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

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Dieter said he’d get started on the flooring next week,” Adele said. “Soon they’ll be covered in bamboo and throw rugs.”

  “Have you given any thought to the bathroom issue we talked about?” I asked.

  “Some.”

  Roger nudged open the door behind her, a box filled with tiny cans of paint in his arms. He grunted. “Where do you want this?”

  “Just put it on the counter for now,” Adele said.

  “You’ve got your lawyer acting as a bellhop?” I asked. “Is he charging by the hour?”

  Roger wiped his palms on his slacks. “I was passing by and wanted to see how the remodel was going. What can I say? I’m nosy.”

  “Roger owns a slew of commercial properties,” Adele said. “His advice has been invaluable. And he recommended Dieter.”

  “About Dieter,” I said. “I was wondering if I could buy his services on Monday and Tuesday? He said two days is all it would take to convert the Creepy Doll Room into a gallery space and do some work in here as well. I’ve even got an exhibit lined up. I know it would be taking time away from your remodel, but of course I’ll—”

  Adele waved away my concerns. “He’s yours. He’s finished the bathrooms, and there’s been a delay in shipping some of the supplies, so it’s going to be a light week for him anyway.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to do a complete clear-out of the doll room and reorganize the rest of the space.”

  She eyed me hopefully. “Does that mean—?”

  A young couple walked through the door. Relieved, I turned to deal with them. Scheduling Dieter’s work on the gallery had little

  to do with my future plans for the museum, and everything to do with my plans to catch a killer. What can I say? I’m a multitasker.

  By the time I’d finished answering the visitors’ questions, Roger and Adele had disappeared into the tea room with the paint.

  I called Dieter.

  “Yeah?”

  “Adele has said it’s okay for you to work on the museum Monday and Tuesday,” I said. “Are you still up for it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bill me directly.”

  “Okay.”

  Hanging up, I called Sam to give him the news, hoping for more enthusiasm. I got it.

  “Really?” he said. “We can? That’s terrific!”

  I moved the receiver away from my ear. “I’m looking forward to it too.”

  “Can I help?”

  If he helped, it would ruin my plan to catch the killer. “Aren’t Monday and Tuesday workdays for you?”

  “Oh. Yeah. You’re right.” Then Sam’s voice brightened. “I can come over today to help with the pre-remodel clean out.”

  “No, but thanks.”

  “But—”

  “No.” My cunning plan depended on my suspect not having access to the museum until I was ready.

  Like I said—brilliant.

  “Oh well,” Sam said. “That’s still great news. Hey, I’ve got to go, but let’s talk promotion for my showing soon!” He clicked off.

  I was marinating in smugness when Harper strolled through the door.

  She gave me a cheery wave. “Hey, girl! Adele asked me to drop by and give her my opinion on paint colors.”

  Why hadn’t Adele asked my opinion on the paint colors? I pointed with my pencil toward the tea room. “She’s still in there with Roger.”

  “Thanks.” Harper tilted her head to the side. “Something’s different.”

  “Not really.”

  “Can’t you feel it? That sense of … I don’t know. Waiting for something to happen.”

  I shifted on my seat. It creaked beneath me. “That’s strange. I was thinking the same thing when I opened the place up this morning.”

  “Then you feel it too?”

  I shrugged. “I thought I did, but not anymore.”

  “Maybe you’ve just gotten used to it. Has something changed?”

  “Not yet, but Dieter and I are going to turn the Creepy Doll Room into a gallery space on Monday and Tuesday, and do some work here in the main room as well.”

  She knit her brows. “A renovation can disturb spirits.” She shook her head. “But you haven’t done anything here yet, so that can’t be what’s caused the change.”

  “Harper? Is that you?” Adele shouted from next door.

  “Duty calls.” Harper flashed a grin and disappeared into the tea room.

  Rummaging in the drawer beneath the register, I found a piece of faded yellow construction paper. In thick, black felt pen, I wrote, Closed for Renovations, Monday & Tuesday. Even though the museum was always closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, the sign was part of my plan.

