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

by Kirsten Weiss

  I grabbed the dolls. “Out! Get out!”

  Sam skittered from the museum.

  Smirking, Dieter tumbled his dolls onto an empty shelf in the doll room and left me to sort them out. Part of me wished Sam would take them away, but there was a principle involved. People couldn’t move exhibits around the museum willy-nilly. That was my job.

  I replaced the dolls and checked my messages. Grace from the ghost hunters group had called to remind me about the hunt tonight. I groaned. Did I have to be here to let them in and see them out?

  I gazed at the plastic curtains, imagined Dieter’s mess of tools and supplies in the tea room. Yes, I had to be here. Too many weird things were going on at the museum. There would be no rest for the wicked or, apparently, for the Paranormal Museum’s manager.

  Straightening my shoulders, I strode into the tea room.

  Dieter stood on a ladder, patching a hole in a wall. “So do you want me to turn that room into a gallery or not?” he asked. “It wouldn’t take much—just clear the place out, install new flooring, and spruce up the walls. And installing a few more shelves in the main room is a snap. I could do it over a weekend, if I brought in help.”

  “I’m still thinking about it.” I paused. “I ran into Detective Hammer yesterday.”

  He twisted, bracing his elbows on the top of the ladder. “And?”

  “She suggested you might have been responsible for the Christmas Cow arson.”

  He scratched his face, leaving a smear of white. “Well, that wasn’t very neighborly.”

  “She also implied that you had help—from a woman.”

  “I get it. You think it might have been Christy.”

  I raised my hands in a pacifying gesture. “Hey, I’m only telling you what she said.” This might not have been the best time to pick a fight with him. Not with so many blunt instruments lying around. I eyed the hammer balanced across a paint-splattered plastic bucket.

  “Thanks for the heads-up.” Dieter grunted and turned his back on me, scraping a metal spatula across the bare wall.

  Since I couldn’t figure out a subtle way to push the issue, I retreated to the museum side of the building. Back at my counter, I pulled out a yellow pad. What if I really did turn the Creepy Doll Room into a gallery? I began figuring cost per square foot and sales, handing out tickets between calculations. I wasn’t convinced a gallery would be enough to justify the space, but if I also used a corner of that room as a miniature museum shop …

  Something tapped the top of my sneakers. I looked down.

  GD Cat batted my shoe laces with a stealthy paw.

  I returned to my deep thoughts. Unlike the museum, a gallery with rotating exhibits would bring in repeat business.

  The cat nipped my ankle and streaked into the Fortune Telling Room.

  Someone rapped on the counter.

  I jerked my head up, startled.

  Grinning, Mason draped his muscular arms over the top of the cash register. “What are you working on?”

  “Some back-of-the-envelope budgeting.” The sight of the big blond with the old-fashioned register was almost too much. I cleared my throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “You’ve got another ghost hunt tonight. I came by to see if you wanted to stay at my place again.”

  And how. But I remembered his hand on Sarah’s back last night. Mason was a friendly guy. I wasn’t sure if this was a pity invite or …

  well, I wasn’t sure what it was. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “As long as you’re bringing dinner, we’re good. By the way, I feel like Chinese tonight.”

  I pushed the yellow pad across the counter. “Place your order here.”

  He pulled a pen from the back pocket of his jeans and scribbled on the paper. “And don’t forget the beer.”

  “I’m not a complete rube.”

  “Sarah and Coroner Doug couldn’t stop talking about you and the museum.”

  “That’s nice. Have you known Sarah long?”

  “Since we were kids. She’s my cousin. Why? Are you jealous?”

  The phone beside the counter rang, and I lunged for it.

  “I’ll wait,” Mason said.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  “Maddie, it’s Sam. I wanted to apologize for my behavior this morning. I thought we were okay with the taxidermy exhibit, but now I realize I’d heard what I wanted to hear. I’m sorry.”

