My stomach dropped.
“We’re Ladies Aid,” chirped the third, a portly woman with steel-gray curls. She wore sensible shoes and a thick pink coat that reached to her knees.
“She knows that,” Cora said. “This is Dolores.” She motioned toward the plump woman. “And Rosalind.” She nodded to the thin one. “I understand your movements are, er, limited due to a police presence. Your mother thought we could act as your eyes and ears.”
“Spies!” Dolores’s gray curls gave a little jump.
“Detectives,” Rosalind corrected with a wheeze.
“So?” they asked in unison.
Leo covered his mouth with his hand and turned away.
“Thanks, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I had enough arrows on my conscience. I didn’t need these three getting hurt. “The police are investigating, and—”
“I heard Detective Slate is on leave,” Cora said.
“Yes,” I said, “but Laurel Hammer knows what she’s doing.”
Cora’s brow arched. “Does she?”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “She’s a good cop. She saved the museum from burning down, even though she really hates me.”
“Hmm.” Cora didn’t look convinced. “Be that as it may, your mother asked us to investigate, and so we will, with or without you.”
Thinking hard, I let my gaze wander the museum. Two young girls with a selfie stick posed in front of those damned cowbells. The cowbells … Maybe my mother’s friends could help out.
“Actually,” I said. “I do need a research—I mean, detective team.”
“Excellent,” the tall one said. “What do you need?”
“There may be a connection between what happened in the 1980s—the cowbell curse—and what’s happening today,” I lied. “I need to know everything I can about the people on the original committee.”
Cora nodded. “We’ll compile complete dossiers. It shouldn’t be difficult—we were all around at the time. Several of us knew them.”
Win-win. The ladies would be happy investigating something with no danger attached, and I could focus on investigating the murders. They also had a better sense of local history than me, so I could tick the box on my to-do list about interviewing past Ladies Aid members.
I pointed to the bells. “To get you started, on the placard there’s a short write-up about the curse and the people who died.”
The three marched to the cowbells, retrieved three sets of reading glasses from around their necks, and peered at the cardboard sign. One pulled a cell phone from her purse and snapped a photo.
“Thanks for that,” Leo said in a low voice. “For a minute I thought you were going to ask them to do some real detecting.”
“They can’t get into trouble researching the bells.” My scalp prickled and I glanced at the three, arguing beside the cave.
Leo frowned, shifting in his seat. “Right.”
We stared at each other.
“It’ll be okay,” I said. “Mrs. Gale is sensible.”
“And a good person.”
“Exactly.” A widow and an empty-nester, Cora had taken Leo under her protective wing after his parents had died. “I respect her. And I really do need help researching this curse. Those women might not have been active in Ladies Aid in the ’80s, but they have a better chance of getting to the truth than I do.”
Leo straightened. “I’m in.”
I fumbled with a piece of tape, which had looped and stuck to itself. “In with the curse research?”
“No, the murder cases.” He shrugged, looked out the window. “It was Craig’s mom.”
Leo had lost his own parents at a young age. It was something I was sure he’d rather not have had in common with Craig.
I nodded, brisk. “It’s time we talked with the other members of the gingerbread gang. Any idea who they might be?”
“Everyone’s clammed up.”
A customer walked in. Leo sold a ticket and handed out a brochure.
“But they can’t be involved in the deaths,” he said. “Not after Craig’s own mother was killed.”
“Probably not,” I said slowly, wrapping the last box in brown paper. “But they’re witnesses. And I wonder if someone learned of their plans and decided to piggyback arson with a murder.” I crumpled the tape and threw it in the garbage bin, then wiped my palms on my jeans.
“You think Santa Claus was the outside killer?”
“That’s my guess.” My mom still hadn’t forgiven that bit of sacrilege. “But if you want to help, figure out who was in the gingerbread gang.”
I taped the brown paper shut. Double-checking the customer’s address, I block-printed it on the mailing label, weighed the package, and printed a stamp.
What was I doing? Just because I’d gotten lucky before, why did I think I could help solve this crime? Jason had nearly gotten killed, and poor Craig had lost his mother … My nostrils flared, heat rushing through my veins. And people knew things they weren’t telling the police. I couldn’t give up yet. But I needed help, and from someone who actually knew what they were doing.
“I’ve got to drop these in the mail,” I said. “Do you mind if I leave you here?”
“Nope. Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” I bundled the packages into a big red sack my mom had given me and lugged them down the elegant hallway to the alley. With my hip, I pushed open the heavy metal door and trudged to my pickup.
Belle Rodale, swathed in an electric-blue parka, chucked a plastic trash bag into the dumpster. She dropped the lid and it clanged shut.
My muscles stiffened. I opened my passenger door and shoved the packages inside.
She brushed her palms off on her jeans and approached me.
Leery, I shut the passenger-side door and waited.
