twelve

I left Dieter to my mother’s tender mercies and forgot about him by the next morning. Between the museum’s usual Sunday crowd, the calls of frantic tinnitus sufferers, and the impending binding of the cowbells, I’d been forced to skip lunch. I’d also caught myself giving parked cars a wide berth in case one suddenly exploded. That made me cranky.

Jason Slate prowled into the museum. He paused before the counter, his brown eyes twinkling. Beneath one muscular arm, he carried a manila folder. He wore a thick black coat over his suit and looked good enough to eat. It was almost unfair.

My irritation fading, I steadied my cartwheeling heart.

“A binding spell?” He slid my flyer onto the glass counter. “Really?”

“It’s simple psychology.” I admired the flyer, then returned to wrapping a silver fairy for my elderly customer. Her gray head barely cleared the top of the counter. I suspected elf heritage.

“Don’t you mean parapsychology?” he asked.

I smirked. “Smartass.”

“Young lady!” My customer’s marshmallow brows rose. “Such language! And to an officer of the law.”

“Sorry.” I handed her the fairy. “And happy holidays!”

The elderly woman sniffed and tottered from the museum.

“Anyway,” I said, “curses are psychosomatic. This binding ritual should un-psycho everyone.”

“I wish you’d talked to me first,” he said.

“Why?”

“Someone who knows how to set bombs tried to kill you and/or your mother.”

“And you think the event might be a target,” I said, aghast. Why hadn’t I considered that? Was I putting people in danger?

“It probably won’t be, but I’ll be sticking around to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

“The ritual was a last-minute event. I doubt there will be many people.”

“No offense, but let’s hope not.” Jason set the manila folder on top of the flyer. “And on another topic, here are those case files you asked for.”

“You found stuff on the cowbell-related deaths in the ’80s?” I hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be a wild bell chase. But we wouldn’t need the files once the town believed I’d bound the curse. “And the bombing? Have you learned anything?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. Have you had lunch?”

My stomach rumbled and I checked my watch. It was after one. “No. Between the Christmas rush and the ceremony at three, I’ve been swamped.”

“Want to grab a bite? We can go over these files together before your show starts.”

“Is this part of your guard duty?” I figured the only reason he’d ask me out was because he had to.

“No, this is me hungry.”

“Then sure!” I quickly returned to earth. “But I can’t. Leo isn’t back from his lunch …”

Leo, carrying a shopping bag, hurried through the front door. “Hey. Sorry I’m late,” he said, panting. “I can take over.” He sidled behind the counter.

My assistant’s appearance was enough to make me believe in fate. “I guess I’m free for lunch after all.”

“How about the Book Cellar?” Jason asked.

The place was a little dark for perusing police files, but they had an excellent prosciutto and Brie panini. And the idea of having a candlelit lunch with the handsome detective wasn’t wholly unappealing. Who was I kidding? It was totally appealing.

I grabbed my purse. Jason held the door for me, then followed me onto the brick sidewalk.

It was one of those cloudless winter days that snap at your cheeks. My spirits rose, even if I had to trot to keep up with Jason’s long strides. He waited for a slow-moving Buick, giving me time to catch up, and then we crossed the street.

He held the door to the Book Cellar for me, and we walked through carpeted aisles scented with books and down the steps into the dimly lit cellar. Empty wine casks lined its walls. The bar and restaurant buzzed with conversation.

At a corner booth, I shrugged out of my pea coat. Jason hurried to help me, his fingers whispering across the back of my neck. I shivered and hoped he didn’t notice.

We ordered, and he opened the manila folder on the red tablecloth. “Maybe it would be easier if we sat on the same side,” he said.

“You’re probably right.” Casually, I slid out of the booth and sat beside him.

“Okay,” he said, “we had five committee members when the Christmas Cow tradition started and the town was gifted the cowbells from our sister city in Sweden. All of them were dead by the following December.”

“Were any of the deaths suspicious?” I asked.

“We’re looking for proof there’s no curse, remember. Not proof of murder.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “But no, none were suspicious or we’d have more detailed reports.”

“So what have you got?” My elbow brushed his and a tingle of energy flowed between us.

Or had I imagined it? Was I making up a fairy-tale romance because I’d lost Mason?

Jason slid a coroner’s report toward me. “Hansel Braff, aged sixty-seven, height five-foot-ten, weight two hundred and eighty pounds. Died of a heart attack the January after the first Christmas Cow—which survived the season, by the way.”

“Which is why they kept building the cow each year.”

“Right. The arson didn’t begin until the early 1990s. But that’s got nothing to do with our curse issue.”

“Hansel Braff was the driving force behind the Christmas Cow,” I said, reciting the bells’ placard from memory. “He was a Swedish dairy farmer. He traveled to our sister city in Sweden to receive the bells. People who believe in the curse say the first to touch them was the first to die.”

“Next up was Heidi Durian, aged seventy-two.” Jason’s suit jacket sleeve brushed my hand as he passed me another report. “We have a bit more on her, because she died in a car accident. She drove her Honda into an oak during a bad storm in February.”

I scanned the documents. “She was the president of Ladies Aid and met Hansel at the airport upon his return from Sweden.”

“Where I suppose she fondled the bells.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

He grinned.

