”
    “Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed, the Goddess, whatever. Life’s forces are a crazy quilt.”
    “That’s not a Buddha quote, is it?” Joanna imagined a jade Buddha statue swaddled in a velvet Victorian crazy quilt.
    “Honestly, child. What I mean is that we need to make the most of what we can’t control.” He seemed to lose interest in the trunk and wandered to the radio. “I guess we’re here until tomorrow at least.”
    “Are you missing anything in town?”
    “No. While Penny was on her honeymoon I planned to take care of some business in Chicago. My flight doesn’t leave for a few days. What about you?”
    She thought of her mother, and of Paul. “Nothing. At this point, an extra day or two doesn’t matter.”  
    The rest of the clothes in the trunk were men’s trousers and shirts neatly folded. Some of the shirts were streaked with mildew. Maybe when Redd disappeared, his wife bundled up his things and put them up here to keep his memory safe.  
    Joanna closed the trunk’s lid and stood, candle in hand. If she wanted any privacy, she’d have to go to her room or squirrel away in the library. The candle cast shadows on the Reverend’s face. “I imagine you’ll be a lot of help to Penny over the next couple of days.”
    “Strangely, the Buddha doesn’t have much to say about death.”

Chapter Eight

    Later that afternoon, Joanna leaned over the library’s fireplace, setting sticks of cedar over crumpled newspaper. Her rural upbringing came in handy once again. Aside from Daniel, the rest of the guests were stymied without a working furnace. Lucky for them, so far the lodge had held the heat fairly well. Sylvia had rounded up some tapers, and thanks to Bette’s enthusiasm for scented candles, they would have light once night fell.
    With Daniel’s help finding cardboard and a marker, Joanna had made a sign reading, “Please do not enter” and leaned it against the door to the tower room. It wasn’t the police tape Detective Crisp would have used, but it would have to do.
    All she wanted was to relax a few hours after the morning’s drama. One more day, one more night. In the morning they’d radio out again and go home. She went to the breakfast room next door and lifted the phone’s receiver. Still dead.  
    When the fire caught, Joanna positioned a log. Chef Jules had roused from his funk long enough to set out a buffet of cold hors d’oeuvres in the dining room. People came and went from the dining room taking plates of potato tartlets with black truffle and poached salmon with sea beans with them back to their rooms or to huddle around the hearth in the great room.  
    When Joanna’s growling stomach finally led her to the buffet, Jules raised a finger to tell her to wait and went to the dumbwaiter in the butler’s pantry. He returned with a few slices of meat, center still pink, and a bottle of Carruades de Lafite. “ Un Pauillac ,” he whispered and poured her a glass. “Don’t tell the others. I roasted the venison last night with the boar. We need it.”  
    The wine on the sideboard was a respectable Oregon pinot noir, but