The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) (19 page)

He gave me a long look. “She’s not under arrest anymore.”

My jab might not have been fair, and I felt myself flush. But I wasn’t convinced that apologizing was in order, so I changed the subject. “Would Cora have had the strength to strangle her husband?”

A gust of wind fluttered the lapel of Slate’s jacket and carried the scent of wild thyme. “It’s possible,” he said. “Maybe if he was unconscious first.”

I wrinkled my brow. “From what I’ve learned, he was a drinker. A neighbor testified that he’d heard them arguing the night of Martin’s death. Maybe he was too drunk to know what was happening.” Oh, Cora. What had happened?

“What’s wrong?” Slate asked.

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“You just don’t want to believe Cora was the killer.”

“No, I guess I don’t.”

“Wanting to see the good in people isn’t so bad.”

“But I don’t see the good. I’m hardened and cynical.”

He laughed, displaying even, white teeth. “If you say so. You’ve certainly got my partner’s dander up. What’s between the two of you?”

“No idea.” I offered him the photo, and he shook his head. I slipped it into my jacket pocket.

“Well, thanks for finding this for me,” I said.

“Digging through the archives was interesting. Maybe it will help with your mock trial.”

“You read about that?”

“Are you kidding? It’s the talk of the town.”

“Which shows how little we have to talk about.”

He shrugged. “I kind of like it. That’s
small-town
life.”

“You spend much time in small towns?”

“I grew up in one. Later, I worked in New York City, but the body count got depressing. I’d catch violent offenders and the prosecutors would let them go. Not enough resources to deal with them.”

“So you moved to San Benedetto?” It seemed a big jump from the mean streets of New York City.

“After my divorce I decided to change coasts. San Francisco looked a lot like more of the same problems I was trying to get away from. So I came here. No regrets.”

“It’s strange. When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was get out of here. Now, I’m not sure what I was trying to escape. The beach and the mountains are a
two-hour
drive away. The streets are clean. The people are friendly. There isn’t much crime.” I paused. “I hope that’s not changing.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” He brushed off his navy slacks. “And on that note, I’ve got to get back to work. You coming down?”

“I guess I’d better, before I scare another motorist.”

We clambered off the water tower. Slate gave me a ride in his blue sedan and stopped in front of the museum.

“Thanks for the lift,” I said.

“Any time. And try and stay out of trouble.”

I stared at the dark windows of the museum. Why did I feel like trouble had found me?

twenty-one

I briefly considered going
inside the museum. But Adele had given me a free pass for the day, and I wasn’t about to let that treat go to waste. I unbuttoned my pea coat. It was too late for a drive to Tahoe and too cold for the beach.

So I drove to Old Town Sacramento and wandered its
wood-plank
sidewalks. Picking up a
burger-to
-go with extra napkins, I picnicked on a bench overlooking the Sacramento River. A riverboat parked in the water, its paddle still, its
red-and
-white sign advertising dinner tours.

Sacramento was the nearest big city to San Benedetto. I imagined Martin McBride leaning against the hitching post across the street, waiting for Cora while she shopped for dress fabric. I wondered if the murder trial had made any of the big city papers. Or what if—

“Kosloski!”

“Aah!” I levitated off the bench. The burger splatted on the ground.

Above me loomed Detective Laurel Hammer, a rhinestone cowgirl in a
too-tight
checkered blouse, denim
cut-offs
, boots, and a hat. “What are you doing here?” she said.

“Just … sitting and thinking, enjoying a day off.” Or at least I had been. I bent to clean up the remains of my lunch. “Your day off too?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you care?”

“I don’t. I mean, I don’t mean to pry. You deserve downtime like anyone else. Being a police officer must be stressful.” Ugh, I wished she’d go away. Trashy Cowgirl Laurel was even more alarming than Angry Cop Laurel.

“Detective.” She stabbed a long finger at me. “I’m a detective. And I’m watching you and Finkielkraut.”

“Me and … Dieter? Why?”

“Tell him I know what he did to the Christmas Cow. I may not be able to prove it yet, but I will. And whatever twisted partnership you two have is going to bring you down. So if you know anything, it’s in your best interests to tell me now.”

“Partnership? I barely know the man!”

She bared her teeth. “And yet every time the Christmas Cow has burned, you’ve been in San Benedetto.”

“Well, of course. I always come home for the holidays,” I said, baffled. “So do lots of people. You think I was involved in the cow burning? Is that why you’ve been so hostile?”

Her nostrils flared. “‘Is that why’ … Are you kidding me? After what you pulled when we were in school?”

“What I pulled? You stuffed me into a gym locker! If anyone should be holding a grudge, it’s me.”

“Unbelievable.” She stalked off, her boots kicking up poofs of dust.

I tossed my wrappers into a wire garbage bin. Not only did Laurel apparently blame me for some unknown teen trauma, but she also thought I was Dieter’s
co-conspirator
in the annual Christmas Cow arson. I could think of only one explanation: she was nuts.

