“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 wil
l 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.”
Adele stepped to the side and caught my eye. “You argued with Christy?” A line appeared between her finely plucked brows.
“No.” But my cheeks warmed.
“That wasn’t Christy’s story,” Michael said.
It hadn’t been a fight, but I’d been shocked and angry when Christy had informed me of her engagement to Michael. I still didn’t want to give Adele the details of that encounter—Michael should be the one to tell her about his engagement to Christy, not me. News of that final betrayal would hurt more from an outsider to their relationship.
“I don’t care what Christy told you,” I said. “It’s not true.”
Michael’s face darkened.
Adele adjusted the purse on her arm. “What do you want, Michael?”
He stepped closer to her, and she arched away. “There’s only so much I can do to protect you,” he said quietly. “I need to know what happened.”
She touched her hand to the hollow at the base of her throat. “Protect me? What are you talking about?”
Dieter brushed through the plastic hangings, hitching up his tool belt. “While you’re here, can you come take …” He trailed off, catching sight of Michael. “Everything okay in here?”
“Everything’s fine,” Adele said. “Michael was just leaving.”
“No, I’m not,” Michael said. “Not until we discuss this.”
“I think you are.” Dieter’s voice hardened. His limbs remained relaxed, hands at his sides, but his chin lowered, jaw set.
Michael cleared his throat and backed away. “That’s Adele’s decision.”
“And I think you should go.” She looked away.
“Fine.” Michael raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “We can talk later. If you’re still free,” he said under his breath. He turned and stormed out the door.
“Are you all right?” Dieter asked.
Adele smiled. “I’m fine. Michael’s harmless.”
“Tell that to Christy,” Dieter said.
She yanked the cuff of her brown sleeve. “Michael did not kill Christy.”
“How do you know?” I asked. He seemed like a pretty good candidate to me.
“Because,” she said, “someone else killed her.”
six
“Michael couldn’t have killed Christy,” Adele repeated. She twisted the gold watch circling her wrist. “He can’t even kill spiders.”
“The killer was most likely someone she knew,” I said, gesturing at the museum. “No one broke in. Nothing was taken. Christy didn’t get caught up in a robbery.” Not that there was anything to steal—unless you were a fan of paranormal knickknacks.
“It wasn’t Michael.” Adele checked her watch. “Oh, darn. I nearly forgot, I’ve got an appointment with my father and our lawyer. Let’s not continue this conversation later.” Slipping her green purse over her shoulder, she minced out the door.
Harper and I looked at each other.
“Any minute, she’ll remember that we’re going there together,” Harper said. “I’d better go find her.” She hurried out the door.
Dieter’s shoulders slumped, his hands falling to his sides. “I think I made her mad.”
“Christy—the other woman—was killed in Adele’s tea shop, and she and Michael are the most likely suspects,” I told him. “There’s nothing you can say to make that better or worse.”
He leaned against the counter. “Michael’s a jackass. The whole town knows he cheated on Adele, and now he’s begging to get her back. At least she’s smart enough not to fall for his garbage twice.” Dieter raised his eyebrows, questioning.
I chewed my lower lip. I’d witnessed some of Michael’s attempts to crawl back into Adele’s good graces. But Christy had told me she and Michael were engaged. Had it been a lie? Had Christy been trying to ruin Michael’s attempts at reconciliation with Adele? And was that a reason for him to kill her?
When I didn’t respond, Dieter returned to his work. The whine of the circular saw punctured the air.
The front door banged open. I looked up, glad for the distraction, and reached for a ticket.
A man walked inside, a five o’clock shadow darkening his chiseled features. His hair was tied back in a short blond ponytail. A motorcycle helmet dangled from his fingers. His gaze lingered on me, and he shrugged his muscular shoulders. They strained against the contours of his black-leather motorcycle jacket. This was a guy who put in some serious gym time. It was embarrassingly easy for me to imagine him bare-chested on the cover of a romance novel.
He plunked the helmet on the counter, rattling the tip jar. “You in charge?”
I smoothed the leer from my features. “I’m running the Paranormal Museum. Would you like to buy a ticket?”
He glowered. “No, I would not like to buy a ticket. I would like you to shut off that damn circular saw and move your dumpster out of my rear parking space.”
“Your rear parking space?” I sucked in my cheeks.
“I own the motorcycle shop next door. And I can barely hear myself think over that saw.”
A flush of warmth flooded my body. And annoyance. “I’m not in charge of the renovations, but I’ll let the owner know, and I’ll talk to the contractor about a better time to run the saw. Er, when would be a better time to run that saw?”
“Since I live over my shop, never.” The man turned on his booted heal and stormed out, brushing past a tall, older man in a gray suit.
The older man scratched his neatly trimmed beard. His blond hair was streaked with silver, and he was well built. He approached the counter, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “What’s his problem?”
“No refunds. Can I help you?” I took in the briefcase in his broad hand, the silver hair, the expensive suit. He didn’t fit my customer profile, but that was a work in progress, so I decided to stay open-minded.
He glanced around. “I was looking for Adele. I’m her lawyer. Is she here?”
I grabbed for my cell phone. “Her lawyer? She left not long ago to meet her lawyer for lunch.”
He laughed. “That’s okay. She must be meeting with Fred, her criminal attorney. I do estate and business law. We’re old friends. I was just dropping by to see how she was doing.”
“I’ll let her know you stopped by, Mr. …?”
“Just Roger. She’ll know who I am.” He leaned an elbow against the counter. “So who are you? You don’t look like you’re with the Wine and Visitors Burea
u. I know everyone there.”
“I’m Maddie, a friend of Adele’s. She asked me to manage the museum until she could find a buyer.”
“Rats. I was hoping you’d be the buyer. She needs to unload this albatross.”
“It’s not so bad. It could make money.”
“Not enough. Whoever buys it should give it more flash.”
“I do think the museum could do a better job telling the stories of the artifacts,” I admitted.
“Artifacts? This junk?” He laughed. “This stuff is boring. An old spirit cabinet? Who cares? The museum needs something sexier.”
“Sex sells?” I asked coldly. He was a friend of Adele’s so I had to play nice, but I wished he’d shut up about the museum. “I suppose it depends on the sort of client the new owner wants. Personally, I think putting a rotating macabre art exhibit in the Creepy Doll Room could bring in repeat customers. Add a gift shop, put it online, and the owner could really bump up revenues.”
“You want to get rid of the creepy dolls? People love the creepy dolls.”
“There’s empty wall space in this room,” I pointed out. “I could shift things around and mount new shelves for the dolls here.”
“Those aren’t bad ideas. I know a guy who’s an art agent. He could probably set you up with the types of artists you’re looking for.”
“Thanks.” Wait. Did I just take over the project? I backtracked. “But I’m not—”
Dieter walked through the plastic curtains. He raked a hand through his hair, spiking it higher. “Hey, I’m going to need to turn off the water for an hour. Oh, hi Roger.”
“Dieter!” The lawyer clapped him on the back. “So Adele took my advice and hired you for the job. Dieter has done the remodels on several of my rental properties,” he said to me. To Dieter: “How’s that caveman diet going for you?” He winked at me. “Well-cooked meat and raw vegetables. That’s the ticket to health.”
Dieter winced. “Haven’t had a chance to try it yet.”
“Don’t delay. You’re only young once. How’s the remodel going?”
“The police had the museum shut down Friday, but I was in Tahoe anyway, so I’m still on schedule. But there’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Roger.”
The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) Page 5
