eleven

Tabitha left me at the tea room, and I finished my tea and gingerbread cake beneath the twinkle lights. I wiped the crumbs into a mound on one side of the white table cloth, then pulled out my cell phone. Not knowing Oliver’s phone number, I called his mother’s office.

“Kendra Breathnach, Breathnach Estates. How can I help you?”

“Hi, this is Maddie Kosloski from the Paranormal Museum.”

There was a long pause. “Oh, yes. We met in the beauty parlor. How can I help you? Are you looking for a donation?”

“No, we don’t really do donations.” Aside from GD’s tip jar, but that was for kibble only. I thought fast. I really wanted to talk to her son but I wasn’t sure I wanted to let her know that. “I’m calling on behalf of Ladies Aid. About Bill Eldrich.”

“Oh?” Her tone turned cautious.

“I didn’t know him well”—or at all—“and I was hoping you could give me some insight into the man.”

“Why?” Her voice sharpened. “Aren’t the police investigating?”

“Yes, of course. But there’ve been some inconsistencies in the dealings between Ladies Aid and the Dairy Association that need to be cleared up,” I babbled. I knew my mom would back me on this, and she was the president of Ladies Aid, but even I had no idea what I was talking about.

“Inconsistencies? But I’m not in Ladies Aid or the Dairy Association.”

“I’d rather not get into it on the phone. Can we meet? Maybe this evening?” When her son was home?

“I’m about to leave the office for the afternoon.” A heavy sigh. “Why don’t you come by my house tonight?”

“Thanks.” I pumped my fist in the air. Victory! “Is six o’clock okay?”

“Sure,” she said. “Do you know where it is?” She gave me the address and we hung up.

A teenage girl walked into the tea room, the bell on her Santa hat jingling.

A woman shrieked. China shattered. The tea room fell into a weighted silence.

“The cowbells!” the matronly woman gasped. “I heard them. Here!”

The teenager had frozen in the doorway. Face pale, eyes wide, warring between fight or flight, she fingered the end of her long red knit cap. “It’s only my hat.”

The woman rose and threw her cloth napkin to the table. “How was I to know? I thought this tea room was supposed to be a haven, a safe space. Bells! Here!”

Like everyone else in the tea room, I gaped, torn between embarrassment and fascination.

The teen backed up, bumping into the closed door. “But … it’s Christmas.”

The older woman jerked her jacket closed. “Those sound exactly like cowbells. You should come with a trigger warning.”

The teen’s shoulders crumpling inward. “I’m … I’m sorry.”

Adele hurried forward. “No harm done,” she sang out. She took the young woman’s elbow and led her to an empty seat at the counter. “It was an easy mistake to make. Mrs. Wordsworth, can I get you more tea and another scone?” She bustled to the lady’s table and got her back into her chair, bending to say something to her in a low voice.

Gradually, the chatter in the tea room rose to its normal levels.

Adele returned to the counter and spoke to the teenager. Soon, both were smiling and nodding. Then she stalked to my table and plopped into the chair opposite.

“You’ve got to do something about those cowbells,” she grumbled. “In the last two days, there’s been a fifteen percent increase in broken crockery. The town is panicking.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it all under control.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How, exactly, do you have it under control?”

“The plan I told you about last night. Herb’s bringing in a specialist to de-curse … I mean, bind the cowbells.” I rubbed my jaw. “He’ll be here tomorrow. We’re inviting everyone on our email list, and my mom’s going to get some local reporters to cover it. So the whole town will know that the cowbell curse is over and done with.”

“It’s not enough,” Adele said bluntly.

I blinked. “What do you mean, it’s not enough?”

“The curse is bigger than one of Herb’s silly magical rituals.”

“You think I should ask Harper to help?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “But everyone is really afraid. Why should they believe your binding, or whatever Herb’s planning, works?”