“Hey.” Belle brushed a hank of long auburn hair behind one ear.
I glanced at my pickup, then at the door to the concrete stairwell, then to the windows to Mason’s apartment above. “Hi.”
She shifted her weight.
“Do you need something?” I asked.
She hesitated. “You didn’t say anything to Mason about my bet.”
“No.”
We eyed each other, the tension stretching like a worn rubber band.
“That was cool of you. Thanks.” She turned and walked into the stairway to the second-floor apartment.
I stood unmoving. Had it been cool of me? I was one of those people who were keeping information from the police. Was I aiding and abetting a criminal? But I couldn’t believe that the mother of Mason’s child was a killer.
I slid into my red truck. Watchful of the holiday shoppers determined to hurl themselves beneath my tires, I drove slowly to the post office.
I parked on the street and groaned. A line streamed out the post office door.
Edging past the line with my ginormous sack of stuff, I bumped my way to the bin. I jammed the boxes inside and waded through the crowd. Pausing on the brick sidewalk, I dug my cell phone from my pocket and called Jason.
He answered on the third ring. “Maddie?” His voice was low and intense. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m fine.” My hands were strangely slick on the phone. “How are you feeling?”
He laughed. “I feel like I was hit by a Buick. Any news on the curse?”
“Three associates of mine are compiling dossiers on the original committee members for us to review.”
“Associates?”
“Ladies Aid. Some of these women were around when the curse went down in the ’80s. They have memories of the victims.”
“Victims? They all died of natural causes.”
“I mean curse victims,” I corrected. “Not murder victims.” Why had I called them victims? “If you’re still on leave, are
you free for lunch?” And even though it wasn’t going to be a date, I felt my face warm, my pulse beat faster.
“I am, and I am. What are you thinking?”
I thought of the least romantic place in San Benedetto. “How about the Wok and Bowl?”
“Should I pick you up from the museum?”
I checked my watch. I still had plenty of time to kill. “That would be great. See you around noon?”
“High noon it is.” He chuckled and hung up.
I returned to the museum and took tickets, answered questions, sold paranormal tchotchkes. Leo and I worked smoothly together. I couldn’t imagine managing the crowd without him. But some day he’d move on to bigger and better and higher-paying things. I needed to be prepared for that day.
At noon, Jason walked through the door, a camel-colored coat over his shoulders like a cape. In his navy sweater and jeans, he looked good, and I repressed a grin.
“Ready?” he asked.
In answer, I grabbed my purse from beneath the counter and followed him to his cop sedan. He opened the passenger door for me.
“You don’t need to do that,” I said. “You’re injured.”
“I’m not helpless.”
One-handed, he drove to the bowling alley and parked in the lot. We walked side-by-side toward the glass front doors. The last ten feet, he sprinted ahead to open one for me. “After you.”
My ears went hot. “Thanks.” And I’d thought chivalry was dead.
The bowling alley was shake-rattle-and-rolling. Bowlers knocked down pins to thunderous shouts. Waitresses in poodle skirts swished past.
We found a booth in the corner. A waitress dropped off a menu and swirled away in a froth of crinoline. Jason and I made awkward small talk and ordered.
“How are you holding up?” he asked after the waitress had left.
I looked at the Formica table. “I feel terrible about Tabitha. Her son is just out of his teens.”
“You knew her well?”
“Not really. I think she was worried her son might have been involved with the Christmas Cow and my mom’s car being bombed. She offered to pay for the damage.”
He crossed his arms. “She did?”
“But Craig couldn’t have been involved.” I folded an empty sugar packet into thirds. “I can’t imagine him killing his own mother.”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Not here.”
His gaze drilled into me. “Are you pumping me for information?”
“I thought I was giving you information,” I said carefully.
“Is that why you wanted to have lunch?”
“No.” I dropped the sugar packet onto an empty saucer. “I never properly thanked you.”
“For what?”
“For saving me from that car that hit you. Did you get a look at the driver?”
“No,” he said. “I realized what was happening too late and could only think of getting you out of the way and then getting the license plate.”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
“What?” he asked.
“Was it my fault?” I blurted. “What if they came to disrupt the event? What if someone else had been hurt?”
Jason laid his hand on mine, and my pulse jumped. “If I’d thought your event was a real danger, I would have asked you to shut it down.”
“You’re not in trouble, are you?”
“Getting hit in the line of duty covers a multitude of sins. I’ll be okay. And I told the chief about your plans for the ritual when I saw the flyers. We all believed the risks were low.”
“Oh,” I said in a small voice. I cleared my throat. “Do the police think I’m a target?”
He frowned. “They’re not consulting me. I’m on leave, remember? I’m off the investigation.”
“That must sting.” Especially when Laurel had told him to mind his own business.
“It’s the right thing to do,” he said.
“Where was that car stolen from? Unless it’s confidential,” I said quickly.
