“Oh. Are you a history buff?”
Slate shrugged. “A Civil War buff. One of my ancestors fought in the United States Colored Troops.”
“You’re kidding. So did one of mine.” I shook my head. “I mean, not in a black regiment. In a Pennsylvania regiment. Though I don’t know if he saw any action …” I trailed off. What had we been talking about? Oh yes, Cora. “Anyway, I’m trying to flesh out my exhibit card on Cora. The Historical Association told me the court records from that era were in your basement. In the police department’s archives, I mean.”
“The archives aren’t available to the public.”
That didn’t seem fair, since the public paid for them. “Isn’t there a way to get permission? Or find someone in the archives who can help me?”
Slate smiled crookedly. “I’ll ask the clerk if there’s anything on that case in the files. If there is, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
The cat meowed at his feet.
“What’s with your cat?”
“GD’s either waiting for you to leave a tip, or he thinks you’re haunted.”
“GD?”
“Ghost Detecting.”
Rolling his eyes, Slate left.
I liked him better than his partner, who seemed to have an irrational dislike of me. I rubbed the back of my neck. Surely she’d grown past her high school “issues” and was only being tough on us because it was her job.
I never could figure out why she’d chosen me as her high school punching bag. I’d been kind of nerdy as a kid—so had Adele and Harper, for that matter. We hadn’t been part of the cool crowd or the jocks. And once high school was over, we’d fled for the farthest colleges that would accept us. I hadn’t seen Laurel since.
The minute hand on the clock over the door edged closer to five o’clock. Near enough to quitting time, I decided. I shut the museum and aimed for home, driving beneath the cement arch that welcomed people to the downtown, past a residential section, and through the vineyards. The lowering sun set the gnarled vines on fire.
Shane sat on the steps to my garage apartment. The outside light made a halo of his golden hair. He huddled in his leather bomber jacket, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee—from my aunt, I guessed.
Furtively, I looked around. Not seeing her, I got out of the car and approached my brother. “Hi, Shane. What’s up?”
“I dropped by to see if you could come to dinner at Mom’s tonight.”
I imagined the scene—the dining room table laden with food from my mother’s favorite restaurant and spiced with questions about my job hunt. “I told her I’d stop by next week,” I hedged.
He shrugged. “She’ll be disappointed, but I’ll tell her you’re busy.”
Ah yes, I’d forgotten the lashings of guilt for dessert. “Next week isn’t that far away.”
“So what are you doing that’s so important?”
“Tonight I’m researching an artifact.”
“Is it possessed? Haunted? Demonic?”
“Just … interesting.” I edged past him.
He rose, following me up the stairs. “By the way, I may have a lead on a job for you at San Francisco Airport. They’re looking for someone to work the VIP circuit. You know, when VIPs arrive, help them get through in style while avoiding the press.”
I couldn’t imagine anything more vomitous than glad-handing a bunch of spoiled celebrities. My blood thrummed. “Thanks. But I’m not interested.”
“Why not? You’d be great for it. You’re worldly, sophisticated, can handle yourself. It would be interesting.”
“Not to me. I hate airports. They smell funny.” I jammed the key in the lock. “Did Mom put you up to this?”
“What?” He pressed his hand to his chest. “No. A friend of mine works at the airport and asked if I knew anyone. I wanted to give you the right of first refusal.” It was an echo of Herb’s words, and my irritation rose.
“Thanks for thinking of me, but I have to refuse.”
“I don’t see what you’re so mad about, Mad.”
“Why do you think I would want to go from managing my own projects to chasing after spoiled celebrities? I used to start up banks.” I guess that was my ego talking, but I liked having some independence and authority. Leaving the keys dangling in the lock, I turned and leaned against the door frame. I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Why would you want to go from managing millions to managing the local paranormal museum?”
“It’s just temporary,” I sputtered. “And what’s wrong with the museum?” At least the museum would be mine. I’d be independent, self-sufficient, answering to no one.
If I bought the museum.
Which I wasn’t going to do. But I was too aggravated to tell that to Shane, and I shouldn’t have been. He was trying to help. “Why do you care?” I asked.
His blue eyes widened. “Your career is up to you. I’m just glad you’re here, what with Mom being alone and all.”
“Because you’re not here?”
He stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” But I had the feeling that my presence in San Benedetto was relieving his guilt at not being around. And that was … annoying. Was I being unfair? Probably, but I’d sort that out later. “Besides, Mom’s hardly helpless.”
“I know that. She’s doing great, all things considered. Look, I’m glad you’re around, and if there’s anything I can do, I want to help. Everyone knows that women are better at handling aging parents.”
“So that is it! Shane, Mom’s fine. Terrifying, actually. But if something happens, I’ll be here for her. Not for your sake, for hers.”
He turned and trotted down the stairs. “Look, do what you want. Be happy. I’m sure you’ll make a success of whatever you do. But you can’t avoid Mom forever.”
“I’m coming to dinner next week,” I shouted to his retreating back.
