Deja Moo

by Kirsten Weiss

  I flipped on the twinkle lights in the Gallery room. Since it was the holiday season, I’d switched my sales inventory to relevant paranormal-themed items, namely holiday fairies. They hung from the ceilings on gauzy wings, perched in the windows on piles of fake snow, posed on tall, black-painted pedestals.

  Walking beneath the mistletoe into the Fortune Telling Room, I straightened an antique Ouija board on the circular table. I unlatched the door of the spirit cabinet that could hold two grown men, and the hinges squeaked alarmingly.

  Hands on my hips, I turned slowly, satisfied. Vintage tarot cards, their colors faded by time, lay artfully spread beneath a glass case. I whisked the duster over the antique Houdini poster.

  We were ready for business.

  Returning to my post behind the counter, I stared at my computer screen and yawned again. It’s all well and good to be running around at three a.m. until you have to go to work the next morning—technically, the same morning.

  I pressed play for the nth time and watched the burning of the Christmas Cow. The webcams had been on time lapse, so it was a case of now you see it, now you don’t. One moment, there was the Christmas Cow, a big red bow and papier-mâché cowbell around its neck. A blur of action. Then fire. Lots of fire. The cow builders had doused the straw with some sort of fire-retardant, but the cow had gone up fast anyway.

  GD Cat sauntered across the keyboard and lashed his ebony tail in my face.

  “Oh, come on. You only do this when I’m looking at something important.” I lifted him off the computer.

  He whipped his head around and bit my hand, but only lightly. It was a reminder that he was boss, even if I was the one who filled his kibble bowl.

  “Go chase a ghost,” I said. “GD” stands for ghost detecting. The cat and the museum had been a package deal. Our relationship was wary, but the customers liked him, so in spite of his bad attitude he got to stay.

  The black cat hissed and leapt off the counter. Tail high, he stalked to the giant papier-mâché cave Leo and I had built in one corner of the room. Gryla the Icelandic Christmas Ogre peered menacingly through a crack in the cave wall.

  Leo and I had gone all-out with displays of paranormal holiday traditions. The only way I was going to earn a decent living off this museum was if I got repeat customers. And that meant I had to change up the exhibits.

  To the main room, I’d added a display of vintage postcards featuring Krampus the Christmas Demon, a collection of antique Italian Christmas Witch marionettes, and the pièce de résistance … San Benedetto’s haunted cowbells. They hung on an iron frame in a triangular, almost Christmas-tree shape on the wall between the Fortune Telling Room and the Gallery. The bells were reputed to bring death to those who heard their ringing. Getting my hands on them had been a major score.

  I returned to the beginning of the webcam video and clicked play/pause, play/pause in quick succession to try to catch the gingerbread men in action. But all I saw were quickly vanishing silhouettes. Even Santa was elusive. The webcam had been set on a pole above the gazebo, so there were no images of Mr. Eldrich’s murder. Part of me was relieved, because I really didn’t want to watch someone die. The other part of me was annoyed the video wasn’t more helpful.

  On the positive side, my mom was in full view of the webcam the whole time. So at least she was off the hook for the murder.

  The bell over the door jingled, and I looked up.

  Two youngish women wearing long red Santa Hats with bells on the ends stood grinning in front of the counter.

  I adjusted my Paranormal Museum hoodie. “Welcome to the paranormal museum.”

  “Two tickets please,” one said, glancing around. “Where’s the cat?”

  I pointed to the “cave,” where GD huddled at Gryla’s feet. He rolled onto his back, stretching with that eerie plasticity cats have, and then walked to the door of the Fortune Telling Room. He paused, one paw raised, and his ears swiveled. I sighed. The show-off.

  The good-for-business show-off.

  “Oooh.” One of the women forked over the cash. “Does he see a ghost?”

  “Cats are believed to be able to see spirits,” I said, vague. I was agnostic about GD’s abilities. How do you prove a cat is looking at a ghost anyway? It was possible ghosts existed, but I hadn’t seen strong evidence. Though weird things did go on at the museum that I couldn’t explain. Truthfully, I didn’t want to explain the phenomena. The mystery is what makes the paranormal fun.

