The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) (15 page)

“What sort of new evidence?”

“They shouldn’t find any evidence that implicates me, since I’m innocent. But my ex and his girlfriend are dead. Even though I was in jail when Michael died, the police are convinced I’ve got motive. Besides, there’s such a thing as killers for hire.”

“They think you hired a hit man? That’s ridiculous!”

She laughed hollowly. “I’m glad someone thinks so. Can you deliver the check?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” She dug a thin envelope out of her purse and wrote an address on it. “They open at eight.”

I took the envelope.

She gave me a brief hug. “I can’t wait until this is all over. Mother always told me to stay positive. But I can’t help feeling like another shoe is about to drop.”

A cloud passed before the sun, darkening the museum. I had the same feeling. This wouldn’t be over until the killer was found.

seventeen

I stumbled down my
apartment steps, yawning at the morning sun. My breath made little puffs in the air, and I turned up the collar of my gray pea coat. Digging my keys from my pocket, I hiked myself into the truck and d
rove to the lawyer’s office.

Its parking lot abutted the creek, which was crashing and splashing against round stones darkened by the water. The grasses along its bank were white with frost. So were the poor geraniums in the building’s window box. They drooped beneath the crust of white, and I wondered if they’d survive.

I jogged up the short flight of steps to the building,
half-expecting
the office’s tinted double doors to be locked. But they opened at my touch. I walked inside, scanning the sign board for the suite belonging to Fred, Adele’s criminal attorney. The name was easy to find, the firm taking up the entire second floor.

I trotted up the stairs. They opened onto a plush reception room, with a cheerful patterned carpet. Inoffensive watercolors of geometric shapes decorated the walls.

The
gray-haired
receptionist looked up and adjusted the pink cardigan around her shoulders. “May I help you?” An
antique-looking
broach sparkled at her breast.

“Adele Nakamoto asked me to drop this off,” I said.

She rose. “Of course. I’ll take that.”

A door burst open down the hall. We both paused, hands outstretched.

Sam stopped in the hallway, gaping.

I stared, confused to see the lawyer/taxidermist here.

Straightening his blue blazer, he strode in our direction. “Miss Kosloski! What are you doing here? Is this about my showing at the gallery?”

“Uh, no,” I said. “I came to drop this off for Adele Nakamoto.”

“Please, this way.” He motioned toward a windowed conference room, its blinds half drawn.

Feet dragging, I followed him. I really did need to set him straight about the gallery, which only existed in my head.

Closing the door behind us, he took the envelope and ripped it open, peered inside. “The retainer, I presume? I’ll deposit this in the trust today.”

“The trust? But I thought this was the office of her criminal attorney.”

“We are. A trust is just a legal term for an account, but I can see how you’d be confused.”

“I guess I still am.” I eyed the closed door. “How is it that you’re working on Adele’s case when she’s accused of murdering your
ex-girlfriend
?”

“I’m not even a junior partner in the firm. My boss is managing Adele’s case.”

“But you’re a part of it, or you wouldn’t have taken the check. And even if you’re on the case’s periphery, this must be difficult for you. Christy was once your girlfriend.”

“I am quite certain Miss Nakamoto is not the guilty party,” Sam said.

“I am too, but that’s because we’ve been friends since high school. Adele considers any form of violence inelegant and unladylike. She refused to play soccer because of the risk of accidental kicking. Her mother had to send her to ballet and get her a special exemption from P.E.” That was probably too much information, but Sam’s legal persona had me rattled. It was a far cry from the weepy Sam who’d first entered the museum, or even taxidermy Sam. The difference in behavior was jarring.

I edged nearer to the door, wishing he hadn’t closed it. “Why are you so sure Adele is innocent?”

“Because Miss Nakamoto is too short. Christy would have to bend over for a woman of Miss Nakamoto’s stature to hit her on the head like that. The police tried to argue it was what happened, but Christy wouldn’t have bowed to anyone.”

That jibed with what little I knew about Christy. But I was having a hard time getting my head around Sam the legal eagle. Granted, we all have different aspects to our personalities. And the taxidermy—well, it wasn’t my kind of hobby, but there was nothing inherently wrong with it. Yet Sam’s personality change seemed borderline Norman Bates. I wondered where he got the animals he stuffed.

“Christy worked with Mr. Nakamoto’s estate attorney, didn’t she?” I asked.

