eighteen

“No,” I said, phone cradled between shoulder and ear. “There’s no more curse. It’s a historic curse. It’s history.” I wrapped a pack of tarot cards in tissue paper, slipped it into a paper Paranormal Museum bag, and handed it to Leo.

He passed it across the glass counter to the customer, a college-aged strawberry blonde. “Come again,” he said, longing in his voice.

“But my husband says he hears bells,” the caller said. “There are no Christmas bells in our house. We’re not near a cow pasture. Something’s going on.”

I stared out the window. My pale reflection stared back. It was only four thirty and already it was growing dark outside. I massaged my temple. “If there was a curse, it ended in the ’80s. Now the cowbells are just cowbells.”

“Then why do you have them in your museum?”

“Historical interest.”

“But the papers said—”

“The papers are looking for an angle to dramatize recent events.”

“But two people from the last committee are dead. And other people are dying too.”

The skin prickled on the back of my neck. “Others? Someone else was shot by an arrow?”

“No, but haven’t you checked today’s obituaries?”

“Obituaries?”

Leo bent to pull a crumpled newspaper from beneath the counter and handed it to me. I unfolded it and found the obituaries.

“The curse is real. I’m sure of it.” She hung up.

Pulse accelerating, I studied the obits. All two of the recently deceased were well past seventy and had died of natural causes. “People are attributing every single death to the curse.”

Leo folded his arms. “At first I thought people’s reaction to the bells was funny. I was sure wrong about that.”

I dropped the paper on the counter and scraped both hands through my hair. “This has to blow over soon.”

The wall phone rang, and I groaned.

“Want me to take it?” Leo asked.

“No.” I sighed. “With little power comes ridiculous responsibility, etc., etc.” I plucked the phone from the receiver and smiled, forcing good humor into my voice. “Good afternoon. This is Maddie at the Paranormal Museum.”

No one responded.

“Hello?” I smoothed the front of my long-sleeved Paranormal Museum tee.

A long, drawn breath.

“Hello?” I said, less certainly.

“This is Craig.”

I frowned, confused. Craig? Who … And then I remembered: Tabitha and Tom’s son. “Craig Wilde?”

“Yeah.”

“Craig, I’m so sorry about your mom. How are you doing?”

“I need to talk to you.”

I straightened on my seat. “I’m listening.”

“Not on the phone. Can you meet me?”

I cut my eyes toward the door. This was not a good idea. I was pretty sure Tabitha’s son wasn’t our killer archer, but there’s a grand canyon between “pretty sure” and “certain.” Still, I couldn’t pass up this opportunity—not with cops stationed outside my mom’s house and Slate off the case. “When?”

“In an hour, at the swimming hole.”

“It’s a little dark out there—”

“Come alone.” He hung up.

Pursing my lips, I replaced the receiver. I was not going alone.

“What’s wrong?” Leo asked.

“Craig wants to meet me at the swimming hole.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“That would be—” I smacked my forehead. “Dammit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m supposed to meet Craig in an hour. We’ve got that speaker coming at six to set up for.” As a lure for repeat customers, I’d started a weekly speaker series in the Gallery area. I hadn’t been confident I’d be able to keep the speakers coming, since the topics were always connected to the weird and paranormal, but there were a surprising amount of paranormal writers, surrealist poets, and persons with interests in the strange and unusual all too happy to give short talks. Tonight we’d booked a fairy shaman.

“Look,” Leo said, “I think Craig’s an okay guy, but you can’t go alone.”

“And I won’t.” I dug into my pocket for my cell phone. Mom would be perfect for this. She was great with the younger generation. Plus, she had a police escort.

“And you can’t bring your mom.”

Considering, I sucked in my cheeks. “No, I can’t.” Her police escort might scare Craig off.

Would Adele let me borrow Dieter? Nah. If the college students had burned the cow, I didn’t want the bookie who’d managed the bets in on the conversation.

Palms going damp, I dialed Jason’s number.

