The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) (10 page)

An email from the Historical Association pinged into my inbox. I seized on it like a bridesmaid lunging for the bouquet. The nice lady at the Historical Association had sent newspaper articles: three on Cora’s crime and an obituary on Martin. The print was
old-fashioned
, the pages stained by age. I had to enlarge the scanned articles to read them.

The first article reported the suicide of Martin McBride, who’d hanged himself from the second floor banister. His wife, Cora, discovered the body when she came down for breakfast in the morning.

Odd. I think I’d notice sooner if my husband hadn’t come to bed. The sheriff must have thought it odd too, because the next article’s headline was,
MURDER OR SUICIDE? LOCAL WOMAN TRIED FOR MURDER
. A neighbor testified he’d heard Cora and Martin arguing the night of Martin’s death, and to Martin’s violent temper. The sheriff testified that he’d found abrasions on Cora’s hands when he was called to the site of the apparent suicide the next day. She claimed they were due to her attempts to get her husband’s body down. The prosecutor argued murder.

I fished out the photo of the two. Cora was a slight woman, a good foot shorter than her bulky husband. How had she managed it?

The third article was short. The courtroom had been packed when the jury announced the guilty verdict. Cora proclaimed her innocence, and the judge sentenced her to life. I
re-read
the articles. There must have been evidence admitted that hadn’t made it into the newspapers, because the case against Cora looked thin. Or there’d been other stories that the Historical Association hadn’t managed to find.

“Cora, what did you do?”

GD Cat hopped onto the counter. Absently, I ruffled his fur.

He bit my hand.

“Ow!”

The cat leapt from the counter and bounded into the tea shop, setting the plastic fluttering in his wake.

twelve

Taking the cat’s assault
as a sign to leave, I shut down the computer and turned off the lights. I reached the sidewalk and was locking the door to the museum when a woman cleared her throat behind me.

Startled, I turned.

She dressed like my mother—expensively—in a
cabernet-colored
suit, pearls, and
two-inch
heels. Maybe that was why I felt a ping of familiarity. Graying hair mounted her head in marcelled waves. Her lips pinched. She stared at me like a hawk considering a
slow-footed
rabbit.

“Hello.” I gripped my canvas messenger bag to my chest.

“Are you in charge of the museum?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but we’re closed on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

“I am aware.” She unsnapped the hook on her purse and handed me an envelope.

Automatically, I took it. “What’s this?”

“A petition for the closure of the Paranormal Museum.”

“Closure? Why?”

“It’s in the petition.” She turned on her heels and
click-clacked
down the sidewalk.

I tore open the envelope. It could have been worse. She could have been a process server.

Inside were two sheets of paper with columns of loopy, feminine signatures. At the top, it read:
We the undersigned do not want the Paranormal Museum within the city limits of San Benedetto. We stand with concerned citizens in opposition to an occult attraction that threatens the image of San Benedetto as a producer of
world-class
wines.

“What?”

A woman pushing a stroller gave me a startled look and hurried past.

Muttering, I walked down the street to my truck and got inside. Cracking a window, I skimmed the list of names, sucking in my breath at the sight of a familiar signature
.

I rummaged in my purse for my phone and called my mother.

“Madeline! We’re still on for dinner next week, aren’t we?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Funny thing. Someone just handed me a petition to close the museum, and your name was on it.”

There was a long moment. Then, “Oh, dear. I was afraid something like that would happen.”

“What did you expect to happen when you signed a petition to shut down the museum?”

“I signed it weeks ago, before I knew you were going to take it over. And I told Mabel to take my name off. I will have words with the committee.”

“The committee?” I slumped. There was a committee? Of women like my mother? I would have preferred a process server.

“It’s part of the San Benedetto Ladies Aid Society.”

“But … why? What do they have against the museum?”

“Some people think it’s not the image we want to promote. Of course, now that I know you’re in charge, I’m sure you’ll take it in a new and more sophisticated direction.”

My grip tightened on the phone. “I will do no such thing. And what’s wrong with the image? The mayor’s behind it. Mr. Nakamoto even changed the name of his wine label to fit the haunted theme.”

My mother sighed. “And therein lies the problem. Not everyone approves of the mayor’s ideas for economic development. And now that his best friend’s daughter has been arrested, it’s leverage against his development program.”

A motorcycle rumbled past.

“This is a town of twenty thousand people,” I said. “You’re talking like this is a
high-stakes
political game.”

“Don’t you know that the smaller the stakes, the more vicious the infighting? Size is no guarantee against political shenanigans.”

