The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) (16 page)

“I never would have guessed,” I said, my voice flat. “
Vogue
?”

Brittany’s green eyes widened. “French
Vogue
. How did you know?”

I would not hate her simply because she worked for a fashion magazine in Europe, looked like a model, and dressed like Adele. I wasn’t that petty. I was certain, however, that there were other good reasons to dislike her.

“She’s home on vacation like me,” Shane said. To Brittany: “Mad’s done quite a bit of traveling. Eastern Europe was her old stomping ground before she quit.”

“I love Eastern Europe,” Brittany gushed. “They say Prague is over, but I love the place. And Romania!” She rambled on about spas and
high-priced
restaurants, and I nodded, smile frozen. Why did her dissertation on the best of Europe irritate me? I wasn’t jealous (well, of her clothes and long legs, a little). My traveling days were over, and good riddance. I was sick of airplanes and hotels. But she was
go-go
-going, and I was stalled.

I really was that petty.

I clenched my jaw. I had to try harder, with both Shane and Brittany. She wasn’t a
green-eyed
monster—I was.

“So now you run a paranormal museum.” She looked around. “How quirky!”

“I’m just helping out a friend. I’m not sure what my next step is.”

She placed a hand on my arm. “My advice is not to rush things. Life is too short to choose a dull job.”

Easy advice from someone who traveled Europe for a fashion magazine. I leaned away from her. “There’s nothing dull about the museum.”

Shane pulled out his wallet. “And speaking of which. Two tickets, please.”

I waved away the money. “Friends and family discount.”

His smile was dazzling. “Thanks, Mad.” He put an arm around Brittany’s waist and guided her into the Creepy Doll Room.

I
re-opened
the windows I’d closed on my computer and bent my head to the job hunt. Options. What I needed were options. I couldn’t take over the museum for lack of anything better to do. That would be an insult to me and to the museum.

A
high-pitched
giggle issued from the Creepy Doll Room. My brother and Brittany emerged and strolled into the Fortune Telling Room.

The front door banged open. Adele tottered inside on
three-inch
black-and
-white Mary Janes, her face pale against her snowy St. John suit.

“Is it too early for a drink? Chuck kept a bottle of Kahlua behind the counter. Is it still there?”

“I took it home.” Sheepish, I rubbed the back of my neck. “What’s wrong?”

“I just returned from the library board meeting, or the part of it I was allowed to attend. They very politely insisted I take a leave of absence. And our annual fundraiser is in six weeks! Do you know what that means?”

That Adele was off the hook? I shook my head.

“The weeks leading up to a fundraiser are critical. It’s
all-hands
-
on-deck
time. And they don’t want me!”

Ouch. A library board meeting sounded tortuous to me, but for Adele, getting kicked off would sting. “They’re idiots,” I said. “But their loss could be your gain. You’ve got a lot on your plate with the tea room. Now you can focus on building your own business.”

“They’re not concerned about the tea room. They’re concerned about the murder accusation. I’m being shunned.”

I darted a glance at the Fortune Telling Room and pressed a finger to my lips in warning. “Once the police find Christy’s real killer,” I said in a low voice, “they’ll be groveling for you to take them back.”

“But what if they don’t find her killer?” Adele whispered. “Crimes go unsolved all the time. This is a small police department. How much experience does Laurel have with murder?”

“Detective Slate seemed fairly intelligent.”

“You’re only saying that because he’s tall, dark, and gorgeous.”

I looked down at my fingernails. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, that’s believable. Even I noticed, and I was the one he arrested.”

Shane and Brittany exited the Fortune Telling Room and headed our way. Adele straightened and smiled, and I made introductions.

Adele gazed at Brittany’s hips. “Tell me those are Earnest Sewn jeans.”

“You have a good eye.” She gestured toward Adele’s suit. “And your St. John—classic.”

“I had a board meeting.” Adele waved one hand negligently.

“And those shoes. Are they …?”

“Vintage.”

Shane drew me aside as Brittany and Adele swapped fashion tips. “Hey, is it okay that I brought her here?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You seemed kind of … unpleasantly surprised.”

