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

clocks or carved lobsters on this one—greeted them. Joanna turned the doorknob and pushed, but the door remained shut.  
    “Here, let me,” Portia said, stepping in front of Joanna. She gave the door a hip check with the full force of her body. The door groaned against the jamb and opened.
    Inside, a long, dark attic spanned the top of the lodge’s north wing. Clerestory windows ran along both sides of the room, but whether because of dirt or the storm, they let in scant light. The air smelled faintly acidic of mouse scat.  
    Wind whistled through Redd Lodge’s roof, and cold penetrated its walls. Joanna pulled her cardigan closer and scanned the darkened room with the flashlight. Normally she loved poking around in attics. The possibility of opening a trunk and finding a beaded 1920s flapper dress or a crisp Grace Kelly-era wedding gown fueled her dreams. It wasn’t just the clothes—overstuffed armchairs, old books, and orphaned dishes sang their siren songs too. But this attic felt more like an abandoned storage unit than a treasure trove. Old storm windows leaned against one wall, and two broken chairs and a painting with a tarnished frame leaned next to them. A love seat with torn upholstery was pushed into a corner.  
    Portia coughed and brushed something away. “Cobwebs,” she said.
    “Be careful. I saw a black widow spider in the storage room.” Joanna ran the flashlight along the webs hanging from dusty beams. If they didn’t find a radio, maybe they’d find kerosene lanterns or more candles.
    The door creaked as Daniel entered. “Anyone up here?”
    “Yes. Any luck with the generator? It was going for a minute,” Joanna said.
    “Out of fuel. Bette forgot to have it filled.” Daniel shut the attic door behind him.  
    “That’s Mom for you,” Portia said. “You can bet we won’t run out of champagne any time soon, though.”
    Daniel squinted. “Penny? No. You must be Portia. I’m Daniel, Wilson’s brother.” He and Portia shook hands. That’s right—they wouldn’t have met until now.  
    “I’m so sorry to hear about Wilson. I can’t tell you how awful I feel. A freak allergic reaction, it sounds like,” Portia said.
    “Yeah.” His gaze dropped. Daniel’s eyes, like Wilson’s, easily showed strain in their dark shadows. “Clarke and I got a few armloads of wood in from the garage. That place is creepy. I kept feeling someone was watching me.”
    “The ghost Penny keeps talking about,” Joanna said.  
    “Let me help here. I can’t just sit around downstairs.” Daniel scanned the attic. “What’s this?” He strode to a waist-high wooden cabinet with a jumble of wires and odd metal pieces scattered across its top. “Looks like a radio.”
    “Oh good.” Joanna trained the flashlight on the cabinet. “Not like any radio I’ve seen.”
    “Could I borrow your flashlight? Thanks.” Daniel examined a bundle of wires. “A ham radio, I think. I bet it’s here for just this kind of situation.”
    “I wonder if it still works?”
    “It has a battery.” He poked at its rusted connectors. “My guess is it’s dead. Too cold up here.”  
    “Could we pull a battery from one of the cars?” Portia said.
    “The front entry collapsed,” Joanna said. “We can’t get to them. We couldn’t possibly dig it out in the storm.”
    “Bette parked in the garage. We’ll lift her battery.” Daniel’s movements took on more focus. “Clarke will help. The reception is probably best up high, so let’s leave the radio here.” He glanced out an attic window at the driving snow. “If we can get it to work, at least we can send a message, get an idea of when the storm will blow over.” He lowered his voice. “The police, too. They’ll need to know about Wilson.”  
    Portia’s gaze roamed the attic then returned to the dismantled radio. “I’m not sure I’ll be much help. Let me fetch Clarke and send him up for you. Anything else?”
    “Candles or another flashlight