“Why are you covering your mouth?”
“Because I’ve got prosciutto teeth. Avert your gaze.”
He stared down at the file. “Next up was another dairy man, Rudy Saarisland. He was eighty-nine, died of a heart attack in the hospital that May. All I’ve got on him is a death certificate.” He handed it to me.
I glanced at it. “I couldn’t find any record of when he first encountered the bells. Things get murky after the airport pickup. And the last person?”
“The last to die was a member of the town council, Sigfried Tassi, aged thirty-six.”
“Young. How’d he die?”
Jason bit into his panini, chewed, swallowed. “Electrocution. His new boom box fell into the bathtub. That was in June. His wife, Jennifer, called 911, but he was pronounced dead at the scene.”
“Is Jennifer still around?” The current hysteria must have been bringing up all sorts of unpleasant memories for her. The poor woman.
“I don’t know. Why? Do you want to talk to her?”
“I wonder how other family members feel about the revival of the curse story. It must be painful.” And my fault. I’d always considered my museum harmless fun. But was it?
“Considering the ages of the people who died, I’d bet she’s the only surviving family member. But I can check into it, if you want.”
And suddenly I did want to talk to Jennifer. Maybe it was true that all decisions are emotional. But if the curse was causing someone real pain, I’d have to mothball the cowbells.
“If the binding ritual doesn’t cool things off, yes, I think I’ll need to speak with her. And talk to any others who might still be around.”
I looked up. Jason watched me intently, and my face warmed. “I still have prosciutto in my teeth, don’t I?”
“You’re prosciutto-free.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing. Assuming today’s ceremony doesn’t work—”
“Why wouldn’t it work? It’ll work.”
“But if it doesn’t, what’s your next step?”
“Talk to the older folks in Ladies Aid and the Dairy Association.” And the fact that the dairy folks might offer insights into Bill Eldrich was wholly coincidental. If I happened to uncover any clues to his death, I’d turn them over to Slate like any good citizen. “They might remember some detail about what got the curse started that will help us defuse it.”
“If the binding ceremony fails to convince the town they’re safe.”
“Right.”
He nodded. “Let me know if you do decide to visit the old timers. I’ll come with you.”
In spite of the panini weighting me down, my stomach fluttered. “You will?”
“And make sure the curse is the only thing you’re interrogating them about.”
I deflated. “What? That isn’t fair.”
He raised a brow. “Isn’t it?”
“Just what are you accusing me of ?”
“Did I accuse you of something? Why are you being so sensitive?”
“Finish your panini. I’ve got a curse ceremony to organize.”
thirteen
Velvet ropes cordoned off the bells, and a crowd of tourists pressed close. Detective Jason Slate had vanished into the throng. GD perched on the tippy-top of Gryla’s papier-mâché cave and surveyed the room.
“What do you expect this ceremony will accomplish?” A bored-looking female reporter from Sacramento moved her digital recorder in front of my mouth. Attention from Sacramento was big-time for the museum, but all I could feel was relief that the press hadn’t discovered it was my mother’s car that had gotten blown to smithereens. I’d much rather talk about haunted cowbells than the bombing.
Mike, the young reporter from our local paper, leaned closer. He was probably more interested in the hottie from Sacramento than the curse-removal story, but I’d take what I could get.
I cleared my throat. “My hope is that the cowbells, which are an important part of San Benedetto’s history, will once again become objects of fun and interest rather than objects of fear.”
“How does this ritual work?” Mike asked.
“Maddie!” Herb waved frantically from the Fortune Telling Room. The overhead lights glinted off his thick glasses. “Maddie!”
“I’ve been told it will both cleanse the object and bind any remaining paranormal energy,” I said.
The carrot-top from Sacramento angled her head, her expression skeptical. “But how does it work?”
“That’s a question for our specialist. Um, will you excuse me?” I slipped through the crowd.
Herb backed into the Fortune Telling Room and bumped into a case filled with Ouija boards, tarot cards, divining rods, and other tools of the trade. He slithered around the lightweight Victorian séance table in the center of the room and gripped a door on the tall spirit cabinet against the wall. A poster of Houdini glowered down at him.
“There’s a cop here!” he whisper-shouted. He stepped into the cabinet, sat on the bench inside, and folded his arms.
I glanced through the open doorway at the milling throng. Now was not the time for Herb’s paranoia. “We’ve got a big crowd,” I said, my voice soothing. “And the police are getting a lot of calls about the bells. They want to make sure everything’s okay. Now where’s your curse-removal specialist?”
“He’ll be here. He’s just picking up some holy water.” Herb swallowed nervously. “This might cost more than I projected.”
My eyes widened. “More?” I stepped forward.
Herb grabbed the door handles and slammed the spirit cabinet shut, barricading himself inside.
I pounded on the doors. “Get out of there. I’m not going to hurt you, and that cabinet’s an antique.”
“What about that cop?” His voice floated, a spectral hiss, through the closed wooden doors.
“And what do you mean cost more? How much more?”
