seventeen

Laurel didn’t cuff me, but I could tell she wanted to. I spent my entire day off at the police station, and most of it was spent waiting in a cinder-block interview room. But I wasn’t arrested, and they let me go late that night.

The next morning, tired and irritated, I dragged myself from bed and drove to the museum.

GD hissed at me from atop the ogress’s cave.

“You didn’t go hungry yesterday,” I said, filling his bowl with kibble. “Adele fed you.”

He howled, an unearthly sound that set my teeth on edge.

“Fine. I’m sorry I didn’t do it myself. Okay?”

The black cat’s tail lashed.

A bunch of online orders awaited me, so I got busy boxing garden gnomes and porcelain fairies and ghost detecting equipment. At nine, a short column of teenage boys had lined up outside the door. I flipped the sign in the window to Open, knocking down a handful of fake snow in the process, and unlocked the front door.

The boys streamed inside. I kept an eye on them as they migrated to Gryla’s cave. It had become a hot selfie spot, and GD photobombed every single picture.

More customers poured in and congregated around the bells. The wall phone rang.

I eyed it, then sighed and plucked the receiver from its hook. “Paranormal Museum, this is Maddie speaking.”

“Is it true about the curse?” a man asked, his voice raspy.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why do you have the bells in your museum?

“Historical interest.”

Silence.

The caller hung up.

Shaking my head, I replaced the receiver. It wasn’t my fault if the whole town was nuts. Was it?

I glanced out the window to the street outside. Holiday shoppers ambled past, their arms full of paper shopping bags.

My legs twitched. Was Laurel outside somewhere watching? I suddenly felt exposed behind the thin pane of glass.

The wall phone jangled.

I growled, then grabbed the receiver. “Good morning,” I said through gritted teeth. “This is Maddie at the Paranormal Museum. The bells are officially uncursed.”

“Maddie, this is Kendra Breathnach.”

The developer? I adjusted my hoodie’s collar, which seemed intent on strangling me. “Hi. What’s going on?”

“I read … I just read about Tabitha in the paper. Is it true she’s dead?”

Lungs tightening, I lowered my head. Poor Tabitha. And her family … what must they be going through? “Yes.”

“And you found her?”

“Penny did. I was next on the scene.”

Kendra’s breath hitched. “I can’t believe it. I’ve known Tabitha forever. We were in scouts together as children. This is awful. Did the police say anything to you?”

Two customers strolled in, and I pointed at the ticket price sign on the back of the register. The man dug a wallet out of the rear pocket of his chinos.

“No,” I said. “They asked a lot of questions but didn’t tell me anything.”

“But the papers said she was shot with an arrow, like Bill.”

“Yes. It looked that way.” I made change and handed over two tickets and a brochure.

“What were you doing at the Visitors Bureau?”

I shifted the receiver beneath my chin. “I had to get more wine maps. We’ve been going through them faster than I expected.”

“Yes, the Christmas season …” Kendra trailed off and cleared her throat. “Well, I’ll let you get on with your day. I suppose I should call Penny. She must be shaken up. Take care of yourself.” She hung up.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I replaced the phone. The call seemed odd. Kendra and I hadn’t exactly parted on bad terms when I’d barged into her office, but they hadn’t been good either. The opportunity to hear what had happened from someone who’d been on the scene must have been overpowering for her. Was she still worried her son might take the fall?

More customers trickled in. I made small talk, handed out tickets, boxed packages to mail.

At noon, Leo strode into the museum. He whipped off his black leather jacket. His Paranormal Museum long-sleeved tee looked brand new, and I wondered if he washed his clothes or just bought new ones. He went through a lot of our T-shirts.

“Sorry I’m late.” He dropped a newspaper on the counter. “There’s been another murder.”

“I know.” I glanced at the paper—Tabitha’s murder was front-page news, but I didn’t need to read the article; I’d been on the scene. I checked my watch. “And you’re not late, so … apology not accepted.”

He tapped the paper. “Why kill Craig’s mom?”

“I don’t know. But Tabitha and Bill knew each other and were both on the Christmas Cow committee. Have you talked to Craig?”

