Deja Moo

by Kirsten Weiss

  She lifted a single, dark eyebrow. “Then why?”

  “Because a man was killed last night at the Christmas Cow, and we need to know … if you might have any information.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Okay.” I stared at her, knowing there was more to learn and stumped about how to get it out of her. “Well, sorry I bothered you.”

  My mom followed me into the salon. “Interesting technique.”

  “Thanks,” I said shortly.

  A portly, elderly woman raised her dryer and waggled her fingers at my mother. “Fran!”

  “Izzy!” My mom strode to her and clasped her hand. “I heard you were under the weather.”

  I waited, tapping my foot and smarting with embarrassment. Had I really expected Belle to confide in me?

  “I’m feeling better now,” the woman beneath the dryer said. “Is it true you were at the Christmas Cow when Bill Eldrich was killed?”

  My mom nodded.

  “Did you see who did it?”

  “I’m afraid they wore masks,” my mom said.

  “What a terrible thing,” Izzy said. “Some high school kid just ruined Bill’s life and his own, and his parents’ too.”

  “Or college kid,” I said, thoughtful. The gingerbread gang had a certain sophistication beyond your typical high school prank. On the other hand, high school had probably evolved since I’d left it.

  The woman in the silver foil swiveled her chair toward us. “Are you involved with the Wine and Visitors Bureau?” she asked me. She looked to be in her mid-forties, but florescent lights and plastic black capes are never flattering. I assumed from the highlighting that she was a blond, though it was tough to tell beneath the hair goo.

  “Associate member,” I said. “Paranormal Museum.”

  “Me too!” She stretched out her hand, and I walked across the stained linoleum to shake it. Her grip was crushing, and I schooled myself not to wince. “I’m Kendra. Kendra Breathnach. I just joined. I heard about the cow and the accidental death. Terrible.”

  “We don’t know it’s accidental,” I said.

  “Is that your mother?” She nodded toward my mom, now bent over Izzy.

  “Mmm hmm. She was guarding the cow when it happened.”

  “How awful for her. I can’t imagine. I mean, the cow attack—you expect that, don’t you? But for someone to get caught in the crossfire.”

  “You said you’re an associate member?” I asked. “If you’re not a vintner, what do you do?”

  “I’m a developer. My company is building an agrihood.”

  “An agrihood?”

  She laughed. “Sorry about the jargon. An agrihood is a community centered around a working farm. This being San Benedetto, we’re building it around a working communal vineyard. So instead of farm to table, it’s vineyard to table.”

  “Wow. That sounds interesting.” I would never own a vineyard, but maybe someday I’d be able to move out of my aunt’s garage apartment and get a real house. The agrihood idea charmed me.

  “The vineyard will be managed by a nonprofit. It will also run educational programs for local students and aspiring vintners. The Wine and Visitors Bureau is helping us out with that side of the project. So I thought, why not become an associate member?”

  “Where’s this agrihood being built?”

  “We just bought the old CW Vineyards. They had an even hundred acres, and it fit well with our needs—not too far out of San Benedetto.”

  I grimaced. It was stupid to resist change, but I hated seeing vineyards torn down for homes. “CW had a lovely old tasting room,” I said. “A Gothic Revival house.”

  Her expression tightened. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those no-growth people?”

  “I guess I prefer slow growth. It’s easier to adapt to.”

  “And unfair to those who need places to live now. But we’ll be keeping the tasting room. The nonprofit will use it as their base of operations.” She leaned forward, bracing one elbow on the arm of the swivel chair. “I hear you were the one who solved the crime connected to CW. Is it true?”

  My lungs compressed. I’d nearly gotten my two best friends killed in the process. “I only handed over some information to the police.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re amateur sleuthing the Christmas Cow death? Because that must have been an accident.”

  “If so, the kids involved need to come forward.”

