The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) (3 page)

“Of course not.” I ground my teeth into a smile. High school was more than a decade ago. I’d changed. Laurel had changed too, at least on the outside. She was doing her job.

“Let’s go over this again.”

“I’ve already told you—”

“And I’m asking nicely. Let’s go over this again.”

And we did. And again.

I rubbed my eyes. “Detective Hammer, I can’t tell you anything more.”

“Don’t tell me what you can’t do.”

The door clanked open, and her partner with the remarkable golden eyes entered the room.

“She’s free to go,” he said.

Laurel jerked to her feet. “What? Slate, I’m in the middle—”

He silenced her with a look.

Her hands balled into fists.

“Thanks,” I muttered. Heart thumping, I scuttled past him.

He touched my arm, his expression impassive. “By the way, the mayor wanted me to tell you that you can reopen on Saturday.”

I stared, taken aback. The mayor? Was the Paranormal Museum that important? And how had the mayor found out about the murder so quickly? But the answer was obvious: Adele and her connections.

My stomach bottomed out. It was the worst sort of favoritism. If I were Laurel or her partner, I’d despise us.

I fled the station before they could change their minds.

three

Slumped on Adele’s snow-white
couch, Harper stretched out her legs, bumping the briefcase near her feet. It wobbled but didn’t fall. She wore gray wool slacks and a starched white blouse, and I assumed she had an appointment later with a client. As a financial adviser, she set her own hours. I knew they were long.

“I can’t believe someone killed Christy,” Harper said. “San Benedetto hasn’t had a murder in at least a decade. What happened?”

“It looked like someone bludgeoned her to death.” I rubbed my eyes, gritty from lack of sleep. I gazed past her, through bay windows overlooking rows of grapevines, shrouded by morning mist. The living room of Adele’s Victorian was a study in white—white chairs, white shag rug,
white-brick
fireplace—as if the fog had made its way inside.

Adele was a contrast in black: black turtleneck, black pencil skirt, and black tights in black Jimmy Choos. I think she was going for a mourning look, but she looked chic. “They’re going to arrest me,” she said. Her voice was flat, defeated.

Adele’s pug, Pug, snuffled my ankles, and I bent to scratch behind his ears. “No, they won’t,” I said.

Harper ran a hand through her loose mahogany hair. “What was Christy Huntington doing in your tea room?”

“In the Paranormal Museum,” Adele corrected. “She was clearly attacked in the Paranormal Museum. It’s not my fault her body fell into my tea room.”

“That’s sort of a moot point, isn’t it?” Harper asked. “You own the whole building. What was Christy doing inside?”

“I don’t know.” Adele gnawed her lower lip. “I don’t know how she got inside, or why she was there. The police said she had a key on her. They asked me if I’d given it to her and lured her there. If I wanted to lure her there, I wouldn’t have had to give her a key! But they think I have a motive. Let’s face it. They’re right.”

“But you were with us from seven o’clock on,” I said. “Christy was still warm to the touch when I tried to take her pulse. She couldn’t have been dead long.” My gorge rose at the memory. I crossed my arms over my chest. “When was the last time you were in the tea room?”

“I met with Dieter around three o’clock, and then I left. He usually works until five. Christy must have let herself in after that.”

Unless the contractor was the killer. Last night’s shock had been replaced by a sick, creeping feeling. I told myself that Christy’s murder had nothing to do with us. Adele and I were incidental to the crime. But my gut didn’t believe it.

I cleared my throat. “All right. You were with Dieter at three. Where were you between three and seven, when you met us?”

“I had a manicure at four. And then I went home and took a nap and had a light dinner before we went out.”

“Why do you always eat before we go out?” Harper asked.

“You know I dislike eating in public. What if someone sees me with
half-chewed
spinach between my teeth?”

“Forget the food,” I said. “Was anyone with you at home?”

“I was alone with Pug.” Adele picked him up and rubbed her face against his fur. He panted, tongue lolling, depositing
fawn-colored
hairs across her black sweater.

“So we need to hope she was killed when you were with us at the microbrewery,” Harper said. “Then you’ll be off the hook. I wonder how long it takes a body to cool?”

We scrambled for our phones and began tapping for answers.

“Okay.” I felt I’d won a prize for finding the information first. “A body normally loses 1.5 degrees of heat every hour, until it reaches the room’s temperature. But that varies by how the corpse is dressed, what it was lying on, etc. Half of Christy was on bare concrete, the rest on linoleum, and it was pretty cold inside.”

“She was dressed lightly,” Adele said, “in a blazer and slacks, like she’d come from work.”