He cracked open a door. One beady eye, monstrously magnified by his glasses, peered out. “The normal method for dealing with a curse as dangerous as this one would be to destroy the bells. At the very least, you’d bury them or sink them in a river.”
“What?!” I yanked open the cabinet doors.
He raised his hands in a warding gesture. “But I knew you wouldn’t want to do that. These are historical objects, after all. So I came up with an alternative solution—a binding box.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s perfect for the museum, and a historical object in and of itself. It’s been magically consecrated, with protective wards on all sides, and it’s quite old.”
A couple stuck their heads inside the Fortune Telling Room, saw me glaring at the spirit cabinet, and edged out.
“If the bells are in a box,” I said, “how is anyone going to see them?”
“Xavier and I worked that out. We replaced the lid with glass and inked a powerful sigil onto the inside of the glass to maintain the wards. All you’ll need to do is clean the outside of the glass regularly with a vinegar and holy water mixture.”
I ground my teeth. “How much more?”
“A bargain at five hundred dollars.”
“What?!”
“Xavier refused to hold the ritual unless he was sure it would work. This was the only other way to get him to agree.”
“An extra five hundred dollars!”
“Think of it as more than a box, but as a new and exciting exhibit for the museum. The original sigils were drawn onto the box by a nineteenth-century shaman, a priest, and a rabbi. It came from the Black Forest!”
“There are shamans in the Black Forest?” I asked, intrigued in spite of myself.
He folded his hands in his lap. “Shamans are everywhere. You really should learn more about your magical history.”
“But … five hund
red dollars more,” I said weakly. We’d been doing well this month, but I fully expected January to be a dead zone. And I’d promised Leo a bonus. Still, I didn’t see how I could get around it. The museum was packed, and the natives were restless and expecting a show. “You shouldn’t have agreed to it without asking me first,” I muttered.
Sensing my defeat, he clambered from the cabinet. “You won’t regret it. This artifact is a work of art. And I’ve kept the box’s original lid, so you can display that as well or resell it later. I was a little concerned that by replacing it with glass, and turning the box on its side for display, it would lose some of its efficacy. But we’ve cast the appropriate spells, and we managed to scare up another rabbi and priest to bless it. Fortunately, Xavier is a shaman.”
“Of course he is.” I groaned. This was Herb’s revenge because I’d refused to buy that stupid magic mirror.
“He assures me this will work. So, if you can you write me a check for the box …?”
“Herb—”
“It was the only way I could get Xavier here. He takes his work very seriously. And if you want the town to believe those bells are safe, you need him.”
“Herb—”
“No box, no ritual.”
I looked around the muttering crowd in the next room. I couldn’t back out now. Not after I’d charged for tickets. “We’ll discuss this later.”
“Fine, but I really do need that check up front. Xavier bought the binding box himself, and if he’s not paid up front—”
“Fine!” I stormed from the room. Weaving between spectators, I bumped into Harper.
“Whoa.” She brushed a speck of paranormal museum dust from the lapel of her suede blazer. Beneath it she wore a camel-colored turtleneck sweater and matching scarf. She flicked her luxuriously long hair over one shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Herb’s holding me up for another five hundred bucks. I have to put the bells in a binding box.” It sounded ridiculous spoken aloud.
“I was wondering how they were going to get around burying or destroying the bells,” she said.
“You mean the binding box idea is a real thing?”
A woman knocked into me from behind, and I grabbed a display case to steady myself.
“I’ve never seen one,” Harper said, “but I’ve been doing curse research on your behalf. They’re real.”
“You’ve been researching?” I clutched her arm. “You’re amazing!” I knew she’d be able to help.
“I’m no expert on curses,” she said. “But you got me curious.”
The red-headed reporter bore down on us.
“Let’s talk later.” I skittered behind a display case and bumped into a middle-aged woman in an old-fashioned violet cloche hat. “Sorry.”
She turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Shrugging, I circled to the counter and edged behind Leo, who was selling tickets. I grabbed my purse from beneath the register and hastily wrote out a check, any profits I’d hoped for from the event evaporating. At least I still had potential publicity to make it worth my while.
On the other side of the counter, Herb snatched the check from my hand. “This will do.”
“So where is he?” I asked.
The front door opened, bumping a woman from behind, and a tall, cadaverous man with a salt-and-pepper goatee slithered into the museum.
“That’s him,” Herb said.
Expression leery, the man approached the counter. “Good afternoon,” he said in a crypt-deep voice.
Ants crawled up my spine.
“May I presume you are Madelyn Kosloski, proprietress of this paranormal museum?” he asked.
“She is,” Herb said. “Maddie, this is Xavier.” He handed the man the check. “We’re ready to start whenever you are.”
“I’ll need some assistance with the salt,” Xavier said.
“Salt?” I asked.
“The barrel is rather heavy,” the cowbell exorcist said.
“Salt?” I repeated.
“I can borrow the dolly from the tea room,” Leo said, handing off change to a customer.
“That would be excellent, young man,” Xavier said. “I’m afraid I had to park a few blocks away. The street is quite crowded.”