Leo’s ears turned red. “No. Where do you want me?”

“Cash register.” I edged aside, grabbing the box I was packing with fairies. Leo slid behind me, taking the seat behind the register.

The wall phone rang.

Bracing myself, I answered. “Paranormal Museum, this is Maddie speaking.”

“This is Mike from the San Benedetto Times. We met on Sunday?”

I winced. “Hi, Mike. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping for a comment. Tabitha Wilde makes the second Christmas Cow committee member who’s died—”

“Been murdered,” I interrupted.

“Do you believe that your attempt to bind the curse failed? And since you’re the new owner of the bells, do you feel you’re in danger after the hit-and-run outside the museum?”

My throat tightened. “I think that the power of any curse is people’s belief in it. The bells were not the cause of Bill and Tabitha’s deaths. Whoever was responsible will be caught by the police.”

“But what about you? Do you feel under threat?”

Not with Laurel lurking in the shadows surveilling me. “Not at all,” I said loudly.

Customers turned to stare.

I turned toward the window and lowered my voice. “I have every confidence in the skills of my curse binders.”

“Thanks.” Mike hung up.

Leo handed a guest change and turned to me. “Another person afraid of the curse?”

“Newspaper.”

“It’ll blow over,” he said.

I laughed hollowly. “Will it?”

The front door jingled open and Cora Gale marched inside. Two elderly ladies trailed behind her in a flurry of rose water and talcum powder. They clustered around the old-fashioned cash register, their expressions intent.

“What are our assignments?” a short, rail-thin woman rapped out.

I rubbed my temple. “I’m not … assignments?”

“Hello, Leo, Maddie.” Cora’s mid-length gray hair was bound in a ponytail. Layers of thin coats and scarves wafted around her zaftig body. “Maddie, your mother sent us.” She shot the short lady a repressive look. “To assist with your …” She lowered her voice. “Investigation.”

My stomach dropped.

“We’re Ladies Aid,” chirped the third, a portly woman with steel-gray curls. She wore sensible shoes and a thick pink coat that reached to her knees.

“She knows that,” Cora said. “This is Dolores.” She motioned toward the plump woman. “And Rosalind.” She nodded to the thin one. “I understand your movements are, er, limited due to a police presence. Your mother thought we could act as your eyes and ears.”

“Spies!” Dolores’s gray curls gave a little jump.

“Detectives,” Rosalind corrected with a wheeze.

“So?” they asked in unison.

Leo covered his mouth with his hand and turned away.

“Thanks, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I had enough arrows on my conscience. I didn’t need these three getting hurt. “The police are investigating, and—”

“I heard Detective Slate is on leave,” Cora said.

“Yes,” I said, “but Laurel Hammer knows what she’s doing.”

Cora’s brow arched. “Does she?”

“That’s not fair,” I said. “She’s a good cop. She saved the museum from burning down, even though she really hates me.”

“Hmm.” Cora didn’t look convinced. “Be that as it may, your mother asked us to investigate, and so we will, with or without you.”

Thinking hard, I let my gaze wander the museum. Two young girls with a selfie stick posed in front of those damned cowbells. The cowbells … Maybe my mother’s friends could help out.

“Actually,” I said. “I do need a research—I mean, detective team.”

“Excellent,” the tall one said. “What do you need?”

“There may be a connection between what happened in the 1980s—the cowbell curse—and what’s happening today,” I lied. “I need to know everything I can about the people on the original committee.”

Cora nodded. “We’ll compile complete dossiers. It shouldn’t be difficult—we were all around at the time. Several of us knew them.”

Win-win. The ladies would be happy investigating something with no danger attached, and I could focus on investigating the murders. They also had a better sense of local history than me, so I could tick the box on my to-do list about interviewing past Ladies Aid members.

I pointed to the bells. “To get you started, on the placard there’s a short write-up about the curse and the people who died.”

The three marched to the cowbells, retrieved three sets of reading glasses from around their necks, and peered at the cardboard sign. One pulled a cell phone from her purse and snapped a photo.

“Thanks for that,” Leo said in a low voice. “For a minute I thought you were going to ask them to do some real detecting.”

