five

I was back where I’d started—another morning in the museum. Fog pressed against the windows. Shoppers, shoulders hunched against the chill, hurried past on the sidewalk outside. The holiday rush kept me moving, handing out a steady stream of tickets and brochures.

GD, ambivalent, spent the morning perched on the old-fashioned cash register. His tail lashed the keys whenever I rang up a sale.

I glared at the cat and handed a deck of tarot cards to a college-aged customer. “Happy holidays!” I chirped.

“Thanks,” she said. “My roommate will love these.” She hesitated. “Why don’t you have any exhibits in the museum about Santa? I mean—flying reindeer. Zipping through chimneys. That’s totally paranormal, isn’t it?”

“Did you see our Norse exhibit?” I pointed to the corner where Gryla the Ogre’s red eye peered from her cave. “Santa Claus is believed to have derived from the Norse god, Odin. Children left boots filled with carrots and hay by the chimney for his eight-legged horse. In exchange, Odin left gifts in their boots. It’s believed to be one of the origin stories of Santa Claus.”

“It’s not really Santa, though. And the real Santa flies through the air with magic reindeer!”

“Well, yes, but Odin flew through the sky too.”

She shrugged. “Whatever. I still think you should have more Santa.”

GD sat up and washed his paws, a sure sign of boredom.

“Thanks for letting me know,” I said. “We’ll keep that in mind for next year.” Note to self: more Santa. But the big guy was everywhere this time of year. His plastic form glowed on rooftops. His paper cutout grinned from windows. Replica Santa hats sprouted from people’s heads like sunburnt mushrooms.

The customer left, banging the door shut.

GD meowed.

“She couldn’t have been that disappointed,” I said to the cat and peeled off my down vest. All the visitors in the museum had raised the temperature. I jammed up the sleeves of my long-sleeved Paranormal Museum tee. “She bought a tarot deck.”

The front door swung open and a narrow, wispy-haired man in a bow tie and coke-bottle glasses sidled into the museum. He peered over the top of the thick striped scarf wrapped high about his chin. His gaze darted nervously around the main room. “Are there any cops around?”

I sighed. “No, Herb. No cops.”

Not that the cops had any interest in Herb. He just liked to think he was some Dudley Dangerous, a delusion that had been reinforced several months ago when he’d been questioned about a haunted wine press he’d sold me. Herb was a collector of paranormal items. Judging from his threadbare clothes and the fact that he still lived with his mother, I didn’t imagine it was a lucrative career.

He straightened. “Good. I heard about your involvement in the Christmas Cow investigation.”

“I’m not involved in the Christmas Cow investigation.”

He pressed a finger to the side of his nose. “Of course you’re not.”

GD leapt onto the counter and butted his head against Herb’s arm. For some wacky reason, the cat loved him.

“So what can I do for you, Herb?” I asked.

A gray-haired woman approached the counter. “Excuse me. How much is that fairy in the window? The one with the sparkly tail?”

I stifled a laugh. Had she meant to riff on a ’50s song? “Just a sec.” I checked my computer. “It’s $34.99.”

Herb hissed. “Maddie.”

“Why is it always ninety-nine cents?” the woman asked. “Do people think we’re too dumb to figure out it’s really thirty-five dollars?”

I shrugged. “The marketing gods dictate ninety-nine cents.”

“Maddie, this is important.” Herb tugged on his striped scarf.

“Sorry, Herb. Let me help this visitor.”

She sighed. “All right. I’ll take the fairy.”

“I’ll get it out of the window for you,” I said, rising from my barstool.

“No, don’t bother,” she said. “I want to look around some more. I can get it when I’m ready.” She strolled into the Fortune Telling Room.

I turned to Herb. “What’s up?”

“It’s the cowbells. I’m afraid this may be partially my fault.”

“What’s your fault?”

“The curse! I did my usual binding spell. But sometimes when you’re dealing with really powerful curses or entities, you need to bring in the big guns. Now, I know a very reasonably priced specialist—”

I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”

“The man who was killed. They say he heard cowbells before he died—”

“They say? Who are they?”

Herb stopped petting GD and gripped the top of the register. “The curse has returned. Mr. Eldrich heard cowbells, and they foretold his doom.”

“Of course he heard cowbells. He owned a dairy farm.”

“But he heard these cowbells.” Herb’s knuckles whitened. “And the thing is …” He leaned over the counter and GD rubbed against his arm, depositing ebony hairs on his beige jacket. “Lately, I’ve been hearing them too.”

“Your mother lives next to a cow pasture.”

Herb straightened, affronted. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

I might not believe in curses or binding spells, but Herb did. Nodding, I dragged my attention back from the wandering customers and focused on him. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s logic this out. You say that the cowbell curse is working again because you didn’t do a good enough job with your binding spell.”

“My binding spell was fine,” he said, his eyes gigantic behind his coke-bottle lenses. “I said, sometimes curses are bigger than my binding spells.”

I forced myself not to roll my eyes. “But the cowbells weren’t cursing anyone recently, even before you put the binding spell on them. So why would they start up now, thirty years after the last deaths and after you put on the binding spell?”

