The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) (14 page)

sixteen

My shoulder burned the
next day. Sitting behind the counter of the Paranormal Museum, I rubbed the ache, plotting revenge I knew I’d never take. Laurel Hammer was a bad cop. She wasn’t interested in finding out who the killer was unless it was Adele or Harper or myself. Helpless rage bubbled inside me, and it wasn’t getting me anywhere. I blew out my breath. Enough.

Morning sunlight streamed across the faded pages of a Victorian
-
era book on dream interpretation. I was still working on the inventory, but had gotten distracted looking up symbols from last night’s dream. Dreaming of attending school foretold advancement and good fortune; the book didn’t say anything about being late and unable to find my class or my locker. Did they have lockers in 1862?

A
middle-aged
couple walked in and picked up a wine tasting map. We talked tasting rooms, and I told them which were free and which not.

“Thanks,” the woman said, shooting a look at her … husband? Boyfriend? I decided I didn’t care enough to puzzle it out and sold them two tickets.

“If you have any questions, feel free to ask,” I called as they strolled into the Creepy Doll Room.

The bell above the door tinkled and a man walked in, his face hidden by the giant cardboard box he gripped in his bony hands. He wore rumpled khakis. All I could see of his head was the shock of sandy hair protruding over the top of the box. I imagined a scarecrow had stumbled out of the cornfields and into the museum.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He made to put the box on the counter. Hastily, I shifted the cat’s tip jar.

He lowered the box, panting. It was Mr. Average, the lawyer Sam Leavitt, Christy’s ex. “Hello again,” he said. “Remember me?”

“It’s not every day I meet a squire. What are you doing back here?”

“I’m here about your macabre art gallery.”

“I don’t have a macabre art gallery.”

“My taxidermy!” He opened the box and removed a squirrel wearing a straw hat. It held a miniature banjo.

“You … collect taxidermy?”

From the box he withdrew a creature that had the body of a hen, the head of a rabbit, horns, duck feet, and the tail feathers of a pheasant. “Collect it? No, I create it. I’m a taxidermist. It’s just a hobby, but my works are highly sought after on eBay. One critic wrote they were charmingly odd and macabre, so it would be perfect for your gallery.”

I picked up the
rabbit-duck
-
pheasant-chicken
-alope. It was kind of cute, in an oddball sort of way. Whimsical.

He sighed. “Christy never liked them. She said they was creepy.”

“Not a match made in heaven then.”

He gazed at me, stricken. “How can you say that now that she’s dead?”

“I’m sorry. That was thoughtless.”

His bony shoulders slumped. “No, you’re not wrong. Still, it seems fitting that my first gallery showing should be here, where she died. She wouldn’t have wanted to die in a paranormal museum, but she loved galleries.”

If Christy hated the weird taxidermy, it seemed less a tribute than a “take that!” Still, the animals were unusual enough to intrigue without being grotesque. I liked the squirrel better than the creepy dolls.

“So what do you think?” He leaned forward, eyes glowing.

“I think it would definitely fit the gallery, but unfortunately, the gallery doesn’t actually exist. Right now it’s only an idea about moving the best dolls out of the Creepy Doll Room, building shelves for them in this room, and clearing out the rest.” I wondered if anyone would want to buy a creepy broken doll. Or maybe I could give them away as prizes?

“Fantastic!” Sam grabbed the Frankenrabbit and hurried into the Creepy Doll Room. The
banjo-playing
squirrel stared at me, its ghost no doubt plucking a wistful tune. I put it back in the box.

Sam’s gleeful reaction did not go
hand-in
-hand with just being turned down. I had turned him down, hadn’t I?

A few more visitors trickled in, and I handed out tickets.

Sam emerged from the room. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s not ready, and I don’t know if it ever will be,” I said.

Tenderly, he packed his rabbit creation into the box beside the squirrel. “Oh, don’t worry about that.”

Before I could respond, he hurried out the door.

I considered going after him, but it seemed like too much effort. I had bigger fish to fry. I needed to knuckle down on the job hunt. As much as I hated to admit it, my mother was right. I couldn’t stay in San Benedetto to run a paranormal museum.