  Giggling, the two women hurried after GD.

  I scrubbed my hands across my face, trying to wake myself up.

  The bookcase between the museum and Fox and Fennel, Adele’s tea room next door, swiveled open. Adele minced in, carrying a delicate cup of tea.

  She set the tea on the counter and adjusted the top of her pristine white apron. “I thought you could use some caffeine after last night.”

  “I thought tea didn’t have much caffeine.”

  “It depends on the tea. I loaded yours with sugar.”

  “You are a true friend.” I took a sip and grimaced, feeling my teeth rotting. “I take it you couldn’t get anything out of Dieter.”

  She jammed her fists on the hips of her powder-blue skirt. “He wouldn’t say a word. Can you believe it? To me! He went on and on about confidentiality and the sacredness of the bet.”

  “Give it time. You’ll make him crack.”

  “I’m not so sure. How’s your mom doing?” Then Adele blinked, looking past my shoulder, and I followed her gaze to the window.

  My ex, Mason, walked by on the sidewalk outside. Smiling, he looped one brawny arm around the shoulders of a slim woman with long titian locks. His other hand clasped a young boy’s, and I felt my own smile waver.

  “Are you all right?” Adele asked quietly.

  “Sure I am.”

  “Because you don’t look all right.”

  “No, really, I’m fine.” I blew out my breath. “Mason and I are over. We did the right thing, and I’m happy for him—for all of them. It’s just …” Elbows braced on the counter, I smushed my head into my hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “It’s only … I don’t know. Am I doomed to die alone? I’m over thirty. My odds of finding someone are smaller than they are of getting killed by a terrorist.”

  Outside, Mason paused on the sidewalk and said something to Jordan and his mother.

  “First,” Adele said, “that statistic has been thoroughly debunked. Second, you’re not quoting it right even if it were true. And third, since when did anything you did ever follow the statistical norm?” She laid her hand on mine. “It’s normal to feel this way after a breakup. But you’ll move on.”

  “I have moved on. I’m not pining for Mason. I just haven’t …” I gestured helplessly. “Moved on.” It was the holly jolly season, my favorite time of year. My mother was safe and my museum was booming. So why was dread dripping off me like the Ghost of Christmas Doom?

  “I can ask Dieter to set you up with one of his friends.”

  I made a face. “No thanks.” I’d met Dieter’s friends. Most were red-nosed octogenarians whose greatest passion was the track.

  Mason, now alone on the sidewalk, turned toward the museum and nodded to me through the glass.

  My heart jumped, and I gave him a small wave.

  “Then you’re going to have to stop feeling sorry for yourself and get out there,” she said, frowning at the window.

  “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  “You’re welcome.” Casting one last glance at the window, Adele turned on her heel and slipped through the bookcase. It glided shut.

  Mason strode into the museum, his brow furrowed with concern. “I heard about your mom. Is she okay?” His broad shoulders strained the seams of his vintage motorcycle jacket. With his blond hair i
n a ponytail, he looked the part of a biker.

  “More angry than scared,” I said, happier than I wanted to admit that he’d stopped in. “She wasn’t hurt.”

  “How are you doing?” His Nordic-blue eyes bored into mine, and his voice seemed to deepen.

  “I’m a little worried about my mom. You remember what happened the last time she found a body.”

  One corner of his mouth curved upward. “If memory serves, you found that body at the harvest fair.”

  “The point is,” I said quickly, “I’m afraid she might get involved and put herself in danger.”

  One of his pale brows lifted. “So you’re going to do it for her?”

  “I didn’t say that,” I said primly.

  Mason shook his head. “Don’t make me worry about you. This has been hard enough.”

  Warmth crept up my cheeks. “How are things with Belle?”

  “She’s helping me out at the shop when she’s not working at the salon. She’s determined to earn enough money to move out.”