Abstracted, I wandered through more tourist shops. Most myths are based on fact. Sure, I had nothing to do with the cow conflagrations, but what about Dieter? Most years, the cow went up in flames.
As a bookie, Dieter had a stake in the cow’s fate. Could he have had an incentive to make sure it burned? Was Dieter the arsonist? And did he have a female accessory to the crime? I had a hard time picturing Christy involved in the caper, but stranger things had happened
over a bowl of Christmas eggnog.

I bought a
half-pound
of peanut butter fudge and tried on some
steampunk-style
top hats festooned with gears and black netting. The hats weren’t my style, but I wouldn’t be wearing the fudge well either and that hadn’t stopped me. Regretfully, I replaced the hat on its stand. No frivolous purchases allowed until I figured out if I was buying the museum.

When I’d depleted the attractions of Old Town, I drove back to San Benedetto and stopped at a frame shop. They were able to cut a black mat to size and iron my award flat, and soon I was parked in front of the museum, humming along to an eighties tune.

Adele looked up as I strolled through the door, frame beneath my arm. She was overdressed for the museum in her designer suit. The gold buttons on her jacket gleamed against its
vanilla-colored
fabric. A couple of tourists examined the row of photos on the back wall.

“What are you doing here?” Adele asked.

“I wanted to hang this in the window.” I passed the framed “award” from the Ladies Aid Society across the counter.

She burst into laughter. “It’s eye catching. But you should be careful with the ladies of Ladies Aid. They’re involved in just about everything in San Benedetto—even the Christmas Cow. They could make things difficult.”

“I have a plan.”

“Which is?”

“Begging my mother for help.” I took the framed newspaper clipping and balanced it on the ledge in the front window. “Want me to close up?”

Adele checked her watch. “Are you sure? The museum doesn’t close for another hour.”

“I enjoyed the day off, but you must have other things to do.”

Looking longingly out the window, Adele let out a breath. “I did want to get to the tile store before it closed.”

“Then get out of here.”

She snatched her purse from beneath the counter. “Done. See you tomorrow!” She swished out the door.

I filed the picture of Martin’s body beneath the counter and went to find Dieter. He wasn’t in the main tea room, but I heard shuffling noises in back. I grabbed a screwdriver from an overturned box and walked down the hallway.

He was working in the bathroom, smoothing concrete on the floor.

“Hi. Can I borrow one of your screwdrivers?”

He looked up. “Why?”

“There are two generally accepted uses for a screwdriver,” I said. “Screwing and unscrewing. Now personally, I prefer—”

“Fine. Take it.

Grinning, I returned to the museum and dragged my stool from behind the counter. I stepped up and removed the bell over the door. It felt good.

I returned the screwdriver and took up my post behind the counter to work on the inventory. Two visitors came in five minutes before closing, delaying my escape. I sold them tickets, flipped the sign to
Closed
, and returned to my chair. Not wanting to restart the inventory, I stared out the window and let my mind wander. The woman giggled in the Creepy Doll Room. Why did people find that room so entertaining?

The phone on the wall jingled, startling me. It was the first time I’d heard it ring. Tentatively, I pressed the receiver to my ear. “Hello?”

“I’ve got what you want,” a man said.

“Is this an obscene phone call?” Did men still make obscene calls?

“No! It’s Herb. I hear you’re putting on a mock trial of the McBride case. I’ve got Cora’s journal.”

“Oh. Cool!” Yes, I had to play it cool. Herb was an ear witness, and I needed the cops to hear what he had to say. “Wait. Where’d you get it?”

“Same place I got the photo.”

“What are the dates?”

“1898 to 1899.”

“1899—that was when her trial took place. Is there anything about her husband’s death in the diary?”

“That’s for you to find out.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I’ll give you fifty.”

He made a cry of outrage. “Two hundred.”

“If there was a confession inside it, you would have told me. Seventy five.” We dickered, finally agreeing on a hundred bucks. That was probably
ninety-five
dollars more than I should have paid, but Cora had me hooked. “Can you bring it by the museum?”

“Too many cops. Meet me on the corner of
Thirty-fifth
and Willow. Seven o’clock. Come alone.” He hung up.

Come alone, my Aunt Fannie. By seven it would be dark, and
Thirty-fifth
Street was out in farm country, where it would be even darker. And lonelier. I excavated Detective Slate’s business card from my wallet and called. It went to voicemail, and I left a message about the meet. Seven o’clock was less than two hours away. What if Slate didn’t check his messages? I could try the station, get hold of his partner, She Who Must Not Be Named.

I shuddered. No way. I’d rather be caged with an angry gorilla than stuck with Laurel in a deserted orchard. Two hours was plenty of time for Slate to get my message. I’d be fine.

