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

Copyright Information

The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum
© 2016 by Kirsten Weiss.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2016

E-book ISBN: 9780738748269

Book format by Teresa Pojar

Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

Cover Illustration by Mary Ann Lasher Dodge

Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Weiss, Kirsten, 1968- author.

Title: The perfectly proper paranormal museum / Kirsten Weiss.

Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, 2016. |

Series: A perfectly proper paranormal museum mystery ; #1

Identifiers: LCCN 2015039301 (print) | LCCN 2015047756 (ebook) | ISBN

9780738747514 | ISBN 9780738748269 ()

Subjects: LCSH: Mystery fiction. | Paranormal fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3623.E4555 P47 2016 (print) | LCC PS3623.E4555 (ebook)

| DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015039301

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To my father

one

Friendship can be a
minefield.

Okay, terrible analogy. In a real minefield, it doesn’t matter how gingerly you tiptoe. If you step on a mine—boom.

But I was stepping carefully as I squinted at the watercolor my friend Adele Nakamoto had handed me. In the dim golden light from the microbrewery’s
stained-glass
lamps, I had a hard time making it out. The drawing was supposed to be a design plan for her new tea room, but the blocks of pastel looked like something a talented kindergartner might have drawn. Shifting in the booth, I glanced at our friend Harper Caldarelli for support. The red Naugahyde squeaked beneath my jeans.

Adele brushed a cascade of fine black hair behind her ear and leaned across the table. Her open, Jackie Kennedy–esque blazer drifted close to a blot of barbecue sauce on our table. “Well?”

A roar of sound from the jukebox scorched my eardrums. “The colors are soothing,” I shouted. That, at least, was true. They reminded me of Neapolitan ice cream.

Harper snatched the drawing from my hands. Brows furrowing,
she stretched back in her seat. Her leather jacket parted, revealing sleek curves beneath her tight designer
T-shirt
. With her cascading, nearly-
black hair, sculpted cheekbones, and olive skin, she looked a little like Penelope Cruz. But Harper’s eyes were a startling green.

A man at the bar gaped at her, beer dribbling down his chin.

I didn’t bother being jealous. Blue eyes and fair, freckled, central European skin was my heritage. I’d carried an extra ten pounds since my abrupt departure from my job. And the three of us had polished off a wedge of pumpkin bread pudding. I was basking in the warm, contented glow of a full stomach.

Harper snorted. “This is an architectural drawing? It looks like paint samples.”

“Don’t be boring.” Adele made a face and crossed her slim legs, twisting her pink pencil skirt. “My designer is an artist. This is a representation of the
essence
of the tea house. You can’t expect one of those dull architectural drawings.”

“Actually,” Harper said, “you can.”

Happy to be home, I let their bickering fade into the background din. I turned the beer mat in my hand and stared at the microbrewery’s giant copper vat. Patches of it were tarnished, and it looked like under the right conditions it might explode, pelting us with bolts and metal shards.
Leather-clad
bikers and
rough-and
-tumble cowboys rubbed shoulders along the polished wooden bar.

I was home.

Adele snapped her fingers in front of my nose. “Earth to Maddie. Seriously, what do you think?”

Having no idea what they’d been talking about, I played it safe. “You’ve got great taste, and I’m sure it will be a success.” But a part of me wasn’t sure. The tea room meant a lot to Adele, but she’d never run a business before. I hoped she wasn’t in for more heartbreak.

“Exactly!” Adele sat back in the booth.

The kid in the booth behind me kicked his heels, a rhythmic thump that rattled my teeth.

“My tea house will be an elegant and restful oasis from the hustle of everyday life,” Adele added.

Harper laughed into her beer, choking. “Hustle in San Benedetto?”

“You are both philistines.” Adele sniffed.

I couldn’t argue. I liked burritos and country bars and my ’58 Ford pickup. Harper owned a successful financial planning business and had developed more refined tastes. But at root she, too, was a
small-town
girl.

My phone vibrated, and I checked the number. My mother. Turning the phone off, I jammed it into one of the slots in my canvas messenger bag.

Harper tapped the drawing. “So this is going into that building your father gave you as a wedding gift?”

Adele made a wry face, rubbing her bare ring finger. “My dowry. It’s a good thing Daddy doesn’t believe in
take-backs
after
you-know
-who did
you-know
-what.”

