Deja Moo

by Kirsten Weiss

  Leo pulled a rumpled newspaper from the back pocket of his black jeans. “Um, I guess you saw the newspaper article.”

  I stared at him blankly. “Newspaper article?”

  “About the cowbell curse.”

  “Oh! That. I completely forgot.” I needed to pick up a copy of the local paper. “Thanks for doing the interview.”

  “About that …” He handed me the paper and I unfolded it. “Looks like the story got picked up by the AP. It’s all over the Internet.”

  I bounced on my toes. “Seriously?” I didn’t know why anyone outside of San Benedetto would care, but the article could only boost our online sales. “I owe you lunch. And dessert.”

  He pursed his mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, scanning the article. “This is great publicity for the museum.” We’d gone national!

  Leo rubbed his head, ruffling his black hair. “Some people are upset about the article.”

  “Some people?”

  “Mrs. Gale gave me an earful. She said I was making the town look foolish.”

  “No.” I flapped my hand in a dismissive gesture. “The cowbell story is quirky. Maybe it’s a bit silly, but the cowbells are an old story. No one believes in the curse today.”

  He looked hard at the black-and-white linoleum floor.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The thing is, a lot of people do believe.”

  A silver-haired tourist couple emerged from the Fortune Telling Room and examined the row of haunted photos, high on the wall.

  “And I believe in Santa Claus,” I said. “It’s harmless fun.”

  “You believe in Santa?” Leo shook his head. “Never mind. None of my business.”

  “Not as a guy in red velvet who lives at the North Pole and says ho-ho-ho.” I jiggled my stomach. “But yeah. I believe in Santa as a spirit of unbridled generosity. It’s my single paranormal belief.” I needed at least one if I was going to market the museum without feeling like a total fraud.

  “This is different,” he said. “People are freaking out. And the article sort of connects the curse to Bill Eldrich’s death.”

  “Oh.” That wasn’t quite as much fun. But it explained why the story had been picked up by the AP, even if it was in their Strange News section. I rallied. “It’ll blow over. Don’t worry about it.” I chucked him on the arm with the rolled newspaper. “No publicity is bad publicity, and everyone knows curses aren’t real. This town has bigger fish to fry, like figuring out who killed Bill Eldrich.”

  “I thought it was an accident,” Leo said. “Not murder. The police aren’t calling it murder, are they?”

  I lowered my chin and studied him. “I don’t know if they think it was intentional or a college prank gone wrong.”

  He grimaced.

  “A local college,” I said. And there was only one local college—the junior college Leo attended. “I know you wouldn’t be stupid enough to set the cow on fire, but keeping a secret on campus is pretty impossible. What have you heard?”

  The tourist couple paused before a bronzed skull on a pedestal. The silver-haired woman reached for it, caught me watching, and snatched her hand away.

  Leo raised his hands in a warding gesture. “Look, you’re right. I wasn’t involved. But if I heard anything, I sure wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “Leo, a man was killed. Even if it was an accident, the truth needs to come out.”

  “Yeah, and I know exactly how the police make that happen,” he said bitterly. “They thought I was a killer once.”

  “And they caught the real killer.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not dealing with the police. Not after the way they treated me.”

  “Then tell me what you know.”

  “I like you, Maddie. So, no offense, but you’ll just tell Slate.”

  My neck tensed. I didn’t like my new reputation as a tattletale. “No I won’t,” I said, offended.

  He gave me a skeptical look.

  “There is such a thing as confidential informants,” I said. “If you tell me something useful, sure, I’ll pass it on. But I won’t tell Slate where I got the information from if you don’t want me to.”

  The tourist couple wandered into the Gallery.

  “You swear?” Leo asked.

  “Cross my heart, the works.”

  His shoulders slumped. “All right. But only because I owe you one.”

  Leo didn’t owe me anything, but now wasn’t the time to bring that up.

  “I heard there were some guys at school who were planning to take out the cow,” he said.

  “Any names?”

  “Look, I don’t know if they actually did it. Only that they were planning to. No one’s taken credit for burning the cow.”

  Well, they wouldn’t, since a man died in the process.

  “I get it,” I assured him. “At this point all we’ve got is talk, and that could have just been boasting. Or maybe they were really planning to attack the cow but someone else beat them to it. Who are these guys?”

  Leo’s chest rose, fell. “Craig. Craig Wilde. I don’t know who else was in on the plan.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  Leo yelped. “You said—”

  “I won’t tell him who told me,” I said quickly. “Look, if they were involved in an accidental death, then it will be better for them if they come forward voluntarily. Maybe someone needs to tell them that. And if they weren’t involved, then we need to know that too.”

  Leo blew out his breath. “Fine. I went to his house for a study group once. I’ll get you the contact info.”

  “Thanks.” I clapped him on his leather-clad shoulder. “We’ll sort this out.” I hoped. “What’s Craig’s number?”

  Leo dug his phone from the pocket of his motorcycle jacket and scrolled through the contacts. “Here.” He handed me the phone.

  Using my own cell phone, I dialed.

  “Yeah?” a young man answered.

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

  “Yeah?”