“Sorry. It’s me, not you. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I used to have a glamorous career, and now I’m sitting behind the counter in a paranormal museum. I don’t mean to take my frustration out on family. And Brittany seems nice,” I fudged.

“She is.” He grinned.

“Ugh. Go away. And be sure to take her to Adele’s family winery.”

He nodded to the two women. “I think Adele’s got that covered.”

“—it’s not on the list,” Adele was saying, “but tell them I insisted you taste the Haunted Vine Reserve.”

Shane looked back at me. “Mad … I’m sorry. You were right about the thing with Mom. I was using you to relieve my guilt. It wasn’t fair.”

“No, you were right,” I said. “I want to be here, so there’s no reason you shouldn’t be happy in Moscow, or wherever they send you. And even though Mom’s no invalid, I should be spending more time with her. You don’t need to feel guilty about going back overseas. You love your job and you’re great at it.”

“How do you know I’m great at it?”

“Fishing for compliments? Get out of here.”

My brother and his friend finally departed, and Adele disappeared into the tea room to supervise Dieter.

At least Dieter would be happy.

I returned to my job hunt. Between handing out tickets and answering questions, I tried to edit a resume for a project manager position. But my mind kept turning to the museum, to Adele, to the murders. Two murders in one week. That had to be a record for San Benedetto, and I wondered if Adele was right. Would the police be able to find the killer? The murders didn’t seem random, or robberies, which meant the killer was someone who knew both victims. That should make it easier for the police, shouldn’t it?

The bell over the door tinkled.

I was getting sick of that bell.

The attorney, Roger, ambled inside. His yellow polo shirt was untucked, and his khakis sagged around his hips.

“Hi, Madelyn. Is Adele here?”

I nodded toward the
curtained-off
tea shop. “She’s in back with Dieter.”

He blinked. “Great. Oh, by the way, I’ve got the contact info for that art agent I was telling you about.” He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and handed me a wrinkled business card. “Just tell him what sort of macabre exhibits you’re looking for.”

“Thanks.”

“You know, I’ve never toured the museum. Shame, since this is one of San Benedetto’s biggest tourist attractions.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Do you mind?”

“Go right ahead.” If I kept letting people in without tickets, I’d never turn a profit. But he was Adele’s friend, and this was still Adele’s building. It was more her museum than mine.

I watched him wander into the Fortune Telling Room, head bowed as if in thought. Two more visitors came in, and we chatted about the local wines before they disappeared into the Creepy Doll Room.

Dieter brushed through the curtains, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Hey, Maddie. Adele wants—”

Roger strode from the Fortune Telling Room, grinning. “Well, it’s weird. I’ll give you that.” He went to Dieter and shook his hand, clapping him on the shoulder. “How’s the work going?”

“Good.” The contractor darted a glance at me. “Hey, Roger, you got a minute?”

“Looking for legal advice?”

“Something like that.” Dieter drew the curtains back and jerked his chin toward the tea room.

With a lift of his eyebrows, Roger followed him inside.

In the other room, the men’s voices were a low rumble. I grabbed the feather duster and wandered to the display of haunted objects on a shelf by the plastic curtains. Flicking the duster over a monkey skull, I practiced eavesdropping. It was an art I’d neglected, and one that requires regular cultivation.

“You’re the one who recommended her to me,” Dieter was saying.

“Actually, I recommended you to her.”

“But I wouldn’t have done Christy’s kitchen if it hadn’t been for you. That was six months ago. I need to get paid.”

Roger chuckled. “Since when have you had trouble getting money from a woman?”

“Well, she’s dead now. So who do I talk to about my bill?”

My hand clenched on the duster. Christy had owed Dieter money?

“Her trustee. A fellow named Sam Leavitt.”

My feather duster paused over a dome clock. Sam Leavitt? But he was a criminal attorney. Why wouldn’t Christy have used one of the estate attorneys at her own firm as a trustee?

“Thanks.” Dieter coughed.

I beetled back to my spot behind the counter and whisked a fleck of dust from the top of the
old-fashioned
cash register. But neither Roger nor Dieter emerged, and I finally figured they must have escaped out the back.

eighteen

It was dark when
I arrived home. Toeing off my shoes, I sprawled on the couch and unbuttoned the top snap on my jeans. I couldn’t ignore my weight gain any longer.

