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

by Kirsten Weiss

  “It looked like someone bludgeoned her to death.” I rubbed my eyes, gritty from lack of sleep. I gazed past her, through bay windows overlooking rows of grapevines, shrouded by morning mist. The living room of Adele’s Victorian was a study in white—white chairs, white shag rug, white-brick fireplace—as if the fog had made its way inside.

  Adele was a contrast in black: black turtleneck, black pencil skirt, and black tights in black Jimmy Choos. I think she was going for a mourning look, but she looked chic. “They’re going to arrest me,” she said. Her voice was flat, defeated.

  Adele’s pug, Pug, snuffled my ankles, and I bent to scratch behind his ears. “No, they won’t,” I said.

  Harper ran a hand through her loose mahogany hair. “What was Christy Huntington doing in your tea room?”

  “In the Paranormal Museum,” Adele corrected. “She was clearly attacked in the Paranormal Museum. It’s not my fault her body fell into my tea room.”

  “That’s sort of a moot point, isn’t it?” Harper asked. “You own the whole building. What was Christy doing inside?”

  “I don’t know.” Adele gnawed her lower lip. “I don’t know how she got inside, or why she was there. The police said she had a key on her. They asked me if I’d given it to her and lured her there. If I wanted to lure her there, I wouldn’t have had to give her a key! But they think I have a motive. Let’s face it. They’re right.”

  “But you were with us from seven o’clock on,” I said. “Christy was still warm to the touch when I tried to take her pulse. She couldn’t have been dead long.” My gorge rose at the memory. I crossed my arms over my chest. “When was the last time you were in the tea room?”

  “I met with Dieter around three o’clock, and then I left. He usually works until five. Christy must have let herself in after that.”

  Unless the contractor was the killer. Last night’s shock had been replaced by a sick, creeping feeling. I told myself that Christy’s murder had nothing to do with us. Adele and I were incidental to the crime. But my gut didn’t believe it.

  I cleared my throat. “All right. You were with Dieter at three. Where were you between three and seven, when you met us?”

  “I had a manicure at four. And then I went home and took a nap and had a light dinner before we went out.”

  “Why do you always eat before we go out?” Harper asked.

  “You know I dislike eating in public. What if someone sees me with half-chewed spinach between my teeth?”

  “Forget the food,” I said. “Was anyone with you at home?”

  “I was alone with Pug.” Adele picked him up and rubbed her face against his fur. He panted, tongue lolling, depositing fawn-colored hairs across her black sweater.

  “So we need to hope she was killed when you were with us at the microbrewery,” Harper said. “Then you’ll be off the hook. I wonder how long it takes a body to cool?”

  We scrambled for our phones and began tapping for answers.

  “Okay.” I felt I’d won a prize for finding the information first. “A body normally loses 1.5 degrees of heat every hour, until it reaches the room’s temperature. But that varies by how the corpse is dressed, what it was lying on, etc. Half of Christy was on bare concrete, the rest on linoleum, and it was pretty cold inside.”

  “She was dressed lightly,” Adele said, “in a blazer and slacks, like she’d come from work.”

  “So we have no idea when she was killed—it could have been right before we arrived, or earlier.” I dropped my phone on the couch cushion.

  “This is not making me feel better,” Adele said.

  My phone buzzed. The number was my mother’s, and I rubbed my lower lip. I come from a family of overachievers, and my mother was losing patience with my extended unemployment. I was losing patience with my extended unemployment too. I sent the call to voicemail.

  Harper checked her watch. “Client appointment. Gotta go.” She picked up her briefcase and rose. “Adele, if there’s anything you need …”

  Adele waved her hand. “I know. Thanks, Harper.”

  I stood as well.

  “Mad,” Adele said, “I hear they’re going to let the Paranormal Museum open tomorrow. Seriously, can you manage it?”

  “I’ve never run a museum before.”

  “It’s easy. It’s not as if the exhibits do anything. All you have to do is take money and hand out tickets. You can keep the profits. It’d be like you owned the place.” She clawed a hand through her silky black hair. “I know you’re not totally sold on the museum, but I don’t have anyone else.” She lowered her voice. “And I’ve got a bad feeling I’m not going to be around to help.”

