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

by Kirsten Weiss

  Taking a breath, I burst through the curtains, bottle extended. Weak light from the street and the museum made monsters of the boxes and buckets in the tea room. The looming silhouettes might not be creatures of evil, but they made great hiding places for a human invader.

  I was creeping myself out. I hurried to the electrical switch and flipped on the overhead lights. The fluorescents flickered to life, humming. Bare concrete. Boxes of wood flooring. Paint cans. A saw horse.

  No one was inside.

  A cold breeze stirred my hair, raised gooseflesh on my neck. I followed the draft through the short hallway, past the restrooms, to the alley door. It stood wide open. An overhead light gleamed off the dumpster outside.

  Somehow, I’d messed up.

  But I wasn’t the sort of person to leave doors open willy-nilly. And I knew I hadn’t now, not after a murder had been committed. That door had been closed. I might not have locked it when I came in, but I knew I’d shut it.

  Someone had been inside the museum.

  fourteen

  I brought the bottle home with me and poured myself a Kahlua and ginger ale to settle my nerves. It must have worked, because in spite of my tumbled thoughts, I drifted into sleep.

  The ring of the phone woke me. I stumbled to the kitchen, blinking in the sunlight shining through the floral-print curtains.

  “Hello?”

  “Madelyn, it’s your mother.”

  Of course it was. Only my mother would call me at seven a.m. on a day off. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

  “I wanted to let you know that I didn’t learn about it until today. The ad went in before I had a chance to register my protest.”

  “What ad?”

  “You haven’t seen the morning paper then,” she said flatly. “I don’t understand how you can sleep so late on a weekday.”

  A muscle spasmed in my left eyelid. “Because I was up until two a.m. dealing with a ghost hunt at the museum, and I have today off. What ad?”

  “You never were a morning person. Let’s talk later.” She hung up.

  I looked at my bed, thinking of all the reasons I should return to it. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I squeezed my eyes shut. But I had to feed the cat and get Dieter his standing coffee order, and I really should call the police about Herb’s latest revelations. And get the morning paper, apparently …

  I stumbled to the closet and dressed in jeans and a soft cream-

  colored sweater. If I kept the museum, I could chuck my tailored slacks and business heels and wear jeans every day. Comfort clothes and a rocker T-shirt would be—as Adele might say—perfectly proper in a paranormal museum.

  Mood improved, I tackled my morning errands. At the coffee shop, I caught myself looking for Detective Slate. I didn’t see him, and my heart sank.

  I drove to the museum with the coffee carrier balanced atop the local newspaper on the seat beside me. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and last night’s fears had vanished. Reluctantly, I faced facts. I must have left the tea room’s back door open. How could I have been so stupid?

  The whir of the circular saw assaulted my eardrums when I opened the museum’s front door. I slammed it hard, and sure enough, it bounced back open. So I’d been the guilty party after all last night. Although that didn’t explain the open alley door.

  Locking the front door behind me, I dropped the paper on the counter and followed the shriek of the blades to the alley. Dieter hunched over the saw, feeding it a two-by-four. A section of lumber thunked to the pavement. He turned off the machine and pushed his safety goggles to the top of his shaggy head. Beneath his stained khaki-colored overalls, he wore a T-shirt advertising a local beer. His eyes were puffy, inflamed.

  “Your double espresso.” I placed the paper cup on a vacant sawhorse.

  “Thanks. And thanks for getting your neighbor off my back. He was almost human this morning. You heard anything about Adele?”

  “No, but I’ll let you know if I do.” I turned to leave.

  “Did you move any of my tools around last night?” Dieter asked.

  I stopped, faced him. “No. Why? Is anything missing?”

  He scowled. “No, but I like to keep everything in its place so I can find what I need. If you need to borrow my tools, ask.”

  “I didn’t touch your tools.” My stomach knotted. It could have been some of the ghost hunters. I’d asked them to stay out of the tea room, but the temptation might have been too great. Or … I hadn’t been imagining things. I hadn’t been an idiot. And someone had taken advantage of the open front door to get inside the tea room, escaping out the back. “What exactly was moved?”

