“Sure. We can talk.” The lawyer shook his head. “I still can’t believe she’s dead. What was Christy doing here?”
“Christy? You knew her?” I asked.
“She’s a junior partner at my firm. Was a junior partner, I mean.”
“Did Christy do estate and business law too?” I asked.
“Yep,” Roger said. “I wonder if she had her own estate in order? So many of us don’t.”
Dieter changed the subject. “Maddie, I also wanted to let you know I’m done with the saw for the day.”
“Oh, good. One of the neighbors was complaining.”
Dieter’s dark brows drew together. “Let me guess. The motorhead next door?”
Roger clapped him on the shoulder. “As long as you’re running the saw during working hours, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not worried,” he said. “The guy’s pissing me off. Wanna come out back and we can talk?”
“What’s the rush?” The lawyer reached for me and drew me into an awkward group huddle, his arms around both Dieter and my shoulders. I tried to edge away.
“Do you two want to know the secret to life?” he asked. “Don’t take yourself so seriously. If you can do that, everything else falls into place.”
“I’m not sure that applies to our situation,” I said. “The police are taking Christy’s death very seriously, and they seem to consider Adele a prime suspect.”
“Adele?” Dieter asked. “She’s half Christy’s size. How’s she going to take her down? Even if this goes to court, Adele’s got nothing to worry about.”
The lawyer shook his head. “If this goes to court, she has everything to worry about. Some of my oldest friends are criminal attorneys. I’ve heard all the stories, and let me tell you something. Defendants, lawyers, cops—everybody lies. Don’t count on the truth setting Adele free.”
seven
I needed a diversion from inventory-taking. Removing Cora McBride’s picture from the wall, I brought it to the counter and pried off the back. On one corner of the photo in ornate Victorian handwriting was a date: 1891. Or was it 1897? The ink was faded, but I was fairly certain it was ’91.
I surfed the Internet, searching for something about Cora. The old murder either wasn’t that notorious or I was spelling something wrong. I didn’t find a thing.
A narrow, mousy-looking man wearing fish-bowl glasses and a bow tie stuck his head through the open front door.
“Dieter’s in the back,” I snapped. Nearly a quarter of the men who’d been in today had been looking for Dieter.
He sidled inside, catching the sleeve of his tattered tweed jacket on the door handle. Lurching backward, he disentangled himself. “I’m looking for the proprietor of the Paranormal Museum.”
“Oh.” I lowered my head, deflated. “That’s me.”
He smoothed his comb-over. “Excellent. It’s about time this fine establishment got adequate replacement management. You can call me Herb.”
The cat trotted to him, and he patted its head.
“Er, yes,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
The cat sat on his haunches, watching us intently.
Herb wagged a finger at me. “The question is, what can I do for you?”
“All right. What can you do for me?”
“I’m a collector. I’ve been providing paranormal exhibits to this museum for years.” He tapped the photo of Cora still lying on the counter. “That was one of mine.”
I perked up. “Oh? Maybe you can tell me something about it. The notes are fairly thin.”
“The prior owner of this museum, Chuck, was a paranormal enthusiast, but his record keeping was abysmal. It’s nice to see someone taking more of an interest.”
“Cora?” I prompted.
“Of course. An interesting tale because it happened right here in San Benedetto.”
“Really,” I said, skeptical. When a town doesn’t have much history, it tends to embroider on what it’s got. Before I’d found the photo, I’d never heard of Cora.
“Cora O’Malley married Martin McBride in 1890. It was a tumultuous marriage. The town didn’t expect Cora to survive it, but much to everyone’s surprise, it was Martin who died prematurely. Cora tried to make it look like a suicide, but it quickly became obvious that it was murder.”
“Why was it obvious?” I scratched frantic notes on the pad beside the cash register.
“I have no idea, but they had sufficient evidence to sentence her to life in prison in 1899. She died two years later. At any rate, a donor who shall remain nameless picked up this photo at an estate sale. Having no such photos of relatives of her own from that era, she hung it in her parlor.”
“She had a parlor?” People still had parlors?
“But soon thereafter, she began hearing the sound of a woman’s sobs coming from the room at night when no one was there. Unnerved, she came to me looking for a recommendation for a ghost buster. I convinced her it would be simpler to sell me the photo instead.”
“I thought you said she was a donor.”
“Perhaps you would find this tale more enlightening if you listened without interruption.”
“Sorry.” I coughed. “But how did Cora’s husband die?”
“Hanged, I believe. You can probably get more details from the Historical Association. I don’t suppose you’ve heard Cora’s sobs yet?” He tilted his head to the side.
“No, but I don’t stick around the museum at night.”
He smiled, revealing sharp incisors. “You should. Ghosts are with us constantly. But with the hustle and bustle of daily life”—he nodded as two tourists emerged from the Creepy Doll Room—“it is difficult to detect them. One needs silence, stillness, and most importantly a controlled environment to perceive ghosts.”
