twenty-three

“And he just turned himself in?” Adele shouted over the roar of the jukebox. The light from the overhead pendant lamp glinted off the gold threads in her pink Jackie Kennedy-style blazer.

Throat sore from hollering, I nodded and took another sip of beer, accidentally nudging Harper with my elbow. It was our regular Friday girls’ night out at the Bell and Brew. But nothing felt regular about tonight. I’d watched the police lead Tom away in handcuffs while my mother hugged Craig, who was too stunned to protest. I shook my head.

“So it’s over.” Beside me, Harper shrugged out of her leather jacket and three men at the bar paused, beer to their lips, to stare. All she was wearing was a simple white T-shirt, but for Harper, that was enough.

“I guess so.” I tapped my finger on the damp table. “At least Laurel was happy.” The detective had actually smiled at me when she’d arrested Tom Wilde. It had been mildly terrifying.

“What’s wrong?” Adele asked.

“Nothing.” I took a quick sip of my holiday ale. It tasted faintly of pumpkin. “Tom Wilde was the only person I could figure who had a motive to kill both Bill and Tabitha, aside from Dean. And Dean couldn’t have done it, because he was cowering in the house with us when we were getting shot at.” But I hated this. I hated what Craig was going through. I hated that a family had been destroyed.

And for what? A stupid affair. Still, I wondered if Tom was telling the truth or if he was protecting his son. Craig had overheard his mother and Bill. The whole family knew how to shoot arrows, and Craig had been on the scene when Bill died.

“Now you and Detective Slate can focus on the cowbell curse.” Adele adjusted her beer mug, centering it on its cardboard mat.

I groaned. “I never should have displayed those stupid bells. They just seemed perfect for the holidays.”

“They are perfect,” Harper said. “By which I mean they’re not cursed.”

“That’s what you …” I sat up straighter in the red Naugahyde booth. “Wait. You mean … you checked them?”

“I asked her to after that disaster of a ritual,” Adele said. “Her being a witch and all.”

“I’m a strega,” Harper said, “not a witch.”

“Potato, po-tah-to,” Adele said. “Your secret is safe with us. But this curse is out of control. The town needs your help.”

“I’m not sure I can help,” Harper said. “There’s no curse. If Herb and his buddy’s binding ceremony didn’t convince people, what can I do?”

“This fake curse is bigger than all of us.” I clutched my frosted mug more tightly. “Ladies Aid managed to track down the woman who’s been driving the rumors. I talked to her, but I’m not sure I persuaded her we’re curse-free. Besides, she said it’s her husband who needs converting. It sounds like he’s made himself clumsy worrying about a non-existent curse.”

“So what are you going to do?” Harper asked.

I gulped my beer. “I’ll talk to him, but I don’t think this is something I can reason anyone out of. No one’s reacting from reason. It’s all fear and superstition, which normally is excellent for business, but now …”

“Business is down?” Adele asked, frowning.

“No,” I said. “Business is booming. This is just the first time I’ve felt guilty about it.”

The jukebox switched to a country lament, Patsy Cline falling to pieces.

“Don’t,” Adele said. “It’s not your fault if people are going overboard. Everyone knows you can’t take anything in that museum of yours seriously.”

“Hey,” I said, sucking in my cheeks, “I’ve got some nice antiques from the American Spiritualist movement.”

“And let’s not forget the creepy dolls,” Harper said dryly.

“I wish I could.” I hated those dolls, but they were a big draw.

Grinning, Adele braced her head on her fist. “Tell us about Detective Slate.”

My face warmed. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“You like him,” Adele said. “I could tell from the beginning.”

“What’s not to like? He’s smart and honest and easy on the eyes.”

“And single,” Harper said.

“Definitely a selling point,” I said. “But nothing’s going on between us.”

“Why not?” Harper asked.

“Mason, obviously,” Adele said. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on him?”

“We only broke up two months ago.” I examined the red plastic basket of fried artichoke hearts. “I don’t want to rush into anything.”

“Ah ha!” Adele pointed at me. “So there is something to rush into.”

“I never gave you this hard a time about Dieter,” I grumbled.

“Your loss.” Adele turned to Harper. “What do you think? Should we give her a break?”

“Watching her squirm is too much fun,” Harper said. “When are you going to see him next?”

