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

by Kirsten Weiss

  It was a good question, but with Adele still on the hook, it wasn’t something I felt like exploring. “The usual. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Adele’s only got one out of three. This doesn’t seem like the time for navel gazing.”

  Harper sighed. “Fine. Back to the problem at hand. You said you wanted to tell me something more about Herb?”

  I told her how he’d heard Christy say, “You dug your own grave.” When I finished, Harper said, “It sounds like Christy was taunting the person.”

  “Blackmail?” I suggested. “Could she have known about Dieter’s extracurricular activities as a bookie and threatened to go to the cops?”

  “The contractor? Did Adele give him a key so he could let himself in to the tea shop?”

  “Of course she did.” Dieter could have gotten into the museum to kill Christy. But he didn’t seem like the sort to get too fussed about the cops. How much trouble could he get into for bookmaking? In his mind, was it blackmail-worthy? “Another possibility is that she was telling off Michael. A lovers’ quarrel.”

  “Michael?” Harper’s brow furrowed. “I guess that could explain what she was doing in the museum. He might have a key.”

  “He wasn’t on my key collection to-do list.” Digging it from my pocket, I smoothed it on the rough table, and my heart plummeted. “Oh no.” Why hadn’t I figured it out sooner? “The ‘etcetera.’ I thought someone else might have a key. Could it be …?”

  Harper met my gaze.

  “Michael,” we said together.

  “It makes sense he’d have one,” Harper said. “Adele considered the building both of theirs—until she caught him with Christy. But why not just write his name down on your list? Why ‘etc.’?”

  “Could Adele be protecting him? I overheard her tell the police that Dieter and the Visitors Bureau had keys. She didn’t mention Michael.”

  “I suppose Dieter could be the ‘etc.,’” Harper said. “Maybe Adele wants his key back?”

  “I can’t imagine why. He still needs to get in there every day for the remodel. And she didn’t include ‘let Dieter into the building’ on my list. If he gave up his key, someone would need to let him inside.”

  Harper ran her gaze over the list. “This list is pretty thorough.”

  “But the police found a key with Christy,” I said. “If that key was Michael’s, Adele would have guessed that. She wouldn’t have put it on the list.”

  “If it was Michael’s. And are you sure Adele would have assumed Christy had Michael’s key? She’s been under a lot of stress.”

  “I need to talk to him,” I said. Michael couldn’t stand me—this was not going to be fun. But I pulled out my smart phone and did an online search for his office number. “Here goes nothing.”

  I dialed. To my surprise Michael, rather than a receptionist, picked up.

  “Michael St. James here.”

  “Michael, it’s Maddie, Adele’s friend.” I made a face at myself. He knew who I was. “She asked me to get the key to the museum and tea shop from you.”

  There was a long silence. “I don’t have it.”

  “But did you have it?”

  “I don’t see that that’s any of your business.”

  It wasn’t a denial. I bit my bottom lip. “Do the police know you had a key?”

  “I didn’t … Look, I can’t talk. I’m with someone.” He hung up.

  What did he say?” Harper asked.

  “He didn’t deny it, and he hung up on me.”

  “Guilty conscience?”

  “He was with a client, so maybe not. But it’s suspicious. If he had a key, he could have had just as much motive and opportunity as Adele. And we know he was in the area—he stopped by the Bell and Brew that night when we were there. It’s a short walk to the museum from there.”

  A gray-haired Asian man walked out of the barn and waved to us. Mr. Nakamoto. Shrugging into a navy suit jacket, he strode across the lawn. “Madelyn. Harper, I’m glad I caught you. I’m sorry, but I have to cancel our appointment today. There’s been a development in Adele’s case.”

  I straightened. “A development?”

  “The police have found new evidence.” He paused and blinked rapidly. “It isn’t in Adele’s favor. I have a meeting with her lawyer. Harper, may we reschedule?”

  “Of course,” she said. “If there’s anything we can do, please let us know. And please tell Adele we’re here for her.”