“Joking aside,” I said, “second to encounter the bells, second to die. It is a little spooky.” This lunch was just business, two colleagues getting together. Just business …

“You’ve been spending too much time in your museum.”

“I’ve been spending all my time in my museum.”

The waitress arrived with our drinks—iced tea for me and coffee for the detective. She bustled away.

“Third to die,” Jason said, “was another member of Ladies Aid, Kamilla Shapira. Aged fifty-eight, she had a stroke in March and a history of high blood pressure. Her husband found her at home and called 911. She was pronounced dead at the scene.”

He handed me that report, and I skimmed it.

“It all seems normal,” I said, “but her death was when people started rumbling about a curse. She drove Hansel and Heidi from the Sacramento airport to San Benedetto.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of research.”

“For my cowbell exhibit. I should do more, but it’s been so busy at the museum. Hopefully the binding ritual will calm things down. Are you still sure you want to come?”

“I’d better,” he said, grim.

I straightened. “You’re not really expecting trouble, are you?”

“Not expecting it,” he said, “no.”

“But?”

“We’re getting more calls at the station, not less, since your flyers went up around town.”

Brow furrowing, I sipped my tea. “At the museum too. The panic seems to be catching.”

“Why now?” he asked. “Those bells have been around for decades. Sure, Mr. Eldrich’s death was dramatic, but why would people connect it to the curse?”

My appetite fled. “There was the newspaper article. And maybe just because this was the year the bells were brought out of cold storage?” In my defense, the museum is packed to the rafters with supposedly cursed and haunted objects. Nobody had ever freaked out before. How was I to know the bells would set off such a brouhaha?

“It’s not your fault.”

“Thanks,” I said, not believing him. The worst of it was, I really didn’t want to give up the bells. So this afternoon’s binding ceremony had better work. “But the curse—which never really existed, of course—has only ever struck people on the original Christmas Cow committee. Why would anyone else think they’re in danger?”

“People are irrational. We like to think we’re driven by logic, but we’re creatures of emotion.”

“That’s what Harper says.”

“Your friend the financial adviser?”

“Yeah. She says all decisions are emotional. We just rationalize them later.” Like my decision to go out to lunch with Jason, even though we didn’t really need to go through these police files together. “Okay, who was the next to die?”

Expression startled, the waitress set our plates on the table. A spinach leaf dropped from my plate onto the red cloth. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

Jason looked to me, and I shook my head.

“No, thanks,” he said. “We’re good.”

She scuttled away.

I took a bite of my sandwich, and my appetite returned. Hot melted Brie and prosciutto heaven. Which immediately jammed between my teeth, dammit. I should have known not to order it on a date. Not that we were on a date. This was purely professional. “Next?” I asked, hand over my mouth.

“Why are you covering your mouth?”

“Because I’ve got prosciutto teeth. Avert your gaze.”

He stared down at the file. “Next up was another dairy man, Rudy Saarisland. He was eighty-nine, died of a heart attack in the hospital that May. All I’ve got on him is a death certificate.” He handed it to me.

I glanced at it. “I couldn’t find any record of when he first encountered the bells. Things get murky after the airport pickup. And the last person?”

“The last to die was a member of the town council, Sigfried Tassi, aged thirty-six.”

“Young. How’d he die?”

Jason bit into his panini, chewed, swallowed. “Electrocution. His new boom box fell into the bathtub. That was in June. His wife, Jennifer, called 911, but he was pronounced dead at the scene.”

“Is Jennifer still around?” The current hysteria must have been bringing up all sorts of unpleasant memories for her. The poor woman.

“I don’t know. Why? Do you want to talk to her?”

“I wonder how other family members feel about the revival of the curse story. It must be painful.” And my fault. I’d always considered my museum harmless fun. But was it?

“Considering the ages of the people who died, I’d bet she’s the only surviving family member. But I can check into it, if you want.”

And suddenly I did want to talk to Jennifer. Maybe it was true that all decisions are emotional. But if the curse was causing someone real pain, I’d have to mothball the cowbells.

“If the binding ritual doesn’t cool things off, yes, I think I’ll need to speak with her. And talk to any others who might still be around.”

I looked up. Jason watched me intently, and my face warmed. “I still have prosciutto in my teeth, don’t I?”

“You’re prosciutto-free.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Assuming today’s ceremony doesn’t work—”

“Why wouldn’t it work? It’ll work.”

“But if it doesn’t, what’s your next step?”

“Talk to the older folks in Ladies Aid and the Dairy Association.” And the fact that the dairy folks might offer insights into Bill Eldrich was wholly coincidental. If I happened to uncover any clues to his death, I’d turn them over to Slate like any good citizen. “They might remember some detail about what got the curse started that will help us defuse it.”

“If the binding ceremony fails to convince the town they’re safe.”

“Right.”

He nodded. “Let me know if you do decide to visit the old timers. I’ll come with you.”

In spite of the panini weighting me down, my stomach fluttered. “You will?”

“And make sure the curse is the only thing you’re interrogating them about.”

I deflated. “What? That isn’t fair.”

He raised a brow. “Isn’t it?”

“Just what are you accusing me of ?”

“Did I accuse you of something? Why are you being so sensitive?”

“Finish your panini. I’ve got a curse ceremony to organize.”