  I taped it in the window beside my tackiest museum “award.”

  Roger wandered out of the tea room, a pained expression on his face. “This is why I hire people for this sort of work.” He gave an approving nod to the apple on my desk. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Sketching a wave, he left.

  I wished I had some nachos.

  Adele and Harper sauntered into the museum.

  I swiveled toward Adele. “Why don’t you want my opinion about the paint colors?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You run a paranormal museum.”

  “That doesn’t mean all my taste is in my mouth.”

  “Harper and I thought we’d have lunch here,” Adele said, “and give you a break. Unless you’d like to stay for lunch, in which case, we’re ordering Thai.”

  I grabbed my purse before they could change their minds. “Thanks. I’ve got an errand to run.”

  “That meeting with Ladies Aid?” Adele said.

  “Why are you meeting with Ladies Aid?” Harper asked.

  “I’m not. I mean, I am, but not right now. Enjoy your lunch!” I hustled out the door and down the street.

  The Historical Association was in a white-painted Victorian at the edge of San Benedetto’s version of Old Town. I walked up the porch steps and into a cool hallway. Sunlight from the window above the door glinted off wood floors, and the scent of lemon polish hung heavy in the air. To the right was a closed wooden door marked Office.

  I knocked.

  “Come in,” a woman trilled.

  I went inside.

  A white-haired woman looked up and smiled. She wore a tight fuchsia sweater, which had an embroidered spray of lilacs over her left breast pointing toward her heart. “What can I do for you?”

  I extended my hand. “My name is Madelyn Kosloski. I think we spoke on the phone.”

  “Miss Kosloski! Thank you so much for your donation. I’m Harriet Jones, and I enjoyed the research. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to turn up more.”

  “Is your library open to the public today?” I asked. “I was thinking of broadening my search to get a better sense of what was happening in San Benedetto during that period.”

  She rose and walked around the desk. “I’d be happy to help you find what you’re looking for.” She took me down the hall to a room with bay windows that overlooked a lush garden. Bookshelves and wooden filing cabinets lined the walls. A plain walnut table anchored a floral rug in the center of the room. The room smelled, oddly enough, of cherry pipe tobacco, the same kind my father had smoked, and the memory walumphed me in the gut.

  “Most of our materials are organized by date,” she said.

  “Oh? Yes.” I struggled to reorganize my thoughts. Part of me wished ghosts did exist and I could see them. I’d give anything to speak to my father again. But I didn’t like thinking of him as a disembodied spirit floating aimlessly through the world. If anyone deserved to go straight on to a better place, he did.

  Harriet gave me a quizzical look. “Let me show you our archives.” She led me to a wooden case with labeled drawers. A phone rang in the distance. “Oh! E
xcuse me!” She bustled from the room.

  I pulled open a drawer labeled 1895–1900. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but soon I was sucked in by black-and-white photographs of old San Benedetto. Dirt roads and wagons. Men (and a few women) on horseback. Most of the pictures from the 1890s were of buildings rather than people. I squinted at a picture of what appeared to be a large wooden warehouse.

  “How are you doing, dear?” Harriet asked over my shoulder.

  I jerked, startled. Her breath smelled like peppermint schnapps. “I was trying to make out the name on this warehouse.”

  “Oh, that’s no warehouse. That’s the Donaldson feed mill.”

  I flipped the photograph over. The date read 1902. “The old McBride mill?”

  “Yes. As you know, Martin died in 1899. Zane Donaldson took over the mill after Cora’s death.”

  Right. He’d gotten it when the town council seized the land. “He owned a newspaper, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. He owned several businesses and was a town councilman.” Harriet snapped her fingers. “I know what you might enjoy.” She toddled to a bookcase and ran a gnarled finger along the spines. “Would you like to see some maps of old San Benedetto? I believe the feed mill is in here.”