“You and I aren’t afraid. It’s the people who are superstitious who are worried. And I’m thinking the sort of person who believes in curses is the same sort of person who believes someone with magic powers can stop a curse.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am.” But doubt twinged through my veins.

“What?” Adele asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Folding my cloth napkin on the table, I scooted from my chair. “But there’s something you can do to help.”

“Oh?” She canted her head.

“Find out how much money Belle made off her Christmas Cow bet.”

“You know Dieter takes his client confidentiality seriously.” Adele drummed her manicured nails on the white tablecloth.

“I know there’s an ongoing murder investigation, and he’d rather deal with me than the police, and someone tried to blow up my mom.”

“Playing hardball, are you?”

“Playing desperate. Please Adele, I need to know.”

She sighed. “I’ll see what I can learn.”

“Great. Thanks. I’d better get back to the museum.” I paid and hurried through the bookcase into the museum.

Leo stood behind the counter, the wall-phone receiver pressed to his ear. “There are lots of cows in San Benedetto,” he said, “and plenty of them wear cowbells. It’s not an unusual … You heard the bells when you were walking into a store on School Street? Was there a bell over the door?”

I glanced at the bell over our own door. “What’s going on?” I mouthed.

He put his hand over the receiver. “Someone’s asking about the curse,” he whispered.

I pointed to my chest. Did he want me to talk to them?

He shook his head. “There’s no reason for the curse to have reactivated, but we’re doing a binding spell tomorrow … Because we had to hire a specialist … Yes … No, I don’t—Yes … Yes … All right, I’ll let her know.” He hung up.

“What was that about?”

“Another curse call.”

“Another? How many have we received?”

“A half dozen or so. Mind if I take my break?”

“No, go ahead,” I said weakly.

I settled in behind the counter and got busy taking tickets and making change. The curse was just a silly story. I bit the inside of my cheek. Wasn’t it?

The museum kept me too busy to wonder much if my curse-ending plan would succeed. Besides, I had flyers to make and an invite email to send out and panicked cowbell hearers to soothe.

My fist tightened on my pencil. Who the heck had dreamed up cowbells as death omens?

I dropped the pencil to the counter. Whoops. I was supposed to be looking into exactly that question for Detective Slate. Though if all went well, tomorrow’s curse-binding ceremony would calm the town and the question would be moot.

Finally I ushered the last visitor out the door, locked it, and flipped the sign to Closed. I sagged against the counter and glanced at GD. He’d coiled possessively around the tip jar and slept, purring. At least I assumed he was asleep. For GD, closed eyes could be a ruse leading to an attack.

“Why am I the only one you bite?”

His black ears flicked.

I pushed the broom around the linoleum floor, ran the feather duster over the exhibits, and scuttled out to my truck, parked in the fog-shrouded alley.

The lights from Mason’s second-floor apartment made long shadows of the dumpsters. I fumbled my truck keys, and they clattered loudly on the pavement. Stomach tightening, I glanced up again at Mason’s square windows.

The best way for Belle to make sure she won the Christmas Cow bet would have been to set the cow on fire herself. But she hadn’t lived in San Benedetto long enough to rustle up a posse of gingerbread men. Unless she’d brought in some out-of-towners from her former life. Had she offered to share the winnings with them? What were her winnings? I’d heard the money could get pretty big. Not lottery big, but big. Certainly big enough for her to move out of Mason’s and get her own place. Assuming she wanted to.

I stepped into my truck and rolled down the alley, not liking the way my thoughts were running. Mason was a big boy, and Belle was none of my business. Besides, Mason had good instincts. He wouldn’t share his apartment with an arsonist. Right?

Main Street was a Christmas wonderland of twinkle lights, its shop windows sparkling in their holiday bling. Wreaths of holly hung from doors and around the iron streetlamps. We might be snow-free, but the fog cast a mysterious London gloom and I imagined chestnut sellers and ragged boys in top hats racing down the street.