The remote control on the coffee table was just out of reach. I stretched, unwilling to make the effort to sit up and grab it. Handing out tickets was surprisingly grueling.

My phone rang, and my fingers brushed the remote, knocking it to the floor. With a snarl, I got up and dug my cell from the pocket of my jacket, which I’d slung over a
Mediterranean-blue
chair.

“This is Maddie.”

“It’s Harper. Are you at home?”

“Yes.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Good. I’m outside.”

Before I could tell her I was in no mood to go out, she hung up. A pair of feet thundered up the steps.

I opened the door, and Harper handed me a warm pizza box fragrant with tomatoes, cheese, and mushrooms. She’d changed out of her work clothes into jeans and a tight
olive-colored
sweater under a tan leather jacket.

She knotted her long hair into a loose bun. “I presume you have alcohol.”

“Wine or beer?” I nudged the door shut with my foot. In my prior life overseas, friends didn’t casually drop by with pizzas. I’d moved around too much to develop relationships. This was … nice. Even if I was heading toward pizza overload.

“It’s too cold for beer,” she said. “I hear Cabernet works with pizza.”

“Cabernet works with anything. Wine’s in the rack in the kitchen.” I set us up at my coffee table with plates and wine glasses, while Harper uncorked the wine—a Cabernet from Paso Robles.

She sat down in a wing chair and poured us glasses, then raised hers in a toast. “Cheers.”

I took a sip, letting it roll over my tongue. Dry, with a faint hint of blackberry. Mmm. “So what brings you to my door?”

“I wanted a vegetarian pizza and didn’t want to eat it by myself. What has Adele said to you? She told me they’ve dropped the charges, but she was pretty
close-mouthed
.”

“I met a lawyer, Sam Leavitt, this morning when I dropped off a check for her criminal attorney. Sam said she was off the hook because she was too short—that the person who struck Christy had to be taller. And, of course, she was in jail when Michael was killed.” I wrinkled my brow. “But Adele told me the police seem to think she could have had an accomplice. So she isn’t in the clear.”

I’d found the body with Adele. I’d been on the loose when Michael was killed, and had found his body. Could the police possibly think I was that accomplice? I gnawed my lower lip.

“Dammit.” Harper put her glass on the table with a clatter. “It’s so stupid. Anyone who knows Adele knows she couldn’t have done it.”

“There’s something else that bothers me,” I said. “This lawyer, Sam, used to date Christy. It seems like a conflict of interest for him to be working for the lawyer handling Adele’s defense. When I asked him, he played it down. But it doesn’t seem right.”

A slice of bell pepper fell to Harper’s plate. “That’s the problem with living in a small town. For better or worse, if you want a local lawyer, you don’t have a lot of options. I know about Sam dating Christy and it ending badly. Trust me, he’s got no reason to mess with Adele’s case.”

“What do you mean?”

“After Sam and Christy broke up, he was kind of moping around her, hoping to get back together. I was at a Chamber of Commerce function—one of those
wine-and
-cheese things—and the two were there. Christy loudly told him to leave her alone, and insulted his, er, performance in the process. I felt bad for the guy.”

“If it was such an ugly breakup, why is he the trustee of Christy’s estate?”

Harper took a bite of the pizza and chewed. “The breakup was about six months ago. Maybe she hadn’t gotten around to making the change?”

“And why isn’t someone from her own firm the trustee? You’d think, with them being estate attorneys, that someone from her firm would be a logical choice.”

“Maybe. But sometimes you want to keep your work and personal life separate, you know?”

“I’m starting to wonder if that’s possible.” I’d lied to that reporter when I’d said the petition against the museum hadn’t bothered me. My ego was getting tangled in the museum, just like it had in my prior career. It was all personal.

“In a town this small,” I continued, “all the relationships—even the professional ones—seem incestuous. Is there a lawyer or CPA in town you don’t know?”

She laughed. “There’d better not be. My business depends on networking.”

I turned the stem of my wine glass, my insides tensing. “Harper, were you the ‘client’ Christy was blackmailing?”