“For Pete’s sake!” My gaze flicked upward to my pickup’s fading red roof. “The dairy farmers build a stupid giant straw cow every Christmas.”

“And we’ve been talking to the farmers about stopping. The larceny is becoming more of a draw than the cow. Do you know they put up live webcams in December? They said it was to prevent another incident, but the online video of the conflagration got over seventy thousand hits.”

“If the dairy farmers can burn a giant cow,” I said hotly, “I can have a paranormal museum.” If I wasn’t inside my truck, I’d have stomped my foot on the ground in a fit of petulance. Maybe it was a good thing I was in the pickup.

“I knew this would make you more stubborn.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that museum.”

“Stick to your guns, darling, and don’t worry about the petition. I know you’ll be a huge occult … er, success, if that’s what you want. I just don’t want you to settle for something because it’s there. Are you sure it’s what you want to do?”

I thought I’d known what I wanted, but now I wasn’t so sure. Why did I care so much about the museum? Was it simply because of Adele?

As if she’d read my mind, my mother asked, “How is Adele?”

“I don’t know. She sent me a
to-do
list from jail.”

“She’s still in jail? I’d have thought she’d have made bail by now.”

“So would I, but one of her lawyers told me they couldn’t have the bail hearing until the weekday.” It wasn’t lunchtime yet. Maybe they’d had the bail hearing by now?

“Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if she ended up running the place.”

“She hates orange.”

“Sensible of her. Now be nice to your brother.” My mother hung up.

Baffled, I stared at the phone. When wasn’t I nice to Shane? Even if I wasn’t nice, it wasn’t as if his ginormous ego would notice.

Shaking my head, I reapplied myself to the problem at hand. It was just a petition. It wasn’t as if they could revoke my liquor license, since the museum didn’t have one (if only). What could they do? Picket the museum? I tugged my jacket more firmly into place.

Starting my pickup, I aimed for home, determined not to think about Adele, or the petition, or the museum’s finances. Instead I focused on the land. Even beneath
iron-gray
skies, and even denuded of leaves, the vineyards were magic, gnarled and dark. I felt the knots in my shoulders loosen.

At home, I made lunch, swallowed an aspirin, read a book. Monday was my day off, so I was going to enjoy it. But my mind kept wandering back to the murder and Adele.

The lighting dimmed, and I checked my watch. It was eight o’clock, and velvety blackness hung outside my windows. Had Adele made bail? I didn’t want to call her family—if Adele hadn’t gotten in touch with me, she probably wanted some alone time, assuming she was home. And if she wasn’t home … that meant she hadn’t made bail. How could I find out?

I checked the local newspaper on the Internet, but there was nothing new about Adele. My stomach rumbled. I called in an order for a large pepperoni pizza and drove through streets sunk in fog. The streetlights cut disembodied, glowing orbs in the swirling mist.

A man darted in front of my pickup. Heart in my throat, I slammed on the brakes,
half-standing
. Shoulders hunched and face obscured,
he looked a bit like Herb. But by the time my heart returned to normal operations, the man had vanished, a phantom in the fog.

I picked up a couple of beers with the pizza and drove to the museum, parking in front. The lights were on inside the motorcycle shop, the chrome in its windows gleaming. I walked past, looking for a staircase that would lead me to Mason’s upstairs apartment. Finding none, I balanced the pizza and beer on one hip and unlocked the museum.

“GD?”

The cat didn’t respond.

I flipped on the lights. The plastic curtains billowed. I froze, rooted to the spot, then shook myself. It was the breeze from the front door closing, not a killer or a ghost. Suppressing a shiver, I hurried through the tea room to the back alley exit.

A narrow concrete staircase led me up to a studded metal security door, built to repel marauders. I rapped with my knuckles, the beer bottles balanced atop the pizza box. My knock echoed, clanging hollowly.

Sounds of bolts drawing back, chains rattling. My heart squeezed. Had this been the best idea? I barely knew Mason, and the fact that he looked like a tattooed Nordic god was no reason to split a pizza with him.

The door creaked open, and Mason’s shaggy blond head emerged. “Hey. Come on in.” He drew the door wide.

I skittered past, stumbling to a halt. A massive skylight soared above the studio’s
industrial-chic
living area. A half moon glowed yellow through the fog above. The furniture was white, black, and modern, the walls bare brick, the floors distressed. Glass bricks divided a bedroom from the living area. The kitchen was open, stainless steel, and gleaming.

“Wow,” I said.

He came to stand beside me, and I thought I could feel hot energy coiling from his body.

“Yeah,” he said. “Nice night.”