I went inside, kicking the door shut with my heel, and counted the reasons why he was being annoying and unreasonable. Then I ordered a pizza and got a hard cider out of the refrigerator. So I was having a little trouble figuring out my next career move. Moving home had been a big change. And if I was floundering a little, well, so what? It wasn’t like I was mooching off my relatives …
I gazed around the kitchen of my cut-rate apartment, at the unopened boxes in the living area, the borrowed dishes on the counter. My heart sank. Okay, I was sort of mooching. True, I paid my aunt rent for the above-garage studio. But the rent was low, and it didn’t exactly strike an independent-and-in-charge note.
I needed a job. A real job. But not, I told myself, at the airport chasing after VIPs and politicians. I shuddered. I still had standards.
Booting up my laptop, I checked my emails. Three thank-you-but-no-thank-you’s from various potential employers. I told myself not to take the rejections personally. But when you’re unemployed, every rejection is personal, every drop in your bank account a wrench to the gut. Another reason to knock off all the take-out food. Starting tomorrow. I stuck my thumb beneath the waistband of my jeans and hitched them over my muffin top.
Gnawing my lower lip, I returned my attention to my inbox. On the bright side, there were no emails at all from my first-choice financial services firm. I’d applied for an internationally flavored job there that I knew I’d be perfect for. Even better, their operations were in a mid-sized town on the Peninsula rather than the crowded streets of San Francisco.
I combed through various job websites. By the time the pizza arrived, I was thoroughly depressed, but the scent of spicy tomato sauce and pepperoni lifted my spirits. I picked off a pepperoni. Yes, I was emotional eating. But it really did make me feel better, and one should never job hunt morose.
I checked my email again and deleted a message assuring me I could
make ten thousand dollars a month working from home.
In my last web search, I hadn’t found anything about the murderous Cora McBride, but what about her victim, her husband? I typed his name into the search engine and finally found him in an article about a local feed mill that burned down in 1912. The mill, owned by Zane Donaldson, had previously belonged to “the infamous Martin McBride.” Arson was suspected.
A search for Zane Donaldson rewarded me with a string of articles. He’d been a prominent businessman in the Victorian era, owner of the local paper and a member of the town council. A street was still named after him in downtown San Benedetto. The town had seized the mill in 1900 and Zane, then a councilman, had gained ownership. Convenient.
My cell phone rang, and I reached for it. “Hello?”
“It’s Harper. I talked to that private investigator client of mine.”
I straightened in my seat. “What did he say?”
“He said we need Herb’s last name.”
“If I had his last name, I wouldn’t need an investigator.”
“He also said that under similar circumstances, he’d stake out places the target frequented and try to follow him home. If we can get Herb’s address, we should be able to learn his last name. My detective can also do a trace if we have a license plate or phone number.”
I groaned. “I saw his car go by today but couldn’t get his license plate. I’ll keep looking through the files.” I’d seen some nameless phone numbers scribbled on receipts like they’d been handy scratch pads. Maybe one of those numbers belonged to Herb. “Harper, I don’t suppose your client would reconsider talking to the police about Christy’s blackmail?”
“No. We need to find Herb.”
“Oh, we’ll find him,” I said, grim.
I only hoped finding him would be enough.
eleven
I stood in line with half a dozen other caffeine addicts and waited to pick up Adele’s standing coffee order. The scent of coffee and the whir of an espresso machine filled the air. Idly, I studied the flyers and business cards tacked to the nearby bulletin board. The local high school was doing Oklahoma! and there was a post-holiday discount on yoga classes. I knew I’d never get to either, but with nothing better to do while waiting, I read every word.
The man in front of me turned, and I was face (mine) to chest (his) with Detective Slate in a neat blue suit. He frowned, and my heart flipped over.
“Miss Kosloski. Good morning.”
I yawned. “Is it?”
“Come here often?” His cheeks darkened. It had sounded like a bad pickup line, and I guess he knew it.
“I’m allergic to five-dollar coffees. But Adele always gets coffee for her contractor, and since you’ve put her in jail, I’m picking up the slack.”
My jab bounced off his armor. “Speaking of which, did you find Herb’s last name?” he asked.
“Not yet. Is Herb a suspect?”
“I can’t even prove he exists.”
“But you’re trying? You believe me?”
“That was poorly worded. If you see this Herb again or find his contact information in your files, call me.”
“Nakamoto?” The teenager behind the counter pushed a coffee carrier across the stained quartz. It held three paper cups: mochaccino for me, double espresso for Dieter, and a standard black.
“That’s me,” I said.
The clerk titled his head and stared. “You don’t look like Adele.”
“She asked me to pick up her standing order,” I explained.
“Hmm,” he said, looking skeptical.
I turned back to the detective. He was gone.
I added sugar to my mochaccino, trying to ignore the odd slide of disappointment I felt. Adjusting my grip on the coffee carrier, I strode onto the brick sidewalk.
A film of morning fog coated the sky. The Paranormal Museum was closed today, but I had cats and contractors to feed, and I still hadn’t finished my inventory. It was taking longer than I’d expected, partly due to the poor quality of Chuck’s record keeping and partly because the place was crammed to the rafters with exhibits. More shelves and a table in the main room would do wonders for freeing up space. Not that I had any intention of doing that. I would just manage the museum until Adele could find someone better to take it off her hands.