“I don’t know.” I dipped a beer-battered artichoke heart in ranch dressing and bit off half. The artichoke threads caught in my teeth. “And I don’t think Tom killed Bill and Tabitha,” I said, hoping to divert them.

“He confessed, didn’t he?” Adele asked.

“Yes, but—”

“There you go,” Adele said. “Honestly, I think you like it when people try to kill you.”

I shuddered. “I don’t.”

“Why do you think Tom’s innocent?” Harper asked.

“It just doesn’t feel right.” I washed down the artichoke with a swig of beer. “Yes, everything fits. They were having an affair, her husband knew it, and he killed them both. And I don’t know who else would want to kill them both. But Craig overheard Bill bribing his mother, and that’s odd enough to look into.”

“That’s what he thought he heard,” Harper said. “Could he have misunderstood the conversation?”

“Maybe, but what if he didn’t? What if the relationship between Bill and Tabitha isn’t what we all think? What if there’s another reason someone wanted the two of them dead?” I ran my thumb along the handle of the beer mug, feeling the ridge where the glass had been pressed together.

“Someone like Dean, whose raw milk business was being threatened?” Harper asked. “I thought you’d written him off as a suspect.”

“I did, since he was trapped in the house with us when the archer struck. But if Tabitha was on the take, then she was probably getting money from more than one person. I mean, you don’t stop at one bribe, do you?”

“That’s a big if, ” Harper said.

“I checked the minutes of the last council meetings, but they don’t record any details of the discussions.” I snapped my fingers. “Dean and Penny must have been at some of those meetings. Their businesses were under discussion. Maybe they remember what happened.”

“Well, you can’t take Dieter to talk to them,” Adele said. “He nearly got an arrow through the heart the last time he played bodyguard.”

I rose from the table. “Don’t worry. I got this.”

“You’re going now?” Adele asked.

“No time like the present.”

“It’s nearly ten at night,” Harper said.

“They’ll be up.” I had to know. Craig’s father was sitting in jail. We couldn’t wait for the truth.

“No,” Harper said. “This is exactly how you get yourself into trouble.”

“But Tom Wilde—”

“Is safe at police headquarters and a confessed murderer,” Adele said. “Harper’s right. You can’t go tearing off now to harass Dean and Penny. Dean will probably shoot you for trespassing, and you’ll frighten Penny to death banging on her door at this hour.”

“A late-night surprise interrogation is not the sort of thing to loosen people’s tongues,” Harper said. “What you need is a gathering of the suspects to hash things out. Like Hercule Poirot does.”

“Hercule Poirot only calls the suspects together when he knows who the killer is,” I said. “And I don’t. But I’ll wait for daylight.”

Dieter, in a parka, ripped T-shirt, and jeans, slid into the booth beside Adele. “Hello, ladies.”

We stared at him.

“Darling, it’s girls’ night,” Adele said.

“And that’s sacred,” Harper said.

“Come on,” he said. “I’m one of the girls, aren’t I?”

“No,” we said in unison.

He rubbed his shoulder. “But I was shot at,” he said plaintively.

“Your truck was shot at,” I said.

“I was nearby, protecting you and your mother when you were shot at. You at least owe me a beer.”

“Fine.” I waved at an aproned waiter. He hustled past to a raucous bachelorette party.

“Cool.” Dieter released a gusty breath and slumped in the booth. “I’ll take the holiday ale.”

“Long day?” Adele asked him.

“I made the payout on the cow today.”

Harper raised a brow. “It’s been over a week since it burned. What took you so long?”

I tried to flag down another waiter. Unseeing, he strode past.

Dieter rumpled his shaggy hair. “Arson is serious business. I had to make sure the bettor wasn’t involved.”

I leaned forward. Dieter had been running a separate investigation? “And did you?”

He shrugged. “Sure. It was those kids who set the cow on fire.”

My eyes narrowed. I looked between him and Adele. “How did you hear the students confessed? That hasn’t made the papers.”

He looped his arm across Adele’s shoulders. “Sources.”

“Adele?” How could she! “You know my investigation is confidential. What else did you tell him?”

“Everything?” She made a rueful face. “It’s Dieter!”

“We’re a couple,” Dieter said, insufferably smug.

“Adele!”

“Sorry, Mad,” she said. “But you put me in a bad spot. I can’t keep things from him.”

I blew out my breath. I couldn’t expect Adele to keep secrets from her boyfriend. Not if she was serious about him.