The corners of Sam’s mouth drew downward. “Yes. That firm does business and estate law. Trust work, wills, trademark licenses, that sort of thing.”

“And that’s how you met her?”

“It’s a small town, and there tends to be overlap between clients.”

“Did Christy have any trouble at her firm?” I asked, thinking of the woman at the Wine and Visitors Bureau complaining about her
high-priced
trust.

“Trouble? She was the top earner!”

“I thought she was a junior partner.”

“Yes, but the old guys in her firm are
semi-retired
. Christy brought in the business. I told her she’d be better off on her own, but she liked the prestige of being with an old firm.”

“So her firm did well?”

“Christy
did well. The firm was on its last legs before she turned it around. So, what about March? Is that too soon?”

I blinked. “Too soon for what?”

“To promote my exhibition. I plan on dedicating it to Christy. Under the circumstances, March seems the right amount of time.”

“Sam, I don’t know when or if that gallery will exist.”

“That’s not a problem.”

It was a problem for me, and I drew breath to object. There was a soft knock at the door, and the receptionist stuck her head in. “Your
eight-thirty
appointment is here.”

“Thanks.” Sam checked his watch. “Sorry, got to run. Thanks for dropping this check by.”

“But—”

Waving Adele’s envelope in farewell, he rushed from the room.

I shook my head. I’d worry about Sam’s taxidermy exhibit later. Right now, I had a cat to feed and a museum to open.

GD was waiting at the door. He twined around my ankles and I stumbled, grabbing the counter. The cat’s whiskers twitched with amusement.

“That’s not funny.” I poured a bowl of kibble and refilled his water, then checked the computer. An email from the Historical Association waited in my inbox. They’d sent an article on Cora’s husband, Martin McBride:

IRATE SUBSCRIBER ATTACKS NEWSPAPERMAN

Bad Blood Between San Benedetto Businessmen

Mr. McBride Airs His Grievances with His Fists

Thursday afternoon, Mr. Martin McBride burst into the offices of the San Benedetto Tribune. Drunk and raving, he hurled epithets at staff and assaulted the owner. Police were called, but no charges were filed.

Nice guy, that Martin. I could see why Cora would have wanted to get rid of him. But would she have had the strength to hang him? I unhooked their photo from the wall. She was tiny compared to her husband.

Someone knocked at the door. It still wasn’t opening time, but I plastered on a smile and opened it for a freckled man with a boyish face. He wore an earnest expression, jeans, and a
button-up
shirt beneath an open leather jacket.

“We’re not open yet,” I said, “but I’ll sell you a ticket if you’re willing to put up with the cold. The heater hasn’t kicked in.”

“I’m not here for a ticket.” He reached into the front pocket of his shirt and handed me a business card.

“
The San Benedetto Daily
?” I stiffened. “Look, I can’t comment on the murders. I don’t know anything.”

I started to close the door.

He jammed his foot in the gap. “I’m not here about the murders. That’s another reporter’s beat. I’m here about the petition to shut down the museum. Since we ran the ad from the Ladies Aid Society, my editor thought it would only be fair to get your side of the story.”

“I’m not buying an ad.”

His serious eyes widened. “Even if you were, that’s the advertising department. I’m a reporter.” He pulled a digital recorder from the pocket of his leather jacket. “Why do you think people feel antagonistic toward the museum?”

I gripped Cora’s photo to my chest like it was armor plating. “I have no idea. It’s a perfectly harmless museum. The ad placed by the Ladies Aid Society says it’s tacky. To each his own.”

He raised a brow. “But how do you feel about their petition? Isn’t it a slap in the face?”

I shrugged. “I’m happier when I don’t indulge in outrage.” I may have been quoting the
self-help
book I’d been reading. But I wasn’t about to let Ladies Aid know they’d gotten my proverbial goat.

“Still, it’s your museum. You must have some feelings on the matter.”

“Why? Why take myself or the museum so seriously? The Paranormal Museum is a reminder that life is short and often strange, and we should enjoy it while we can.”

“But it’s not really a museum, is it? More of an attraction.”

GD Cat leapt onto the counter and rubbed against the tip jar. Coins rattled.

I grabbed the jar before it could fall. “Call it what you want, but there’s some real local history here, even if it’s told from an offbeat perspective.”

He tilted his head. “Such as?”

