The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) (5 page)

“If she felt that strongly about it, she shouldn’t have broken in.”

“Broken in? She would never have broken in! She was committed to law and order.”

I doubted that, but it was true that a key to the tea room had been found on her. How had she gotten her hands on it? And were there more keys floating around?

“Haunted chairs, creepy dolls,” Sam said. “Christy would have found them tacky.”

“I’ll have you know that we have a genuine spirit cabinet used by mediums in the nineteenth century to defraud customers.” My research that morning hadn’t been a total waste. “We also have a
Victorian-era
spiritoscope designed to catch frauds. The spiritualist movement was an important and much
over-looked
period in American history.” Okay, I made that part up. But it could have been true.

Sam looked unconvinced. “She loved art galleries, but this isn’t art.”

Now he was just being rude. This was a paranormal museum, not the Met. What did he expect? “A rotating macabre art exhibit is planned,” I said stiffly. “The Creepy Doll Room would be a perfect space. Four windowless walls ideal for displaying exhibits, and a skylight above for natural lighting.”

His eyes widened. He blinked rapidly, backing away. “Macabre?”

“Or arcane. It’s not just a paranormal museum,” I said, pointing to the row of old photos, “it’s a capsule of our community.”

“That’s … that’s …”

The bell tinkled over the door and I turned to it, relieved. “Welcome …”

My brother walked inside, chic in jeans and a
cream-colored
fisherman’s sweater.

The welcome died in my throat.

I was busted.

five

My brother did a
double take, his cornflower-blue eyes bulging. “Mad? What are you doing here?”

For a wild moment I thought of racing around the counter and pretending to be another visitor. But I’d been caught fair and square. “Nothing.”

“Wait, you’re not working here?”

My heartbeat grew loud in my ears. “I said I hadn’t made a decision yet!”

“You mean this is the museum you were telling me about?”

“It’s a perfectly proper museum.” My voice was shrill. I winced, hearing myself parrot Adele’s words.

Shane doubled over, howling with laughter.

Sam’s gaze
ping-ponged
between the two of us. He raised a finger in the air. “I’ll just …” He hurried from the museum, banging the door behind him.

My brother wiped his eyes. “The Paranormal Museum? Wait until Mom hears.”

“You can’t tell her,” I hissed. “I’m doing a favor for Adele.”

“What does Adele have to do with this? I wouldn’t have thought it would be her thing.”

“She owns the building now, and the mayor wants the museum kept open.” I straightened. “It’s the second biggest tourist attraction in San Benedetto.”

“What’s the first?”

“Duh. The wineries.”

“But the wineries aren’t
a
tourist attraction. They’re multiple attractions, which puts your museum pretty far down the list. Are you more popular than the flaming Christmas Cow, or is that number one?”

“Since the Christmas Cow flames but once a year, the museum beats it. And I told you, it’s not my museum.”

“Whatever. This place is awesome. Where’s the cat that sees ghosts?”

“He comes and goes, and right now he’s gone. You’re out of luck.”

The cat strolled in from the tea room and twined himself around Shane’s legs. Traitor. If GD Cat expected a penny of that tip money, he’d better develop opposable thumbs.

Shane bent and ruffled his fur. The cat arched his back in ecstasy.

An old man ambled in, his cabby hat pulled low over bushy eyebrows. “Is Dieter here?”

“Through there.” I jerked my head toward the
plastic-wrapped
opening to the tea shop.

“Thanks.” He hurried through.

“Busy place,” Michael said. “Hey, you hear about Mel’s gig at the Bolshoi?”

I nodded.

“It’s not La Scalla,” he said, “but she’s moving up. She’ll be disappointed you won’t be in Moscow to hear her sing.”

“It’s not my fault I … ”

“Quit?”

I couldn’t tell him I’d been fired. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

When I said nothing, he said, “I won’t be there either, if it makes you feel better.”

“Where will you be?”

He shrugged. “The State Department’s talking about a new posting. But I’m not sure where yet. I’m glad at least one of us is here for Mom.”

I looked down at the cash register. None of us had been in the States when our father had died, and it felt like a failure.

Adele bustled through the plastic sheeting, a cardboard carrier with four cups of coffee in one hand. Over her other arm swung a
kelly-green
purse. Its color exactly matched her ’
60s-style
miniskirt. She plunked the coffee on the counter. Straightening her brown turtleneck sweater, she turned to my brother, arms wide. “Shane!”

He hugged her. “Good to see you, Adele.”

She stepped back. “Mad didn’t tell me you were in town. What do you think of the museum?”