  GD wandered up to Mason and rubbed against his black jeans. Mason bent and ruffled the cat’s fur.

  “It’s okay,” I said to Sam. “I was just startled.”

  “Then will you think about the exhibit? I’ve been talking to some people, and I think I could get a good crowd.”

  “I’m running some numbers on the space now. Let me get back to you.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I hung up.

  “Another scheme?”

  “Please. I don’t scheme. I plan.”

  “Tell me all about it tonight.” Mason winked, sending my pulse into overdrive. He strolled out the front door, and I tried not to stare at his departing butt. He was only being a friendly neighbor.

  I returned to my budgeting, calculating three different scenarios: optimistic, average, and pessimistic. I preferred the first, but who knew what the actual result would be? If I made an offer for the museum to Adele, any way I played this would be a risk. The spirit cabinet was worth a lot of money, and there were some other high ticket items in the Fortune Telling Room. I’d have to pay Adele fair market value for the collection, invest in some upgrades, and figure out a solution to the missing bathroom. My stomach fluttered, and I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or excitement. Was I crazy?

  At five o’clock, I flipped the sign on the door to Closed and returned to my spot in front of the computer. GD Cat leapt onto the rocking chair and curled into a ball, his green eyes fixed on me.

  Packing away my budget, I fooled around on the Internet. It made little sense to go home when the ghost hunters would be here at nine o’clock.

  The light faded.

  I shifted on my stool, crossing and uncrossing my ankles, hating the fluorescents with their yellowish, flickering light.

  The plastic curtains rustled.

  I swiveled in my seat.

  Dieter stuck his head through. “I’m headed home. See you Monday.”

  “Great. Enjoy your weekend.” I sketched a wave, and he disappeared into the tea room. A few minutes later the back door slammed shut, followed by the metallic clicks of the door locking.

  I looked at the cat. “Guess it’s just you and me.”

  GD yawned.

  I browsed my favorite news sites. Nothing good was happening in the world. Staying informed could be a real downer. Hoping for lighter fare, I checked the local paper. The Paranormal Museum’s planned courtroom re-creation headlined the Internet version of the paper as well.

  There was a metallic clatter from the tea room.

  I froze.

  GD stared at the plastic curtains, his ears swiveling.

  “It’s probably nothing.” My voice echoed in the deserted museum.

  The cat sneezed, contemptuous.

  “Fine. I’ll go check, if it will put your mind at ease.”

  GD stared, his emerald eyes daring me.

  “I said I’d go.” Sliding off the stool, I sidled along the wall to the curtained entry to the tea room, straining my ears.

  Outside, a car hummed past, its lights sending shadows flitting across the exhibits.

  I swallowed. I was being ridiculous. No one could be inside the tea room. Dieter had left. He’d locked the door behind him. And if someone had broken in, surely I’d have heard it. I was only scaring myself.

  I wrenched back the curtains. No one barreled out of the darkness, axe swinging. I re
ached around the wall, fumbled for the light, and switched it on. The overhead fluorescents flickered, steadied.

  The room was empty.

  Of course it was empty. I walked inside, and my foot caught. Something clanked on the cement floor. A hammer. I picked it up.

  It must have fallen from the top of the upside-down bucket nearby. I returned it to its place and walked back into the museum.

  GD looked up in expectation.

  “See? No one there. Sometimes things just fall over.”

  His whiskers twitched.

  There’s no reasoning with cats, so I returned to the computer.

  The room chilled. The drop in temperature was probably due to the setting sun, my pebbling skin a result of the icy atmosphere. But I couldn’t shake my unease.

  GD hissed. He rose, arching his back, the fur standing on end, and stared at the entrance to the Creepy Doll Room.

  Right. Time to go. I almost felt guilty leaving GD inside, but I knew better than to try to tuck him under my arm. He’d shred my skin with those long claws.

  I scurried out the door, leaving the light on so I wouldn’t have to fumble around in the dark when I returned.