“Such as …” My mind scrambled. Such as, such as, such as … what? The spirit cabinet wasn’t exactly local history. I thrust the photo of Cora and Martin toward him. “Such as Cora McBride. She was the first woman convicted of murder in San Benedetto, but there’s evidence that she was innocent.” Okay, all I had was suspicion, not actual evidence. But the case was over 115 years old, and I wasn’t concerned about libel.

“I doubt the Ladies Aid Society will find that has any educational value. Besides, aren’t most of your visitors from out of town?”

“Even better that
out-of
-towners get a flavor of our local history.” I told myself to stay cool, but my heart raced. Why did this silly interview feel so intense?

He returned the photo to me. “But you’re not engaging the community, are you?”

“Of course we are,” I lied. “I’m currently preparing a mock murder trial, so the community can review the evidence and determine if Cora was guilty or unjustly accused.” What? Why did I say that?

His head jerked upward. “A mock murder trial? That’s something I’d like to see.”

“The owner of your old competitor,
The San Benedetto Tribune
, will figure prominently.” Oh, geez, shut up, Maddie! But I couldn’t stop. I was on a roll of panic.

“Who?”

I laid Cora’s picture on the counter. “The ghost of the owner, Zane Donaldson. We’ll be calling him as a witness.”

“How?” The reporter’s lips quirked. “In a séance?”

Ooh, a séance was a good idea. “How else? But as I’m no medium, we’ll use actors to play the roles of the ghosts.”

He chuckled. “That will give the Christmas Cow a run for its money. When’s the trial?”

“I’m still gathering evidence, so we don’t have a date set. But I’ll let you know.”

The reporter tapped the business card in my hand. “Please do.”

He left, muttering into his recorder.

I sagged against the counter. A mock trial? What had I done? If this story appeared in the paper, I’d be committed to the project. I didn’t know the first thing about mock trials. I’d never even served on a jury. Would the Historical Association let me use the old courtroom in their museum?

GD batted my sleeve.

“I don’t care what you think. I had to say something.”

He sneezed and stalked away.

A mock trial wasn’t such a bad idea.

I whisked a feather duster over the exhibits. At nine, I flipped the
Closed
sign to
Open
and took my place on the high chair behind the counter. No one beat down the door to get inside. But at nine thirty the bell jingled over the door, and I closed the job search window on the computer.

My brother walked in with a model on his arm. At least, I assumed she was a model. She stood nearly six feet tall, and most of that was legs. Her glossy,
chestnut-colored
hair, faded jeans, and black turtleneck sweater shouted wealth. Shane was also dressed casually, but next to her, he didn’t have quite the shine. And compared to them both I was a tarnished penny.

Straightening, I pressed my lips into a smile. “This is a surprise.” I should have been happy to see Shane—he was trying to be supportive—but all I felt was failure. And I needed to get over it.

“Hey, Mad.” He came around the counter and kissed me on the cheek. “This is Brittany.”

Of course she was. I shook hands with her across the counter. Her manicure was flawless, her nails a soft pink. I hid my own chipped nails beneath the counter. “Welcome to the Paranormal Museum. What brings you to San Benedetto?”

“It’s that obvious I’m not from around here?” she asked.

My brother picked up Cora’s picture and studied it. “I talked Brittany into doing some wine tasting.”

“Napa is passé.” Brittany grinned. “Or at least that’s what Shane’s told me. I’m waiting to be impressed.”

Shane held up the photo. “Who’s this? They look grim.”

“I’m still doing some research on them.” I felt suddenly protective of Cora—amends, perhaps, for offering her up to the local paper.

Brittany peered over his shoulder. “She doesn’t look grim. She looks sad. Who was she?”

“Cora McBride. She was convicted of murdering her husband, Martin, and died in prison.” I
re-hung
the photo in its spot.

“Why?” Brittany asked.

Why did she die in prison? Why had she been convicted? Why did she do it? I settled on the latter. “The prosecutor argued she killed Martin because he was abusive.”

Brittany shook her head. “So many stories here. If San Benedetto were more picturesque, my magazine could do a spread on it.”

I bristled, looking to Shane for backup. Our downtown was charming. And San Benedetto couldn’t help it if it was as flat as a mashed pancake. It’s hard to be picturesque without rolling hills. But the town had character: brick sidewalks, nineteenth century buildings, and a creek flowing through its center. Plus, wineries!

“Brittany works for a fashion magazine,” Shane said hastily. “She’s used to more European landscapes.”