  I straightened. “She’s leaving?” Had I made a mistake breaking up with him because of Anabelle, his blast-from-the-past ex-girlfriend and the mother of his newly discovered child? No, I hadn’t. We’d needed to step apart to gain perspective. I didn’t regret that.

  “Belle and I aren’t a couple, you know,” he said. “Even though we’re living together.”

  “Would you like to be?” And why had I asked that? I fought the desire to squirm.

  He looked out the window. “We could be.”

  My heart meteored to earth.

  He met my gaze. “But I can’t help thinking about someone else.”

  And then my pulse began banging double-time. “Oh.” We’d broken up to get clarity, and now I was more confused than ever. No regrets, no regrets. “Well. I’m sure things will work out for the best.”

  He hesitated, as if struggling for something to say. “How’s your old truck doing lately?”

  “Great.” It wasn’t really a lie. My truck had worked fine that morning. Things were complicated enough without Mason doing work on my vintage pickup. But I didn’t want to talk about that, so I changed the subject to the first thing I could think of. “How did you and Belle meet, anyway?”

  He smiled. “She was trying to steal my car.”

  “You’re joking,” I said, laughing in spite of myself.

  “Nope. We were both pretty young and not too smart. Fortunately, neither of us are those people anymore.”

  “None of us are.”

  “Let me know if you need anything. Anything,” he said with quiet emphasis as he left the museum.

  The Paranormal Museum was starting to get crowded, and I shook off my funk. Life was good. My Christmas exhibit was drawing in the customers and it was only Thursday. Typically, things didn’t really start to hop until Fridays and weekends, when people were wine tasting.

  A woman I recognized from Ladies Aid asked about a set of Christmas ogre salt and pepper shakers. Deeming them reasonably priced, she bought the Icelandic Christmas fiends. I wrapped them in tissue paper. The ogress’s black eyes seemed to wink maliciously. Hurriedly, I swaddled her in tissue, tucked her into the bag, and handed the shakers across the glass counter.

  The bell over the door jingled and my assistant, Leo, ambled into the museum. A quasi-Goth, today he wore a black motorcycle jacket, black jeans, and a black Paranormal Museum T-shirt. He got the tees for free, and he hated doing laundry, so his collection of museum T-shirts was nearly as big as mine.

  I sat up straighter on my seat. “What are you doing here today? You’re not scheduled to work until tomorrow.”

  “I’m on winter break, and you promised to give me the low-down on what happened last night.” He raked a hand through his lanky, dyed-black hair. “Did you get the webcam video I sent?”

  “Yes, thanks. Hopefully the police will be able to get more out of it than I did. All I saw were shadows, and they disappeared as quickly as they appeared.”

  “There’s a good shot of the flaming arrows. So what happened?”

  Quickly, I told him about the night of the flaming arrows, which now that I thought about it sounded like a bad Bruce Lee film.

  A bell jingled softly, and I glanced toward the door. It was firmly closed door. My flesh pebbled.

  A flash went off, someone snapping a picture of our cowbell exhibit.

  A lean woman in a tracksuit wandered to the counter. She brandished a porcelain fairy ornament. “I’ll take it.”

  “Here,” Leo said, “I’ll wrap it up.” He shot me a sideways glance. “If it’s okay with you, I could use the extra hours.”

  And I could use the extra manpower. The Christmas season was delightfully even busier than I’d expected. I rang up the purchase while Leo wrapped the fairy, set it in its box, and bagged it.

  “Thank you,” I said to the customer. “Come again!”

  “I’m telling all my friends about this place. What fun! And cursed cowbells!” Laughing, she sashayed out the door.

  “A lot of people are talking about those cowbells after last night.” Leo shifted his weight. “You don’t think there’s really a curse?”

  Seated on the barstool, I gripped my knees. “No, because there’s no such thing as curses.” Though my truck breaking down had been weird. “And even if there was, Herb did his usual binding spell on the bells. For whatever that’s worth.”

