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

would be good if you can find one. Thanks, Portia.” Daniel lit his candle and tipped it to make a pool of wax on the table. He stuck the taper in it, upright. The flame flickered in the drafty attic. “Point your flashlight here, if you don’t mind.”
    “Can you put it back together?”
    “These wires are pretty badly corroded.” He held up a wire with crumbling insulation. “We need cord that can handle high amperage. Everything else looks fine.” He snapped his fingers. “An iron. I saw an iron in my room. We might be able to do something with that.”  
    “There’s a tool box in the storage room. I’ll bring it up,” Joanna said.  
    When she returned to the attic with the tool box, Clarke and Daniel were huddled around the table. Pocket knife in hand, Daniel sliced the cord off an electric iron. Joanna opened her mouth to lament the ruined iron, but shut it again. Calling out for help was a lot more important at this point than crisply pleated trousers—even if the power ever did return.  
    “Anything else I can do?” Joanna asked.  
    “No. Should have this going soon,” Daniel said. “Unless you could bring up some coffee?”
    “Got it.”

Chapter Seven

    Bette sat in the kitchen with a smoked salmon canapé in each hand. A glass of champagne rested on the counter next to her, wedged between tiered platters of hors d’oeuvres and a lit candelabra. “What are you doing? You look a wreck.”
    “I’ve been up in the attic with Clarke and Daniel. We found a radio. They want coffee. Is it still warm?” Joanna searched the cupboards for coffee mugs.  
    “I’m going up with you.”
    Sylvia paused at the kitchen doorway a moment before entering. “Hullo. Where’s Chef Jules?”
    “Sulking in his room,” Bette said. She dug a cashew from the nut bowl and popped it in her mouth, her rings sparkling.
    “Why’s that? I thought I’d see if I could help him with lunch. If anyone can stand to eat, that is. I can’t bear just sitting around with nothing to think about but, well—” her voice trailed off.
    “Moody. You know the French,” Bette said. “Are you coming upstairs? Clarke found a radio in the attic. They’re going to call a helicopter or something to get us out of here.”
    In this weather? Where did she get that idea? Not even Evel Knievel would be foolish enough to risk it. “Maybe we can get an idea of when the storm will let up.”
    “So here’s where the party is.” Portia pushed past Sylvia and sat on a stool next to Bette.  
    Party? Did they not remember Wilson’s body upstairs?
    Bette poured more champagne. “Want some, honey?” she asked Portia. “Clarke’s in the attic with a radio. He’ll make sure the snow plows are clearing the road. They signed a contract, you know. I could sue. Besides, I have an important appointment tomorrow in town.”
    “Right. A pedicure, I bet,” Portia said.
    “Acupuncture. I need it.”
    Now Reverend Tony appeared in the doorway dressed in a black suit with a black shirt, probably what he’d intended to wear when he officiated at the wedding. At least he showed some decorum. “Acupuncture is an ancient healing art. I commend you for avoiding the false promises of western medicine.”
    “Well, if it isn’t Johnny Cash,” Portia said. She turned to her mother. “It’s an acupuncture facial, isn’t it Mom? Better than Botox, isn’t that what they say?”
    Bette ignored her. “We’d better get upstairs to hear when our rescue team arrives.”
    Joanna poured lukewarm coffee into mugs. Sylvia took two, and Joanna gathered the rest. They climbed the stairs and passed through the great room, Sylvia calling for her daughter to come along. Bubbles jumped off the couch to join the procession. They turned down the dim bedroom corridor toward the service staircase at the far end.
    “Sleeping,” Reverend Tony whispered, nodding at Penny’s door. Penny was resilient, but getting over Wilson’s death—on their wedding day, no