  “Just little things. My toolbox was open and things were shifted around. The cable around my drill was unwound.”

  “There were some ghost hunters in the museum last night, and I left them unattended. Some may have wandered into the tea room.” I didn’t want to admit to the open doors.

  “People shouldn’t go in the tea room, especially at night. They could trip over something and hurt themselves.”

  “I know, and I told them to stay out. Did you notice anything else?”

  He shook his head.

  “If you find anything else out of place, let me know. And Dieter …” I hesitated. “Did Christy ever place bets with you?”

  “Is that your way of asking if she knew I was a bookie?”

  “Did she?”

  Turning his back on me, Dieter switched on the saw.

  Figuring that for a yes, I returned to the museum and fed the cat.

  I settled in behind the counter and opened the paper. The local high school students were being tested for college readiness. A serial car burglar had been arrested. And candidates had been nominated for San Benedetto’s Person of the Year. Since I knew I wouldn’t be on that list, I skipped that article and continued past the comics to the classifieds. No ad leaped out at me. And there was nothing about Adele’s arrest.

  I flipped the paper over and saw, bordered in black like a funeral announcement, AWARD FOR TACKIEST MUSEUM IN SAN BENEDETTO—THE PARANORMAL MUSEUM. Beneath the headline, in smaller print, was the petition to get rid of the museum and instructions on how to submit signatures. I clipped the award and folded it into my jacket pocket.

  I ground my teeth. It may be that no publicity is bad publicity, but this made me mad. No pun intended.

  “Why do people care?” I asked GD.

  The cat brushed against my ankle.

  “It’s a perfectly innocent museum,” I said. “Maybe a little silly, but what’s wrong with that?”

  The cat had no answers, so I grabbed the coffee carrier, locked up, and peered in the window of the motorcycle shop. The sign said Closed, but Mason sat behind the counter, glaring at a computer.

  I knocked on the glass door.

  Looking up, he stretched, muscles rippling beneath his black T-shirt. He ambled from behind the counter to the door and opened it. “Hey.”

  “I’ve got another spare coffee.” I raised the carrier. “Want one?”

  “Sure.” He opened the door wider and stepped back.

  I brushed past, trying not to notice the warmth radiating from his body. Giving him his coffee, I looked around. Motorcycles stood, chrome gleaming, atop the slate tile floor. I ran a hand over the buttery leather seat of a teal-colored Harley. Motorcycles terrified me, but I had to admit these had style. “These are works of art.”

  “Maybe not that one, but mine are.”

  “Are any of yours on the floor?”

  Mason led me to an orange and black and chrome bike, low-slung to the ground and elongated like a great cat pouncing on its prey.

  I whistled. “You made this?”

  “Not one of my best efforts, but I expect to get fifteen grand for it. If you’re interested in a chopper.”

  I
laughed. “No. I do have fantasies of working up to a Vespa someday, but I doubt it’ll become a reality. Some things are better as dreams.”

  He gazed at me, an invitation in the blue depths of his eyes. “Not always.”

  My cheeks warmed. I changed the subject. “I don’t suppose you heard anything in the museum last night, after I left?” I took a sip of my mochaccino.

  “The ghost, you mean?”

  I coughed. “Ghost?”

  He laughed, a low, rolling rumble. “I’m joking. No, I didn’t hear anything, but I sleep hard. I doubt I’d hear anything short of a fire alarm or that damn saw. Why? Did something happen?”

  I told him about Herb, and the open doors on my return. “I told myself I’d imagined it—that the front door bounced open after

  I’d slammed it and I’d forgotten to shut the back. But Dieter just said someone messed with his tools last night.”

  “The ghost busters?”

  “Maybe. But it wouldn’t explain the open door to the alley. Because I wouldn’t have left it open. Since Christy’s murder, I’m paranoid.”

  “It could have been some kid. This is a quiet town, but we do have our share of teenage vandalism. Was anything taken?”