You-know
-who was her now
ex-fiancé
, Michael. Adele had caught him doing
you-know
-what with Christy Huntington in the back of an old sedan. I’d never trusted Michael, but how do you tell that to a friend who’s in love? So I’d kept my mouth shut, and Adele had been hurt. How badly, she never quite let on.

She examined her French manicure. “I still can’t believe I misjudged him.” Her voice dropped, and I leaned closer to hear. “An affair is one thing, but doing the deed in an ’87 Buick was just tacky.”

Harper turned the drawing upside down. “Sorry, I’m still not
seeing it. And these plans look too small for the space that held Chuck’s Chicken Shack and Paranormal Museum.”

Adele shuddered. “Please don’t mention the Chicken Shack. I’m exorcising it from the town’s memory.” She reached below the table, her black hair swinging forward in a silky curtain. Straightening, she pulled out two ebony wine bags from her pink Chanel purse. “Daddy wanted me to give you each a sample of his latest vintage with his new Haunted Vine label. Harper, return my drawing before you get ketchup on it.”

Harper swapped the drawing for the wine, and I drew my bottle from its sleeve. The bottle was almost black, with a ghostly image of a twisted vine. It was a zinfandel—no surprise, since our tiny Central California town specialized in that grape. We were farmers who made wine, not like those snooty vintners in Napa. San Benedetto was off the beaten wine trail, but our wines could hold their own against our
better-known
competitors. Adele’s family owned a vineyard and tasting room, thanks to which the three of us had developed an illicit taste for vino well before the legal drinking age.

“Why ‘Haunted Vine’?” I asked.

A furrow appeared between Adele’s brows. “It’s a play on San Benedetto’s
second-biggest
tourist attraction, the Paranormal Museum.”

“I thought the giant flaming Christmas Cow was our second-
biggest attraction,” I said
.

Every year, the local dairy farmers’ association created a thirty-
foot straw cow for Christmas. And nearly every year, someone—I suspected high school kids—burned it down. I’d bring marshmallows if I knew the timing of the next cow flambé, but it was always a mystery. Last month, just when we thought the cow might survive the season, it went up two days before New Year’s.

“Back to your drawing,” Harper said. “It looks like your tea room takes up the Chicken Shack space. So what’s up with the Paranormal Museum?”

“It’s …” Adele stiffened. “Oh, no.”

We tracked her gaze toward the entryway. Michael St. James had walked through the door. His business jacket was slung over one arm, his blue striped shirt open at the collar. Tall and broad shouldered, he looked like he’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. He looked around the microbrewery and caught Adele’s eye.

Adele’s expression turned stony. She sank back in her seat and gazed straight ahead. Hurt flickered in her dark eyes.

“We can go somewhere else if you want,” I said. Michael St. James wasn’t my
ex-fiancé
, but I could feel my blood pressure rising.

Adele’s jaw set. “We were here first.”

A shadow fell across our table. Harper and I looked up. Adele sipped from her empty beer glass.

“Adele, Maddie, Harper … hi,” Michael said. “Adele, can I speak with you alone?”

“No,” she said.

“It’s important.”

Harper’s eyes narrowed. She made a strange, rocker sign of the horns and stabbed it at the floor.

“Don’t be such a stalker,” Adele said, her attention riveted on a brass light fixture high on the wall. “We have nothing to talk about. And if we did, the answer would be no. Now please depart, go away, vamoose.”

“Adele …” Grimacing, Michael shook his head, his shoulders crumpling inward. For a moment I almost felt sorry for him. And then I remembered that terrible day, Harper calling me with the news of his defection. My pity evaporated.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, caught Harper’s gaze, and seemed to think better of it. He walked away.

“Unbelievable,” Harper muttered, watching Michael’s exit. “It’s been less than a month, and he wants to be friends.”

“Well, that’s not happening.” Adele pressed her hands flat on the table and cleared her throat. “Anyway. My tea room. It’s going to be elegant, sophisticated, modern. With teas I’ll blend myself.”

“What do you know about blending teas?” I followed Adele’s lead, moving the conversation to safer territory.

“Oh, please.” Adele tossed her head. “It’s simple. It’s not as if I’m cooking. I’ve already found a supplier for my scones and tea cakes, so I won’t have to wake up at an ungodly hour to supervise any food preparation.”

I smothered a laugh. The idea that Adele might do any baking herself hadn’t entered my mind.

Adele held out her hand to me. “By the way, Mad. May I have a dollar?”