  I waffled. “Adele, you’ve talked to a lawyer, haven’t you?”

  “Of course. Only an idiot would be interviewed by the police without one.”

  I gave her a fixed smile, lips clamped together. I’d had no lawyer for last night’s interrogation.

  “So you’ll do it?” she asked.

  “Until you can find someone to buy the museum.” Helping out at the museum might not be such a bad idea. I needed to do something.

  She exhaled. “Good. Thanks.” She handed me a key from her purse. “On Saturdays, it opens at ten.” Her phone rang, and she grabbed it off the polished coffee table and checked the number. “Would you mind seeing yourself out? I have to take this.”

  I felt strangely eager to see myself out.

  Harper’s departing BMW had left dust trails settling along the dirt and gravel driveway. The air smelled faintly of cow manure, and I wrinkled my nose. A blur of movement caught my eye—two crows harrying a red-tailed hawk. The hawk soared, plummeted, veered. The crows stayed on him. They were smaller, but it was two against one, and I hated unfair fights. The birds vanished behind a row of trees. I waited, watching, hoping to see the hawk escape, but the birds didn’t reappear.

  It was kind of disturbing.

  But the past twenty-four hours had brought all new dimensions to disturbing. I leaned against the hood of my beat-up red truck and listened to the message my mother had left.

  “Madelyn, this is your mother. Big news about Melanie. She’s going to be singing at the Bolshoi in Moscow this summer! It’s too bad you quit that job—it would have been so nice for her to have her sister around. How’s your job hunt going? And I’ve got news about your brother as well. Call me.”

  My sister Melanie was an opera singer. The Bolshoi. Good for her. I wondered about Shane’s big news. A promotion to ambassador? I smiled. The family gossip grounded me back in the normal world, where murder was just a news item, something that happened to people you didn’t know.

  But I didn’t want to call my mother back. I knew that threaded between all the stories about my siblings would be questions about my own job situation. Questions I didn’t want to answer. With my mother living in San Benedetto, it was getting harder to avoid them.

  I drove toward my studio apartment, past rows of grapevines and through downtown San Benedetto. The shops weren’t open yet, but a few people wandered the sidewalks in search of coffee or breakfast, bundled up against the cold. A familiar-looking face stalked past, moving in the opposite direction. Adele’s ex.

  I wrenched the wheel sideways, pulling into an empty spot on the street, and leapt out of my faded pickup.

  “Mike!” I knew it drove him crazy when people called him Mike. He preferred Michael, no doubt thinking it sounded more dignified.

  He turned, seeking the source of the shout.

  I waved. I’d swear he spotted me. But he turned on his heel and strode in the opposite direction, hands jammed in the pockets of his elegant black wool coat.

  “Mike!” I hurried after him but was no match for his long strides. I broke into a jog.

  Shoulders hunched, he ducked his dark head. His hair was slicked back, each strand in its place. I reach
ed out and touched his elbow. “Mike.”

  He whirled. The fabric of his coat sleeve grazed my chin. “What? And don’t call me Mike.”

  I stepped back. “It’s …” Now that I had his attention, my certainty drained away. I felt awkward, intrusive. “I’m sorry about Christy.”

  He looked at me blankly, his expression slack.

  “She told me you were engaged. You have my deepest sympathies.”

  He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  “Um, have you heard about Christy?” I asked.

  His lips whitened. “I heard. And you shouldn’t be talking to me about it. You’ll make things worse for yourself.”

  “For myself?” Mentally, I scratched my head. A mother pulling two toddlers in her wake brushed past us, and I lowered my voice. “What are you talking about?”

  “Christy told me what you did last week. I had to tell the police.”

  “Last week? What?”

  “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “She told me you’d deny it.” He left me standing on the sidewalk, gaping.