“So we have no idea when she was killed—it could have been right before we arrived, or earlier.” I dropped my phone on the couch cushion.

“This is not making me feel better,” Adele said.

My phone buzzed. The number was my mother’s, and I rubbed my lower lip. I come from a family of overachievers, and my mother was losing patience with my extended unemployment. I was losing patience with my extended unemployment too. I sent the call to voicemail.

Harper checked her watch. “Client appointment. Gotta go.” She picked up her briefcase and rose. “Adele, if there’s anything you need …”

Adele waved her hand. “I know. Thanks, Harper.”

I stood as well.

“Mad,” Adele said, “I hear they’re going to let the Paranormal Museum open tomorrow. Seriously, can you manage it?”

“I’ve never run a museum before.”

“It’s easy. It’s not as if the exhibits do anything. All you have to do is take money and hand out tickets. You can keep the profits. It’d be like you owned the place.” She clawed a hand through her silky black hair. “I know you’re not totally sold on the museum, but I don’t have anyone else.” She lowered her voice. “And I’ve got a bad feeling I’m not going to be around to help.”

I waffled. “Adele, you’ve talked to a lawyer, haven’t you?”

“Of course. Only an idiot would be interviewed by the police without one.”

I gave her a fixed smile, lips clamped together. I’d had no lawyer for last night’s interrogation.

“So you’ll do it?” she asked.

“Until you can find someone to buy the museum.” Helping out at the museum might not be such a bad idea. I needed to do something.

She exhaled. “Good. Thanks.” She handed me a key from her purse. “On Saturdays, it opens at ten.” Her phone rang, and she grabbed it off the polished coffee table and checked the number. “Would you mind seeing yourself out? I have to take this.”

I felt strangely eager to see myself out.

Harper’s departing BMW had left dust trails settling along the dirt and gravel driveway. The air smelled faintly of cow manure, and I wrinkled my nose. A blur of movement caught my eye—two crows harrying a
red-tailed
hawk. The hawk soared, plummeted, veered. The crows stayed on him. They were smaller, but it was two against one, and I hated unfair fights. The birds vanished behind a row of trees. I waited, watching, hoping to see the hawk escape, but the birds didn’t reappear.

It was kind of disturbing.

But the past
twenty-four
hours had brought all new dimensions to disturbing. I leaned against the hood of my
beat-up
red truck and listened to the message my mother had left.

“Madelyn, this is your mother. Big news about Melanie. She’s going to be singing at the Bolshoi in Moscow this summer! It’s too bad you quit that job—it would have been so nice for her to have her sister around. How’s your job hunt going? And I’ve got news about your brother as well. Call me.”

My sister Melanie was an opera singer. The Bolshoi. Good for her. I wondered about Shane’s big news. A promotion to ambassador? I smiled. The family gossip grounded me back in the normal world, where murder was just a news item, something that happened to people you didn’t know.

But I didn’t want to call my mother back. I knew that threaded between all the stories about my siblings would be questions about my own job situation. Questions I didn’t want to answer. With my mother living in San Benedetto, it was getting harder to avoid them.

I drove toward my studio apartment, past rows of grapevines and through downtown San Benedetto. The shops weren’t open yet, but a few people wandered the sidewalks in search of coffee or breakfast, bundled up against the cold. A
familiar-looking
face stalked past, moving in the opposite direction. Adele’s ex.

I wrenched the wheel sideways, pulling into an empty spot on the street, and leapt out of my faded pickup.

“Mike!” I knew it drove him crazy when people called him Mike. He preferred Michael, no doubt thinking it sounded more dignified.

He turned, seeking the source of the shout.

I waved. I’d swear he spotted me. But he turned on his heel and strode in the opposite direction, hands jammed in the pockets of his elegant black wool coat.

“Mike!” I hurried after him but was no match for his long strides. I broke into a jog.

Shoulders hunched, he ducked his dark head. His hair was slicked back, each strand in its place. I reached out and touched his elbow. “Mike.”

He whirled. The fabric of his coat sleeve grazed my chin. “What? And don’t call me Mike.”

I stepped back. “It’s …” Now that I had his attention, my certainty drained away. I felt awkward, intrusive. “I’m sorry about Christy.”

He looked at me blankly, his expression slack.

“She told me you were engaged. You have my deepest sympathies.”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

“Um, have you heard about Christy?” I asked.

His lips whitened. “I heard. And you shouldn’t be talking to me about it. You’ll make things worse for yourself.”

“For myself?” Mentally, I scratched my head. A mother pulling two toddlers in her wake brushed past us, and I lowered my voice. “What are you talking about?”