  “I wanted to ask you about the Christmas Cow. May I—”

  He hung up.

  I stared at the phone. “Looks like I’ll have to go to Plan B.”

  “What’s Plan B?”

  “My mom,” I said, grim.

  six

  “I’m glad you called.” One-handed, my mother zipped the collar of her ice-blue parka higher. She fiddled with the radio. The Lincoln had that new car smell even though it was four years old, and by the sparkle on the dashboard, I guessed it had been recently detailed.

  “Umm hmm.” I looked out the window, watching for house numbers on the rural road.

  She slowed beside a barren orchard. Late morning fog twisted in the tops of the skeletal branches. “For a moment, I didn’t think you were taking my investigation seriously.”

  “It’s a murder investigation, and the police here are good at what they do.”

  “All the police? Or one detective in particular?”

  My cheeks burned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know quite well what I mean.”

  “The point is,” I said, “if Mr. Eldrich’s death was an accident, it’s better if any students involved come forward on their own.” And there was no one better at making someone squirm than my mother.

  She adjusted the seat belt across her chest. “And I suppose it doesn’t hurt that I happen to know Craig’s parents.”

  I hadn’t known she knew them, but I should have. Ladies Aid had its tentacles everywhere.

  “You need me,” she said, “especially since that truck of yours has gotten unreliable.”

  “I just figured you had a bigger stake in this than I did.”

  “So y
ou need me.”

  “Well, yeah. You don’t—there it is.” Black numbers on a white fence: 8052.

  She turned at the gate and her tires crunched down the gravel drive.

  “What can you tell me about Craig?” I asked.

  “Not much. I know his parents, not him.”

  “How do you know them?” We bumped past a pasture and clusters of milling cows.

  Her blue eyes widened. “Madelyn, you should know them too. His mother, Tabitha, is on the town council. His father, Tom, is in the Dairy Association. How can you expect your museum to succeed if you don’t build relationships within the community?”

  “I’ve been kind of busy with the museum,” I muttered, my shoulder bouncing against the car door as she swerved to avoid a rut in the road.

  “That isn’t enough.”

  I blew out my breath. “I know, you’re right.”

  “But I will admit, your obsession with the museum is paying off. Your Christmas display was a stroke of genius. Who would have thought those silly cowbells would make national news?”

  “So you’re not upset about the bells?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “I heard some people thought the article made the town look foolish.”

  “Foolishness is ingrained in the human condition. And if it’s our turn to be laughed at now, it will be someone else’s next.”

  “Interesting philosophy.”

  She let up on the accelerator and glided into a circular driveway. A two-story, gabled white farmhouse stood at the end of a path surrounded by walnut trees. A few yellow leaves clung obstinately to the branches. More lay scattered on the ground.

  “One should never take oneself too seriously,” she said. “This murder, on the other hand …” She shook her head. “We need to clear poor Craig.”

  “But if Craig and his friends did it—”

  “Of course they didn’t. This was no accident. These kids are being framed.”

  “How do you figure—”

  But she’d stepped out of the Lincoln and was striding down the long straight path to the porch. As usual, she’d parked in the first spot she’d seen, far from the house, though there was plenty of room closer to the porch.

  I hurried after her.

  I wasn’t a professional investigator, but even I knew you didn’t jump to conclusions at the beginning of a case. Also, I seemed to remember some Agatha Christies where the person who insisted it was murder was the person who got bumped off next. Maybe it was time for my mom to start taking her own safety more seriously.

  I trotted up the porch steps, the wood thunking hollowly beneath my tennis shoes.

  My mother rang the bell.

  The front door swung open, and a man’s tall silhouette stood framed behind the screen. Then he pushed that open too.

  If someone said the word “dairy farmer,” this would be the sort of man I’d picture. Middle-aged, he filled the doorway. His iron-gray hair and broad hands could easily fit around my neck.

  I swallowed.

  His suntanned face wrinkled in a brief smile. “Fran. Come in. And …?”

  “My daughter, Madelyn. She owns the Paranormal Museum,” Mom said with a hint of pride. “Madelyn, this is Tom Wilde.”

  We stepped into a sunlit foyer.

  “Is that Fran?” a woman’s voice caroled. The woman herself stepped out of the dining room. Her tight, hot pink dress cradled her every curve, and her sky-high black heels matched her dark hair. She smiled broadly, her teeth white against her olive skin, and kissed my mother on the cheek. But her eyes were pink as if she’d been crying. “It’s so good to see you again, Fran. And this must be Maddie of the Paranormal Museum. I read the article about those cowbells.” She laughed warmly and took my hand. “You must have some PT Barnum in you.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wilde,” I said, liking her instantly. There’s nothing sexier than confidence, and this woman wore her extra curves with pride.

  “Call me Tabitha. Everyone else does. Come in, come in!” She ushered us into a living area with raw wood walls and soft white couches and arrangements of poinsettia around a white-brick fireplace.

  Her husband, Tom, dropped into the largest chair and said nothing.

  “Can I get you some tea? Coffee?” Tabitha asked, leading us to a couch.

  “No, thank you.” My mom lowered herself onto a snowy sofa.