  “Not that Dieter noticed.” Had Christy’s killer left something behind in the museum? But the police had searched the museum and tea room, and they’d been thorough. Hadn’t they?

  “Probably just a kid,” Mason said, “getting his thrills in your museum.”

  I drove back to my loft. No relatives or murderers waited on the steps, so I went upstairs and dug Detective Slate’s business card from my wallet.

  He answered on the first ring. “Slate here.”

  “This is Madelyn Kosloski. You told me to call if I heard from Herb again.”

  “Where can we find him?”

  “He stopped by the museum last night, and I got a partial license plate on his car, a yellow VW. It starts with 4G. And Herb told me he remembered something from Christy’s argument. She said—and I quote—‘you dug your own grave.’”

  “Is that all?”

  “What more do you want?” A headache stirred behind my brows. I willed my neck muscles to relax. “Herb wouldn’t give me his address. I was lucky I caught any of his license plate.”

  “I only meant that I have to go, if that’s all you’ve got.”

  “Oh. Yeah. It is.”

  He hung up.

  I drummed my fingers on the linoleum kitchen counter. Okay, so it hadn’t been much. But I’d hoped for a bit more enthusiasm. It was a clue. Should I have told him about the intruder in the museum last night? No, he’d think I was paranoid.

  And he’d be right.

  What had Herb been doing outside the museum after one a.m.? Had he lured me away so an accomplice could enter? Why? What was the connection? And what was I going to do for lunch?

  I called Harper.

  “Have you heard anything about Adele?” she asked.

  I filled her in. “And the Ladies Aid Society has taken out a full page ad declaring the Paranormal Museum the tackiest museum in San Benedetto.”

  “You’re not running against a very deep bench. Isn’t it the only museum in San Benedetto?”

  “That’s not the point,” I huffed.

  “For someone who isn’t sure about taking on the museum, you seem to care about this a lot.”

  “Because this campaign against the museum is ridiculous.” The headache roared, and I went to the cupboard in search of aspirin. “Look, are you free for lunch later? I used to know what was going on in this town, but I’m back to being an outsider.”

  There was a long pause. “I’m trying not to eat out so much, and I brought my own sandwich.”

  “Ever the financial advisor. What about a picnic at Adele’s winery?” I found the aspirin bottle behind a box of crackers and popped it open with one hand. “Noonish? And I’ll bring my own sandwich.”

  “See you then.” Harper hung up.

  I spent the rest of the morning with a self-help book. At noon, I clicked off my e-reader. Meditation and ego-work was all well and good, but it would have to take a back seat to my problems at the museum.

  Hauling myself off the couch, I went to the kitchen. Harper had the right idea about not eating out so much. I stuck my head in the refrigerator. Cider. Cheese. A yogurt past its sell-by date. No fruit. No sandwich makings. Ugh.

  I drove to the deli for a roast-beef-and-swiss sandwich and a bag of tortilla chips, then drove west. Five minutes on wide, straight roads and I was in the fields, zipping past rows of bare vines dormant from the winter.

  A sign alerted me to turn right for the Plot 42 Vineyard. I drove down the gravel road toward Adele’s family winery. Plot 42 was a good name. I wondered why Adele’s father had felt the need for the new Haunted Vine label. And I wondered where Adele was, if she’d gotten out on bail.

  Harper had parked her BMW beneath a weeping willow. Nearby, the tasting room, a converted barn, stood shut.

  I pulled in beside Harper’s car. She sat atop a picnic table, her feet resting on the bench, and chatted on her phone. Her loose hair cascaded past the shoulders of her white blouse, which was rolled up to her elbows. She wore blue pinstriped wide-legged slacks.

  I raised my paper-wrapped sandwich in greeting and walked across the damp grass.

  She waggled her fingers at me. “Paris in March?” she said into the phone. “I’m sure I can clear my schedule.” She murmured a goodbye and hung up, looking like the cat who’d swallowed the canary.

  “Spring in Paris? I’m assuming that’s not Paris, Texas.”