  She drew out an oversized book with a red leather binding, laid it on the table, and opened it. “This is from 1890. A bit earlier than the trial, but I don’t think the town changed much between then and 1899.”

  I came to stand beside her, watching her flip the pages of maps inked in soft pastels.

  My new friend pointed to a pink square by a line of railroad tracks. “There’s the mill.”

  I bent for a better look, read the neat print. “That says ‘McBride-

  Donaldson Mill.’ They were partners?” I hadn’t known there was a close relationship between the two men.

  “Yes, and then they had a falling out in … around 1895, I think.”

  That might explain why Martin had gotten drunk and attacked Donaldson in his office. Bad blood.

  “Wait.” Harriet raised a crooked finger and pulled open another file cabinet. She thumbed through it and drew out a binder, which she opened on the table. “I thought so! Oh, I should have found this for you sooner.”

  She tapped a yellowed, type-written page. “Years ago a genealogist did some research on the Donaldson family. There’s an interesting little write-up on Zane. He was quite the rogue. According to the story, Martin bought Zane out of his share of the partnership, all according to the contract. But Zane didn’t want to be bought out. He wanted the mill, and he brought in a group of men to physically take it. It didn’t work, and his men were driven off.”

  “You’re kidding. How could Zane have believed that would work?”

  “It might have. The sheriff wasn’t likely to interfere with a town councilman. If Zane had gotten control of the mill, well, possession is nine tenths of the law.” She pointed to the open map in front of me. “There’s Cora’s house.”

  I stared at the square of yellow, neatly labeled McBride House. It was on the edge of town surrounded by fields, and …“You’re kidding.”

  “What’s wrong, dear?”

  “The McBride house. The nearest home to it is the Zane Donaldson house.”

  “Well, they were business partners once.”

  “Zane Donaldson must have been the neighbor who testified he heard them fighting the night of Martin’s death. He’s the only neighbor anywhere near the McBrides.”

  Adjusting her spectacles, Harriet peered at the map. “That must have been quite an argument. The houses are a good distance apart.”

  “Yes, but the Donaldson house is still the closest to the McBrides’. The witness had to be Zane.” I wondered how even he could have heard the supposed fight. How far did sound carry from inside a Victorian house across silent fields? He lived close enough to watch for an opportunity … to sneak over one night?

  “Zane had means, motive, and opportunity to kill Martin McBride,” I said. If Zane had lied about hearing the fight, could he have lied about other things? Cora had opportunity to kill her husband, but neither means nor any motive that I’d found. “Could Zane have done it?”

  Harriet blinked owlishly. “Zane Donaldson?”

  “I spoke to a coroner and showed him a post-mortem photo of Martin. He told me it was unlikely a woman had inflicted those wounds, and that it was most likely Martin had been strangled first and then dropped from the second floor and hanged. But I can’t see Cora hauling his dead weight over the banister. Zane had motive—he wanted and got that mill. I’ve read Cora’s journal—there’s no evidence in it of an abusive relationship. The only testimony we have to that came from Zane. What if he killed Martin?”

  But if I was right, there was more than one victim. This was a double murder, with Zane relying on the force of the law to kill Cora.

  Harriet shook her head. “I think you’re stretching. You’ll need more evidence for your mock trial.” She smiled at my reaction. “I do read the papers, dear. And I think the trial is an excellent idea. People pay no attention to history. They think it’s dull. I can’t think of anything more fascinating. And a trial is just the thing to get the community involved. Though I’m not sure how successful you’ll be calling your ghost witnesses.”

  “I was hoping to get actors for that. And a better venue.” I nodded toward the opposite door and the courtroom I knew lay beyond it. “Would it be possible to use the old courtroom?”

  Harriet smiled. “With a donation, anything is possible.”

  She named a figure.

  I flinched. For a bunch of sweet-looking old ladies, the senior citizens of San Benedetto were sharks. But I nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I’d left Adele and Harper taking tickets for well over an hour. Jogging back to work, I puffed into the museum. Adele sat behind the counter, frowning at a sheaf of fabric swatches.