“Sure.” I should have been suspicious. Adele was never short of cash. But like a dork, I dug my wallet out of my purse and handed her a dollar.

She took the money and handed me an envelope.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s the Paranormal Museum. You were looking for something to do, and now it’s yours. Isn’t it marvelous? Now we can work right next to each other!”

“What?” I tore open the envelope and pulled out the legal document inside. “This isn’t … What is this?”

“You’re our witness, Harper. She just bought the museum.”

Harper snorted beer, coughing. “I don’t think it works that way.”

“Oh pleeease, Maddie. I’ve wanted to get rid of the thing but Daddy forbade it. The mayor doesn’t want to lose the museum. They’ve had the Wine and Visitors Bureau running it for the last few months to keep it going. Besides, it’s not as if you have anything better to do.”

My chest hitched. I’d left my overseas job nine months ago, due to a difference of opinions with the CEO and a longing for home. I was still unemployed. “This is really generous, Adele,” I said. “But I can’t accept it.”

“Well, that’s gratitude,” Adele huffed. “I’ll have you know, Chuck made more money on that museum than he did selling chicken.”

“It was terrible chicken,” Harper muttered.

“Besides,” Adele added, “I can’t own a paranormal museum.”

“Why not?” I crossed my arms, knowing the answer. A paranormal museum was too gauche for Adele. She flitted through the higher echelons of San Benedetto society, doing good works and running the occasional wine tasting at her family’s vineyard.

Her dark eyes widened. “I’ll be too busy with the start up of the tea room. Do you have any idea how much work goes into a new business?”

I resisted smiling. It was a smooth deflection, and it was all true. Adele would be busy. But there was no way she’d touch anything as lowbrow as a paranormal museum.

“The remodeling alone is nearly killing me,” Adele continued. “I had to fire my first contractor.”

“I told you not to hire Benny,” Harper said.

“But he was so cute. You can’t really say no to someone who looks like a young George Clooney.”

“But you fired him,” I pointed out.

“Charm has its limits. Benny never started the project. We were a month behind schedule, and good looks will only go so far. Though my new contractor doesn’t exactly fall short in the looks department. So what do you think? Will you take the place off my hands?”

“No.” I knew exactly what would happen. I’d get sucked into the museum and my job hunting would get derailed. “I can’t buy your museum for a dollar. It isn’t fair to you—it’s got to be worth more than that.”

“Yeah,” Harper said. “It’s worth at least twenty.”

We glared at her.

“Besides,” I said, “I can’t make that kind of decision over drinks. I’m job hunting, you know.”

Adele pouted. “But you’d be perfect for it. You always put on the best haunted houses and Halloween parties. And your tarot readings are amazing. You could go pro.”

“You know I read the cards once, for fun, and made things up as I went along. And there’s a big difference between a haunted house and a museum.”

“Not if the rumors are true,” Harper said. “They say the Paranormal Museum is haunted.”

“That’s not an argument for working there,” I said.

“I know.” Harper stood and stretched. At the bar, her admirer’s lips parted with longing. “It’s late. I’m headed out.” She dropped some bills on the table and left, wine bottle in hand.

Adele stared at me with feverish,
over-bright
eyes. Her hands fluttered. “The Wine and Visitors Bureau has told me they can’t manage the museum anymore. I’m desperate. If I don’t figure out a way to keep it open, Daddy says he’ll take my dowry back. The mayor is really leaning on him. Please? Please?”

My stomach tightened with guilt. “It’s thoughtful of you, Adele, but I don’t know if I want to be a paranormal museum owner. Plus, I’ve got applications out all over the Bay Area. What if I have to go in for an interview?”

This was looking less and less likely, but it could happen. I’d spent my first seven months in the States living and job hunting in spendy San Francisco; my bank account had dropped faster than a pair of shoes on prom night. Two months ago, I’d returned inland to
low-cost
San Benedetto, where my aunt had offered me her garage apartment at bargain basement prices. But I’d recently applied for a job with a financial services company in the Bay Area that I was perfect for. I had a real shot. If they didn’t ask me for an interview, no one would.

“Okay, fine,” Adele said. “Don’t buy it now. But will you at least manage it temporarily and think about it? Just for a few weeks until I can get things organized? You can keep job hunting from the museum and see if you like it. The work’s not hard. You can submit resumes between ticket sales. And the museum is closed Mondays and Tuesdays—you can interview then!”