“Twice in one day?” the detective rumbled. “Do I smell desperation?”

“I need you. Your help!” My face heated. “Sorry. I mean—”

He chuckled, his voice low and warm. “What’s going on?”

“Craig Wilde asked to meet me. I think he wants to talk about the assault on the Christmas Cow. Can you come along?”

“Maddie, this is called interfering with an investigation.”

“No it isn’t.” I’d looked that up online earlier in the year and was careful to stay within the rules. “Besides, you’re a police officer, and I’m telling you. He called me and wants to talk. He didn’t say why. There’s nothing illegal or interfering about us talking. And whenever I’ve learned anything useful in the past, I’ve always turned it straight over to you. But he did ask to meet in a kind of dark and secluded spot, and I don’t like the idea of going alone.”

There was a pause. I drummed my fingers on the top of the ancient cash register.

“Where exactly?” Jason asked.

I also didn’t like the idea of him telling his partner. Would he do the right thing or keep Laurel out of it?

“We’re supposed to meet at five thirty,” I hedged. “I can pick you up. Just tell me where.”

There was another long silence, then, “532 Cabernet Drive.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Thanks.” I hung up and checked my watch. “I’ll be back by six thirty. Are you okay setting up on your own?”

Leo nodded. “It’s only putting out folding chairs and the projector. I’m good.”

“Thanks.” I clapped him on the shoulder. Leo was already scheduled to work tonight’s speaker series, so I felt no guilt about abandoning him. Grabbing my thick pea coat off the wall hook, I hurried through the bookcase and down Adele’s narrow hallway. I burst through the heavy metal door to the alley and bumped into a solid wall of leather-clad Viking muscle.

Mason grasped my shoulders, his arctic eyes crinkling. “Hey, you all right?”

“Fine!” We were close enough to kiss, and suddenly I remembered the feel of his mouth on mine, the roughness of his cheek. I swallowed, breathless. “What are you …?” I started noticing more than his tight T-shirt and slim hips. He didn’t have a garbage bag in his hand for the dumpster. His motorcycle was parked outside the rear door to his shop. And he didn’t need to go through Adele’s place to get to the street, since he had his own entrance from his store.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he said and released me.

“Oh.” My gaze darted about the alley. I could play this casual. “What’s up?”

“It’s this curse business.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “It may not be real—”

“It’s not.”

“But it’s got Belle rattled. Especially after someone was run down outside your museum.”

“Detective Slate.”

His gaze slid sideways. “Yeah.” He grimaced.

“A lot of people are worried,” I said, unsure why I felt I was tiptoeing through a minefield.

He shook his shaggy blond head. “It’s more than that.” He hesitated.

“Then what is it?”

“Belle’s been acting strange, skittish. You know anything about that?” An odd expression, somewhere between suspicious and hopeful, crossed his rugged face.

“We don’t talk much,” I said.

His gaze narrowed. “She said she doesn’t like having a haunted museum right beneath our apartment.”

Our apartment. Disappointment tightened my stomach, and that feeling was wrong for so many reasons. I’d walked away so Mason and Belle could sort things out for the sake of their son. That things were working out for them now was good news. “So she’s staying?”

He blew out a gusty breath. “I’m not sure.”

My stupid, traitorous heart leaped with hope. And that was wrong too. “Anyway, I’m researching the curse now, so that I can debunk it.”

His smile was bleak. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You always do.” He hesitated, as if he’d say more, but then he turned and walked up the steps to his apartment.

Unsettled, I got into my truck and drove down the alley. Mason and I had broken up only two months ago, so mixed feelings were probably normal. I’d been attracted to Jason Slate since we’d first met nearly a year ago, but was I looking at him now as rebound guy? Because he deserved better than that.

I drove beneath the adobe arch marking the exit from downtown and turned right on a residential road.

Maybe nothing would happen between Jason and me anyway. Maybe the detective wasn’t interested in me at all, and my crush—eesh, I had a crush—was one-sided. I’d just go slow and see what happened.

