Deja Moo

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Oh, right.” I’d met her in the beauty parlor where Belle worked. “So Oliver gets into trouble a lot? Do you think he was involved in the attack on the cow?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.” Tabitha frowned into her cup. “But it doesn’t matter anyway. Like I said, an attack on the cow was all hot air on Oliver’s part.”

  I wondered if Oliver would shoot his mouth off to me. Absently, I rubbed my arm. “But the alternative, that a group of men conspired to kill Bill Eldrich, doesn’t make sense either. And who would have wanted to kill him? Even though Dean Pinkerton was upset about the raw milk business, do you think he was angry enough to kill?”

  “How would you feel if someone tried to legislate you out of business?” she asked.

  A waitress bustled past, her black skirt swishing.

  “I’d be pretty angry,” I admitted. Angry enough to start setting bombs? “But is there anyone else you can think of who might have had it in for Bill?”

  Tabitha sipped her tea. “There is someone,” she said slowly. “She was furious with Bill, but like you, I have a hard time imagining her killing over this.”

  “Over what?”

  She leaned back in her chair. “The president of the Wine and Visitors Bureau.”

  “Penny?” I asked, surprised. “What did she have against Bill?”

  “It was my fault, in a sense.” Tabitha’s dark brow furrowed. “There was some extra tax money available from Measure C. We allowed the local nonprofits to apply for it. Originally, the Dairy Association and the Wine and Visitors Bureau had put together a joint proposal. But later, Bill put in a separate proposal for the Dairy Association alone. The tax committee felt the money would have more of an impact if it went to one organization, and it went to Bill’s.”

  “And Penny blamed him,” I said.

  She picked apart a scone. Crumbs scattered across the white tablecloth. “I guess he didn’t tell Penny about his solo proposal until after the voting. If she’d had any idea, I’m sure she would have put together a standalone proposal for the Wine and Visitors Bureau.”

  “So she felt betrayed,” I said.

  “I overheard them after the council meeting. She wasn’t exactly shouting, but she was quite literally shaking with rage.”

  Penny of the grape cluster earrings? Enraged? “That’s hard to imagine.” I sipped my tea, sweet and spicy with a hint of plum.

  “She takes her position at the Wine and Visitors Bureau seriously. You may not know this, but before Penny took over ten years ago, all we had was a wine association. She found the funding for the building and turned it into a tasting room. I have to say, she’s done a wonderful job promoting San Benedetto wines. Without her work, we wouldn’t have nearly as many tourists as we do today. Your museum can thank her for that.”

  “When did this happen?” I asked. “The argument about the funding, I mean.”

  “October.”

  No wonder I hadn’t known any of this. In October, I’d been embroiled in a murder and paying zero attention to town politics. “So not that long ago,” I muttered. After two months, would Penny still have been angry enough to kill?

  eleven

  Tabitha left me at the tea room, and I finished my tea and gingerbread cake beneath the twinkle lights. I wiped the crumbs into a mound on one side of the white table cloth, then pulled out my cell phone. Not knowing Oliver’s phone number, I called his mother’s office.

  “Kendra Breathnach, Breathnach Estates. How can I help you?”

  “Hi, this is Maddie Kosloski from the Paranormal Museum.”

  There was a long pause. “Oh, yes. We met in the beauty parlor. How can I help you? Are you looking for a donation?”

  “No, we don’t really do donations.” Aside from GD’s tip jar, but that was for kibble only. I thought fast. I really wanted to talk to her son but I wasn’t sure I wanted to let her know that. “I’m calling on behalf of Ladies Aid. About Bill Eldrich.”

  “Oh?” Her tone turned cautious.

  “I didn’t know him well”—or at all—“and I was hoping you could give me some insight into the man.”

  “Why?” Her voice sharpened. “Aren’t the police investigating?”