Feeling a burst of optimism, I checked my email. Still nothing on the finance job I really wanted. But there had to be other opportunities out there. Between ticket sales, I identified potential jobs and sent out resumes online.

A bulky Pacific Islander in painter’s overalls walked into the museum. He chewed his fingernail, gaze darting about. “I was told to come here for the counter installation?”

“Right. This way.” I led him through the tea room and to the alley, where Dieter was tearing open a bag of cement mix. Introducing the two, I left them to it. Adele’s
to-do
list had me supervising the counter installation, but I figured Dieter was better equipped. Besides, I had tickets to sell and resumes to buff.

Around noon, Dieter popped his head in. “The counter guys are done. I’m going to get a sandwich. Want one?”

I dug some money out of my wallet and handed it to him. “Thanks. Roast beef and swiss, everything on it. And a diet cola, please.” I might as well start my diet sometime.

Shifting his weight, he took the money. “You know, I could have cut and installed the counter. Adele didn’t need to bring in those guys.”

“I’m sure if she’d known you could have done it, she would have used you. It would have been more efficient.”

His forehead wrinkled. “Have you heard anything about her? About the case?”

“No, but … Michael was killed yesterday. It’s got to be related to Christy’s death.” I’d been kind of a jerk to Michael, and guilt tightened my chest. Another set of parents would be mourning their child.

Dieter jerked with surprise. “Killed? He was killed? How?”

“Hit on the head, I think. Did you know him well?”

“Not really,” he said. “Hey—since Adele couldn’t have committed that crime from jail, the police must be giving her case a second look. How’s she handling it?”

“I don’t know.” Did Adele even know Michael was dead? Had anyone told her? In spite of everything, I suspected she still had feelings for him. You couldn’t shut feelings off like a water faucet. “At least she has a good lawyer.”

“Too bad Roger doesn’t do criminal law anymore,” Dieter said. “The guy’s a genius.”

“Oh?”

“He’s
semi-retired
—makes more from his property than he does as a lawyer.”

“But I thought he was a genius.”

“Genius with money. He’s got property all over San Benedetto. He’s a wizard at financing. Did you know he’s never taken a bank loan?”

He’d never taken a mortgage? Roger must have done really well as a lawyer to have those kinds of funds.

Dieter jammed his hands in the pockets of his overalls. “Adele’s not … Is she seeing anyone?”

I angled my head, surprised. Dieter was interested in Adele? “Not in the city jail.”

“Oh. Right.” Dieter backed away. “Just wondering.” He disappeared into the depths of the tea room. A few minutes later, I heard his truck roar to life out back.

He brought my sandwich and cola thirty minutes later, wordlessly dumping them on the counter. I wasn’t sure about the etiquette of
ticket-taking
while noshing, but I didn’t have anyone to cover for me.

Mason, resplendent in a tight black motorcycle tee and jeans, strode through my door and my heart did a little skip. “You didn’t deliver my morning coffee,” he said. “What gives?”

“I like to keep you guessing. Besides, I’m not your coffee wallah.”

He laughed. “‘Wallah’? I haven’t heard that word since Afghanistan.”

“I’m surprised you heard it there, since it’s Indian.”

Something behind his blue eyes shifted. “I interacted with ISAF. Those are the international forces there.”

I’d said something to disturb him, though I didn’t understand how or what. And that disturbed me. Without thinking, I asked, “Where were you based?”

His gaze turned arctic.

“Unless it’s top secret,” I said, “in which case, forget I asked. Especially since I know little about Afghan geography, so your answer won’t mean much to me anyway.”

“Near Kandahar.”

I didn’t know where that was, but I’d heard it in the news enough to know it was a rough place for American soldiers. I wondered what he’d done there, and decided not to ask.

“I read in the paper that there was another murder,” he said. “I guess that’s good news for your friend.”

“I’m not sure she’ll see it that way.” I frowned, thinking of Adele’s unwillingness to say that Michael had a key. She’d still cared for him in spite of everything.

“But at least she’s in the clear.”

“Assuming the same person killed both Christy and Michael.”