I made a turn, passing the Sugar Hall Bakery. A tall gingerbread house surrounded by prancing gingerbread men and women filled its window. It would be a long time before my mom could stomach gingerbread men again.

I smacked my head. My mom. I’d promised to come by for dinner. I glanced at my watch. It was almost six. Even with stopping by Kendra’s, I’d only be a little late. And my mom would forgive my tardiness if I arrived bearing intel.

Kendra lived less than a mile from the Wildes’ house, so she was easy to locate. Her home was a two-story, gabled, Tudor-style manse in a new subdivision. The lawns all had the same manicured look, with brick or flagstone driveways, and the houses were all half-timbered on the second floors. I expected a Shakespearean festival to sprout from a lawn at any minute, but that would be too gauche for the neighborhood’s discreet white twinkle lights gleaming through the thickening fog.

I parked on the street. Zipping up my black parka, I walked up the flagstone path to the arched front door. There were no cars in the driveway, and my hopes of roping her son into this conversation fell.

A lion’s head door knocker scowled at me. I grasped the ring between its teeth and knocked.

A minute later, Kendra opened the door. She was barefoot and chic in expensive jeans and a white blouse. Simple gold hoop earrings nearly vanished in the gold of her hair. Her brown eyes widened. “Maddie!” She blinked. “I’d forgotten you were coming.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“No, no. Come in.” She stepped aside.

Feeling underdressed, I entered the elegant foyer. A massive display of white poinsettia decorated a round table. “Should I take my shoes off ?”

“If you don’t mind.”

I pulled off my tennis shoes and tugged down the toe of my left sock, trying to obscure the hole. I hadn’t planned on anyone seeing it when I’d dressed that morning.

She escorted me into a plush, white-on-white living room. A Christmas tree decked in designer red and gold scraped the high ceiling.

“What a beautiful tree.” I sank deep into the soft white couch. It was wide and my feet dangled, my big toe sticking from the sock. I crossed my ankles, hiding the view of my chipped nail polish.

“Thanks. Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Hot buttered rum?”

“No thanks.” I glanced around, looking for signs of her son. “I’m headed to my mother’s house for dinner later.”

“Ah yes, you said you were an emissary for Ladies Aid.” Kendra sat in a wing chair across from me. “That there was some unfinished business about Bill Eldrich you thought I could help with? I’m really not sure how I can.”

“There’s a controversy about whether the Christmas Cow tradition should continue.” Maybe if I got her talking about the cow, we’d naturally slide into the arson and her son.

“You mean—whether to rebuild it this year?”

The sock rode down my toe. Ears hot, I coiled my left leg beneath me, hiding my foot under my thigh. “Yes, and in future years.”

“It’s not a decision I’m involved with.”

“But you are a prominent member of San Benedetto. You’re building a new neighborhood.”

She toyed with her hair. “I do feel community involvement is important.”

“I’ve heard that Bill Eldrich was insistent the cow be built this year, in spite of a lot of opposition,” I said. “But he was the head of the Dairy Association …” I shrugged, doubtful she’d be able to fill in the blanks. This had been a bad idea. I should have just asked her for Oliver’s number.

Her smile was pained. “He could be quite determined. It’s ironic that the cow he pushed so hard for killed him.”

“How well did you know Bill?” I asked, surprised I might actually learn something from her. Had I accidentally stumbled onto an information source?

“Not very. I saw him at community events, of course. And my company has bids on several dairy farms, which Bill wasn’t happy about, but I don’t think he blamed me.”

“Why did he care if you bought someone’s farm?”

“Because the world of agriculture is changing. Small dairy farms are going away, being consolidated by major corporations that can operate them more efficiently.”

I rubbed my hand lightly over the velvety sofa arm. “It is sad to see them go.”

“Change is inevitable. That said, I certainly hope they don’t all go away. The farms add to the character of the town—not as much as the vineyards, but still. It’s important for people to stay in touch with where their food comes from. That’s why I’m so excited about our new vineyard-centered development. We’re breaking new ground, both literally and figuratively.”