He laughed. “Weird as ever.”

She handed me a paper cup and some sugar packets. “Mochaccino for you, Mad. I know it’s your favorite.”

“Thanks,” I said, surprised by the gesture. I peeled off the plastic lid and inhaled the aroma of coffee and chocolate. Heaven.

“Shane, how do you feel about Ethiopian?”

“Love it.”

She handed him a cup.

Dieter bounded into the room. “Do I smell coffee?”

“Not that you need any caffeine,” Adele said, “but here’s your double espresso.”

“If you didn’t know Shane was here, why did you bring an extra coffee?” I tore open the sugar packets, dumped them in, and stirred.

“I always get one extra, just in case. It’s only polite should you have an unexpected guest.” She threaded her arms through Dieter’s and Shane’s. “Let me show you our plans for the tea room.”

I watched her lead the men out of the museum area. When the plastic sheeting closed behind them, a muscle between my shoulder blades released. Was I jealous of Shane’s success? I hadn’t been when I’d had an international job of my own. I blew out my breath. I was a small, small person.

As penance, I called my mother. She picked up on the second ring.

“Madelyn, is it true?”

“Hi, Mom. Is what true?” I found a pencil that had rolled beneath the cash register and tested it on a blank ticket. It was nice and sharp.

“That you’ve bought the Paranormal Museum.”

I stared at the haunted rocking chair. How had my mother found out so fast? “No, I didn’t buy it.” That
one-dollar
sale couldn’t have been valid.

She sighed. “Oh, thank goodness. Adele’s father told me you were taking it over. I knew you wouldn’t do something so stupid.”

“But Adele and I are talking about it.” There was a snap, and I looked down. I’d gouged a hole in the ticket and broken the pencil’s tip. Carefully, I laid the pencil down. “I’m helping her run the place until I make a decision.”

“Run the place? You mean you’re serious?”

“Someone needs to manage it. The Wine and Visitors Bureau can’t do it indefinitely.”

“Madelyn, not everyone likes that museum.”

A
middle-aged
couple strolled through the door.

“Just a sec.” Laying the phone on the counter, I sold them two tickets. I picked up the phone. “What were you saying?”

“The museum is a mistake. You can’t …” My mother breathed heavily. “After everything you’ve done with your life, you can’t run that ridiculous little tourist trap.”

“Why not?”

“How will you earn a living?”

“Revenues are a bit low,” I said, enjoying the thought that I was about to make her crazy. “But if I added a gift shop for added revenue and maybe some rotating art exhibits to get repeat customers … it could work. Especially if I put the gift shop online. You have no idea how interested people are in the paranormal.” I knew she didn’t because neither did I.

“Oh. My. God. You are serious.”

“Just thinking aloud.” Then I relented. “I haven’t made any decisions. Seriously, right now I’m just helping out Adele.”

“How is Adele?” My mother’s voice softened. “I read about what happened in the paper. Poor Mrs. Huntington. Christy was her only child.”

“Do you know them well?”

“Her mother? No. I feel terrible. She’s a member of my church, but you know how big that church is. How’s Adele doing? Finding the body must have been a terrible shock.”

“She’s soldiering on.” I didn’t want to tell her I’d found the body too. It would sound like I was looking for sympathy.

“Please let her know that if there’s anything I can do, I’m here for her. The police must consider her a suspect since Christy … well, you know. But anyone who knows Adele knows she couldn’t do it.”

“I’ll pass on the message,” I said, oddly touched. Feeling guilty for teasing, I listened to my mother gush about Melanie and the Bolshoi while I hunted for a pencil sharpener. I promised to stop by for dinner and rang off.

A few more people trickled in. I glanced at the computer screen, its window open to a page on Ouija boards. I might as well get started on a more organized inventory of the museum. I needed to get better acquainted with the collection. Someone might ask me a question I couldn’t invent a plausible answer for.

My brother stuck his head through the plastic sheeting. “I’m headed out. Call me.”

GD Cat slunk into the museum and studied a photo on the wall.

A bespectacled tourist walked in from the Creepy Doll Room. He stared at GD. “Is that the ghost cat?”

I nodded.

Squinting at the spot the cat had fixated on, he snapped a picture and checked the viewer on his camera. “I’ve got orbs! Your cat really does detect ghosts.” He hurried to the cashier’s desk and handed me the camera. “See?”

I looked at the screen. In front of a grainy portrait on the wall floated two translucent circles. They were likely dust or reflected sunlight, but who was I to discourage him? “You should post that online,” I said.