“Is there a reason to think we’ve got two killers in San Benedetto?”

“No,” I admitted. “And they were both bludgeoned to death.” But what if it was a copycat? The papers had reported that Christy had died from a blow to the head—what if someone wanted to put her in the clear by killing Michael the same way? I shook my head. No, that was too complicated.

“What’s wrong?” Mason asked.

“Just thinking.”

“Well, don’t give yourself a headache.” He grinned and swaggered out the door.

I returned to the job hunt. Tourists wandered in and out, displaying increasing states of inebriation as the day went on. But they were all
good-natured
, seemingly happy to be relieved of their ticket money.

The bell over the door rang, and I pasted on a smile.

Adele clacked inside on her Jimmy Choos. Her black hair was coiled in a bun, not a strand out of place. But the skin around her eyes sagged, dull against her blazing white blouse and icy blue skirt. Smiling broadly, she held out her arms. “Mad!”

“You’re free!” Quickly closing the computer windows on my job searches, I hurried around the counter and hugged her. She’d always been small compared to me, but today when her ribs pressed into mine, I thought I could lift her off the ground. I stepped back. “You’ve lost weight.”

“The single benefit of jail. I ordered food in but had no appetite.”

“You can order food in jail? And are you out on bail? What happened?”

“They dropped the charges after Michael …” She turned her head, blinking, and swallowed.

“I’m sorry about Michael.”

She nodded.

“But I’m relieved they’ve dropped the charges.”

“How have things been at the museum? Is Dieter behaving himsel
f
?”

I was embarrassed that I still didn’t know if I wanted to take over the museum. So I told her about my ideas instead: the macabre art gallery, a gift shop and online store, more detailed stories about the pieces.

“Brilliant! I love the gallery idea. It’s in keeping with a museum next to a tea shop. I could even come up with a themed tea.” She gazed at a couple wandering past giggling, obviously having come from a marathon at the local wineries. “People will need food to soak up the alcohol—perhaps a blood orange and cocoa tea served with scones. Scones aren’t particularly paranormal, but everybody likes them. I could do a ghostly white chocolate scone with coconut flakes.”

“I thought you weren’t going to do any of the baking.”

She waved aside my objection. “My baker is a genius. She can do anything. And clearly, so can you. Thank you for helping out with the museum. I know it’s not your first choice and you probably haven’t come to any decision, but you’ve been a lifesaver.”

“Thanks. I’m enjoying it. But you’re right, I haven’t made up my mind yet. It’s a big decision.”

She lowered her head. “I heard you found Michael. Was it …? Did he suffer?”

“I don’t think so. It looked a lot like what had happened to Christy,” I said. “Adele, I’m sorry.”

She looked away. Neither of us said anything for a long time. I knew Adele would get through this, but I couldn’t imagine what she was feeling.

“Did Michael have a key to this building?” I finally asked.

She gnawed her lower lip. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything to anyone?”

“Because I wanted him to come forward. It would have looked terrible for him if someone else told the police about the key.”

But he hadn’t come forward. Had he been scared? Guilty? Or protecting someone?

“Has the museum given you any problems?” Adele asked.

I thought of the Ladies Aid Society and shook my head. “Nothing I couldn’t take care of.” I still had no idea how to take care of that particular problem, or if it was even worth worrying about. But I couldn’t drop it in Adele’s lap. She had enough trouble.

Adele’s cell phone rang and she put it to her ear. “Hello?”

Returning my attention to the computer, I tried to ignore Adele’s side of the conversation. She hung up, frowning.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The arrest has put me behind schedule. I don’t know how I’m going to get everything done tomorrow. Unless …” She gave me a speculative look.

I crossed my arms over my chest, wary. “Unless?”

“Would you mind dropping a retainer check by my lawyer’s office tomorrow morning? Fred’s office is on your way to work. I’d take it over now but I’m already late for an appointment.”

“Sure.” Friends helped friends when they were wrongly accused of murder. And then I realized the deeper meaning of her request. “Retainer? But that’s for future work, isn’t it? I thought the police dropped the charges against you.”

“They have, but if they find new evidence, they can always change their minds.”