He took the pizza and beer from my hands and placed them on a glass coffee table. I gaped at the
expensive-looking
oriental rug, the big screen TV, the stone Buddha
cross-legged
in an alcove.

“Were you expecting a
half-built
motorcycle in my living room?” he asked.

“I didn’t know what to expect. You’re a mystery wrapped in an enigma. The loft is amazing. Did you build this?”

“Why pay someone else when you can do it yourself?” Mason grinned. “And avoid getting permits.”

“Are you sure you want to reveal your criminal past?”

“Why? You’re not going to narc on me, are you?”

“I’ll leave you in suspense.” I checked my watch and cleared my throat. “Speaking of which, the ghost hunters will be here any minute. You can start on the pizza. I’ve got to get down there.”

“Hold on.” He took the pizza to the kitchen and slid it onto a pizza stone, and then into the oven. “To keep it warm. I’ll walk you down.”

I thought of Christy and those billowing curtains. My inner feminista fled, cowering behind the black leather cushions on Mason’s couch. “Thanks.”

He followed me downstairs and through the darkened tea room. Its concrete floors and bare walls seemed to glow, chalky in the light streaming through the plastic drapes. I brushed through them into the Paranormal Museum. A woman’s figure shifted behind the window, and I opened the door.

Grace hurried inside, her teeth chattering, a green knit scarf wrapped around her neck. “Whoo, it’s cold out there.”

It was cold enough inside the museum to see my own breath, and I offered to turn on the heater.

“No,” she said, “you’d better leave it off. It’ll create air currents and noise, and that will confuse our recordings.”

It would also save on heating costs, so I nodded wisely.

GD Cat leapt onto the counter beside the cash register. Grace scratched his head.

There was a knock at the door and ghost hunters streamed inside, bundled in parkas and woolen hats.

Grace did a head count. “Eight. I think we’re all here. Madelyn, is there anything we should be aware of?”

“The tea shop next door is under construction and off limits. I don’t want anyone falling over equipment or stepping on a nail.”

“Since it’s never been part of the museum, that area isn’t our target anyway,” Grace said. “We’ll stick to the main room, the Creepy Doll Room, and the Fortune Telling Room.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll pop down at eleven to make sure you’re okay, and then when you’re finished to close up. You’ve got my cell phone number if there are any problems. I’ll be with Mason upstairs.” Feeling suddenly awkward, I avoided Mason’s gaze. My cheeks heated. That hadn’t come out right.

A lanky,
twenty-something
woman raised her hand. “The woman who was killed here—where did that happen?”

The police hadn’t told me to keep quiet about what I’d seen. But I also didn’t want to encourage them to explore the tea room looking for Christy’s ghost. I gave them an edited version. “Her body was found here, in the main room of the museum.”

Mason frowned but said nothing.

Another woman, short and round, unzipped her parka, revealing a photographer’s vest stuffed with electronic equipment. “Have you experienced anything unusual here?”

Aside from finding a dead body and discovering that the contractor was a bookie? “No, but I haven’t worked here long.”

She nodded.

“Thanks, Madelyn,” Grace said, dismissing me. “We’ll see you at midnight.”

Mason and I escaped upstairs.

“I thought Christy was found in the tea room,” he said as he opened the door and ushered me into his studio.

“You’re half right.” I watched him stride to the kitchen—his movements economical, fluid—and remove the pizza from the oven. The scent of melted cheese and pepperoni filled the room. “She was lying between the two, though from the position of the body, I’d guess she was hit in the museum and fell into the tea room. The mystery is why she was there at all.”

Mason shrugged, muscles rippling. “She was a troublemaker.”

“You knew her?”

“She had a bike. I saw her around.”

“And when you say bike, I take it you don’t mean a Schwinn.” I tried to picture the uptight lawyer in leather, but failed.

“A Kawasaki. She’d come by the shop and hang out on weekends.”

I’d noticed a lot of bikers hanging around his shop during the day. They took up all the street parking in front of his business but were careful not to infringe beyond that. “How did she cause trouble?”

“She was a flirt. Liked to get a rise out of the guys—or out of their girlfriends.”

“I wouldn’t have pictured Christy as a biker.”

“Why not?” He dropped the pizza on the coffee table with a clatter. His
Nordic-blue
eyes hardened. “You think bikers are all anarchist thugs?”

Sheesh. Sensitive. “No. My father rode a motorcycle. I thought Christy wasn’t the sort to mess up her hair with a helmet or wind.”

Mason grunted and dropped onto a black leather lounge chair across from me, a slice of pizza in one hand. “What did your father ride?”