His eyebrows rose. “Are you interrogating me?”
“What? No way.”
“Just because I’m off the investigation doesn’t mean I can be your inside man.”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking.” Except I had asked.
The waitress arrived with our food, and we fell silent.
After she left, I prodded at my kung pao chicken. “Would you mind if I asked a police procedure question?”
“Shoot.”
“What do detectives do when they’re stuck in an investigation?” I asked.
“What do I do?”
“Even better.”
“I go back. Look for what I’ve missed.”
“But what if you have too much evidence?”
He sipped his coffee. “There’s no such thing.”
He was right. The problem wasn’t too much information. The problem was I hadn’t figured out how to sift the meaningless from the meaningful. But there had to be meaning in the madness.
All I had to do was find it.
eighteen
“No,” I said, phone cradled between shoulder and ear. “There’s no more curse. It’s a historic curse. It’s history.” I wrapped a pack of tarot cards in tissue paper, slipped it into a paper Paranormal Museum bag, and handed it to Leo.
He passed it across the glass counter to the customer, a college-aged strawberry blonde. “Come again,” he said, longing in his voice.
“But my husband says he hears bells,” the caller said. “There are no Christmas bells in our house. We’re not near a cow pasture. Something’s going on.”
I stared out the window. My pale reflection stared back. It was only four thirty and already it was growing dark outside. I massaged my temple. “If there was a curse, it ended in the ’80s. Now the cowbells are just cowbells.”
“Then why do you have them in your museum?”
“Historical interest.”
“But the papers said—”
“The papers are looking for an angle to dramatize recent events.”
“But two people from the last committee are dead. And other people are dying too.”
The skin prickled on the back of my neck. “Others? Someone else was shot by an arrow?”
“No, but haven’t you checked today’s obituaries?”
“Obituaries?”
Leo bent to pull a crumpled newspaper from beneath the counter and handed it to me. I unfolded it and found the obituaries.
“The curse is real. I’m sure of it.” She hung up.
Pulse accelerating, I studied the obits. All two of the recently deceased were well past seventy and had died of natural causes. “People are attributing every single death to the curse.”
Leo folded his arms. “At first I thought people’s reaction to the bells was funny. I was sure wrong about that.”
I dropped the paper on the counter and scraped both hands through my hair. “This has to blow over soon.”
The wall phone rang, and I groaned.
“Want me to take it?” Leo asked.
“No.” I sighed. “With little power comes ridiculous responsibility, etc., etc.” I plucked the phone from the receiver and smiled, forcing good humor into my voice. “Good afternoon. This is Maddie at the Paranormal Museum.”
No one responded.
“Hello?” I smoothed the front of my long-sleeved Paranormal Museum tee.
A long, drawn breath.
“Hello?” I said, less certainly.
“This is Craig.”
I frowned, confused. Craig? Who … And then I remembered: Tabitha and Tom’s son. “Craig Wilde?”
“Yeah.”
“Craig, I’m so sorry about your mom. How are you doing?”
&n
bsp; “I need to talk to you.”
I straightened on my seat. “I’m listening.”
“Not on the phone. Can you meet me?”
I cut my eyes toward the door. This was not a good idea. I was pretty sure Tabitha’s son wasn’t our killer archer, but there’s a grand canyon between “pretty sure” and “certain.” Still, I couldn’t pass up this opportunity—not with cops stationed outside my mom’s house and Slate off the case. “When?”
“In an hour, at the swimming hole.”
“It’s a little dark out there—”
“Come alone.” He hung up.
Pursing my lips, I replaced the receiver. I was not going alone.
“What’s wrong?” Leo asked.
“Craig wants to meet me at the swimming hole.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“That would be—” I smacked my forehead. “Dammit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m supposed to meet Craig in an hour. We’ve got that speaker coming at six to set up for.” As a lure for repeat customers, I’d started a weekly speaker series in the Gallery area. I hadn’t been confident I’d be able to keep the speakers coming, since the topics were always connected to the weird and paranormal, but there were a surprising amount of paranormal writers, surrealist poets, and persons with interests in the strange and unusual all too happy to give short talks. Tonight we’d booked a fairy shaman.
“Look,” Leo said, “I think Craig’s an okay guy, but you can’t go alone.”
“And I won’t.” I dug into my pocket for my cell phone. Mom would be perfect for this. She was great with the younger generation. Plus, she had a police escort.
“And you can’t bring your mom.”
Considering, I sucked in my cheeks. “No, I can’t.” Her police escort might scare Craig off.
Would Adele let me borrow Dieter? Nah. If the college students had burned the cow, I didn’t want the bookie who’d managed the bets in on the conversation.
Palms going damp, I dialed Jason’s number.
“Twice in one day?” the detective rumbled. “Do I smell desperation?”
“I need you. Your help!” My face heated. “Sorry. I mean—”
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