  He nodded and hurried to a vanilla-colored Cadillac parked beside an outbuilding.

  “That doesn’t sound good.” Brushing the crumbs from her slacks, Harper stood. “I should go with you.”

  “Go with me?”

  “To talk to Michael. Let’s face it. He’s a Class A weasel. It’ll take the two of us to get him to talk. And if he is a killer, best you don’t go by yourself.”

  “Now?” I glanced at my watch. I didn’t want to go at all.

  “My after-lunch appointment canceled. You said Michael was in his office. If we leave now, we might catch him before he goes to lunch.”

  I lowered my head, studying her. “You know where he works?”

  “He’s a CPA. I’m a financial planner. We share clients. He’s got a little office downtown.”

  In other words, not far from the museum. It was a small downtown. “Fine.” I finished my wine, savoring the plum, tobacco, and black pepper flavors. Take that, Napa Valley! “I’ll follow you.”

  We caravaned downtown. Harper led my truck into a rear parking lot behind a two-story brick building.

  She stepped from her BMW and pointed. “Entrance in the back.”

  We trooped up a narrow flight of stairs to a glass door with Michael’s name on it. Harper grasped the handle. It turned easily, and we entered a reception room. Watercolor prints of vineyards and fog-covered mountains decorated the cream-colored walls. The carpet was forest green, and the abandoned reception desk a dark, heavy walnut. A bouquet of wilted flowers drooped, dropping yellow and pink petals on the polished wood.

  “The door’s unlocked, so Michael must still be in the office.” Harper cocked her head. “I don’t hear anyone. Maybe his appointment has left.”

  I moved to one of the chairs lined up firing-squad style against the wall, expecting to settle in for a wait.

  Harper took off down a hallway.

  “Harper,” I hissed, and trotted after her.

  “Never underestimate the power of surprise,” she said in a low voice, stopping in front of a wooden door. She knocked and pushed it open.

  Michael sprawled on the rug. The wound in his head turned the green carpet black.

  fifteen

  The office tilted, and my brain scrambled to compensate. The blood, the body—it looked too much like Christy’s murder. I shook myself, trying to order my thoughts. Basic first aid: assess the situation, ensure your own safety, call 911. What came after those three steps, I’d long forgotten.

  Dropping to my knees in the thick green carpet, I felt for a pulse in Michael’s neck. There was none. An egg-shaped glass paperweight lay on the floor by his head.

  “Call the—” I started to say “police,” but when I looked over my shoulder, Harper was dialing, her lips pinched together, grim.

  “Is he …?”

  “I think he’s dead.” I pressed my fingers deeper into the side of his still-warm neck, praying I was wrong, knowing I wasn’t.

  She nodded and stepped into the hall, as if to give us privacy.

  I reached for the paperweight. Fingertips inches from what was no doubt the murder weapon, I mentally slapped myself. The glass egg was mesmerizing, with red and blue spirals floating inside it like smoke … and no blood, no hair. Had the killer cleaned it off? Assuming this was Michael’s paperweight, the crime must have been spontaneous. I couldn’t imagine someone b
ringing a heavy glass egg along as a weapon. The urge to pick it up was nearly overwhelming. I resisted and stood, jamming my hands in my pockets.

  I glanced at the closed closet door to the left of Michael’s desk, looked over my shoulder at the open door behind me, and licked my lips. The closed door seemed threatening. Outside, Harper’s voice was a soft murmur. I didn’t want to stay in that room alone, but it felt wrong to leave Michael.

  Harper stuck her head inside, her face pale. “The police said not to touch anything, and to wait in the lobby.”

  I nodded and followed her into the waiting room. She gripped her phone in both hands, sitting with her feet firmly planted, legs apart, ready to launch.

  I edged into the chair beside her. “When I called Michael, he was with someone. He didn’t say if it was a man or woman.”

  “At least Adele’s off the hook for this one.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But this is the second body you’ve found in a week,” she said. “The police will have to wonder.”