“I will!” He took a few more shots, but none turned up more orbs. Beaming, he jammed some dollar bills in the tip jar before leaving.

Expression smug, GD Cat looked over his shoulder at me.

“All right,” I said. “You earned your keep on that one.”

Rooting through the drawers beneath the counter, I found a battered
three-ring
binder. Each page had a receipt taped to it, a photo of the “haunted” object, and a
far-too
-brief description. Grabbing a pad of yellow sticky notes, I started matching the objects in the main room to their pages in the binder. The rocking chair was on page one. I stuck a yellow note on the chair and penciled a check mark on its page.

I scratched my head with the eraser end of the pencil, studying the
sepia-tinted
photo that had fascinated the cat. It hung in a row with other
old-timey
portraits. The photo was from the 1890s, a husband and wife. The woman’s face was expressionless, but there was something in her eyes—a solemn awareness. Her nose was longish, her eyes
deep-set
. She posed beside a seated man for a formal portrait, one hand braced on his shoulder. The notation read:
Cora M. McBride and husband. Convicted of husband’s murder and sentenced to life. Haunted photo.

Haunted? How? I checked its corresponding page in the binder. The caption there was identical, with one addition:
b.f.h.l
. I flipped the pages. Someone had added those four letters to most of the page corners. This binder was more cryptic than the Egyptian Book of the Dead.

“What the heck does ‘
b-f
-
h-l
’ mean?” I asked no one.

No one answered. Which was a good thing, because I could hear Adele and Dieter in the room next door discussing ceiling treatments.

Dog-earing
the page with Cora’s photograph, I made a note to do more research on the murderess. Who was Cora? Why had she killed her husband? And what made this photo haunted?

I moved on to the next photo in the row. The information on it was scanty, as it was on the next photo in line. I
dog-eared
more pages, affixed more sticky notes. Improving the museum wasn’t my problem. But better stories about the objects would generate more interest. It was a missed opportunity. Missed opportunities irritated me.

Someone knocked on the door, and Harper stuck her head inside. “Can I come in?”

“It’s a public place. You don’t have to knock.”

She leaned against the counter, her blue pantsuit hugging her curves. “Is Adele here? We’re supposed to—”

Adele blew into the room and ran her fingers through her ebony hair. “You have no idea how many decisions have to be made during a remodel. Did you know grout comes in different colors? Hi, Harper.”

“I’d have thought you’d be in your element.” I closed the binder and returned it to its drawer.

“Normally, yes.” Adele’s gaze slid to the spot on the floor where Christy’s body had lain, and she shuddered. “But now the only color I can think about is
prison-jumpsuit
orange. What’s worse is that there actually was a moment when I wanted to kill her. It’s almost like my wish came true, and I’d give anything if it hadn’t.”

“You might not want to go around telling people that,” I said. “I know what you mean, but other people could take it the wrong way.”

“Done,” Adele said. “I’d rather not talk about it at all.”

Harper checked her wide,
leather-banded
watch. “Hey, Adele, are you ready to go? Your lawyer is waiting for us.”

“In a minute. What do you think about seasonal tea services? Like pumpkin scones for Halloween with ginger tea, and a Christmas service, that sort of thing?”

My mouth watered. “I stand ready to assist with the market research.”

Adele laughed. “Oh, and Harper, I’d love to sell your special tea.”

Harper seemed to contract, pulling her arms closer, looking away. “Uh, I don’t make that anymore.”

A line appeared between Adele’s brows. “But that tea was wonderful! Oh well, the recipe will do as well.”

“I lost it. Sorry.” A beat passed. Harper frowned.

Adele stared at her. I knew what she was thinking. I was thinking it too. Harper was lying, and it seemed like a stupid thing to lie about. I shifted, awkward. I wasn’t going to stick my head in this bear trap, but I couldn’t figure out how to change the subject. The silence thickened.

“Adele,” I blurted, “I noticed there’s no bathroom in the museum.”

“So?”

“So if you close up the
pass-through
between the museum and the tea room, what will the museum customers do?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

The door to the museum opened, bamming against the wall. Michael strode inside. His gaze landed on Adele. “We need to talk. Now.”

Harper straightened up from the counter.

Eyes narrowing, Adele crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Christy’s death hasn’t changed anything between you and I.”

“Adele, I’m not kidding around.” He stepped between the two of us, turning his back on me.

I leaned across the counter, nudging the tip jar aside. “I’d be happy to talk to you. You never did tell me what you said to the police about me and Christy.”

Michael didn’t bother looking at me. “Why should I? You know what you did. Christy told me about your fight.”