“Probably because they’re here now, in the museum.”

“What’s wrong with my museum?”

“It’s packed to the rafters with ghosts and haunted objects. They’re probably triggering the bells’ curse. Now, about that specialist—”

“Herb, thanks but no thanks.” I wasn’t going to waste my hard-earned ticket money on a bogus curse-removal service. The museum was doing well now, but who knew what sales would be like in January?

“I see,” Herb said coldly. “You like having dangerous objects in your museum. They attract customers. But it’s reckless. One man is already dead.”

“Someone shot him with an arrow. It has nothing to do with my cowbells.”

“In the 1980s, every single member of the original Christmas Cow committee died within a twelve-month span. And each one heard the bells before passing. It’s happening again. And your own mother is on the committee this year.”

“Trust me. My mother is not going to be taken out by a curse,” I said. The woman was unstoppable.

Herb’s brows drew together. “I did notice an extra layer of protection in her aura. But that doesn’t help the other committee members. What if the curse spreads beyond the committee to innocent San Benedetto civilians? These things have power. They grow.” He braced his elbow on the counter and lowered his voice. “I’ll make you a deal. If you hire my specialist, he’ll owe me a favor, and I’ll knock down the price of Dion Fortune’s scrying mirror. Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

“No, Herb.”

“The mirror is a historic relic! Dion Fortune was one of the twentieth century’s greatest occultists. Her book Psychic Self-Defense is a classic.”

I nodded to the narrow, black-painted bookshelf behind me. “I know. I sell her books.”

“Think how much more you’d sell if you had her mirror.”

I had thought of it, and it still wasn’t worth it. “Herb, I’m—”

“I smell bacon!” He scuttled to the bookcase and slipped through the secret door into Adele’s tea room.

Nonplussed, I watched the bookcase slide closed.

My front door opened and Detective Slate strode inside. He smiled, putting his hands on his hips and parting his blue wool jacket. “The place looks busy. Am I catching you at a bad time?”

My annoyance vanished in a bubble of warmth. “Not if you don’t mind being interrupted by customers.”

“My ego can take it.”

“What can I help you with?”

“I thought you might need my help.”

Biting my lip, I looked away. Crumb. Had he heard about our interrogation-gone-awry at the beauty parlor yesterday? “Your help?”

“The cowbell curse.”

His smile set my pulse galloping, but I cocked my head, baffled. Why would he be interested in my exhibit? “Are the police in the curse-removal business now?”

He laughed. “Hardly. But I’ve helped you crack some cold paranormal cases in the past. I thought the cowbells smelled like another one. Where are they, by the way?”

I pointed to the triangle of bells that hung between the doors to the Fortune Telling and Gallery rooms. He crossed over to them and peered at the placard hanging beside them.

Fairy in hand, the gray-haired woman returned to the counter. “I’ll take it.”

GD meowed his approval.

I pulled out a box from beneath the counter. “Would you like me to wrap it?”

“No. It’s for me.”

Slate came to stand behind her. Suddenly clumsy, I rang her up and boxed and bagged the fairy. “Happy holidays!”

We watched her depart.

“It’s amazing what you’ve done with this place,” Slate said.

“Thanks, but I had help.” Because of Leo’s web-building chops, our online business accounted for more than half our sales. But a part of me reveled in the compliment.

“Maddie, there’s a rumor going around town that you might be investigating Mr. Eldrich’s murder.”

“What?” My voice went up two octaves.

“You’ve had some luck in the past.”

Indignant, I pulled back my shoulders. It had been more than luck.

“But you need to stay out of this,” he finished.

GD sat on his hind legs and walked his front legs up Slate’s coat, leaving dusty paw prints on the navy wool.

“GD!”

The detective ruffled the cat’s ebony fur. “It’s all right. It’s what cats do.”

“It’s too bad your partner doesn’t share that attitude,” I said. Detective Laurel Hammer and GD had a hate-hate relationship.

“In fairness,” Slate said, “GD did run over her foot with a car.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened.”

He raised his brows.

“Well,” I said quickly, “it was never proven. And you know that if I ever hear anything about either a hot or a cold case, I tell you. I’ve done it before.” But I couldn’t tell him about Belle, because that would mean ratting out Dieter. And besides, I couldn’t imagine Belle committing arson just to win a bet. Unless it was a really big bet. She’d had money troubles before. And even if she did commit the arson, that was a far cry from murder. Unless she’d hit Bill Eldrich by accident?

Okay, first I would learn the size of the bet, and then I’d make the decision whether to tell Slate or not. I jammed my hands in the pockets of my Paranormal Museum hoodie.

“Riiight.” He jerked his thumb toward the cowbells. “All I’m asking is that you confine your investigations to cold cases. And I’m happy to dig into the police files on your behalf.”

“Thanks.” I think. “You don’t have files related to the cowbell curse, do you?”

“My understanding is although everyone on the committee died within a few months of each other, the deaths were all attributed to natural causes. Whether we have a file on any of the deaths would depend on if the police were called to the scene or not.”