“Oh?”

“The idea of an agrihood isn’t new, of course. But by building the community around a communal vineyard instead of a farm, we’re hoping to attract a more mature level of home buyers.”

“You mean retirees.”

She grinned. “Exactly.”

“Harvest isn’t easy,” I said. It was backbreaking work. I couldn’t imagine a bunch of citified septuagenarians harvesting grapes.

She stared fixedly at me. “Hiring younger people to assist with the harvest has been factored into the community fees. It will be well worth the price of producing wine that residents have bottled and tended themselves. But you said there was some outstanding business with Ladies Aid?”

“Yes. There’s been a story going around that kids from the local junior college were involved in the prank on the Christmas Cow.”

“The arson, you mean,” she said darkly.

I bit the bullet. “And that your son, Oliver, might know something about those involved.”

Her face smoothed. “Know something?”

I remained silent and attempted an enigmatic look.

She jerked to her feet. “Are you accusing him of being involved?”

“No. But if this was a prank gone bad—”

“If ? Are you saying it wasn’t a prank? That it was intentional?”

“I have no idea, but if—”

Kendra Breathnach paced in front of the red-and-gold tree. “Isn’t it more likely someone who was betting on the cow set it on fire?”

“That’s a possibility,” I said. “But if it was a prank, it’s in the students’ best interests to come forward voluntarily. The police are looking hard at this.”

“Who told you my son was involved?”

“It’s not important—”

“Who told you?”

“The easiest way to clear this up is to ask your son.”

“My son was home in bed the night the cow was set on fire.”

“How can you be sure?” It was unlikely she’d watched him while he slept—or pretended to sleep.

“I’m sure. And if the police ask me, I’ll tell them the same thing. My son had nothing to do with that arson.”

“Is your son home?”

“No,” she said coldly. “He’s at Lake Tahoe, skiing. It’s his winter break. Why are you really here?”

“I’m doing an informal survey of people associated with the Wine and Visitors Bureau and the Dairy Association about the future of the cow.”

“Because it sounds like an interrogation. And my son is none of your business.”

A bead of sweat trickled down my neck. “Of course not. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause offense. There’s a college student working at the museum, so I’ve got some sympathy for them. I’m sure none of the attackers planned to hurt anyone.”

Kendra’s mouth pinched. “To answer your survey question, I think the Christmas Cow is one of San Benedetto’s biggest attractions. It would be a shame to see it go.”

“Then that’s all. Thank you!” I bounced off the couch and race-walked into the foyer.

She followed me to the paneled wood door.

But my speedy exit was thwarted. I hopped on one foot, trying to wedge the other into my sneaker. I squatted, knotting my shoes. “Will the winery development also be Tudor-style?” I asked.

“No. Tuscan.”

“Sounds great,” I said brightly and straightened. I edged out the door. “Well, Merry Christmas!”

“Goodbye.” She slammed the door shut.

Not-quite-running to my truck, I jumped in and drove to my mom’s ranch-style house.

In the front yard, three reindeer fashioned out of grapevines and wrapped in twinkle lights glowed, giant red bows around their necks. My headlights flashed on the white picket fence and an empty police car parked outside.

Empty? Where were the cops?

Skin prickling, I parked beneath an oak and crept up the brick path to the front door. My mom owned a lot of acreage that she’d let revert to the wild. She said she liked the privacy. But now the acres of dark and tangled shrub seemed threatening.

I tried the knob.

The door was unlocked.

I swallowed, my pulse accelerating. True, my mom never locked the door. But under the circumstances, her lax attitude toward security worried me. And where were those cops?

Slowly, I swung open the door and sidled inside.

“No!” my mom shrieked.

Breathless, I sprinted into the kitchen and skidded to a halt.

My mom bent double, laughing.

Two police officers sat around the gray granite island munching pfeffernüsse cookies, powdered sugar drifting onto their blue uniforms.

