The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) (18 page)

“Are you certain your attacker was a man?” Detective Slate asked.

“It was a big person. I suppose it could have been a very tall woman,” I said, reluctant.

“What’s wrong?” Slate asked.

“I got a sense of … mass. I can’t be one hundred percent sure it was a man, but I’m fairly certain it was.”

He nodded. “Go to the hospital, Miss Kosloski.”

“Come on, Maddie.” Mason pulled me toward the door.

“But I’ve got to lock up. I can’t just leave.”

“They’ll take care of it. Won’t you?” Mason asked the lieutenant.

Slate grunted an assent and disappeared through the curtains into the tea room. Drilling me with a hard look, Laurel followed.

“Where’s your car parked?” Mason led me onto the sidewalk. The fog had thickened. Eddies of white swirled around us, kissing my cheeks with chill and damp. A truck rumbled in the distance.

With my toe, I nudged the whitewall tire of my faded pickup, parked at the curb. “Here.”

He gazed at it for a moment and shook his head. “Keys.” He held out his hand.

I burrowed through my messenger bag and handed them to him. “How bad is the alley door?”

“An easy fix for Finkielkraut. I guess this lets him off the hook.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no reason for Adele’s contractor to break in when he’s got a key.”

I mulled that over as we drove. My head throbbed. This recent attack would put Dieter out of the running. Unless he’d broken in to the museum to make it seem like it was someone else. Leaning my head against the cool window, I watched the streetlamps fade in and out of existence.

“This is some truck,” he said. “A ’58?”

“I inherited it.”

He didn’t ask me who I inherited it from, which was a good thing. I couldn’t think of my dad right now. Tears were already too close to the surface. The attack had flattened me in more ways than one.

I needed to stop playing devil’s advocate with myself. This wasn’t an Agatha Christie novel, or a thriller with a byzantine
double-cross
. The killer so far had been pretty direct—a bash on the head and done. The
break-in
was likely as direct as the murders. The killer wanted something inside the museum. Something he’d dropped when he’d killed Christy? Something incriminating? Or was there something else about the museum that had brought the killer there the night of Christy’s death? Had she been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

The idea opened up a world of new motives. But if that were true—that the killer had always been after something in the museum—then why kill Michael? And why had Christy been in the museum? Michael had said he didn’t have the key … what if that had been a half truth, and he’d given the key to Christy? Perhaps to re
turn to Adele because doing it himself was too painful? That explanation would be the simplest, and I was a big fan of Occam’s Razor—
the simplest explanation was likely correct.

twenty

Who doesn’t hate hospitals?
Aside from giving birth, there’s no good reason to be inside one. We sat in the waiting room over an hour, Mason growling and pacing, before a nurse led us into a small examination room. Another forty minutes before a doctor stuck his head in and disappeared. More waiting. Finally, a nurse sewed three stitches into my scalp and ordered Mason to make sure I wasn’t left alone that night.

Being alone with Mason sounded exciting. But the night was pretty much over, the sun lightening the horizon, by the time he drove me back to the museum. Adele waited for us outside, her fingers tapping the
leather-lined
steering wheel of her Mercedes.

“She shouldn’t be alone tonight,” Mason said.

“Got it.” Adele saluted with two fingers. She drove me home, and I tumbled into bed.

I woke up and staggered to the kitchen. In her
cream-colored
silk pajamas, Adele was sipping a cup of tea at the round linoleum table.

She folded her legs beneath her on the
sixties-era
blue vinyl chair and flattened the morning paper beside her cereal bowl. “Hungry?”

I wasn’t. But breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so I stuck a piece of sliced sourdough in the toaster. “Thanks for bringing me home,” I said.

“It was the least I could do.” She tapped a manicured finger on the newspaper. “You’ve been busy.”

The toast popped up, and I smeared it with butter and peanut butter. “I try to stay active.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t believe you’re eating that. And the Ladies Aid Society will not be pleased by your quotes in this article about the museum.”

“Oh. The paper quoted me? Gimme.”

“Maddie—”

“Well, I’m not pleased they took out a
full-page
ad voting the Paranormal Museum the tackiest museum in San Benedetto.”

She handed me the paper. “I hate to break it to you, but it is the tackiest museum in San Benedetto.”

“Then I’m honestly not sure what I can do.” I sat across from her. “Ladies Aid’s reaction seems over the top.”

“At Harvard I took a class on negotiating—it’s one of the few classes I use on a regular basis. Have you heard the story of the orange?”

I sighed and propped my head on my fist. “I’m sure I’m about to.”

“One orange, two sisters. Each wanted the orange for a dish they wanted to bake, and they squabbled over it. In the end, they discovered that one sister needed the rind, while the other needed the flesh. Problem solved.”

“I’m certain there’s a lesson in there somewhere.” I scanned the article. They mentioned the mock trial. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but I’d been the one to shoot off my big mouth.