  The bookcase to the tea shop slid open and my other best friend, Harper Caldarelli, strode in, the heels of her boots clicking on the checkerboard floor. She was dressed in her financial adviser gear—a thick wool coat over her navy pinstripe pantsuit. It was all good quality, because her practice was successful. “I heard about the Christmas Cow,” she said. “Is your mom okay?”

  “She’s fine,” I said. “She was upset, but she wasn’t hurt.”

  “I can imagine,” Harper said. “Especially with the cowbell curse business as well.”

  “I know.” Leo braced his elbows on the counter. “They were just talking about it at the college.”

  I glanced at him. “I thought you said you wanted extra hours because you’re on winter break?”

  “I had to stand in line to pick up next semester’s schedule,” he explained. “Between the Christmas Cow death and the cursed cowbells reappearing after thirty-plus years, there’s a major freak-out in progress.”

  “Guys,” I said, “the cowbells are just good fun. And the bells didn’t reappear. Herb got them at the mayor’s charity auction and sold them to me.” Unsurprisingly, city hall had lost interest in the bells, which had been gathering dust in a storage room for decades.

  Harper shook her head, her long mahogany hair cascading over her slim shoulders. “I’m not so sure about fun. The sound of bells is a classic death omen. You can find it in cultures all over the world.”

  “But cowbells?” I lowered my voice. “The curse is a good story, and the bells tie in with the Christmas theme—”

  “They’re not tied to Christmas,” Harper insisted.

  “The Swedes hung them in that metal frame shaped like a Christmas tree.” I motioned toward the bells hanging on the wall. “All bells are holiday-esque. Besides, the Christmas Cow is erected in December, and the cowbells are connected to the cow.”

  “Right, because every member of the committee that started up the Christmas Cow tradition in San Benedetto back in the ’80s died.”

  “Everyone dies.” I dragged my damp palm down the thigh of my jeans. “The mortality rate in San Benedetto and everywhere else is 100 percent.”

  “But they all died within a year,” Leo said. “And according to legend, they all heard the cowbells before they kicked the bucket.”

  “I know,” I said, motioning to the triangle of bells and the small cardboard placard beside them. “I’ve typed up the
story of the curse and the deaths.”

  I’d been promoting the cowbells like crazy. They’d been donated by our sister city in Sweden to kick off San Benedetto’s own Christmas Cow tradition, a misguided homage to our sister city’s giant straw Yule goat. One of the committee members had trekked all the way to Sweden to collect the bells, drink mulled wine, and shake hands. This connection of the bells to the cow, which had since become one of San Benedetto’s most important tourist attractions, made the cursed cowbells kind of a big deal.

  “Hey, have you got a Christmas gift for Adele yet?” Harper asked, her gaze darting to the closed bookcase. “I’m totally stuck. What do you get the woman who has everything?”

  I gazed pointedly at Harper’s expensive boots, designer suit, perfect hair. She was the woman who had everything. “Gee, I don’t know.”

  The wall phone rang. I fumbled it, then managed to get it to my ear. “Good morning! Paranormal Museum.”

  “Maddie, this is Penny,” the president of the Wine and Visitors Bureau whispered.

  “What’s up?”

  “You have to come to the Visitors Bureau. Now.”

  My brows drew together. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your mother is here.”

  I went cold. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s running amok,” Penny hissed. “Get over here. Now!” She hung up.

  I stared at the old-fashioned receiver. Running? Amok? Neither sounded like my mother. “Sorry, Harper. I have to go to the Wine and Visitors Bureau. Leo, could you—”

  “No problem,” he said. “I don’t have to be anywhere until three.”

  I checked my watch. It was eleven thirty. “Thanks.” I hurried through the bookcase into the tea room and down the bamboo-plank hallway to the alley. My red pickup sat parked beside a dumpster.

  I slid onto its front seat. Murder by arrow, cursed Christmas cowbells, and my mother on some sort of rampage at the Wine and Visitors Bureau. I gripped the cold steering wheel. What the devil was going on?