  “Yes, of course. But there’ve been some inconsistencies in the dealings between Ladies Aid and the Dairy Association that need to be cleared up,” I babbled. I knew my mom would back me on this, and she was the president of Ladies Aid, but even I had no idea what I was talking about.

  “Inconsistencies? But I’m not in Ladies Aid or the Dairy Association.”

  “I’d rather not get into it on the phone. Can we meet? Maybe this evening?” When her son was home?

  “I’m about to leave the office for the afternoon.” A heavy sigh. “Why don’t you come by my house tonight?”

  “Thanks.” I pumped my fist in the air. Victory! “Is six o’clock okay?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Do you know where it is?” She gave me the address and we hung up.

  A teenage girl walked into the tea room, the bell on her Santa hat jingling.

  A woman shrieked. China shattered. The tea room fell into a weighted silence.

  “The cowbells!” the matronly woman gasped. “I heard them. Here!”

  The teenager had frozen in the doorway. Face pale, eyes wide, warring between fight or flight, she fingered the end of her long red knit cap. “It’s only my hat.”

  The woman rose and threw her cloth napkin to the table. “How was I to know? I thought this tea room was supposed to be a haven, a safe space. Bells! Here!”

  Like everyone else in the tea room, I gaped, torn between embarrassment and fascination.

  The teen backed up, bumping into the closed door. “But … it’s Christmas.”

  The older woman jerked her jacket closed. “Those sound exactly like cowbells. You should come with a trigger warning.”

  The teen’s shoulders crumpling inward. “I’m … I’m sorry.”

  Adele hurried forward. “No harm done,” she sang out. She took the young woman’s elbow and led her to an empty seat at the counter. “It was an easy mistake to make. Mrs. Wordsworth, can I get you more tea and another scone?” She bustled to the lady’s table and got her back into her chair, bending to say something to her in a low voice.

  Gradually, the chatter in the tea room rose to its normal levels.

  Adele returned to the counter and spoke to the teenager. Soon, both were smiling and nodding. Then she stalked to my table and plopped into the chair opposite.

  “You’ve got to do something about those cowbells,” she grumbled. “In the last two days, there’s been a fifteen percent increase in broken crockery. The town is panicking.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got it all under control.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How, exactly, do you have it under control?”

  “The plan I told you about last night. Herb’s bringing in a specialist to de-curse … I mean, bind the cowbells.” I rubbed my jaw. “He’ll be here tomorrow. We’re inviting everyone on our email list, and my mom’s going to get some local reporters to cover it. So the whole town will know that the cowbell curse is over and done with.”

  “It’s not enough,” Adele said bluntly.

  I blinked. “What do you mean, it’s not enough?”

  “The curse is bigger than one of Herb’s silly magical rituals.”

  “You think I should ask Harper to help?”

  “Of course not,” she replied. “But everyone is really afraid. Why should they believe your binding, or whatever Herb’s planning, works?”

  “You and I aren’t afraid. It’s the people who are superstitious who are worried. And I’m thinking the sort of person who believes in curses is the same sort of person who believes someone with magic powers can stop a curse.”

  “I hope you’re right.”r />
  “I am.” But doubt twinged through my veins.

  “What?” Adele asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Folding my cloth napkin on the table, I scooted from my chair. “But there’s something you can do to help.”

  “Oh?” She canted her head.

  “Find out how much money Belle made off her Christmas Cow bet.”

  “You know Dieter takes his client confidentiality seriously.” Adele drummed her manicured nails on the white tablecloth.

  “I know there’s an ongoing murder investigation, and he’d rather deal with me than the police, and someone tried to blow up my mom.”

  “Playing hardball, are you?”

  “Playing desperate. Please Adele, I need to know.”

  She sighed. “I’ll see what I can learn.”

  “Great. Thanks. I’d better get back to the museum.” I paid and hurried through the bookcase into the museum.

  Leo stood behind the counter, the wall-phone receiver pressed to his ear. “There are lots of cows in San Benedetto,” he said, “and plenty of them wear cowbells. It’s not an unusual … You heard the bells when you were walking into a store on School Street? Was there a bell over the door?”