Leo looked at the bookcase, saw people packed against it, and hurried out the front door and around to the tea room.
“Salt?” I bleated again.
“Burying the bells in salt is part of the cleansing process,” Xavier said. “Since your bells are attached to that large tree-shaped iron form, I’ve packed a wine barrel with salt. We can put the bells in the barrel for the ritual. How fortunate that it’s a sunny day.”
True. I doubted I’d have had half this crowd if we’d gotten rained out. “So to bind the bells, you put the bells in the barrel, and then you put the bells in the box?” I asked. Balderdash.
Outside, Leo knocked on the glass half of the museum’s front door.
Xavier nodded. “I shall return shortly, and we can begin the ritual. Please ask everyone to be quiet.” He left.
I stared at the chattering crowd, and my stomach twisted. We’d better not be over fire code capacity. Counting heads, I walked to the bells and unhooked the red velvet rope that cordoned off the area. The people closest to the barricade quieted, and the silence rippled eerily outward.
I stepped behind the rope and scraped a hand through my hair. “Welcome to the Paranormal Museum.” My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. “As you may have heard, today we’ll be conducting a binding ritual on San Benedetto’s famous cowbells.”
I glanced toward the front door. “The bells were donated to San Benedetto by our sister city in Sweden the same year we introduced the Christmas Cow. The San Benedetto Christmas Cow was a nod to our sister city’s Yule Goat,” I said, stalling. Where was Xavier? “The origin of the Yule goat is unclear. It may stretch back to pagan days, when the Norse god, Thor, was believed to ride across the sky in a chariot drawn by goats.”
Mason Hjelm walked past the front window. The big Viking paused and looked in, his expression puzzled, then grinned and continued on.
I swallowed. “Later folk depictions of Father Christmas showed him riding a goat. Today these straw goats are most frequently seen in Scandinavia as Christmas ornaments.” Ugh. I was making the supernatural sound dull.
“What about the cursed bells?” a man shouted.
I cut a nervous glance at the door. “There are stories of curses throughout history. The curse of Tutankhamun is perhaps one of the most famous. But I believe our cowbells are unique.”
Jason caught my eye and frowned.
“However,” I said quickly, “I’ve been working closely with the bells and nothing has happened to me. The curse is history. The town has nothing to fear.” The whole point of the museum was the creepy and paranormal—I couldn’t say the supernatural was all bunkum.
“Then why are you bringing in a curse remover?” another man asked.
“Excellent question.” Really excellent question. Excellent, excellent, excellent. I forced a smile and struggled for an answer. “First, since this is a paranormal museum, I thought it would provide a unique opportunity to see this type of ritual in action. And second, because even though the bells are perfectly safe, extra protection can’t hurt.”
The front door opened and Xavier walked inside.
My shoulders sagged with relief. Then I frowned. Where was Leo and the salt barrel? Since I’d run out of things to say, I motioned toward the corpselike Xavier. “And this is our specialist who will be conducting the ritual. Xavier, would you like to say a few words?”
Gravely, he approached the bells. I unhooked the rope and allowed him entrée, then slipped out and hooked it up again.
Jason nudged my elbow. “Nicely done.”
“Thanks,” I whi
spered and wiped my brow. With all the bodies crammed into the museum, the room had gotten hot. And I’d lost my body count for the fire code.
Xavier rubbed his hands together. “Thank you for coming. I’d like to ask you all to focus your positive energy on the bells throughout the ceremony. And I would also ask for silence. This work requires concentration.” He turned to face the bells. Bowing his head, he clasped his hands together. His voice boomed. “Father in heaven …”
A motion at the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I glanced toward the front window. Leo was hopping on the sidewalk and blowing into his hands.
“Problem?” Jason said in a low voice.
“I hope not.” I made my way through the throng to the door and slipped outside. Leo stood beside a wine barrel positioned upright on the brick sidewalk. Two massive sacks of salt sat beside it.
Rubbing my arms against the cold, I peered into the open barrel, about a quarter full of salt. “What’s going on?”
“He said to wait with the barrel and the salt here.”
“All right. Thanks.” I ducked inside. The museum was strangely silent aside from a faint swishing sound. I pushed my way to the front and stopped beside Jason.
Xavier stood with a glass spray bottle covered in strange markings. They looked like they’d been drawn on with felt-tip pen. He squirted the bells with what I hoped was only water. I’d have to give them a good polishing when he was done so they didn’t rust.
“Holy water,” Jason muttered.
I relaxed.
Xavier lifted the iron form off its hook on the wall. Holding the bells high, he marched toward me.
Hastily, I unhooked the velvet rope.
The crowd stepped aside, murmuring.
I hurried to get in front of Xavier and opened the front door, wedging it open with my foot so the crowd could hear.
Xavier held the bells to the sky. They clanked, brass glinting in the sun. “The cleansing power of sunlight,” he boomed, and I jumped. “May it break and dissolve all hexes, curses, and negative energies attached to these bells and their iron form.” He plunged the bells into the barrel. “Young man?”
Deja Moo Page 13