Her expression tightened. “You know I didn’t kill Christy. Or Michael. Does it matter?”

I stared at the hole in my sock. She wasn’t denying it.

“We’re friends, and you deserve your privacy,” I finally said. “I don’t need to know what it was about. But the police do need to know if there’s someone else out there who might have had a motive for murder. If you were her blackmail victim, then I’ll drop it. But if there’s actually a client out there who has a motive … Harper, you’ve got to tell the police. Adele is still in jeopardy.”

Her jaw clenched. She looked past me, and I had my answer.

We sat in silence, sipping wine that turned to dust in my mouth. I wasn’t sure where to go from there, so I said nothing. Adele would have thought of some adroit way to change the subject, but all I could think of was blackmail and murder.

“I don’t need details,” I said.

Abruptly, Harper stood. She walked to the window, her face reflected in the glass, blackened by the night. “You do. I should have told you years ago.”

She didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t believe Harper had done anything wrong. Maybe silly or embarrassing, but not wrong. Not Harper.

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “You’re a serial killer. With a string of unpaid parking tickets. You never got a permit for your home remodel, did you?”

“No, you idiot.” She turned to me, her lips twitching.

“Late library books? An embarrassing rash?”

“I’m a strega.” She looked toward the kitchen.

“A what? Wait, is that one of those kinky—”

“A witch!” Harper fisted her hands and jammed them on her hips. “A witch from the Italian tradition. You know how my dad’s mother raised me after my parents died? Well, when I was in college, she turned up a box of my mom’s things when she was cleaning out the attic. We’re still not sure how it got there. Once she realized they were my mom’s, she stopped looking at them and handed the box off to me. That’s what she says, at least. Underneath the clothing were books and talismans and my mother’s notes. She was a strega. At first I started studying it because I was curious about her. At first it was academic. But then I began practicing. It made me feel closer to her. Now it’s just what I do.”

I shook my head, disbelieving. “Is that all?” Relief mingled with hurt as I sank into the couch. Harper had been doing this since college? Why hadn’t she told me? “And Christy was blackmailing you over it? How did she know?” How had Christy known and I hadn’t? My lungs constricted.

“I have to keep my work and my craft separate. This may be California, but how do you think my financial planning clients would feel if they knew I was a witch? They’d begin to suspect I was using magic to predict the stock market.”

“Would you?”

“Of course not! As a financial planner, I know enough not to even try. You should base your investment choices on your goals and risk tolerance, not …” She laughed shakily. “Sorry about the financial lecture. It’s become automatic.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” That came out more plaintive than I’d intended. I wanted to ask if Adele knew, but pride held me back. Then: “Wait a minute. That business about the tea recipe you wouldn’t give Adele … Was it a special strega tea?”

Harper hung her head.

So Adele didn’t know. This made me feel better for all of five seconds. Then I realized what it meant. “You’ve got to tell her.”

“Maddie, I can’t!”

“She’s going to find out, and then she’s going to ask me if I knew, and I’m going to say yes, and then she’ll be mad at me. Tell her. We’ve been friends for years. I still can’t understand why you’ve kept it such a secret.”

“At first it was about me and my mom, family business. And then I got so used to keeping that side of me private, it became a habit.”

“How did Christy find out?”

“I’m not sure. For a short time, I was in a local coven. One of the women there may have told her.”

A slice of pizza slid off my plate and into my lap. “There’s a coven in San Benedetto?”

Beneath her olive sweater, Harper’s shoulders tensed. “You say it like they’re Satanists or something.”

“I say it like I can’t believe people are upset about the Paranormal Museum when we’ve got a coven practicing witchcraft! It’s totally unfair!” I blotted pizza grease from my jeans.

Harper smirked. “Well, now you understand why I’m keeping
my alter ego on the
down-low
. If the Ladies Aid Society is after your little museum, imagine what they’d do to me.”

“Point taken,” I grumbled. “Got any spells for increasing sales at the museum?”

“First, I think you need a spell for clarity on whether you want to buy the museum.”

“Yes, please.” I sat up straight and folded my hands in my lap. “Give me clarity.”

“Are you having fun?”