Adele made a face. “I suggest you find out what Ladies Aid really wants. Does your very existence bother them, or is it something else?”

“Fine,” I grumbled.

“So what were you really doing at the museum last night at midnight?” she asked.

“I was really helping my brother’s girlfriend find her earring.”

She stilled. “They’re a couple? Are you sure?”

“Shane took her to the airport this morning. He’s not that nice unless he’s getting something out of it.”

“He’s not bad.” Adele lined the paper up with the edge of the
pale-blue
place mat.

“No, not bad. But contrary to popular belief, he’s not perfect either.”

She arched a brow. “I do believe you’re jealous of his success.”

“I have a
hangover-worthy
headache that wasn’t preceded by a wild night on the town. I’m irritated.”

“Well, I like your idea of a
re-creation
of the McBride trial.”

“Thanks. But as long as we’re making confessions, there’s something else about the museum I should tell you.”

“Oh?”

“Dieter’s a
part-time
bookie. He was using the alley behind the tea room for his business.”

Adele put her tea cup down with a clatter. “What?”

“Did you know about the bookmaking?”

“Of course not! Wait—
was
using? He’s not anymore?”

“I put the fear of you into him and told him to knock it off. And I think he has.”

“Anything else?”

“Harper thinks the museum is haunted.” And the more I thought about Cora’s photo, the more I wondered if she might be right.

Adele laughed. “I’ll hold off on calling an exorcist. Look, why don’t you take the day off? I can manage the museum today.”

A day free of the museum? And a Friday!? “That’s … seriously?”

“Absolutely.” Adele checked her watch. “I’m going to get dressed.” Grabbing her overnight bag off my couch, she beelined for the bedroom.

It almost felt like I was playing hooky from school. But I couldn’t slack off. I had to job hunt. And get dressed.

I took a quick shower. Pulling a white
T-shirt
over my head, I slipped into an old pair of faded jeans and waited for the computer on my unmade bed to boot up. When it did, I opened my email and slid my belt through the loops.

“Can I borrow your toothpaste?” Adele shouted from the bathroom.

“Uh, sure.”

My heart stopped. An email from the financial firm I’d applied to.

Holding my breath, I clicked it open.
Dear Applicant …

I collapsed on the bed, and the laptop bounced on the rumpled sheets. Rejection. I hadn’t even made it to an interview. I hadn’t even made it to getting my name on the rejection letter.

What was wrong with me? I’d been … well, not a big deal, but I’d had a job with big responsibilities, managing operations for multiple countries. That should mean something. Shouldn’t it?

I guessed it didn’t. Maybe work overseas didn’t translate to work in California. Or I was doing a rotten job of marketing myself? Or both?

What had happened to my life? Harper was a success. Adele was a success. My whole family was a success. And in nine months, I’d scored two lousy job interviews.

On one foot, Adele hopped to the door, slipping a strappy heeled shoe over her other foot. “Mad, you’ve been running my errands and holding my hand through this awful murder investigation. And you’ve really stepped up with the museum. But your mother’s right. You’re better than the tackiest museum in San Benedetto. Don’t feel like you have to buy it because we’re friends. I know you’ve got bigger and better things in front of you.”

I blinked, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Don’t be silly. I love the museum.”

“You do? That’s wonderful!” Adele did a little shimmy and hugged me. “I knew you’d come around. Do you think you might actually buy it?”

Awkwardly, I returned the hug. “I haven’t decided yet.” My gaze fell to the dusty boxes I’d never gotten around to unpacking. The bottom dropped out of my rib cage.

“That’s not a no … ”

No, it wasn’t. Was I actually considering this?

I saw Adele out the door and turned to stare at my (temporary)
nautical-themed
apartment.

I needed to get out, get away. And the farther the better. Tahoe? Santa Cruz? Yosemite? Any destination would work, as long as it was elsewhere.

Grabbing my keys off the counter, I paused at the top of the stairs and breathed a curse. The driveway was empty, my pickup still at the museum. It wasn’t a long walk, but I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew.

I wiggled through a gap in my aunt’s fence and cut through an apple orchard to a deserted road. Weeds silvered by frost sprouted along the shoulder. The sky was clear and bright, the morning air nippy. I pulled my soft
olive-colored
jacket more closely about me.

When I was a kid, I’d had my thinking place. It had been years since I’d gone to it, and I wasn’t sure that a stroll down memory lane wouldn’t make me morbid. But my legs seemed to move of their own accord, and soon I was pacing the wide rows of the Nakamotos’ vineyard. The bare January vines were twisted miniatures of gnarled oaks, and I saw that they’d been recently pruned. Tall emerald grass and yellow wildflowers beaded with melting frost dampened the cuffs of my jeans. I headed toward the old water tower, near the edge of the property.