  I hadn’t known Christy well. With all the travel I’d been doing at my old job, I’d lost touch with most of my friends. And frenemies. My mind went to my encounter with Christy last week—the first and last time I’d spoken with her since I’d returned nine months ago. And I hadn’t done anything. I’d run into her outside a bridal shop. She’d boasted that she and Michael had gotten engaged—shocked, I’d burst out, “He was engaged to Adele a month ago!” It had been maladroit, and she wasn’t happy. But it had also been true. Yet nothing had happened. No histrionics. No fisticuffs. No pistols at nine paces.

  I hadn’t told Adele about the engagement.

  I couldn’t.

  But what had Michael told the cops? Stomach churning, I walked back to my battered pickup. I hadn’t even thought of getting a lawyer last night. I was innocent. A woman had been killed. I wanted to help. But maybe Adele had been right. Maybe I should have had a lawyer during the police questioning.

  As I approached my apartment, I saw an unfamiliar blue Mercedes in the gravel drive. Since I was living, for now, over my aunt Sadie’s garage, I didn’t give much thought to any visitors she might have. I trudged up the wooden stairs to my studio; the steps creaked beneath my feet. At the top, I unlocked the door and walked inside.

  My brother rose from the couch and spread his arms wide. “Hey, sis.”

  “Shane?” My messenger bag thunked to the floor.

  He walked to me and gave me a hug.

  I reciprocated, thumping him on the back. Shane was a cultural attaché for the U.S. Embassy in Moscow. He was blond and chiseled, and his smile was as blindingly white as his shirt. Did I mention I came from a family of overachievers? It held true in the genetics department as well, at least when it came to my brother and two sisters.

  He took a step back, his hands bracing my shoulders. Shane was my brother, so I pretty much had to love him, but he made life seem effortless. When you’ve been dealing with nine months of rejections, that’s irritating.

  “So you got Sadie’s garage,” he said. “Nice.”

  He was right. I was lucky. The studio had distressed wood floors and was done up in a nautical theme of soft blues, whites, and grays. We were over a hundred miles from the ocean, but my grandfather had been a sea captain. Shadow boxes with starfish and coral hung from the white-washed walls. Old mariners’ equipment worked as bookends. There was a telescope in a battered leather case. A sextant. A captain’s hat.

  And then there were the stacks of boxes I hadn’t gotten around to unpacking. In my defense, with all Sadie’s stuff there wasn’t much space for my things.

  “What are you doing back in California?” I managed to ask.

  “Vacation. Moscow is miserable this time of year, and I wanted to see Mom. How’ve you been?” He jammed his hands in the back pockets of his expensive jeans and rocked on his loafered heels.

  “Great,” I said brightly. “Just great. Great.” My gaze slid to the empty pizza carton on the coffee table, the bunched-up socks in front of the TV, the half-empty bottle of wine. “Well, not really. Adele and I discovered a dead body in her building.”

  “A dead body?”

  “Yeah. Christy Huntington.”

  He shook his head. “Should I know her?”

  “Probably not. She was in my class at school.”

  “So you knew her? I’m sorry, Mad. That’s terrible.”

  “What’s terrible is that I’m more sorry for Adele and the people Christy left behind than for Christy herself. I didn’t really know her well, and I didn’t really like her much. But I can’t imagine losing a child. What must her parents be going through?”

  We paused, thinking of our own loss—our father’s death—last year.

  I pushed that thought away, grabbed the bottle off the TV, and clutched it to my chest. “Drink?”

  “Too early.”

  Sweat trickled down my back. I put the wine on the coffee table and tugged my earlobe. “So how’s Moscow?”

  He frowned. “I told you. Cold. Mom told me you were career transitioning. What’s next for my little sis?”

  Of course she’d told him. When she hadn’t gotten any good answers from me, she’d sicced my long-lost brother on the case. “I’m, er, talking to a museum.”

  “About being a collector? That would be right up your alley—traveling the world, finding objects, swinging deals. I could put you in touch with some amazing folks in Eastern Europe.”

  “More like a … curator.”

  “Curator? Whoa, that’s high-powered stuff. Way to go, Mad. About time we got a curator in the family.” He grinned. “Mom will be over the moon.”