  “Yeah.” My lunch was doing unpleasant things in my stomach. I scrubbed a hand over my face. Was Harper wondering about me as well? And why shouldn’t she? We’d been friends for years, yes, but we hadn’t seen each other much in the last five. She’d changed. So had I. Bile rose in my throat. “At least we’ve been together since the time I spoke with him.”

  Her jaw set. “Unless you were pretending to talk to him.”

  I stared. She couldn’t really think I was a killer?

  She shook her head. “Sorry. Of course you didn’t.”

  I swallowed. “No. It’s logical. But there will be phone records, won’t there? Of me calling and someone on this end picking up? The police will check, I’m sure.”

  But was I so sure? They’d arrested Adele, and my faith in law enforcement was eroding. They seemed to stop at the most obvious answer, looking no further for suspects. Someone had picked up on Michael’s end, but not necessarily Michael. I could have called an accomplice who’d killed Michael earlier and then waited for a phone call, fudging the time of death. Would the police see it the same way?

  “He told you he was meeting with a client?” Harper asked.

  “No, he just said he was meeting with ‘someone.’ It might not have been a client.”

  “But you told me it was a client.”

  “My imagination was embroidering. He didn’t specify.”

  Harper crossed her legs, bouncing one over her knee, lips pursed. “So we were wrong. Michael didn’t kill Christy.”

  So who had? Michael had been an ideal suspect, particularly since he was so dislikable. He never denied having the key. In fact, he’d left me with the distinct impression that he’d had it at one point.

  Footsteps pounded up the concrete stairs and the door flew open. Cops poured into the cramped waiting room—Detective Slate with a couple uniforms. Laurel Hammer followed, crisp in a white blouse and khakis, her expression tight.

  Slate pointed at me. “Stay.” He strode past us and down the hallway, the coattails of his black suit jacket flapping.

  Laurel glanced at the uniformed cops and nodded to the front door. One positioned himself beside it, a sentry preventing our

  escape. Lip curling, I looked away. If we’d wanted to escape, we’d already have fled.

  Paramedics jogged into the office. At a word from the cop by the door, they disappeared into the hallway. Five minutes later they returned to the waiting room. They leaned against a wall, speaking quietly.

  So Michael didn’t need medical help. I’d known this, but my throat tightened. I’d never been a Michael fan, but this … this would kill Adele.

  The detectives emerged. Laurel crooked her finger at me.

  I rose, feeling three hundred pounds heavier. She led me into the stairwell, her expression grim. Through the glass door, I saw Slate speaking with Harper, their voices muted.

  “What happened?” Laurel rolled up a sleeve of her blouse, as if preparing to beat out a confession.

  “Adele asked me to collect the keys to the museum that were floating around. I thought Michael might have one, so Harper and I came to collect it. When we got here, we found the door unlocked and Michael dead.”

  She rolled up her other sleeve, exposing a dark sliver of tattoo. “Why did you think Michael had a key?”

  I glanced down the concrete stairwell. It strobed blue with reflected light from the emergency vehicles outside. “The building was a wedding present. I figured both Michael and Adele might have keys. When I called him around lunchtime, he didn’t deny it. He said he was with someone and hung up on me. I was having lunch with Harper at the time, at the Plot 42 winery. Mr. Nakamoto saw us.” The blue strobes were making me dizzy.

  Laurel smiled, her gaze predatory. “So he didn’t tell you he had a key. What time—exactly—did you call him?”

  I pulled my cell phone from my jacket pocket. “Twelve forty-seven. The call lasted less than a minute or two.”

  “Did he say who he was meeting with?”

  I shook my head. “But at least it’s obvious Adele couldn’t have done it, or killed Christy either.”

  She canted her head. “Obvious?”

  “She’s in jail. And the two killings must be connected. Michael and Christy were lovers, and now they’ve both been murdered with the same MO within days of each other. It must be the same killer.”