  “You said you had information about the Christmas Cow,” Tabitha said, taking the stuffed chair opposite. “I’m starting to wonder if it’s one of those traditions that needs to go away.”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question,” my mother said, and I sat beside her.

  “If you need my support, I’ll be happy to help in any way I can,” Tabitha said. “Now that someone’s been killed …” She blinked rapidly. “It’s terrible.”

  I cleared my throat. “About that. There’s talk that a group of kids from the junior college were involved in the attack. Your son attends school there, doesn’t he?”

  “Craig?” She touched her clavicle. “You think he might know something?”

  “I’m afraid he might have been involved with the students who set fire to the cow,” my mother said in a low voice. “At least, that’s the rumor on campus.”

  “No.” Tabitha shook her head violently. “No, he wouldn’t. Not with his parents working with the organizations that plan it. He knows how damaging that would be.”

  “If the story reached us,” I said, “the police are going to hear about it too.”

  “But Craig had nothing to do with it.” Tabitha leaned forward on the couch. “I know my son. He’s a good boy.”

  “If Craig witnessed something, it’s better that he comes forward voluntarily,” my mom said.

  “If he saw something, he would have told me.” Tabitha’s face suffused with blood. She rose, her black shoes sinking deep into the white carpet.

  “We think he’s being framed,” I blurted out.

  Paling, Tabitha sat. “Framed?” Her husband’s knuckles whitened on the chair arm.

  My mother nodded. “There was a …” She winced. “Santa Claus near the gazebo, where Bill was shot. The other attackers were dressed as gingerbread men.”

  “Someone could have taken advantage of the students’ attack and used it as a cover to kill Mr. Eldrich,” I explained. Or this was a case of Occam’s razor and the simplest explanation—a prank gone awry—was the correct one. “Mr. Wilde,” I said, “you were in the Dairy Association with Mr. Eldrich. Did you know him well?”

  “He was a tough person to get to know,” Tom said carefully. “But he ran the association well. We had rules, and he followed them. Not much else you can ask for in a president.”

  “He was quite determined to build the Christmas Cow this year,” my mother said.

  “Well, we do it every year, don’t we?” Tom asked.

  “Did anyone have any problems with Mr. Eldrich?” I asked.

  “Dean Pinkerton,” he said.

  His wife shook her head. “Tom, we don’t know—”

  “I heard Dean screaming at him. He was pissed.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “Dean is a lovely man and an important member of the dairy community,” Tabitha said, giving her husband a look. She rose and walked to the white-brick fireplace. Kneeling, she flipped a switch and white lights threaded through the poinsettia winked on.

  “Raw milk,” Tom said.

  “Raw milk?” I braced my elbows on my knees. Penny from the Wine and Visitors Bureau had said something along these lines, but I was curious about the couple’s take on the conflict.

  “Dean’s been selling it,” Tom said. “Some organic thing. Milk’s supposed to be pasteurized, but he’s been selling it privately, slipping through some loophole.”


  “I wouldn’t call it a loophole,” Tabitha said, retaking her seat in the fat white chair.

  “Bill Eldrich wanted to close it,” Tom continued. “Shut him down.”

  “Why?” I shifted on the couch.

  “Why do people like raw milk, or why did Bill want to stop Dean’s sales?”

  “Both,” I said. “I guess.”

  Tom shrugged. “Raw milk is a health fad. But pasteurization kills e-coli and a lot of other harmful bacteria. If people get sick off of raw milk, they’ll just say ‘bad milk,’ and it’ll hurt all the local dairy farmers. Rules are rules, and Bill Eldrich was all about the rules.”

  “Was Dean angry enough to kill him?” my mom asked.

  “He was pretty mad,” Tom said. “He’s the only farmer selling raw milk within a hundred miles, so he had a lock on the granola-head market.”

  “Tom … We don’t call people that,” his wife said.

  A wintery smile crossed Tom’s face. “You don’t. CRAIG!!!” he bellowed.

  My mom and I started on the couch.

  Tabitha glanced toward the ceiling. “I could have gone to get him. He’s only upstairs.”

  “You’re not his maid. CRAIG!”

  Footsteps thundered down a set of stairs, and Craig slouched into the living room. “Yeah?”

  He had his mother’s dark hair and skin, and his father’s brandy-colored eyes. Catching sight of us, he straightened and glanced toward the entryway.

  “What do you know about the Christmas Cow attack?” his father rapped out.

  Craig’s expression grew sullen. “Nothing.”

  “I put a lot of hours in putting that stupid cow together,” Tom said. “Straw isn’t cheap, you know, and neither is fire retardant. Not that it did much good.”

  Tabitha smiled tightly. “Craig, a man was killed. If it was an accident, then we’ll deal with it. But if you know who was involved, then those persons need to come forward.”

  The young man’s dark brows slashed downward. “Why do you think I know? Why am I always the one to blame?”

  “You’re not,” his mother said. “But some kids from your school may have been involved, and—”

  “And so you blame me? Thanks a lot.” He stormed from the room. The front door slammed. On the mantel, the crimson poinsettia leaves fluttered.