The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) (23 page)

I stared at the square of yellow, neatly labeled
McBride House
. It was on the edge of town surrounded by fields, and …“You’re kidding.”

“What’s wrong, dear?”

“The McBride house. The nearest home to it is the Zane Donaldson house.”

“Well, they were business partners once.”

“Zane Donaldson must have been the neighbor who testified he heard them fighting the night of Martin’s death. He’s the only neighbor anywhere near the McBrides.”

Adjusting her spectacles, Harriet peered at the map. “That must have been quite an argument. The houses are a good distance apart.”

“Yes, but the Donaldson house is still the closest to the McBrides’. The witness had to be Zane.” I wondered how even he could have heard the supposed fight. How far did sound carry from inside a Victorian house across silent fields? He lived close enough to watch for an opportunity … to sneak over one night?

“Zane had means, motive, and opportunity to kill Martin McBride,” I said. If Zane had lied about hearing the fight, could he have lied about other things? Cora had opportunity to kill her husband, but neither means nor any motive that I’d found. “Could Zane have done it?”

Harriet blinked owlishly. “Zane Donaldson?”

“I spoke to a coroner and showed him a
post-mortem
photo of Martin. He told me it was unlikely a woman had inflicted those wounds, and that it was most likely Martin had been strangled first and then dropped from the second floor and hanged. But I can’t see Cora hauling his dead weight over the banister. Zane had motive—he wanted and got that mill. I’ve read Cora’s journal—there’s no evidence in it of an abusive relationship. The only testimony we have to that came from Zane. What if he killed Martin?”

But if I was right, there was more than one victim. This was a double murder, with Zane relying on the force of the law to kill Cora.

Harriet shook her head. “I think you’re stretching. You’ll need more evidence for your mock trial.” She smiled at my reaction. “I do read the papers, dear. And I think the trial is an excellent idea. People pay no attention to history. They think it’s dull. I can’t think of anything more fascinating. And a trial is just the thing to get the community involved. Though I’m not sure how successful you’ll be calling your ghost witnesses.”

“I was hoping to get actors for that. And a better venue.” I nodded toward the opposite door and the courtroom I knew lay beyond it. “Would it be possible to use the old courtroom?”

Harriet smiled. “With a donation, anything is possible.”

She named a figure.

I flinched. For a bunch of
sweet-looking
old ladies, the senior citizens of San Benedetto were sharks. But I nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

I’d left Adele and Harper taking tickets for well over an hour. Jogging back to work, I puffed into the museum. Adele sat behind the counter, frowning at a sheaf of fabric swatches.

“Where’s Harper?” I asked.

Adele didn’t look up. “She had to go.”

“Sorry I’m late. But I don’t think Cora killed her husband!”

“Who’s Cora?”

“The alleged killer in my mock trial, remember? And thanks for watching the museum.”

“You’re welcome. But I don’t think chintz sets the right tone. I need elegance, not country kitsch.”

“Mmm hmm.” I stared at her, baffled.

Adele left, muttering to herself about patterns and color. I was starting not to feel so bad about talking to imaginary ghosts.

My stomach rumbled. I ordered a tuna sandwich from a nearby deli and got back to work.

At three o’clock, my mother walked through the door, resplendent in a crisp white blouse and slim faded jeans. Turquoise earrings dangled from her ears, and a silver cornflower necklace encircled her neck. It shimmered like the threads of silver in her
pixie-cut
hair.

She sniffed. “Why does this place smell like fish?”

I shoved the trash bin deeper into the recesses beneath the counter. “Oh, that darn cat. And hello mother. You look nice today.”

“Thank you, so do you. And I try to look nice every day. I hope you have a strategy for managing Cora.”

I blinked. “My ghost?”

“What ghost? I was talking about Cora Gale, president of the Ladies Aid Society.”

The door swung open and the
battle-ax
steamed in. Striding to the desk, she slapped a
white-gloved
hand on the counter. “We need to talk.”

“Cora?” I gaped. The long nose, the deep set eyes. Cora Gale was older than my Cora from the portrait, her lines harder, coarser. But the resemblance was undeniable. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. Could Cora and Martin have had children? I thought back over the journal. When she’d written about Martin … could there have been a Martin junior?

Mrs. Gale’s face spasmed. “You’ve found me out. I suppose it was too much to hope you wouldn’t splash my murderous ancestress all over town. Chuck threatened it often enough. But you actually did it. And I attended your baby shower!”

I reared backward. “What? I’ve never been pregnant.”

“Your mother’s shower,” she said. “What will it take for you to call off the mock trial?”

“But I don’t think Cora was a murderer.” I waved the portrait in the air. “She was framed. No pun intended.”

Mrs. Gale’s lips parted. She blinked. “Framed?”