“Fun?” I leaned back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. A tiny spider crawled across it. “You mean aside from riding herd on a bookie, and finding a body, and battling the Ladies Aid Society?”

“Aside from that.”

I thought about Herb the “collector” and Sam’s oddball taxidermy. “There’ve been some entertaining moments.”

“Is it a challenge?”

“Figuring out how to turn a paranormal museum into a profitable business? I’ll say.”

“Do you like the area?”

I liked nodding at people I knew on the street. I liked friends dropping by just because they could. I liked the fog rolling over the vineyards, the neat rows of orchards, the Victorian houses. “It’s good to be home,” I said.

“Then I think you have your answer.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Is there?”

I tried to summon a steely look and slid another slice of pizza onto my plate. “To recap: Christy had broken up with Sam and wasn’t very nice about it. So he might not mind that she’s dead. You’re a strega, and there’s a coven in San Benedetto. Anything else I should know?”

“Just one. Your museum is being haunted.”

“It’s haunted.” I tilted my head, skeptical. “Let me guess. By the ghost of a brunette with
deep-set
eyes and a long nose, dressed in a gown from the nineteenth century and named Cora.”

Harper’s jaw dropped. “You can see her too?”

“Cut it out, Harper.” One corner of my mouth twisted downward.

“Cut what out? You’re a ghost whisperer? How long have you been able to see spirits?”

“Ghosts don’t exist.” This had stopped being funny. Was she also pulling my leg about being a strega?

“You’re a ghost whisperer who doesn’t believe in ghosts? That will be a challenge.”

“Knock it off,” I said sharply.

“Knock what off? I’m serious—you’re being haunted by a woman like you described.”

“I told you I was researching Cora McBride.”

“Cora who?”

I must have told Harper about Cora. Hadn’t I? Or if I hadn’t, maybe she saw my research and her subconscious picked it up. “If you can see Cora, ask her what happened. I’d love to get the story from the horse’s mouth.”

“I can’t talk to them, or even see them. I only get … impressions.”

“Because you’re a strega.”

Harper lowered her head and chewed her bottom lip. “You don’t believe me.”

“I respect your beliefs,” I said carefully.

“You just don’t share them.”

“No.” I couldn’t lie to Harper. Not to a friend.

Sighing, she shook her head. “You will.”

We moved the conversation to lighter fare—a winery event, a trip to Tahoe next month, and whether the Dairy Association would build another Christmas Cow.

Harper left an hour later. Stuffed with wine and pizza, I returned to my sprawl on the couch and finished reading my
self-help
book. My self did not feel helped.

Maybe I should have started reading paranormal books instead? It made sense for the museum’s theoretical gift shop to sell theoretical paranormal books. Grabbing my
e-reader
, I downloaded a book about a metaphysical detective in San Francisco and began reading.

The phone rang, startling me out of a
high-tension
scene in a pie shop. Struggling from the couch, I lunged for it. “Hello?”

“Mad, it’s Shane.”

“Shane. It’s …” I checked my watch, rubbed my eyes. “After eleven. What’s up?”

“I need a favor. Brittany lost one of her diamond studs and thinks it might have fallen off in your museum.”

“No problem. I’ll look for it tomorrow.”

“Uh … could we look for it tonight? Brittany’s got an early morning flight to New York.”

I smothered a curse. “If I find it, I’ll mail it to her.”

“Sis, have a heart. It has sentimental value.”

“Color me heartless. It’s almost midnight!”

“It’s eleven fifteen. And her father gave the earrings to her before he died.”

I stared at the ceiling. The spider was gone, no doubt biding its time until I fell asleep to play tiddlywinks on my nose. Assuming I ever got to sleep tonight. “Fine. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.”

He breathed a sigh. “Thanks, Mad. But you still owe me one for picking you and your buddy up at midnight.”

Muttering bad words, I jammed on a pair of tennis shoes and shrugged into a jacket. I stopped in front of the mirror before the door. I would not compare well to Brittany. My hair was mashed on one side from lying on the couch, my makeup worn thin. I grabbed a knitted hat from the coat tree and pulled it over my head. That solved the couch hair problem. The museum would be too dimly lit for her to notice my blotchy skin.