  “You assume correctly. A client wants me to do some planning for his mother in Paris. She’s got assets here in the U.S. and finds our laws confusing.” A sandwich in a plastic baggie and a tub of something lay on the table beside her, along with a bottle of water.

  “And he’ll pay for the ticket?” I asked.

  “He’s a she, and of course she’ll pay,” Harper said. “Why don’t you come along? We can do some shopping.”

  Not on my current salary. I still had a stash in my savings account, but I didn’t like seeing the balance moving in one direction—down. “Maybe next time.”

  Nodding, she slithered off the table onto the bench. “It turned out to be a nice day. This was a good idea.”

  I sat across from her and tilted my head back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face. The door to the barn/tasting room rolled back, and a man in khakis walked outside and set up a sandwich board. Scrawled across it in pink chalk were the words, Yes, we’re open! Grapevines grew above the door, and yellow and pink and orange flowers I couldn’t identify sprouted in clay pots around the brick path to the barn.

  “I’d suggest getting a bottle of wine with our meal, but I suppose you’ve got to meet a client after lunch.”

  “You suspect correctly, but the client is Mr. Nakamoto.” Harper reached into a canvas satchel near her feet and pulled out a bottle of Haunted Vine Cabernet and two glasses. “I don’t think he’ll mind. In fact, I’m sure he’ll ask for a review of his latest vintage.”

  “He needs financial advice? About Adele’s bail?”

  “Her bail was set at two million dollars.”

  “Two million! That’s crazy! She’s no flight risk. But they only have to pay a bondsman ten percent, don’t they?” But that was still two hundred thousand dollars, a huge sum. The Nakamotos had done well, but I doubted they had that sort of money in cash, especially after investing in their new wine label.

  “I can’t really talk about it,” Harper said. “The bail is public knowledge. Everything else is confidential.”

  I sighed. “Consider the subject changed.”

  Uncorking the bottle, she poured the wine and set the glasses on the table. “I should have opened this sooner, but it’s be
tter to let it breathe in the glasses anyway. So, aside from your recent award, how are things going at the museum?”

  “Never a dull moment.”

  “So you like it?”

  I scratched my cheek. “It’s a challenge, but I’m not sure if it’ll be one that pays off even under the best of circumstances.”

  Harper took a sip of her wine. “And the paranormal side? How do you feel about that?”

  I laughed. “I don’t think the place is haunted, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It wasn’t.” She watched me, her green eyes intent. “I meant the paranormal in general.”

  “It’s fun to consider.” I wasn’t sure what my friend was getting at, but there seemed something behind her question. “If you’re asking if I believe in ghosts, I guess I’m open to the idea. There’s so much we don’t know about the universe. It seems arrogant to assume they don’t exist simply because science hasn’t been able to prove it. It wasn’t so long ago that we didn’t know germs existed.”

  “Hmm.” Harper played with the stem of her glass. “Rhetorical question: have you ever wondered how we all ended up here in San Benedetto? You, Adele, and I, I mean. Adele has a Harvard MBA; she could work pretty much anywhere, but she wants a tea room here. You were a high-powered international executive—”

  I coughed. “I wouldn’t say high powered.”

  “But you came back.”

  “Because I obviously wasn’t that high powered. I couldn’t find anything in San Francisco.”

  She arched a brow. “You couldn’t find anything? Or you couldn’t find anything you wanted?”

  “I couldn’t find anyone who’d hire me.” I really didn’t like this line of questioning. The more I tried to be sane and logical about the job hunt, the more frustrated and defensive I grew. So I turned it on her. “What about you? You’ve done well for yourself. Why are you here?”

  “That’s easy. My clients are here. Moving locations would mean losing clients, and I’m not willing to start over from scratch.”

  “And Adele?”

  Harper shrugged. “Her family’s here, and the vineyard. I don’t believe for a minute that she’s keeping the museum because her father’s pressuring her. Her father’s never pressured her in his life. She’s doing it because he took a gamble on his Haunted Vine label and she wants to help him. But why did you come back? What do you want?”