  Kendra sat back in her chair. “Whoever accidentally shot Mr. Eldrich will have to suffer with the weight of that death for the rest of their life. I doubt they’ll be a danger to anyone else. Jail seems unnecessary.”

  “I dunno. I think we need to pay for our mistakes, clean our own slate so we can move forward.” If the death was in fact an accident, a part of me felt bad for the person who’d shot that arrow. But I couldn’t imagine living with that guilt and not at least trying for absolution.

  The fluorescent light glinted off the foil in Kendra’s hair. “We all pay, one way or another.”

  I was afraid she might be right.

  five

  I was back where I’d started—another morning in the museum. Fog pressed against the windows. Shoppers, shoulders hunched against the chill, hurried past on the sidewalk outside. The holiday rush kept me moving, handing out a steady stream of tickets and brochures.

  GD, ambivalent, spent the morning perched on the old-fashioned cash register. His tail lashed the keys whenever I rang up a sale.

  I glared at the cat and handed a deck of tarot cards to a college-aged customer. “Happy holidays!” I chirped.

  “Thanks,” she said. “My roommate will love these.” She hesitated. “Why don’t you have any exhibits in the museum about Santa? I mean—flying reindeer. Zipping through chimneys. That’s totally paranormal, isn’t it?”

  “Did you see our Norse exhibit?” I pointed to the corner where Gryla the Ogre’s red eye peered from her cave. “Santa Claus is believed to have derived from the Norse god, Odin. Children left boots filled with carrots and hay by the chimney for his eight-legged horse. In exchange, Odin left gifts in their boots. It’s believed to be one of the origin stories of Santa Claus.”

  “It’s not really Santa, though. And the real Santa flies through the air with magic reindeer!”

  “Well, yes, but Odin flew through the sky too.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever. I still think you should have more Santa.”

  GD sat up and washed his paws, a sure sign of boredom.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” I said. “We’ll keep that in mind for next year.” Note to self: more Santa. But the big guy was everywhere this time of year. His plastic form glowed on rooftops. His paper cutout grinned from windows. Replica Santa hats sprouted from people’s heads like sunburnt mushrooms.

  The customer left, banging the door shut.

  GD meowed.

  “She couldn’t have been that disappointed,” I said to the cat and peeled off my down vest. All the visitors in the museum had raised the temperature. I jammed up the sleeves of my long-sleeved Paranormal Museum tee. “She bought a tarot deck.”

  The front door swung open and a narrow, wispy-haired man in a bow tie and coke-bottle glasses sidled into the museum. He peered over the top of the thick striped scarf wrapped high about his chin. His gaze darted nervously around the main room. “Are there any cops around?”

  I sighed. “No, Herb. No cops.”

  Not that the cops had any interest in Herb. He just liked to think he was some Dudley Dangerous, a delusion that had been reinforced several months ago when he’d been questioned about a haunted wine press he’d sold me. Herb was a collector of paranormal items. Judging from his threadbare clothes and the fact that he still lived with his mother, I didn’t imagine it was a lucrative career.

  He straightened. “Good. I heard ab
out your involvement in the Christmas Cow investigation.”

  “I’m not involved in the Christmas Cow investigation.”

  He pressed a finger to the side of his nose. “Of course you’re not.”

  GD leapt onto the counter and butted his head against Herb’s arm. For some wacky reason, the cat loved him.

  “So what can I do for you, Herb?” I asked.

  A gray-haired woman approached the counter. “Excuse me. How much is that fairy in the window? The one with the sparkly tail?”

  I stifled a laugh. Had she meant to riff on a ’50s song? “Just a sec.” I checked my computer. “It’s $34.99.”

  Herb hissed. “Maddie.”

  “Why is it always ninety-nine cents?” the woman asked. “Do people think we’re too dumb to figure out it’s really thirty-five dollars?”

  I shrugged. “The marketing gods dictate ninety-nine cents.”

  “Maddie, this is important.” Herb tugged on his striped scarf.