“That’s useful information,” I said. “Thanks.”
“For you, that information is free.” He glanced at the visitors. “I heard an object here was used to murder the young woman. Which was it? I don’t suppose you still have it?”
“The police have it.” I tapped my fingers on the counter, my gaze flicking upward. Herb was just another murder site lookee-loo, and I’d been suckered into a conversation.
“What a shame. I would have liked to have taken EMF readings.”
“EMF?”
“Electromagnetic field. We believe that spirit activity can change EMFs.” He pulled a small plastic box from his pocket and turned it on. A rainbow of lights lit up the top, then blanked out. He waved it across Cora’s photo, and the lights went to orange. “Interesting. It also would have been interesting to see if the EMF on the murder weapon had changed, if it was an object I procured.”
“Why did it light up over the photo?”
“There appears to be some energy there, but that’s no surprise since it’s haunted. I provide a valuable service removing haunted objects from people’s homes and businesses.”
“And you dump them here?” My voice jumped, hair standing at attention on the back of my neck. Not that I believed in any of that haunted stuff.
“I bind the objects first, of course, though Chuck suggested it would be best if I left some of the less harmful objects be. What’s the good of a paranormal object that’s no longer paranormal? Now, I can see that you’re a woman of discernment. I have come across an amazing object of historical significance, and I wanted to give the Paranormal Museum the right of first refusal.”
“I’m breathless with anticipation.”
“As you should be.” Lifting his heels, he thrust his chest out. “Dion Fortune’s scrying mirror.”
“Oh?” I understood “mirror,” but as to the rest, he might as well have been describing the Federal Reserve system.
“I picked it up in New York.” Herb dug into his pocket and unfolded a piece of paper. “You’
ll want to see the provenance, of course.” He handed me the paper. At the top: a photo of a mirror. At the bottom: a notary’s stamp. In between was a list of owners by date, and the location where the mirror had been stored.
“I’ll need to do some research of my own first,” I hedged.
“Of course. I’m asking ten thousand.”
I coughed. “Dollars?”
“But for you, five.”
“Thousand?” I wouldn’t pay five thousand for Ali Baba’s mirror. There was no way anything in the museum cost that much.
“And now onto our next piece of business.” Herb’s eyes narrowed. “My first bit of information was free, as a token of my esteem. But this will cost you.”
“Information about what?” I asked, bewildered.
He leaned across the desk, his voice dropping to a hiss. “Murder.”
“You know something about the murder here last Thursday?”
He pressed a finger to the side of his nose and nodded. “How much is it worth to you?”
“Since I don’t know what you’ve got, nothing. Besides, if you have information, you need to tell the police.”
“The police?” His head reared back, spectacles glinting in the sun from the window. “I don’t talk to cops. In my experience, they are completely untrustworthy.”
“Fine. Ten bucks.”
“Twenty.”
I dug into the tip jar and pulled out a wad of cash.
GD Cat meowed, his tail lashing.
“It’s for a good cause,” I told GD.
“Indeed it is,” Herb replied.
Flattening out the cash, I counted out twenty dollars.
The cat stalked into the Fortune Telling Room, his tail a bottlebrush of indignation.
“So what have you got?” I asked.
“I stopped by here Thursday evening, just before six o’clock, looking for the proprietor.” He bowed to me. “The light inside the museum was on, but the door was closed and the shades drawn. However, the door to the establishment next door stood ajar—”
“To the tea room?”
“Precisely. I went inside. I heard two people arguing in the museum—the murdered girl and a man.”
“What exactly did you hear?” My blood hummed. A clue! Herb would clear Adele, and we could all relax.
“The woman was shouting about trust. I dislike conflicts, so I left.”
“What did the man say?”
“I didn’t actually hear the person she was shouting at.”
“So it might have been a woman. Or she could have been talking on a cell phone.”
“Hardly. I saw their shapes through the plastic sheeting. One was definitely a man. Quite large.”
“How do you know Christy was the woman?”
“I could see her through the gap in the plastic.” He gestured toward the makeshift barrier to the tea room. The two sheets formed a seamless wall, but I’d seen the plastic billow and fold back like a tent. He could have seen Christy.
“Herb, you need to tell the police.”
His mouth slackened. “Absolutely not.”
“This is a murder investigation. If the police don’t have all the facts, someone may be wrongfully charged.”
“Then you tell the police.” He glanced past my shoulder out the window, and his eyes widened. Turning, he sprinted through the plastic drapes. They whipped around him.
“Hey! You can’t go back there!” I hurried after him, but the tea room was empty. Something clunked to the floor on my right. Dodging power tools and stacks of slate-gray tile, I headed for the hallway that led to the bathroom and the alley. Herb’s slight form vanished out the back door.
There was a shout and Dieter poked his head around the corner of the alleyway door, his hair thick with sawdust. “Who was that?”
“You mean you don’t know him?” I asked, chagrined. All I’d gotten was Herb’s first name.