“They can’t get into trouble researching the bells.” My scalp prickled and I glanced at the three, arguing beside the cave.

Leo frowned, shifting in his seat. “Right.”

We stared at each other.

“It’ll be okay,” I said. “Mrs. Gale is sensible.”

“And a good person.”

“Exactly.” A widow and an empty-nester, Cora had taken Leo under her protective wing after his parents had died. “I respect her. And I really do need help researching this curse. Those women might not have been active in Ladies Aid in the ’80s, but they have a better chance of getting to the truth than I do.”

Leo straightened. “I’m in.”

I fumbled with a piece of tape, which had looped and stuck to itself. “In with the curse research?”

“No, the murder cases.” He shrugged, looked out the window. “It was Craig’s mom.”

Leo had lost his own parents at a young age. It was something I was sure he’d rather not have had in common with Craig.

I nodded, brisk. “It’s time we talked with the other members of the gingerbread gang. Any idea who they might be?”

“Everyone’s clammed up.”

A customer walked in. Leo sold a ticket and handed out a brochure.

“But they can’t be involved in the deaths,” he said. “Not after Craig’s own mother was killed.”

“Probably not,” I said slowly, wrapping the last box in brown paper. “But they’re witnesses. And I wonder if someone learned of their plans and decided to piggyback arson with a murder.” I crumpled the tape and threw it in the garbage bin, then wiped my palms on my jeans.

“You think Santa Claus was the outside killer?”

“That’s my guess.” My mom still hadn’t forgiven that bit of sacrilege. “But if you want to help, figure out who was in the gingerbread gang.”

I taped the brown paper shut. Double-checking the customer’s address, I block-printed it on the mailing label, weighed the package, and printed a stamp.

What was I doing? Just because I’d gotten lucky before, why did I think I could help solve this crime? Jason had nearly gotten killed, and poor Craig had lost his mother … My nostrils flared, heat rushing through my veins. And people knew things they weren’t telling the police. I couldn’t give up yet. But I needed help, and from someone who actually knew what they were doing.

“I’ve got to drop these in the mail,” I said. “Do you mind if I leave you here?”

“Nope. Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” I bundled the packages into a big red sack my mom had given me and lugged them down the elegant hallway to the alley. With my hip, I pushed open the heavy metal door and trudged to my pickup.

Belle Rodale, swathed in an electric-blue parka, chucked a plastic trash bag into the dumpster. She dropped the lid and it clanged shut.

My muscles stiffened. I opened my passenger door and shoved the packages inside.

She brushed her palms off on her jeans and approached me.

Leery, I shut the passenger-side door and waited.

“Hey.” Belle brushed a hank of long auburn hair behind one ear.

I glanced at my pickup, then at the door to the concrete stairwell, then to the windows to Mason’s apartment above. “Hi.”

She shifted her weight.

“Do you need something?” I asked.

She hesitated. “You didn’t say anything to Mason about my bet.”

“No.”

We eyed each other, the tension stretching like a worn rubber band.

“That was cool of you. Thanks.” She turned and walked into the stairway to the second-floor apartment.

I stood unmoving. Had it been cool of me? I was one of those people who were keeping information from the police. Was I aiding and abetting a criminal? But I couldn’t believe that the mother of Mason’s child was a killer.

I slid into my red truck. Watchful of the holiday shoppers determined to hurl themselves beneath my tires, I drove slowly to the post office.

I parked on the street and groaned. A line streamed out the post office door.

Edging past the line with my ginormous sack of stuff, I bumped my way to the bin. I jammed the boxes inside and waded through the crowd. Pausing on the brick sidewalk, I dug my cell phone from my pocket and called Jason.

He answered on the third ring. “Maddie?” His voice was low and intense. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine.” My hands were strangely slick on the phone. “How are you feeling?”

He laughed. “I feel like I was hit by a Buick. Any news on the curse?”

“Three associates of mine are compiling dossiers on the original committee members for us to review.”

“Associates?”

“Ladies Aid. Some of these women were around when the curse went down in the ’80s. They have memories of the victims.”

“Victims? They all died of natural causes.”