  I walked down the street to the Book Cellar, a combo wine bar (in the basement) and bookstore (upstairs). Its carpeted aisles were devoid of bibliophiles. I ran my fingers along the books’ colorful spines. I loved my e-reader, but I felt we were losing something to technology: a slower pace, true leisure, the scent of paper and ink.

  I bought a mystery novel, took it downstairs, and ordered a glass of local zin. Tucking myself into a quiet corner, I was soon engrossed in the travails of an English village with a shockingly high body count.

  Forty minutes before my “date” with Mason, I walked to the Wok and Bowl and shouted my order over the clatter of falling bowling pins and 1950s rock. The cashier took my money and spun to the kitchen window, her poodle skirt flaring. Taking my receipt, I sat down to wait.

  I didn’t see anyone I knew at the Wok and Bowl. What would it be like to run into friends on the street, to get to know the local business owners? I could be part of a community rather than just passing through. There was nothing stopping me from that but my own laziness.

  I picked up my order and walked down the street. The bag of Chinese food was fragrant, warm against my chest. A bag holding two bottles of Tsingtao beer swung at my side.

  I walked past the museum. GD Cat sat backlit in the window, his whiskers twitching.

  Ignoring him, I walked around the block to the alley and trotted up the steps to Mason’s apartment. He opened the door as I raised my hand to knock.

  “Get in,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about general chicken all day.”

  “Flatterer.” I handed him the food.

  He set the bags on the dining table and strode into the kitchen, his movements fluid. “How’s Adele doing lately?”

  “I’m not sure.” I realized I hadn’t seen her today, which was strange given the construction work at her future tea room. “I thought Michael’s death would clear her. She was in jail when he was murdered, after all. But she says the cops suspect she might have had an accomplice.”

  Mason emerged with plates in one hand. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

  “No. There are better suspects than Adele. And why is someone so interested in the Paranormal Museum?” I walked to the back window and angled my head. Past the dumpster, the alley door to the tea room was barely visible.

  An idea bloomed in my mind. “I’ve disturbed one intruder. And it seemed like someone was trying to break in the other night. Plus, Dieter said he thought someone had moved his tools when he wasn’t there. It’s too much of a coincidence. The break-in at the museum and Christy’s murder have to be connected.”

  “You’re thinking there might be something inside that the killer wants?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.” Laurel hadn’t much liked this theory. Detective Slate hadn’t said much, but he was a hard guy to read. I thought he’d blown off my lead on Herb, but he’d followed up on it after all.

  “What you need is motive. Not for the break-in—that could be anything. For Christy’s death.”

  “But nearly everyone had a motive,” I said. Crossing the living area, I peered out the front window and checked for the ghost hunters. The wide sidewalk in front of the museum was empty, lit by the glow of a streetlamp. “Christy humiliated Sam, her ex-boyfriend. And she might have been blackmailing Dieter over the …” I was about to say the Christmas Cow, but it didn’t seem right to throw Laurel’s suspicions around. “Over his side gig as a bookie. Plus I heard that Christy liked holding information over people. Who knows how many people she blackmailed?”

  “Yeah, but how did she get inside the museum? And why was she there?”

  “I suspect she let herself inside. Michael had a key. She could have gotten it from him—who knows why? They were a couple at the time and Christy said they were engaged. Maybe he gave her the key to return to Adele, or maybe Dieter let her in.”

  Mason grunted. “My advice? Stick to your nineteenth-century murder and let the cops take care of this one.”

  “But one of the cops in charge blames me for ruining her youth and is out for payback. They already arrested Adele once. The police are looking for the easy answer, not the correct one.”

  Below me, a woman with a large orange duffel bag approached on the sidewalk.

  “There’s Grace,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I hurried down the stairs and let her inside the museum. We went over the ground rules, which hadn’t changed (stay out of the tea room), and I returned upstairs. Mason sat on his black leather couch, his bare feet on the coffee table, a plate of general chicken and white rice on his lap.