“Your customers have to stay out of the tea room until construction is done. They might hurt themselves tripping over a cable or something and sue.”
“What about all those guys who’ve been coming to see you?”
“Good point. I’ll ask them to come through the alley from now on.”
I stomped back the way I’d come, brushing through the plastic tarps into the museum.
Detective Laurel Hammer stood in the center of the room, turning slowly and tugging at the wisps of blond hair at the base of her neck. The sleeves of her white blouse were rolled to her elbows, and I detected a flash of blue skin at the edge of one rolled-up sleeve.
Her partner stood beside the counter, engaged in a staring contest with the cat. Without breaking eye contact, the cat reached out a stealthy paw and batted the cuff of his white shirt.
I cleared my throat. “Hello.”
The detective turned from the cat, his look speculative. He unbuttoned his black suit jacket, revealing a plain white shirt, red power tie, and gun on his hip. He pulled a slim wallet from his inside pocket and flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Slate.”
“Nice to meet you.” That was a big fat lie, but I knew enough to be polite. “Can I help you with anything?”
Laurel Hammer grimaced. “You can tell us why you didn’t see fit to inform us about your altercation with the victim last week.”
I raised a brow. “That’s easy. I didn’t have an altercation with her.”
“That isn’t what she told her boyfriend,” she said.
“I can’t help that.”
“She said you threatened her.”
That stopped me. “What?”
“You heard me. What exactly did you threaten her with?”
“Nothing! This is ridiculous. I ran into Christy coming out of the bridal shop last week. She told me she was getting married to Michael St. James. And yes, I reacted.”
“How?” Laurel asked.
“Michael was engaged to Adele last month.” But threaten her? I was baffled.
“So you told her off,” Laurel said.
“No. I might have been a bit of a broken record about him being engaged to someone else a month earlier. But I didn’t threaten her, even if she did provoke me.”
“Provoked you?” Detective Slate asked. “How?”
“She knew I was friends with Adele, and she was flaunting her engagement less than a month after she’d broken up Adele’s. It annoyed me.”
“Enough to kill her?” Laurel asked.
“Come on,” I said.
She bridled. “I suggest you—”
“Tell us where Adele is,” her partner interrupted. “We came here to speak with her.”
“She left to have lunch with her lawyer. I don’t know when or if she’ll be back.”
“Oh, don’t you?” Laurel stepped closer, forcing me to look up.
“No, I don’t. I can call her if you like. Or you can, since I assume as part of your investigation you collected her number.”
“I think you’re covering for her.”
“Why would I do that?”
The bell above the door tinkled, and Adele blew into the room.
“Because she’s right here,” Laurel said.
Adele halted in the open door and tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. Straightening, she pasted on a polite smile. “May I help you?”
I bit my lip. I’m not the sort of person prone to bad feelings, but right now, a sense of badness was raging.
Laurel reached behind her back and pulled a pair of handcuffs from her belt. “You’ll have to come with us. You’re under arrest.” She moved toward Adele and grabbed her wrist.
Adele blanched. Her green purse slipped from her free arm and thunked to the floor.
“What?” I said. “Wait! There was a man who was just in here. He said he heard Christy and a ma
n arguing inside the museum around six o’clock on Thursday.”
“Oh, that’s convenient.” Laurel twisted Adele’s arm behind her back.
Detective Slate cocked his head. “What man?”
“He said his name was Herb. When I suggested he talk to you, he ran out the back door.”
The detective pulled a notepad from his inside breast pocket. “Has this Herb got a last name?”
“He must.” Mouth dry, I clawed a hand through my hair. This couldn’t be happening. “But he didn’t give it to me. He told me he was a collector for the museum. Adele, do you know him?”
She shook her head, eyes wide.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Laurel said in a bored tone.
“A collector?” Slate asked. “If the museum has paid him, his name or contact information may be on your receipts.”
“I’ll look. Does this mean you won’t arrest Adele?”
He lifted his hands and let them fall. “Sorry. But if you find his name, let us know. We’ll follow up.”
The handcuffs clicked shut.
eight
“Do you really need to cuff her?” I babbled, following the two police detectives and Adele into the mid-day sun. It was deceptively bright on this chill winter day. I rubbed my arms.
Laurel reddened, whirling on me.
“That’s okay.” Adele’s smile was tight. “You know silver is my color.”
Silver was definitely not Adele’s color. She wore gold. And maybe platinum.
Putting her hand on Adele’s head, Laurel levered her into the police car.
“Just keep things running here—the remodel and the museum,” Adele said. “And call my fa—”
Laurel shut the car door and glared at me, a vein pulsing in her jaw.
I retreated inside the museum and called Adele’s father to tell him what happened. Terse, he thanked me and hung up.
Feeling helpless, I raked both hands through my hair. I had to do something. Herb. I needed to find Herb. There had to be a record of purchases from him with a telephone number or address.
The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) Page 6