  I glanced at the bell over our own door. “What’s going on?” I mouthed.

  He put his hand over the receiver. “Someone’s asking about the curse,” he whispered.

  I pointed to my chest. Did he want me to talk to them?

  He shook his head. “There’s no reason for the curse to have reactivated, but we’re doing a binding spell tomorrow … Because we had to hire a specialist … Yes … No, I don’t—Yes … Yes … All right, I’ll let her know.” He hung up.

  “What was that about?”

  “Another curse call.”

  “Another? How many have we received?”

  “A half dozen or so. Mind if I take my break?”

  “No, go ahead,” I said weakly.

  I settled in behind the counter and got busy taking tickets and making change. The curse was just a silly story. I bit the inside of my cheek. Wasn’t it?

  The museum kept me too busy to wonder much if my curse-ending plan would succeed. Besides, I had flyers to make and an invite email to send out and panicked cowbell hearers to soothe.

  My fist tightened on my pencil. Who the heck had dreamed up cowbells as death omens?

  I dropped the pencil to the counter. Whoops. I was supposed to be looking into exactly that question for Detective Slate. Though if all went well, tomorrow’s curse-binding ceremony would calm the town and the question would be moot.

  Finally I ushered the last visitor out the door, locked it, and flipped the sign to Closed. I sagged against the counter and glanced at GD. He’d coiled possessively around the tip jar and slept, purring. At least I assumed he was asleep. For GD, closed eyes could be a ruse leading to an attack.

  “Why am I the only one you bite?”

  His black ears flicked.

  I pushed the broom around the linoleum floor, ran the feather duster over the exhibits, and scuttled out to my truck, parked in the fog-shrouded alley.

  The lights from Mason’s second-floor apartment made long shadows of the dumpsters. I fumbled my truck keys, and they clattered loudly on the pavement. Stomach tightening, I glanced up again at Mason’s square windows.

  The best way for Belle to make sure she won the Christmas Cow bet would have been to set the cow on fire herself. But she hadn’t lived in San Benedetto long enough to rustle up a posse of gingerbread men. Unless she’d brought in some out-of-towners from her former life. Had she offered to share the winnings with them? What were her winnings? I’d heard the money could get pretty big. Not lottery big, but big. Certainly big enough for her to move out of Mason’s and get her own place. Assuming she wanted to.

  I stepped into my truck and rolled down the alley, not liking the way my thoughts were running. Mason was a big boy, and Belle was none of my business. Besides, Mason had good instincts. He wouldn’t share his apartment with an arsonist. Right?

  Main Street was a Christmas wonderland of twinkle lights, its shop windows sparkling in their holiday bling. Wreaths of holly hung from doors and around the iron streetlamps. We might be snow-free, but the fog cast a mysterious London gloom and I imagined chestnut sellers and ragged boys in top hats racing down the street.

  I made a turn, passing the Sugar Hall Bakery. A tall gingerbread house surrounded by prancing gingerbread men and women filled its window. It would be a long time before my mom could stomach gingerbread men again.

  I smacked my head. My mom. I’d promised to come by for dinner. I glanced at my watch. It was almost six. Even with stopping by Kendra’s, I’d only be a little late. And my mom would forgive my tardiness if I arrived bearing intel.

  Kendra lived less than a mile from the Wildes’ house, so she was easy to locate. Her home was a two-story, gabled, Tudor-style manse in a new subdivision. The lawns all had the same manicured look, with brick or flagstone driveways, and the houses were all half-timbered on the second floors. I expected a Shakespearean festival to sprout from a lawn at any minute, but that would be too gauche for the neighborhood’s discreet white twinkle lights gleaming through the thickening fog.

  I parked on the street. Zipping up my black parka, I walked up the flagstone path to the arched front door. There were no cars in the driveway, and my hopes of roping her son into this conversation fell.