I laid out the evidence. “And Zane Donaldson had means, motive, and opportunity,” I finished. “Cora doesn’t make sense as a murderess.”

“But … what about Martin’s hot temper?”

“The only real evidence we have of his hot temper is his
run-in
with Zane at the newspaper office. There was no mention of it in Cora’s journal, and no other witnesses to it aside from Zane Donaldson. I don’t have enough proof yet, but I’ll bet if we dig deeper we can find some. I think there’s a real case to be made that Cora’s hanging was a miscarriage of justice. But …” I took a deep breath. “I had no idea you were related to Cora. If you want me to stop the mock trial, I will.”

“Innocent?” Cora Gale took a deep breath. “Could it be possible? Perhaps you think I’m silly, caring about something that happened to a
long-dead
ancestress. My mother always considered it a source of shame and made me swear never to speak of it.”

“But she named you after her?” I asked. No wonder today’s Cora had issues.

“She named me after a different Cora. And I never believed the murder had any bearing on my own place in the community, but I honored my mother’s wishes.”

My mother laid a slim hand on Cora’s arm. “Then perhaps it’s time we laid this ghost to rest. As you said, you have nothing to feel ashamed of. The murder”—she shot an inquiring glance at me—“is part of San Benedetto’s history. But that’s all it is: history.”

“The Historical Association has said we can use the old courtroom for the trial,” I said. “It could be a wonderful fundraiser for them, and for the Ladies Aid Society if your organization would like to help. The fact is, you’re right. The museum is a bit tacky. I think it’s part of our charm, but I also believe it can be improved.”

Cora swallowed. “A retrial. I must admit that I’ve already heard positive buzz about your newspaper article. As president of the Ladies Aid Society, I cannot in good conscience say no for personal reasons.” She nodded to herself. “Let me talk it over with the board. I can’t make the decision unilaterally.” She turned on her heel and walked out the door.

My mother stared at me, her blue eyes wide. “Cora’s ancestress was a killer? What have you been up to?”

I threaded my arm through hers. “Let me give you a tour of my museum, and I’ll tell you.”

twenty-five

“Have you called the
cops yet?”
M
ason leaned against the counter, biceps bulging, brow thunderous.

I handed a ticket to a visitor and turned to him. “I haven’t had a chance. Dieter’s been pestering me about paint colors for the Creepy Doll Room. The museum’s been crazy busy. And I keep getting calls from the Ladies Aid Society about the mock trial. They want to help, but the whole thing is getting out of control.”

He tapped his watch. “It’s four o’clock. The cops. Unless this is all an excuse to get into my pants.”

I burst out laughing. “Would that work?”

He leaned closer, his blue eyes darkening. “A girl who can arrange a stakeout and knows how to fill out a pair of jeans? That’s someone I wouldn’t mind getting to know better.”

“How much better?” I murmured, my heart hammering. He was close, so close. Another inch and our lips would touch. Mine burned with anticipation.

He grinned wolfishly.

I sighed. “I’m calling the cops.”

Mason groaned.

Turning my back on him, I grabbed my phone off the counter. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did I just turn him down? He was hot, chivalrous, intelligent.

And I was chicken.

I punched in Detective Slate’s cell phone number. It went to voicemail. Grimacing at Mason, I left a message, then called the police station and asked for him there.

“Just one moment,” the receptionist said.

There was a ring, and then: “This is Detective Hammer.”

Looking to Mason for fortitude, I pasted on a smile. “Hi, Detective Hammer, this is Madelyn Kosloski.”

She sighed. “What do you want?”

“It’s about Thursday’s
break-in
at the museum.”

“We haven’t found the guy.”

“I guessed. Look, someone wants inside the museum. I’m guessing it’s the same person who killed Christy and Michael. I’ve let it be known that we’re doing a
clean-out
and renovation of the museum on Monday and Tuesday—”

“Have you got a permit?”

I ground my teeth. Laurel wasn’t in the city planning department. “No, because it’s just a clean out and a paint job. Tonight is the killer’s last chance to get in and find whatever it is he’s looking for before he thinks we tear the museum apart.”

“And so you figured it was
Hammer time
?”

I scrunched my forehead, confused. “What’s an eighties song got to do with anything? I thought you …”

And then I remembered. Ninth grade. Laurel had informed us Mondays were
push-a
-freshman day, and like ninnies, most of the kids believed it. Even after we’d figured out she’d made it up, it made no difference. We still got shoved, usually into something unpleasant like an open locker or garbage can.

It had been a balmy spring Monday. Laurel, eyes glinting, headed toward Harper and me. And I’d blurted out: “Oh hell, it’s Hammer time.”

Other kids heard, and soon “Hammer time” became a punch line whenever Laurel appeared. It took some of the sting out of her bullying. It’s harder to be afraid of someone you’re laughing at. The bullying had pretty much come to an end after that—until the gym locker incident.