  “Sorry, Herb. Let me help this visitor.”

  She sighed. “All right. I’ll take the fairy.”

  “I’ll get it out of the window for you,” I said, rising from my barstool.

  “No, don’t bother,” she said. “I want to look around some more. I can get it when I’m ready.” She strolled into the Fortune Telling Room.

  I turned to Herb. “What’s up?”

  “It’s the cowbells. I’m afraid this may be partially my fault.”

  “What’s your fault?”

  “The curse! I did my usual binding spell. But sometimes when you’re dealing with really powerful curses or entities, you need to bring in the big guns. Now, I know a very reasonably priced specialist—”

  I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”

  “The man who was killed. They say he heard cowbells before he died—”

  “They say? Who are they?”

  Herb stopped petting GD and gripped the top of the register. “The curse has returned. Mr. Eldrich heard cowbells, and they foretold his doom.”

  “Of course he heard cowbells. He owned a dairy farm.”

  “But he heard these cowbells.” Herb’s knuckles whitened. “And the thing is …” He leaned over the counter and GD rubbed against his arm, depositing ebony hairs on his beige jacket. “Lately, I’ve been hearing them too.”

  “Your mother lives next to a cow pasture.”

  Herb straightened, affronted. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

  I might not believe in curses or binding spells, but Herb did. Nodding, I dragged my attention back from the wandering customers and focused on him. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s logic this out. You say that the cowbell curse is working again because you didn’t do a good enough job with your binding spell.”

  “My binding spell was fine,” he said, his eyes gigantic behind his coke-bottle lenses. “I said, sometimes curses are bigger than my binding spells.”

  I forced myself not to roll my eyes. “But the cowbells weren’t cursing anyone recently, even before you put the binding spell on them. So why would they start up now, thirty years after the last deaths and after you put on the binding spell?”

  “Probably because they’re here now, in the museum.”

  “What’s wrong with my museum?”

  “It’s packed to the rafters with ghosts and haunted objects. They’re probably triggering the bells’ curse. Now, about that specialist—”

  “Herb, thanks but no thanks.” I wasn’t going to waste my hard-earned ticket money on a bogus curse-removal service. The museum was doing well now, but who knew what sales would be like in January?

  “I see,” Herb said coldly. “You like having dangerous objects in your museum. They attract customers. But it’s reckless. One man is already dead.”

  “Someone shot him with an arrow. It has nothing to do with my cowbells.”

  “In the 1980s, every single member of the original Christmas Cow committee died within a twelve-month span. And each one heard the bells before passing. It’s happening again. And your own mother is on the committee this year.”

  “Trust me. My mother is not going to be taken out by a curse,” I said. The woman was unstoppable.

  Herb’s brows drew together. “I did notice an extra layer of protection in her aura. But that doesn’t help the other committee members. What if the curse spreads beyond the committee to innocent San Benedetto civilians? These things have power. They grow.” He braced his elbow on the counter and lowered his voice. “I’ll make you a deal. If you hire my specialist, he’ll owe me a favor, and I’ll knock down the price of Dion Fortune’s scrying mirror. Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  “No, Herb.”

  “The mirror is a historic relic! Dion Fortune was one of the twentieth century’s greatest occultists. Her book Psychic Self-Defense is a classic.”

  I nodded to the narrow, black-painted bookshelf behind me. “I know. I sell her books.”

  “Think how much more you’d sell if you had her mirror.”

  I had thought of it, and it still wasn’t worth it. “Herb, I’m—”

  “I smell bacon!” He scuttled to the bookcase and slipped through the secret door into Adele’s tea room.

  Nonplussed, I watched the bookcase slide closed.

  My front door opened and Detective Slate strode inside. He smiled, putting his hands on his hips and parting his blue wool jacket. “The place looks busy. Am I catching you at a bad time?”