“I mean curse victims,” I corrected. “Not murder victims.” Why had I called them victims? “If you’re still on leave, are you free for lunch?” And even though it wasn’t going to be a date, I felt my face warm, my pulse beat faster.

“I am, and I am. What are you thinking?”

I thought of the least romantic place in San Benedetto. “How about the Wok and Bowl?”

“Should I pick you up from the museum?”

I checked my watch. I still had plenty of time to kill. “That would be great. See you around noon?”

“High noon it is.” He chuckled and hung up.

I returned to the museum and took tickets, answered questions, sold paranormal tchotchkes. Leo and I worked smoothly together. I couldn’t imagine managing the crowd without him. But some day he’d move on to bigger and better and higher-paying things. I needed to be prepared for that day.

At noon, Jason walked through the door, a camel-colored coat over his shoulders like a cape. In his navy sweater and jeans, he looked good, and I repressed a grin.

“Ready?” he asked.

In answer, I grabbed my purse from beneath the counter and followed him to his cop sedan. He opened the passenger door for me.

“You don’t need to do that,” I said. “You’re injured.”

“I’m not helpless.”

One-handed, he drove to the bowling alley and parked in the lot. We walked side-by-side toward the glass front doors. The last ten feet, he sprinted ahead to open one for me. “After you.”

My ears went hot. “Thanks.” And I’d thought chivalry was dead.

The bowling alley was shake-rattle-and-rolling. Bowlers knocked down pins to thunderous shouts. Waitresses in poodle skirts swished past.

We found a booth in the corner. A waitress dropped off a menu and swirled away in a froth of crinoline. Jason and I made awkward small talk and ordered.

“How are you holding up?” he asked after the waitress had left.

I looked at the Formica table. “I feel terrible about Tabitha. Her son is just out of his teens.”

“You knew her well?”

“Not really. I think she was worried her son might have been involved with the Christmas Cow and my mom’s car being bombed. She offered to pay for the damage.”

He crossed his arms. “She did?”

“But Craig couldn’t have been involved.” I folded an empty sugar packet into thirds. “I can’t imagine him killing his own mother.”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Not here.”

His gaze drilled into me. “Are you pumping me for information?”

“I thought I was giving you information,” I said carefully.

“Is that why you wanted to have lunch?”

“No.” I dropped the sugar packet onto an empty saucer. “I never properly thanked you.”

“For what?”

“For saving me from that car that hit you. Did you get a look at the driver?”

“No,” he said. “I realized what was happening too late and could only think of getting you out of the way and then getting the license plate.”

I bit the inside of my cheek.

“What?” he asked.

“Was it my fault?” I blurted. “What if they came to disrupt the event? What if someone else had been hurt?”

Jason laid his hand on mine, and my pulse jumped. “If I’d thought your event was a real danger, I would have asked you to shut it down.”

“You’re not in trouble, are you?”

“Getting hit in the line of duty covers a multitude of sins. I’ll be okay. And I told the chief about your plans for the ritual when I saw the flyers. We all believed the risks were low.”

“Oh,” I said in a small voice. I cleared my throat. “Do the police think I’m a target?”

He frowned. “They’re not consulting me. I’m on leave, remember? I’m off the investigation.”

“That must sting.” Especially when Laurel had told him to mind his own business.

“It’s the right thing to do,” he said.

“Where was that car stolen from? Unless it’s confidential,” I said quickly.

His eyebrows rose. “Are you interrogating me?”

“What? No way.”

“Just because I’m off the investigation doesn’t mean I can be your inside man.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking.” Except I had asked.

The waitress arrived with our food, and we fell silent.

After she left, I prodded at my kung pao chicken. “Would you mind if I asked a police procedure question?”

“Shoot.”

“What do detectives do when they’re stuck in an investigation?” I asked.

“What do I do?”

“Even better.”

“I go back. Look for what I’ve missed.”

“But what if you have too much evidence?”

He sipped his coffee. “There’s no such thing.”

He was right. The problem wasn’t too much information. The problem was I hadn’t figured out how to sift the meaningless from the meaningful. But there had to be meaning in the madness.

All I had to do was find it.