Assuming Adele got out of jail.
Gloomy, I dug the keys out of my messenger bag one-handed and unlocked the front door of the museum. Masculine shouts echoed off the walls. I nudged the door shut with my hip, locked it behind me, and laid my purse and the coffee carrier on the counter. Grabbing Dieter’s espresso, I followed the raised voices through the tea room and down the short hallway to the open alley door.
Dieter and my next-door neighbor stood toe to toe, faces red, chests puffed out, their shouts overlapping and indecipherable.
Stomach churning, I eyed the men, who were both in jeans and battered T-shirts in spite of the morning chill. Dieter held a hammer in one hand. The motorcycle shop owner’s fists were clenched. Tattoos swirled around his biceps.
“—taking bets,” Motorcycle Man snarled.
“Coffee?” I handed Dieter the cup.
He didn’t break eye contact with his opponent. “Maddie, this jackass—”
“I’m sorry.” I turned to my neighbor. “As you might have heard, Adele, the building owner, was arrested over the weekend. I haven’t had a chance for that discussion I promised. But she sent me a note through her lawyer asking me to manage things here while she’s away, so you and I can discuss it. I’ve got coffee in the museum.”
Without waiting for a response, I returned inside. After a moment, I heard the stomp of his motorcycle boots behind me, and the muscles in my neck relaxed. I held the plastic curtain for him, waving him into the museum.
“I hope black is okay,” I said, handing him the cup. “I forgot to pick up any cream and sugar. Unless you’d prefer a mochaccino?”
“Black is fine.”
“Good.” I only liked coffee when it was diluted with copious amounts of milk, chocolate, and sugar. I took a sip, allowing myself to briefly revel in the zip of caffeine humming through my veins. “About the dumpster and circular saw … I’d like to work this out in a way that doesn’t involve you breaking Adele’s contractor. That would put her remodel behind schedule.”
His lips quirked. “Dieter’s a pain in the butt.”
“But right now he’s my pain in the butt. I’m Maddie Kosloski, by the way.”
He nodded. “Mason Hjelm.”
“What are the best and worst times for him to be using that saw?”
“Before noon is best.”
“Then I’ll make sure he’s not using it after twelve. The dumpster’s a bit trickier.” There wasn’t enough room in the alley for the dumpster without encroaching on some of the motorcycle shop’s space. I outlined the problem. We dickered. And we finally agreed to shift the dumpster as far out of his space as we could, provided he could use the dumpster while it was there.
We shook on it, his calloused hand engulfing my own.
“Thanks,” I said. “So what were you two arguing about?” It might have started with the saw, but Mason had definitely mentioned Dieter’s bookmaking, and I wondered if he was a client.
“The usual.”
At least Mason wasn’t a tattletale. “Is there anything—?” A firm knock on the door silenced me. “Wait a second.” I unlocked the front door and edged out.
A middle-aged woman in jeans and a pale blue pea coat stood on my step, her brown hair flooding from beneath a striped ski cap.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but we’re closed on Mondays.”
“I know.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m Grace with the San Benedetto Ghost Hunters. I have an appointment with Chuck.”
I stepped back and let her
in. “Uh, Chuck sold the museum.” San Benedetto had its own ghost hunting club?
“Oh.” She cleared her throat, her brows drawing together. “We had an agreement that my group would have a ghost hunt here on Monday night, and then on the following Saturday. Is that still on?” She noticed my neighbor, his coffee in hand, and her brown eyes lit up. “Hi, Mason.”
He nodded. “Grace.”
She turned to me. “It would be awful if I had to cancel at the last minute. This is a small building, so we can only get in a few people at a time, and so many of our group want to experience the museum. And we already paid Chuck.”
“Paid him?”
“Fifty dollars a person for the six of us.”
Shaking an imaginary fist at Chuck, I stretched my lips into a smile. If they’d already paid, I was stuck. “Of course you can still have your hunt. What’s your usual arrangement?”
“Chuck let us in at nine o’clock, so we could get organized, go over the rules with the participants, and set up. At one, when we’re finished, Chuck would usually do a quick tour of the premises to make sure everything was okay, and close up.”
I smothered a groan, watching my sleep time slip away, and all for three hundred dollars that I wouldn’t see a penny of. “So you want me here from nine to one?”
“Oh no, not in here. You might taint the findings, and I assume you’re not trained in ghost hunting. Chuck usually left us alone and then came back.”
Wincing, I lowered my chin. “I suppose I could stay out of your way in the tea room.” At night, the tea room’s concrete floor would feel like a slab of ice.
“Great!” Grace pumped my hand. “I’m so glad you’re open to this.” She handed me a thin stack of papers. “Here are the liability waivers. Chuck insisted all the participants sign them in advance.”
“Thanks.” So that’s what the forms were for. I’d seen them in the files I’d gone through, but I’d been clueless about why the museum needed waivers.
GD Cat wandered in, tail held high. Grace drew in her breath. “The cat. He’ll be here tonight as well, won’t he?”
The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) Page 9