I seethed. “Hammer time? You’re holding a grudge over Hammer time?”

“You made my life a living hell. Do you have any idea what teenage boys will do with something like that?”

“You were a bully. Have you forgotten
push-a
-freshman Mondays?”

“I was kidding around! I never hurt anyone.”

“You were a year ahead of us and a foot taller!”

“Oh for … You’re a grown woman. Get over it.”

“You get over it! And I’ll be staking out the museum tonight to see if the killer tries to break in.”

Mason mouthed, “
We’ll
be staking it out.”

I nodded at him.

Laurel hung up.

Just kidding around,
my Aunt Fannie. If Laurel really thought she was the victim in all this …

“So?” Mason asked.

“Told ’em. No problem.” Laurel might hate me, but she was still a cop. She’d come. I hoped. Possibly to arrest me for interfering with an investigation.

Mason straightened off the counter. “Great. See you tonight.” He winked and strode out the door to the admiring stares of two slim young women in sorority sweatshirts. When they stopped drooling, one asked me, “May we have two tickets?”

“Right. Sure.” I fumbled around and gave them their tickets.

Had I really blighted Laurel’s school life? I hadn’t intended to, but guilt prickled the inside of my chest.

I pressed my head against the cool glass of Mason’s darkened window and stared into the alley. He hadn’t said anything about our conversation that afternoon. I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or disappointed.

In spite of the thick black turtleneck I wore, I shivered. The alley below was deserted. Lights mounted on the exterior walls illuminated two saw horses tilted against the brick wall. Adele’s dumpster squatted in its proper place on the
tea-room
side of the property line.

Mason sat on the opposite side of his living room, watching the front entrance to the museum. The slim computer in his lap lit his rugged face glacier blue. He scratched his chest, tugging the fabric of his white
T-shirt
sideways, and yawned.

A fingernail moon shone through the skylight, beyond twisting specters of fog.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” he said.

“You’re too easy to bribe.” I wadded up my burrito wrapper. Walking to the kitchen, I dropped it in the bin beneath his sink. “Besides, when’s the last time you’ve been on a stakeout?”

“Never. I was in the military, not the police.”

“It’s an adventure.”

“We’ve been sitting here for three hours, and I still only have a four percent win rate on this solitaire game.”

I returned to my position by the rear window. “That is tragic.”

He folded the laptop shut and laid it on the glass coffee table, eyeing me speculatively. “There are other things we could do.”

“I don’t think you’re taking my stakeout seriously.”

He rose and prowled toward me. “I’m taking this very seriously.”

“Oh.” My legs trembled, and I gripped the window ledge for support. His eyes seemed to glow, and I shivered with want. I’m no saint. I can get swept away as easily as the next woman. And this was exactly the sort of situation where I could lose control. This was, in fact, why I avoided these types of situations.

I wrenched my focus away, to the window. A dark shape peeled away from the dumpster. It took me a couple of seconds to move, then I flattened against the brick wall. But I could still see the person below creeping toward the tea room. “Someone’s back here.”

“Mmm. Probably a drunk.” Mason pressed his hands against the wall, trapping me between his arms. He leaned forward.

My body heated. Mason smelled so good. Clean, like soil in a vineyard after a rain. My brain started dissolving, as it always does at moments like these. I tore my attention from him, back toward the window.

The figure darted toward the tea room door. Something large and boxy swung from one fist, and from the other what looked like a crowbar.

“No.” I swallowed. “He’s going for the tea room.”

Mason shoved me aside and peered out the window. “What’s he carrying?”

“I can’t tell.” Stumbling to the couch, I shook my head and tried to get my bearings. There was a stage two to my plan. And it involved … I couldn’t remember what it involved.

“Damn he’s fast. He’s got the door open.” Mason cursed. “He’s got a gas can. He’s going to burn it.” He darted for the door.

Stage two: call the police! I grabbed my bag, digging for my cell phone. “Where are you going?”

“He’s going to burn the building, and I live next door. Where do you think I’m going? Call 911!” He vanished through the door.

Hands trembling, I dialed 911 and told the dispatcher what was happening.

“Stay right where you are,” she said. “Police and fire are on their way.”

“I can’t.” I jogged down the steps, panting. “Mason went after him. He might need help.”

“Stay where you are,” she bleated.

I raced into the alley. The door to the tea room stood open, its lock bent and fractured on the damp pavement. The hallway that led past the bathrooms and into the tea shop yawned before me, dark as pitch.

Holding up my cell phone, I illuminated a thin section of the hallway with its bluish light. I tiptoed inside, ears straining. All I heard were the dispatcher’s faint squawks.

I angled my phone toward the floor and hoped I wasn’t giving away my position. Where was Mason? Why was it so quiet?