  “Where’s Harper?” I asked.

  Adele didn’t look up. “She had to go.”

  “Sorry I’m late. But I don’t think Cora killed her husband!”

  “Who’s Cora?”

  “The alleged killer in my mock trial, remember? And thanks for watching the museum.”

  “You’re welcome. But I don’t think chintz sets the right tone. I need elegance, not country kitsch.”

  “Mmm hmm.” I stared at her, baffled.

  Adele left, muttering to herself about patterns and color. I was starting not to feel so bad about talking to imaginary ghosts.

  My stomach rumbled. I ordered a tuna sandwich from a nearby deli and got back to work.

  At three o’clock, my mother walked through the door, resplendent in a crisp white blouse and slim faded jeans. Turquoise earrings dangled from her ears, and a silver cornflower necklace encircled her neck. It shimmered like the threads of silver in her pixie-cut hair.

  She sniffed. “Why does this place smell like fish?”

  I shoved the trash bin deeper into the recesses beneath the counter. “Oh, that darn cat. And hello mother. You look nice today.”

  “Thank you, so do you. And I try to look nice every day. I hope you have a strategy for managing Cora.”

  I blinked. “My ghost?”

  “What ghost? I was talking about Cora Gale, president of the Ladies Aid Society.”

  The door swung open and the battle-ax steamed in. Striding to the desk, she slapped a white-gloved hand on the counter. “We need to talk.”

  “Cora?” I gaped. The long nose, the deep set eyes. Cora Gale was older than my Cora from the portrait, her lines harder, coarser. But the resemblance was undeniable. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. Could Cora and Martin have had children? I thought back over the journal. When she’d written about Martin … could there have been a Martin junior?

  Mrs. Gale’s face spasmed. “You’ve f
ound me out. I suppose it was too much to hope you wouldn’t splash my murderous ancestress all over town. Chuck threatened it often enough. But you actually did it. And I attended your baby shower!”

  I reared backward. “What? I’ve never been pregnant.”

  “Your mother’s shower,” she said. “What will it take for you to call off the mock trial?”

  “But I don’t think Cora was a murderer.” I waved the portrait in the air. “She was framed. No pun intended.”

  Mrs. Gale’s lips parted. She blinked. “Framed?”

  I laid out the evidence. “And Zane Donaldson had means, motive, and opportunity,” I finished. “Cora doesn’t make sense as a murderess.”

  “But … what about Martin’s hot temper?”

  “The only real evidence we have of his hot temper is his run-in with Zane at the newspaper office. There was no mention of it in Cora’s journal, and no other witnesses to it aside from Zane Donaldson. I don’t have enough proof yet, but I’ll bet if we dig deeper we can find some. I think there’s a real case to be made that Cora’s hanging was a miscarriage of justice. But …” I took a deep breath. “I had no idea you were related to Cora. If you want me to stop the mock trial, I will.”

  “Innocent?” Cora Gale took a deep breath. “Could it be possible? Perhaps you think I’m silly, caring about something that happened to a long-dead ancestress. My mother always considered it a source of shame and made me swear never to speak of it.”

  “But she named you after her?” I asked. No wonder today’s Cora had issues.

  “She named me after a different Cora. And I never believed the murder had any bearing on my own place in the community, but I honored my mother’s wishes.”

  My mother laid a slim hand on Cora’s arm. “Then perhaps it’s time we laid this ghost to rest. As you said, you have nothing to feel ashamed of. The murder”—she shot an inquiring glance at me—“is part of San Benedetto’s history. But that’s all it is: history.”

  “The Historical Association has said we can use the old courtroom for the trial,” I said. “It could be a wonderful fundraiser for them, and for the Ladies Aid Society if your organization would like to help. The fact is, you’re right. The museum is a bit tacky. I think it’s part of our charm, but I also believe it can be improved.”