“Christy told me what you did last week. I had to tell the police.”

“Last week? What?”

“Yeah,” he said bitterly. “She told me you’d deny it.” He left me standing on the sidewalk, gaping.

I hadn’t known Christy well. With all the travel I’d been doing at my old job, I’d lost touch with most of my friends. And frenemies. My mind went to my encounter with Christy last week—the first and last time I’d spoken with her since I’d returned nine months ago. And I hadn’t done anything. I’d run into her outside a bridal shop. She’d boasted that she and Michael had gotten engaged—shocked, I’d burst out, “He was engaged to Adele a month ago!” It had been maladroit, and she wasn’t happy. But it had also been true. Yet nothing had happened. No histrionics. No fisticuffs. No pistols at nine paces.

I hadn’t told Adele about the engagement.

I couldn’t.

But what had Michael told the cops? Stomach churning, I walked back to my battered pickup. I hadn’t even thought of getting a lawyer last night. I was innocent. A woman had been killed. I wanted to help. But maybe Adele had been right. Maybe I should have had a lawyer during the police questioning.

As I approached my apartment, I saw an unfamiliar blue Mercedes in the gravel drive. Since I was living, for now, over my aunt Sadie’s garage, I didn’t give much thought to any visitors she might have. I trudged up the wooden stairs to my studio; the steps creaked beneath my feet. At the top, I unlocked the door and walked inside.

My brother rose from the couch and spread his arms wide. “Hey, sis.”

“Shane?” My messenger bag thunked to the floor.

He walked to me and gave me a hug.

I reciprocated, thumping him on the back. Shane was a cultural attaché for the U.S. Embassy in Moscow. He was blond and chiseled, and his smile was as blindingly white as his shirt. Did I mention I came from a family of overachievers? It held true in the genetics department as well, at least when it came to my brother and two sisters.

He took a step back, his hands bracing my shoulders. Shane was my brother, so I pretty much had to love him, but he made life seem effortless. When you’ve been dealing with nine months of rejections, that’s irritating.

“So you got Sadie’s garage,” he said. “Nice.”

He was right. I was lucky. The studio had distressed wood floors and was done up in a nautical theme of soft blues, whites, and grays. We were over a hundred miles from the ocean, but my grandfather had been a sea captain. Shadow boxes with starfish and coral hung from the
white-washed
walls. Old mariners’ equipment worked as bookends. There was a telescope in a battered leather case. A sextant. A captain’s hat.

And then there were the stacks of boxes I hadn’t gotten around to unpacking. In my defense, with all Sadie’s stuff there wasn’t much space for my things.

“What are you doing back in California?” I managed to ask.

“Vacation. Moscow is miserable this time of year, and I wanted to see Mom. How’ve you been?” He jammed his hands in the back pockets of his expensive jeans and rocked on his loafered heels.

“Great,” I said brightly. “Just great. Great.” My gaze slid to the empty pizza carton on the coffee table, the
bunched-up
socks in front of the TV, the
half-empty
bottle of wine. “Well, not really. Adele and I discovered a dead body in her building.”

“A dead body?”

“Yeah. Christy Huntington.”

He shook his head. “Should I know her?”

“Probably not. She was in my class at school.”

“So you knew her? I’m sorry, Mad. That’s terrible.”

“What’s terrible is that I’m more sorry for Adele and the people Christy left behind than for Christy herself. I didn’t really know her well, and I didn’t really like her much. But I can’t imagine losing a child. What must her parents be going through?”

We paused, thinking of our own loss—our father’s death—last year.

I pushed that thought away, grabbed the bottle off the TV, and clutched it to my chest. “Drink?”

“Too early.”

Sweat trickled down my back. I put the wine on the coffee table and tugged my earlobe. “So how’s Moscow?”

He frowned. “I told you. Cold. Mom told me you were career transitioning. What’s next for my little sis?”

Of course she’d told him. When she hadn’t gotten any good answers from me, she’d sicced my
long-lost
brother on the case. “I’m, er, talking to a museum.”

“About being a collector? That would be right up your alley—traveling the world, finding objects, swinging deals. I could put you in touch with some amazing folks in Eastern Europe.”

“More like a … curator.”

“Curator? Whoa, that’s
high-powered
stuff. Way to go, Mad. About time we got a curator in the family.” He grinned. “Mom will be over the moon.”

Yeah, when she heard about the Paranormal Museum she’d be over the moon all right. “Let’s not talk about it. It might not happen. I’m not even certain I want the job,” I fudged.