  A lion’s head door knocker scowled at me. I grasped the ring between its teeth and knocked.

  A minute later, Kendra opened the door. She was barefoot and chic in expensive jeans and a white blouse. Simple gold hoop earrings nearly vanished in the gold of her hair. Her brown eyes widened. “Maddie!” She blinked. “I’d forgotten you were coming.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “No, no. Come in.” She stepped aside.

  Feeling underdressed, I entered the elegant foyer. A massive display of white poinsettia decorated a round table. “Should I take my shoes off ?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  I pulled off my tennis shoes and tugged down the toe of my left sock, trying to obscure the hole. I hadn’t planned on anyone seeing it when I’d dressed that morning.

  She escorted me into a plush, white-on-white living room. A Christmas tree decked in designer red and gold scraped the high ceiling.

  “What a beautiful tree.” I sank deep into the soft white couch. It was wide and my feet dangled, my big toe sticking from the sock. I crossed my ankles, hiding the view of my chipped nail polish.

  “Thanks. Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Hot buttered rum?”

  “No thanks.” I glanced around, looking for signs of her son. “I’m headed to my mother’s house for dinner later.”

  “Ah yes, you said you were an emissary for Ladies Aid.” Kendra sat in a wing chair across from me. “That there was some unfinished business about Bill Eldrich you thought I could help with? I’m really not sure how I can.”

  “There’s a controversy about whether the Christmas Cow tradition should continue.” Maybe if I got her talking about the cow, we’d naturally slide into the arson and her son.

  “You mean—whether to rebuild it this year?”

  The sock rode down my toe. Ears hot, I coiled my left leg beneath me, hiding my foot under my thigh. “Yes, and in future years.”

  “It’s not a decision I’m involved with.”

  “But you are a prominent member of San Benedetto. You’re building a new neighborhood.”

  She toyed with her hair. “I do feel community involvement is important.”

  “I’ve heard that Bill Eldrich was insistent the cow be built this year, in spite of a lot of opposition,” I said. “But he was the head of the Dairy Association …” I shrugged, doubtful she’d be able to fill in the
blanks. This had been a bad idea. I should have just asked her for Oliver’s number.

  Her smile was pained. “He could be quite determined. It’s ironic that the cow he pushed so hard for killed him.”

  “How well did you know Bill?” I asked, surprised I might actually learn something from her. Had I accidentally stumbled onto an information source?

  “Not very. I saw him at community events, of course. And my company has bids on several dairy farms, which Bill wasn’t happy about, but I don’t think he blamed me.”

  “Why did he care if you bought someone’s farm?”

  “Because the world of agriculture is changing. Small dairy farms are going away, being consolidated by major corporations that can operate them more efficiently.”

  I rubbed my hand lightly over the velvety sofa arm. “It is sad to see them go.”

  “Change is inevitable. That said, I certainly hope they don’t all go away. The farms add to the character of the town—not as much as the vineyards, but still. It’s important for people to stay in touch with where their food comes from. That’s why I’m so excited about our new vineyard-centered development. We’re breaking new ground, both literally and figuratively.”

  “Oh?”

  “The idea of an agrihood isn’t new, of course. But by building the community around a communal vineyard instead of a farm, we’re hoping to attract a more mature level of home buyers.”

  “You mean retirees.”

  She grinned. “Exactly.”

  “Harvest isn’t easy,” I said. It was backbreaking work. I couldn’t imagine a bunch of citified septuagenarians harvesting grapes.

  She stared fixedly at me. “Hiring younger people to assist with the harvest has been factored into the community fees. It will be well worth the price of producing wine that residents have bottled and tended themselves. But you said there was some outstanding business with Ladies Aid?”

  “Yes. There’s been a story going around that kids from the local junior college were involved in the prank on the Christmas Cow.”

  “The arson, you mean,” she said darkly.

  I bit the bullet. “And that your son, Oliver, might know something about those involved.”