The visitors wandered out, GD Cat sniffing their heels. I shooed him away from the door and called in an order for sweet and sour chicken. After all the walking I’d done today in Sacramento, I deserved a treat. I was nearing the finish line on the inventory. Since I had nothing better to do until seven, I might as well try to cross it.

GD ignored me until the food arrived. I gave him a piece of chicken.

He wolfed it down and meowed, expression pitiful.

“Come off it. One piece is plenty.” How big a stomach could a cat have?

GD hissed and stalked into the tea room.

I finished dinner and returned to the inventory. But I was antsy, unfocused, checking my watch every fifteen minutes. And at six
thirty, I gave up. It was still too early to leave for my meeting, but arriving early might give me an element of surprise. Hoping I wouldn’t need it, I locked up the museum and drove.

The night was moonless. Outside of town, I flipped on my high beams, casting long shadows across the misshapen vineyards. I blasted past
Thirty-fifth
Street and made a
U-turn
, parking in the dirt beside a barren orchard. I sat there for a moment, listening to the ticking sound of the truck’s metal contracting, and then got out.

I checked my phone. Slate hadn’t called me back. I dialed his number and left another message.

In a month or two, the rows of apricot trees would erupt in masses of white blossoms. But tonight, dried leaves crunched beneath my shoes. A small animal rustled in the weeds. I flinched, eyes straining in the darkness.

My hands were moist in spite of the snap in the air. Maybe arriving early hadn’t been the best idea. What if someone was right behind me, waiting? I spun around, heart thudding. Trees loomed, skeletal shapes against a sky pinpricked by stars.

I released my breath. I was alone and letting my imagination run away with me. So what if the trees looked like groping hands? And sure, that low pile of rocks could be anything from a goblin to a rabid raccoon. Worse—a raccoon with bubonic plague. Okay, not the plague. That hadn’t been reported in a while.

There were, however, coyotes. And tree rats the size of cats. The branches rustled above me. I leapt from beneath them, scanning
the dark limbs in vain. My mother had frequently informed me that the local wildlife was more scared of me than I of it. I remained unconvinced.

A flashlight beam bobbed among the tree trunks. Herb? If he intended harm, he’d be more covert. On the other hand, he was early too, so maybe he figured I hadn’t arrived yet and was setting up his own ambush. Imagining the worst was too easy. I forced my muscles to relax. Rabid raccoons. As if!

The flashlight nodded closer, and I heard the stealthy tread of feet. It had to be Herb, harmless if weird, bringing the journal for which I was doubtless overpaying. But my pulse accelerated.

On the road, twin cones of light approached, grew larger.

I ducked behind a tree. It was a futile gesture, since its trunk was a fraction of my size, and now I saw the flaw in arriving early. Slate wouldn’t be here until seven o’clock, if he came at all. My impatience had made me vulnerable. I hated when that happened.

A man walked into the clearing.

The car whizzed past, spotlighting him, me.

Herb’s jaw dropped.

I waved, shamefaced, and stepped from behind the tree. “Hi, Herb. Looks like we both arrived early.”

“You …” He clutched his chest, the flashlight making a ghoul of his face, glinting off his thick glasses. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. What were you doing behind that tree?”

“Just resting. Leaning. Have you got the journal?”

“Have you got the money?” He turned the flashlight on me.

Blinded, I turned my head, reached into my pocket, and pulled out five twenties. Sheesh, I was in a bad gangster movie. All Herb needed was a trench coat and fedora to complete the image, but his head was bare. A windbreaker bagged about his hips.

“Put the light down,” I said. “I can’t see a thing.”

“Oops. Sorry.” He angled the beam toward the ground. “Wait. Did you come alone?”

“What does it look like? Of course I came alone. Come on, Herb. Do we really need the cloak and dagger?”

“I’m not armed.”

“I was speaking metaphorically. Now show me the journal.” I mentally berated myself.
Show me the journal?
This wasn’t a hostage negotiation. What had come over me?

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thin package. “Careful. It’s fragile.”

I walked toward him, money outstretched. He snatched the cash from me and handed me the package.

Unwrapping the thick paper, I watched him count the money. Inside my package was a slim notebook, with soft, rounded edges. “Can I borrow your flashlight?” I asked.

He gave it to me.

Carefully, so as not to damage the journal’s delicate paper, I opened the faded brown cover. The flashlight illuminated lines of a woman’s graceful handwriting, along with Cora’s name and a date. I’d found her! Feeling more excited about this than was warranted, I
re-wrapped
the journal and returned the flashlight.

Light blazed around us. I squinted, disoriented.

“Hold it,” a man’s voice called, deep, authoritative.

My hands shot into the air, and I bit back a curse. This was exactly what I needed—to get busted for trespassing. Oh, God. What if whoever had found us thought this was a tryst? With Herb? I’d rather get arrested.

Dropping his flashlight, Herb clutched the money to his bow tie. The light rolled on the ground, casting crazy shadows. “What is this? You said you came alone!”