  My annoyance vanished in a bubble of warmth. “Not if you don’t mind being interrupted by customers.”

  “My ego can take it.”

  “What can I help you with?”

  “I thought you might need my help.”

  Biting my lip, I looked away. Crumb. Had he heard about our interrogation-gone-awry at the beauty parlor yesterday? “Your help?”

  “The cowbell curse.”

  His smile set my pulse galloping, but I cocked my head, baffled. Why would he be interested in my exhibit? “Are the police in the curse-removal business now?”

  He laughed. “Hardly. But I’ve helped you crack some cold paranormal cases in the past. I thought the cowbells smelled like another one. Where are they, by the way?”

  I pointed to the triangle of bells that hung between the doors to the Fortune Telling and Gallery rooms. He crossed over to them and peered at the placard hanging beside them.

  Fairy in hand, the gray-haired woman returned to the counter. “I’ll take it.”

  GD meowed his approval.

  I pulled out a box from beneath the counter. “Would you like me to wrap it?”

  “No. It’s for me.”

  Slate came to stand behind her. Suddenly clumsy, I rang her up and boxed and bagged the fairy. “Happy holidays!”

  We watched her depart.

  “It’s amazing what you’ve done with this place,” Slate said.

  “Thanks, but I had help.” Because of Leo’s web-building chops, our online business accounted for more than half our sales. But a part of me reveled in the compliment.

  “Maddie, there’s a rumor going around town that you might be investigating Mr. Eldrich’s murder.”

  “What?” My voice went up two octaves.

  “You’ve had some luck in the past.”

  Indignant, I pulled back my shoulders. It had been more than luck.

  “But you need to stay out of this,” he finished.

  GD sat on his hind legs and walked his front legs up Slate’s coat, leaving dusty paw prints on the navy wool.

  “GD!”

  The detective ruffled the cat’s ebony fur. “It’s all right. It’s what cats do.”

  “It’s too bad your partner doesn’t share that attitude,” I said. Detective Laurel Hammer and GD had a hate-hate relationship.


  “In fairness,” Slate said, “GD did run over her foot with a car.”

  “I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  He raised his brows.

  “Well,” I said quickly, “it was never proven. And you know that if I ever hear anything about either a hot or a cold case, I tell you. I’ve done it before.” But I couldn’t tell him about Belle, because that would mean ratting out Dieter. And besides, I couldn’t imagine Belle committing arson just to win a bet. Unless it was a really big bet. She’d had money troubles before. And even if she did commit the arson, that was a far cry from murder. Unless she’d hit Bill Eldrich by accident?

  Okay, first I would learn the size of the bet, and then I’d make the decision whether to tell Slate or not. I jammed my hands in the pockets of my Paranormal Museum hoodie.

  “Riiight.” He jerked his thumb toward the cowbells. “All I’m asking is that you confine your investigations to cold cases. And I’m happy to dig into the police files on your behalf.”

  “Thanks.” I think. “You don’t have files related to the cowbell curse, do you?”

  “My understanding is although everyone on the committee died within a few months of each other, the deaths were all attributed to natural causes. Whether we have a file on any of the deaths would depend on if the police were called to the scene or not.”

  Those files could be interesting. I mentally shook myself. I was too busy to research cowbell curses. And besides, my wall placard about the historic bells was full enough. “Well, thanks.”

  “Stay safe.” He ambled out the front door.

  GD lightly bit my hand.

  “Hey!” I rubbed the twin pale white dots on my skin.

  The cat dropped from the counter and ducked into Gryla’s papier-mâché cave. I’d been dissed and dismissed.

  I walked into the Gallery and rearranged the window fairies, posing one blue fairy so it body-surfed down a slope of snow. The front bell jingled, and I hustled into the main room.

  Leo squatted beside Gryla’s cave and scratched GD behind his ears. He rose, a guilty expression on his young face.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I know GD likes you better than me.” The cat only tolerated me because I fed him.