I crept deeper inside, into the body of the tea room, and my foot brushed the
upside-down
bucket. It scraped against the cement floor. I flinched at the sound. The hammer still lay on top of it. I picked it up.

Ahead of me, the plastic curtains swayed, glowing translucent from a light in the museum. I edged along the bare wall and parted the curtains with the claw of the hammer. Light poured out of the Creepy Doll Room, along with the sound of splashing. Mason lay on his back across its threshold, his lower half in the doll room, his muscular torso in the main room.

“Mason’s on the museum floor,” I whispered into the phone. I prayed he was unconscious and not dead. “He needs an ambulance.”

I’d gotten him into this. What had I done?

Something low and dark streaked along the floor. I gasped and clutched my chest, nearly striking myself in the chin with the hammer.

GD Cat leapt onto Mason’s back. He sniffed at a dark spot over Mason’s left ear.

Tiptoeing to Mason, I made a shooing motion.

The cat slunk off Mason and sat beside him, staring at me.

I dropped to my knees, pressed my shaking hand to Mason’s neck, and found a pulse. I sagged. He was alive.

The scent of gasoline flooded the room, burned my nostrils.

My muscles quivered, anger boiling up inside me. I rose, my hand tightening on the hammer. He wasn’t going to get away with this—with hurting Mason, framing Adele, the murders.

Bringing the phone to my lips, I stepped over Mason’s body into the Creepy Doll Room.

A large figure in black sloshed gasoline over the dolls.

“Roger is inside the museum,” I said to the dispatcher in my outdoor voice. “He’s splashing gasoline on the walls.”

Roger spun around, tossing the gas can to the floor. “What the hell?”

“Roger who?” the dispatcher asked. “Are you still in there?”

“Roger …” I’d never gotten his last name. “Roger the lawyer.” My voice steadied. “He’s the Nakamotos’ family lawyer. He assaulted Mason, and he killed Christy Huntington and Michael St. James.”

“Shut up,” Roger roared. Fumbling in the pocket of his black jacket, he pulled out a lighter. With a snick, a flame leapt from its top. “Drop the phone.”

I lowered the phone to my side. “That was 911, Roger. They know you’re here. They know everything. There’s no benefit to setting the museum on fire.”

“There’s not much downside either.”

“It was a trust, wasn’t it?” I asked loudly, hoping the operator could still hear me. “Christy was overheard shouting at you, before she died, about ‘trust.’ And you work with trusts all the time, don’t you? What happened? Did she catch you embezzling from the trusts? Did you need extra money for all those properties you’ve bought?”

He launched himself at me.

Blindly, I swung the hammer, connected.

He howled, and the lighter flew from his hand. We froze, watching its
slow-motion
arc. It struck the linoleum floor, flame guttering, and skittered to a stop.

I breathed. It hadn’t ignited the gasoline.

GD Cat pounced, batting the lighter sideways.

The floor exploded in flames.

GD yowled and streaked out of the room.

Roger bounced me against the wall and ran. The front door slammed. Flames raced up the shelving, the dolls’ dry, antique dresses catching fire.

I turned and jumped over Mason, grabbed his wrists, and tugged him toward the door.

He moved an inch. Two.

Smoke cauterized my throat, my eyes.

“Come on, Mason.” I yanked, heart thundering. He slid another six inches. I threw my weight backward. Why wasn’t he moving? How much did the god of thunder weigh?

The door banged open, carrying with it a burst of cool air.

Laurel Hammer, my high school nemesis, grabbed his other wrist. “Come on!”

Coughing, we dragged Mason outside, onto the sidewalk.

“Roger—”

“I’ve got him.” Laurel jerked her head toward Roger. He was lying face down on the sidewalk, hands cuffed behind his back.

“GD!” I raced inside the museum and grabbed the fire extinguisher by the front door. “GD!”

Laurel put me in a headlock and dragged me backward.

“No! My cat! My museum!”

“Dammit.” Releasing me, she ran toward the doll room. She kicked its door closed, containing the flames. “Where’s the cat?”

“GD!” I rubbed my neck, aching from the headlock.

An answering yowl echoed from the tea room.

Together, we raced inside.

GD crouched beneath a
paint-stained
table, his inky fur standing on end.

“This is going to hurt.” I grabbed him.

GD thrashed, clawing me. Later, I would find thick lines of scarlet down my arms. Now, they felt like streaks of fire.

“Come on!” Laurel wrenched open the tea room’s front door.

Cat writhing in my arms, I followed her onto the street. I dropped GD on the sidewalk. He streaked away, past the fire trucks that wailed to a halt in front of the museum. Two police cars and an ambulance followed.

“Laurel, you came. Thanks.” Then an awful smell assaulted my nostrils. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” She looked up the street.

I gasped. Strands of her ponytail smoldered like lit fuses. “Hair! Your hair! Fire!” Complete sentences eluded me.