What if nothing happened?

What if something happened?

By the time I pulled in front of his neat lemon-yellow house, I’d worked myself into a full-throttle panic. Did I …? Did he …?

His front door opened, silhouetting his lean, muscular figure. And then the detective trotted down the short flight of porch steps and across the manicured lawn.

I leaned across the seat and unlocked the pickup’s passenger door. Jason slid inside and fumbled with the old-fashioned seat belt one-handed.

“Need a hand?” I asked.

His navy parka slid off his left shoulder and he exhaled heavily. “If you don’t mind.”

I held the locking mechanism. He pressed the seat belt into the lock and our fingers brushed.

A tingle of electricity raced up my arm. My mind might be saying “go slow” but my hormones hadn’t gotten the message.

“Where are we going?” Jason adjusted the parka over his left shoulder.

I started. The question was taking on metaphysical dimensions. “Swimming hole.” I revved the truck and pulled away from the curb.

His dark brow furrowed. “There’s a swimming hole in San Benedetto? What about the lake?”

San Benedetto had a small man-made lake surrounded by a park. I never went there. “The swimming hole is where all the cool kids go. You have to hike to it, and it’s private.”

“Gotcha. Why does Craig want to talk to you?”

“He didn’t tell me. Maybe he has something to say but isn’t ready to talk to the police.” I glanced at the detective. His face was chiseled in the darkness, and there was something comforting in having him beside me. “He told me to come alone, but I’m not stupid. If Craig wants to talk to me, I’d like to give him the opportunity. But if he sees you, I’m not sure he’ll open up.”

“I’m certain he won’t.”

“Oh?”

“Detective Hammer and I worked the good cop/bad cop routine on him after your mom’s car got blown up. I was the bad cop.”

I tried imagining Laurel as the good cop and failed. “Okay. So how do you want to do this?”

“The kid doesn’t strike me as a killer, either. I’ll keep close but out of sight. If anything feels odd, yell. I’ll come running.”

“Will do.” Pleased, I rolled my shoulders. I’d taken a risk calling the detective. He could have made me cancel the meeting, or insisted I bring in Laurel. But he’d done neither.

I turned down a dirt road, bumping along it until I reached an old oak. Three cars were parked beneath the gnarled tree.

“Doesn’t look like Craig came alone,” Jason said.

“No.” I killed the ignition. The headlights blinked out, washing us in velvety night. The pickup ticked, the metal cooling, contracting. I clenched the keys in the pockets of my pea coat and they dug into my palms.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I can go instead.”

“Craig wanted to talk to me.” I stepped out of the truck and let my eyes adjust to the night.

“Flashlight?” Jason asked.

“I don’t need one.” A three-quarter moon turned the landscape of oaks and high frozen grasses into a charcoal silhouette. I buttoned my pea coat, turning up the collar.

“Which way?” he asked.

I pointed to a trampling of grass: the path.

He grunted. “Lead on. Let me know when we get close, and I’ll fall back.”

We walked along the flat ground. The silhouettes of barren oaks twisted like misshapen giants. The ground swelled, rising, and there was the faint trickling sound of running water. “The swimming hole is just over the rise,” I whispered.

He nodded and slowed.

I continued alone and plodded up the small hill. My skin pebbled from the chill, or paranoia, or both. The world was cold and still, except for the soft sound of running water and the crunch of my footsteps on the trail. I crested the rise.

Below me, the swimming hole, really a wide bend in the creek, glittered in the moonlight. Low brush squatted around a narrow band of beach. It was a secluded spot, perfect for serial killers or vampires.

I walked down the slope, gravity pulling me along. “Craig?”

No one responded.

I reached the stretch of bare earth. The water lapped, sluggish, against the shore.

Eyes wide, I scanned the brush but saw no one.

Branches rustled behind me. I jumped and spun around.

Three masculine figures stepped from behind the brush.