A small brown bird flew past, low to the ground, and my disappointment began to drain away. Some of these vines were over a hundred years old, and their grapes improved with age. They’d survived Prohibition, droughts, and unseasonable frosts. By comparison, I had it easy.

The shadow of the water tower fell across my path, and the temperature dropped. Shivering, I looked up. The ladder seemed taller, more rickety than I remembered. I grasped a metal rung and climbed.

Reaching the top, I edged to a wide platform and dangled my legs over the side. The rows of vines angled away from me, converging on the horizon. A puff of dirt rose from a distant road, kicked up by a passing farm truck.

I dug my cell phone from my pocket and called a recruiter friend of mine. Her specialty was
non-profits
—not my field—but she’d given good advice in the past.

“Hey, Mad! How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. I’m still job hunting.”

Her voice turned sympathetic. “Haven’t been able to find anything yet? Well, the economy is weak. Give it time.”

“In the last nine months, I’ve only had two interviews.”

“Really? That surprises me.” There was a long pause. “I’m sure your last job wouldn’t say anything bad about you.” But her tone echoed my uncertainty. “In today’s litigious society, they’d be sued.”

“But?”

“But if they only give out basic information about you—date of hire, etc.—it can be a
tip-off
that you were fired. During an interview, honesty is usually the best policy. But in your case, it does sort of clash with the rule that you should never badmouth an old employer. You can’t tell anyone you were fired because you wouldn’t pay a bribe.”

So I was between a rock and a hard spot, damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. I reached for a few more tired metaphors and came up empty. There was really nothing to say.

“Thanks,” I said. Feeling I’d monopolized the conversation long enough, I turned it back to her. She regaled me with the antics of her toddlers, then rang off to take another call.

Bad economy plus career transition plus indications I’d been fired … It wasn’t a recipe for job hunt success. I pocketed the phone, nodding to myself, and touched something paper. I pulled out the folded Tackiest Museum “award” and studied it.

Biting my lower lip, I gazed across the fields. A breeze rippled the grass and wildflowers, rapid waves of green and yellow flowing west. For a moment it seemed the gnarled vines anchored a sea of emerald and gold, and I flew above it all.

An ache swelled in my chest—not depression—love. I loved this broad land and the people who farmed it. I loved the fog that hung heavy over the vineyards on cold winter mornings. I loved launching myself from a tire into the swimming hole in the heat of summer. I even loved the stupid Christmas Cow.

San Benedetto was home. Carefully, I folded the clipping and returned it to my pocket.

Now I thought I understood why I’d landed so few interviews, and why the few I’d gotten had ended in failure.

I didn’t want those
high-powered
Bay Area jobs, so I hadn’t tried hard enough.

I wanted to be here.

“Hey,” a masculine voice called from below.

I leaned forward and looked between my toes. Detective Slate peered up at me, shading his eyes with a manila folder.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Just thinking.”

“Thinking about jumping?”

I laughed. “Not a chance.”

“You don’t feel dizzy from that concussion?”

“It was a mild concussion. They’re not even sure I had one at all. And I have an excellent head for heights.”

“Good.” He climbed up, the folder tucked beneath the arm of his
navy-blue
blazer. The detective thunked onto the platform beside me, breathing lightly. He smelled of musk and wild grasses. “Nice view. You know you’re not supposed to be up here?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve been coming here for years, and the owner, Mr. Nakamoto, doesn’t mind. What are you doing here?”

His face tightened. As a cop, I imagined he was unused to being contradicted or questioned. But he nodded. “Someone called and said a woman looked like she was going to jump from the tower.”

“Not Mr. Nakamoto! He knows I come out here. He wouldn’t mind.”

“No, a passing motorist. I was nearby, on my way to the museum, so I took the call.” He handed me the folder.

Our hands brushed, and a pleasant, electric tingle passed between us.

“Here,” he said. “The clerk found this for me in the police department’s archives. Photography was still new when McBride was killed, and the police were proud of their photos, so they kept them.”

“Photos of the murder scene?” I flipped open the folder and winced at the headshot of Martin McBride. Even in sepia tones, the corpse looked gruesome.

“The local police weren’t sophisticated enough back then to photograph the scene of the crime. But someone did take a shot of the body.” He pointed to the bruise circling Martin’s neck. “See anything strange?”

I studied it. I didn’t know what a rope bruise would look like, but this dark line looked like one to me. “I’m no expert, but it does look like a mark made by a rope, going straight across his neck.”

“And that’s the problem. If the bruise had been caused by hanging, the mark would have been in more of a
V-shape
, not a straight line.”

I rubbed my temple. “So … someone strangled him and then hanged him?” Martin had been murdered and Cora had been in the house. She was the logical suspect. But …

“I’m no coroner, but it looks that way,” Slate said. “I’m not surprised the police at that time missed it. This was still the wild west. And in a small town, they’d go for the most logical explanation, not necessarily one that fit the evidence.”

“Like arresting Adele?”