  Yeah, when she heard about the Paranormal Museum she’d be over the moon all right. “Let’s not talk about it. It might not happen. I’m not even certain I want the job,” I fudged.

  He winked. “Got it. I see why you haven’t told Mom. She’d brag to all her friends.”

  I laughed feebly. “So how’s Moscow?”

  “That’s the second time you’ve asked me.”

  “Are you going to make me go for thirds?”

  “Nothing’s changed. The city reeks of money, power, and organized crime. It was exciting at first, but now … Let’s say it’s good to be home. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah.” God, what had I done? Why had I come home? I should have done what they’d asked and kept my job. But no, I had to get indignant. I had to have principles. I had to be an idiot.

  I had to pull myself together. “Speaking of home, how long are you here for?”

  “Three weeks. I might make a run down to San Diego to visit friends, but I’ve got to get back in time for a joint U.S.-Russian exhibit the embassy is sponsoring. Moscow has a lively surreal art scene.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “So how about I take you out to lunch? Hey, remember that wacky paranormal museum? If it’s still open, want to go take a look at it for old time’s sake?”

  “It’s closed today,” I said repressively.

  His brows drew together. “On a Friday? That’s weird. Oh well, we can do it some other time.” Draping one arm around my shoulders, he grabbed his leather bomber jacket off the back of the chair. “Lunch it is.”

  four

  At nine thirty Saturday morning, I slunk into the Paranormal Museum. It had been hard keeping the museum from my brother. He’s one of those men who’s good at getting other people talking. And he really listens. The big jerk. But I’d managed to route him away from any discussion of my new “work.”

  And now it was time for me to get to work. I felt a little nervous.

  This was my first real chance to examine the museum. The walls were white-paneled, their ornate moldings painted shiny black. Two doors in the right wall led to other rooms. Opposite them
hung that plastic barrier, and the gap in the wall that led to the tea room. The floor was a white-and-black checkerboard of linoleum tiles. A rocking chair stood in one corner. Glass-enclosed shelves filled with haunted objects lined the rear wall. It looked like an undertaker’s ice cream parlor.

  The only thing that could have completed the grim effect would have been Christy’s chalk (or taped) outline on the floor. But chalk outlines were for the movies. Today’s police had cameras to record the scene.

  GD Cat made a Slinky of himself, dropping from a high shelf lined with old-timey photos onto the floor. He approached me, his strut confident, his meow imperial. Interpreting this as a demand for food, I searched the cupboard beneath the cash register. Next to a dusty and unopened bottle of Kahlua was a bag of kibble and a metal bowl. I filled it and placed it near a bowl of water by the rocking chair.

  He turned his back on me and ate, teeth crunching.

  I picked up the water bowl to freshen it. And then I realized what was missing: a bathroom. If Adele sealed the whole wall between the tea room and the museum, I’d be on daily liquid restrictions.

  I rummaged through the drawers and found a bundle of tickets. Beside them was a small key that fit the old-fashioned register. It was ten o’clock, and I was ready to go.

  Walking to the plastic drapes that separated the museum from the soon-to-be tea room, I peered through. A dark stain spread across the bare concrete. So the police hadn’t eradicated the signs of the murder. The clean-up was left to us. Shivering, I retreated into the museum.

  No customers beat down the door, so I wandered into the two other rooms that constituted my temporary empire. One had shelves filled with antique dolls, their eyes staring sightlessly, their gowns faded. A sign above the door declared this the Creepy Doll Room. It certainly creeped me out.

  The Fortune Telling Room fascinated me. Cases filled with Ouija boards, tarot cards, divining rods, and other tools of the trade ringed the room. I ran one finger over an odd wheel-and-pulley device and wiped the dust off on my jeans. In the center of the room stood a lightweight Victorian séance table: circa 1889, France, said the card. Against one wall was a spirit cabinet from the 1870s. The placard beside it didn’t explain much. Were spirits supposed to live in the cabinet? I opened its doors. A bench had been built inside, against the cabinet’s right-hand wall. It didn’t look comfortable, even for a ghost. On the wall beside the cabinet hung a framed Houdini poster: Do Spirits Return?