  “MO?” Laurel smirked. “You’ve been reading too many mystery novels. And right now the only common denominator between the killings is you.”

  “Me?” My voice went up an octave. I cleared my throat.

  “You were on the scene when both bodies were found.”

  “But I was with Harper when I talked to Michael on the phone. We were together the whole time after that. Mr. Nakamoto saw us!”

  “So you say.”

  “Check my phone!” I waved it at her.

  She grabbed my wrist. In a flash I was on the ground, arm wrenched upward, face mashed into the cold cement, something hard—Laurel’s knee?—wedged between my shoulder blades. Heat flushed through my body as memories of Laurel the high school bully flashed through my head. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself not to struggle, not to give her an excuse to snap my wrist. The pressure on it was unbearable.

  “Now you’re just overreacting,” I gasped. I knew it would madden her, but I’d reverted to high school. Thoughtless.

  She twisted. Pain sparked from my wrist to my shoulder. The phone clattered from my hand.

  A pair of polished men’s shoes came to stand before me. “What’s going on?” Slate asked.

  “She made an aggressive move toward me,” Laurel said.

  “I was showing you my—” Her knee pressed downward, flattening my lungs.

  Slate picked up the phone I’d dropped. “Your phone? Why?”

  “She claims she called the victim while she was with Ms. Caldarelli.”

  “That’s what Ms. Caldarelli says as well. If you’ve finished the interview, I think you can let her up,” he said mildly.

  The pressure released.

  I stumbled to my feet, brushing the dirt from my cheek.

  “May I?” he asked, holding up my phone.

  I nodded, rubbing my wrist.

  He thumbed through my phone log. “I see a call from twelve forty seven to this number. It looks like it lasted less than a minute. Make a note of that, Detective.”

  Harper barreled into the stairwell, her chin high, her breath noisy. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Laurel muttered.

  “Don’t leave town, Miss Kosloski, Miss Caldarelli,” Slate said. “We may have more questions for you.”

  Taking my arm, Harper steered me down the stairs. “Well, you know where to find us,” she tossed over her shoulder. When we were back in the parking lot, she
said, “What happened? One minute you were talking to Laurel, and the next she was on top of you. What’s with her?”

  Muscles quivering, I rolled my shoulder and shook out my damaged wrist. “Laurel Hammer was responsible for the single most humiliating moment of my life,” I said. “Ever. If anything, I should be the one who doesn’t like her. And for the record, I don’t.”

  “What made her snap today?”

  “I was showing her my phone. She interpreted it as a threatening gesture.”

  Harper snorted. “If she finds you threatening, then she’s not much of a cop.”

  That was what worried me.

  sixteen

  My shoulder burned the next day. Sitting behind the counter of the Paranormal Museum, I rubbed the ache, plotting revenge I knew I’d never take. Laurel Hammer was a bad cop. She wasn’t interested in finding out who the killer was unless it was Adele or Harper or myself. Helpless rage bubbled inside me, and it wasn’t getting me anywhere. I blew out my breath. Enough.

  Morning sunlight streamed across the faded pages of a Victorian-

  era book on dream interpretation. I was still working on the inventory, but had gotten distracted looking up symbols from last night’s dream. Dreaming of attending school foretold advancement and good fortune; the book didn’t say anything about being late and unable to find my class or my locker. Did they have lockers in 1862?

  A middle-aged couple walked in and picked up a wine tasting map. We talked tasting rooms, and I told them which were free and which not.

  “Thanks,” the woman said, shooting a look at her … husband? Boyfriend? I decided I didn’t care enough to puzzle it out and sold them two tickets.

  “If you have any questions, feel free to ask,” I called as they strolled into the Creepy Doll Room.

  The bell above the door tinkled and a man walked in, his face hidden by the giant cardboard box he gripped in his bony hands. He wore rumpled khakis. All I could see of his head was the shock of sandy hair protruding over the top of the box. I imagined a scarecrow had stumbled out of the cornfields and into the museum.