“It’s okay,” I said. “No harm done, and it was a fair trade.”

Dieter frowned. “What fair trade?”

Adele frantically shook her head, her black hair rippling about her shoulders.

“Ah …” I stammered. “I misspoke.”

Spots of color rose in his cheeks. He turned toward Adele. “Did you tell them the size of the payout?”

“She’s one of my best friends,” Adele said weakly.

“She’s dating a cop!”

“I’m not actually dating …” I trailed off.

Dieter’s eyes bulged. “That information is confidential!”

“What was I supposed to do?” Adele asked. “You wanted information on Mad’s investigation. She wanted information on how much money was at stake. I couldn’t tell one of you and not the other.”

“But,” he sputtered, “it’s confidential.”

Whoops. Time to exit, stage left. “The waiters are sure busy tonight.” I slithered from the booth. “I’m going to get your beer from the bar.”

“I’ll come with you,” Harper said quickly and followed.

I squeezed past a trio of cowboys and caught the bartender’s eye. “One holiday ale,” I shouted over the din.

He nodded and strode to the taps.

I turned to Harper, now neck-deep in grinning, lovesick cowboys. Honestly, did she use a magic potion?

My friend seemed to be enjoying herself, so I braced my elbows on the bar and watched the TV. A commercial for pillows came to an end, replaced by a local news show. The closed captioning scrolled across the screen.

WITH US TODAY IS XAVIER LANDAU, AN EXPERT ON CURSES.

Xavier? Herb’s Xavier?

The lady newscaster, blond hair shimmering, turned to Xavier. It must be true about the TV adding ten pounds, because the bell exorcist looked less cadaverous than usual.

I leaned closer.

TELL US ABOUT THE CURSE. DO WE HAVE ANYTHING TO BE WORRIED ABOUT?

Xavier stroked his salt and pepper goatee. NOT AT ALL. I CAN SAFELY SAY THE CURSE—IF THERE EVER WAS ONE—HAS BEEN BOUND.

The newscaster’s eyes narrowed. IF THERE EVER WAS ONE? DO YOU MEAN THE MUSEUM IS PERPETUATING A FRAUD?

I groaned.

Xavier shook his head. NOT AT ALL. AND I AM QUITE CERTAIN THERE ARE SEVERAL OBJECTS IN THAT MUSEUM THAT BEAR FURTHER INVESTIGATION.

SEVERAL? NOT ALL? the reporter asked.

“They have historical value!” I howled at the screen.

Harper placed a hand on my arm. She pointed at the TV. “Is that the guy from the binding ceremony?”

“They’re talking about the museum!” I looked up and realized I’d missed something critical, because now two middle-aged women in pastel twin sets had joined Xavier and the newscaster.

One woman raised her sleeve, displaying two small red punctures on her forearm. SOMETHING BIT ME THAT DAY IN THE MUSEUM.

The other woman nodded and raised her sleeve. The back of her wrist was similarly marked.

The newscaster turned to Xavier. WAS THE CURSE RESPONSIBLE?

He shook his head. BITES ARE USUALLY CAUSED BY ANGRY GHOSTS OR DEMONIC ACTIVITY.

The newscaster leaned forward. THERE’S DEMONIC ACTIVITY AT THE PARANORMAL MUSEUM?

“No, there isn’t!” I shouted. “There’s nothing demonic … Harper.” I motioned toward the screen. “Tell them!”

“They can’t hear you,” she said.

I hung my head. “I can’t believe this.”

“Do you really need me to tell you there’s nothing demonic at your museum?” She shivered. “Though those old dolls are creepy.”

“But not demonic!”

“Look.” She pointed at the TV. “He’s saying it was probably a ghost.”

I turned.

THANK YOU, the reporter said. THINGS ARE GETTING STRANGE AT SAN BENEDETTO’S PARANORMAL MUSEUM.

The show cut to the weather.

“GD probably freaked out in the crowd and bit them,” Harper said.

“No way.”

“He’s kind of a jerk.”

“Yeah, but …” I frowned. GD couldn’t have done it. He’d been on top of Gryla’s cave the entire time. I moaned. Was I liable for the bites? Would the women sue? “This is a disaster.”

Harper tossed her long hair. “What’s your favorite saying?”

“No publicity is bad publicity.” But there was a first time for everything. “Whatever I do to try to calm things down, I just make things worse.”

“Maybe you should stop trying.”

If only I knew how.