  He took a swig of Tsingtao from the bottle. “The spring rolls were a nice touch.”

  “You didn’t eat them all?” I did a double take, scanning the pile of white boxes for the spring rolls. I love spring rolls.

  He chuckled. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I stuck to my share.”

  “Good.” I piled my plate with food. Cracking apart a pair of wooden chopsticks, I joined him on the couch.

  “So, Nancy Drew, what’s next in your investigation?”

  “You’ve given me an idea. I think … I’ve figured out how to set a trap for the killer.”

  He sat up. “I meant what was next in the nineteenth-century investigation. You can’t seriously—”

  “I’m serious as a heart attack. It will be perfectly safe.”

  I had no idea how wrong I would be.

  twenty-four

  Sleepy-eyed, yawning, I dragged myself from my bed. Keeping me awake when I want to go to sleep is the quickest way to infuriate me, and last night’s ghost hunt had been punishing. I felt torn. The extra cash wasn’t really worth it, but Grace’s group promoted the hunts, and that meant PR for the museum.

  I stumbled around the kitchen, squinting at the sunlight sparkling off the appliances. As Mason had pointed out last night, another murder (mine) at the museum would also be good PR, but that didn’t make it a good idea. But when I fleshed out my plan, he admitted he couldn’t see the harm as long as there was a free meal in it for him.

  He was humoring me.

  I didn’t care. My plan was brilliant.

  I slipped into jeans and a soft sweater and left for the Paranormal Museum.

  GD sat by the door, meowing. It was breakfast he wanted, not my company, but guilt stabbed me for abandoning him last night. I poured cat food into his metal bowl and freshened his water. Rubbing my hands, I turned on the heat.

  Last night I’d checked to make sure the ghost hunters had left things in good condition. But I speedwalked through the museum anyway, checking for anything out of place. The creepy dolls didn’t look any less ghoulish in dayli
ght. The Fortune Telling Room appeared undisturbed.

  I aimed the planchette on the Ouija board to YES and headed for the main room. In the doorway, a wall of cold struck me. My feet stumbled and dragged to a halt.

  The cat looked up from his bowl.

  A blanket of quiet fell, smothering the outside sounds of cars, pedestrians, birds. The silence buckled my knees, thickened the air. The museum seemed to fold inward, listening, waiting.

  It was happening again. What “it” was I didn’t know, but I wasn’t scared. Whatever was happening felt cold, yes, but also desperate, desolate. A woman sobbed, and I wasn’t sure if the sound had come from within me or without.

  Something slipped from the top of the counter, and sounds rushed back. A bicycle bell. A shout. The swish of car tires. The paper fluttered to the floor.

  Trudging across the room, I stooped, picked it up, knowing what it would be. Cora and Martin McBride stared grimly from their portrait. The frame on the opposite wall hung empty.

  “I believe you didn’t kill Martin,” I said in a low voice. “But I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”

  GD buried his head in the bowl, and the sound of his needlelike teeth breaking kibble resumed.

  I glanced out the window to make sure that reality outside was proceeding as usual. Two women huddled on the sidewalk, looking hopefully at the museum door.

  Feeling a sudden need for human company, I opened early and sold them tickets. I reviewed my inventory. It was complete. With the exception of some of the antiques in the Fortune Telling Room—and they were big exceptions—the other objects held little financial value. I could afford to buy the museum.

  And yes, I wanted to.

  I didn’t want to work for someone else again. When I’d been overseas, I’d been far enough away from HQ to have some measure of autonomy, independence. I wanted that back. I wanted to live here, in my hometown. I wanted a business of my own.

  Adele swished through the door. Her pink alligator-skin heels clicked on the checkerboard tiles. A cream-colored tulip skirt fluttered about her bare legs. She buttoned her Jackie Kennedy–style jacket. “Brrr. It’s cold in here!”

  “I think it’s the concrete floors from the tea room—they’re a natural icebox.”