Dieter leaned against the counter, mug of hot cocoa in his hands. He quirked a brow. “Hey, Mad.”

“Dieter.” I willed my heartbeat to slow. “What’s going on?”

“Just an impromptu holiday party,” my mom said. “Pfeffernüsse?” She offered me a plate.

“Thanks.” I took a cookie. Pfeffernüsse was one of my favorites, even if it did leave me covered in powdered sugar.

“What brought you here?” she asked. “Not that I mind.”

“I thought we were having dinner tonight,” I said, disappointed.

She shook her head. “I forgot. We got caught up in telling stories, and the time flew.”

I glanced around her country-kitsch kitchen, with its distressed off-white cabinets and missing cabinet doors. Trays and boxes of cookies filled every available counter space. “Maybe we should order in?”

“Marvelous idea,” she said. “What do you boys want for dinner?”

The cops shook their heads. “We can’t,” one said. With smooth cheeks and an earnest expression, he looked like he was barely out of high school. “We should get back to the car. Thanks for the hot chocolate, though.”

His partner’s face fell, but he nodded. “Rules.” They walked out.

“Dieter, would you order Chinese?” my mom asked. “You know what everyone likes. And Maddie, could you help me in the project room? I need your young eyes for some sewing I’m working on.”

“Sure,” I said and followed her into the project room that had once been my bedroom. Plastic boxes sat neatly stacked along industrial-looking shelves. My childhood flower-print curtains still hung in the window. “What’s Dieter doing—”

“What did you learn?” my mom whispered.

I rubbed the back of my neck. “What?”

“The investigation! Surely you got some detecting done today?”

“I talked to Tabitha again, and she pointed the finger at Kendra Breathnach’s son, Oliver, as one of the gingerbread men.”

“You’ve got powdered sugar on your chin, dear.”

Whoops. I wiped it off.

“But did you talk to Oliver?” she asked.

“No, I talked to his mother, the agrihood developer.”

“You should have talked to him. Really, Madelyn, what were you thinking?”

“But—”

“Never mind.” She fiddled with her turquoise necklace. “Did Kendra tell you anything?”

“She said Oliver was home in bed that night, but I don’t know how she could be sure. It’s a huge house. It wouldn’t be hard to sneak out after his mom went to sleep.” I fingered my old curtains, wondering why she’d kept them.

“And Kendra’s divorced, so he’d only have one parent to evade. What else? You said you followed up with Tabitha?”

“She followed up with me. She offered to pay for any damage from the bombing.”

“She called me as well, and I told her not to bother. Insurance is dropping off a rental car tomorrow, and they’ll take care of getting a permanent replacement. But she’s afraid her son set the bomb.”

“Or her husband.”

“What are you two up to?” Dieter asked from the doorway.

I started guiltily. “You caught us gossiping.”

His eyes narrowed. “Maddie, can you help me get something out of the truck?”

“Your truck?” I asked. “What do you need?”

He smiled determinedly. “Can you help or not?”

“Sure! Sure, sure, sure.” I followed him out of the house.

He stopped beside his rickety truck. “Look, I like your mom and all, but she’s starting to wig me out,” he hissed.

“Not enough for you to turn down free Chinese food.”

“She already knows Belle won the cow bet.” Dieter’s breath misted the night air. “What more does she want?”

“To know how much money Belle won?”

“Sorry, babe. I draw the line at financial information.”

“You’re a bookie, not a financial advisor.” Harper was sticky about client privacy too.

“There are people who would say there’s no real difference.”

“Dieter, it’s my mom. She was nearly killed in that bombing.”

His suntanned face creased. “Look, I can’t tell you how much Belle won, but I can tell you she needs the money. And the more your mom pokes her nose into this, the more danger she’ll be in.” He reached into the truck bed and grabbed an extension cord, then thrust it into my arms. “You’ve got to shut her down, Mad.”

If only I knew how.