Those files could be interesting. I mentally shook myself. I was too busy to research cowbell curses. And besides, my wall placard about the historic bells was full enough. “Well, thanks.”

“Stay safe.” He ambled out the front door.

GD lightly bit my hand.

“Hey!” I rubbed the twin pale white dots on my skin.

The cat dropped from the counter and ducked into Gryla’s papier-mâché cave. I’d been dissed and dismissed.

I walked into the Gallery and rearranged the window fairies, posing one blue fairy so it body-surfed down a slope of snow. The front bell jingled, and I hustled into the main room.

Leo squatted beside Gryla’s cave and scratched GD behind his ears. He rose, a guilty expression on his young face.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I know GD likes you better than me.” The cat only tolerated me because I fed him.

Leo pulled a rumpled newspaper from the back pocket of his black jeans. “Um, I guess you saw the newspaper article.”

I stared at him blankly. “Newspaper article?”

“About the cowbell curse.”

“Oh! That. I completely forgot.” I needed to pick up a copy of the local paper. “Thanks for doing the interview.”

“About that …” He handed me the paper and I unfolded it. “Looks like the story got picked up by the AP. It’s all over the Internet.”

I bounced on my toes. “Seriously?” I didn’t know why anyone outside of San Benedetto would care, but the article could only boost our online sales. “I owe you lunch. And dessert.”

He pursed his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, scanning the article. “This is great publicity for the museum.” We’d gone national!

Leo rubbed his head, ruffling his black hair. “Some people are upset about the article.”

“Some people?”

“Mrs. Gale gave me an earful. She said I was making the town look foolish.”

“No.” I flapped my hand in a dismissive gesture. “The cowbell story is quirky. Maybe it’s a bit silly, but the cowbells are an old story. No one believes in the curse today.”

He looked hard at the black-and-white linoleum floor.

“What?” I asked.

“The thing is, a lot of people do believe.”

A silver-haired tourist couple emerged from the Fortune Telling Room and examined the row of haunted photos, high on the wall.

“And I believe in Santa Claus,” I said. “It’s harmless fun.”

“You believe in Santa?” Leo shook his head. “Never mind. None of my business.”

“Not as a guy in red velvet who lives at the North Pole and says ho-ho-ho.” I jiggled my stomach. “But yeah. I believe in Santa as a spirit of unbridled generosity. It’s my single paranormal belief.” I needed at least one if I was going to market the museum without feeling like a total fraud.

“This is different,” he said. “People are freaking out. And the article sort of connects the curse to Bill Eldrich’s death.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t quite as much fun. But it explained why the story had been picked up by the AP, even if it was in their Strange News section. I rallied. “It’ll blow over. Don’t worry about it.” I chucked him on the arm with the rolled newspaper. “No publicity is bad publicity, and everyone knows curses aren’t real. This town has bigger fish to fry, like figuring out who killed Bill Eldrich.”

“I thought it was an accident,” Leo said. “Not murder. The police aren’t calling it murder, are they?”

I lowered my chin and studied him. “I don’t know if they think it was intentional or a college prank gone wrong.”

He grimaced.

“A local college,” I said. And there was only one local college—the junior college Leo attended. “I know you wouldn’t be stupid enough to set the cow on fire, but keeping a secret on campus is pretty impossible. What have you heard?”

The tourist couple paused before a bronzed skull on a pedestal. The silver-haired woman reached for it, caught me watching, and snatched her hand away.

Leo raised his hands in a warding gesture. “Look, you’re right. I wasn’t involved. But if I heard anything, I sure wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Leo, a man was killed. Even if it was an accident, the truth needs to come out.”

“Yeah, and I know exactly how the police make that happen,” he said bitterly. “They thought I was a killer once.”

“And they caught the real killer.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not dealing with the police. Not after the way they treated me.”

“Then tell me what you know.”

“I like you, Maddie. So, no offense, but you’ll just tell Slate.”

My neck tensed. I didn’t like my new reputation as a tattletale. “No I won’t,” I said, offended.

He gave me a skeptical look.

“There is such a thing as confidential informants,” I said. “If you tell me something useful, sure, I’ll pass it on. But I won’t tell Slate where I got the information from if you don’t want me to.”

The tourist couple wandered into the Gallery.

“You swear?” Leo asked.

“Cross my heart, the works.”

His shoulders slumped. “All right. But only because I owe you one.”

Leo didn’t owe me anything, but now wasn’t the time to bring that up.

“I heard there were some guys at school who were planning to take out the cow,” he said.

“Any names?”

“Look, I don’t know if they actually did it. Only that they were planning to. No one’s taken credit for burning the cow.”

Well, they wouldn’t, since a man died in the process.

“I get it,” I assured him. “At this point all we’ve got is talk, and that could have just been boasting. Or maybe they were really planning to attack the cow but someone else beat them to it. Who are these guys?”

Leo’s chest rose, fell. “Craig. Craig Wilde. I don’t know who else was in on the plan.”

“Where can I find him?”

Leo yelped. “You said—”

“I won’t tell him who told me,” I said quickly. “Look, if they were involved in an accidental death, then it will be better for them if they come forward voluntarily. Maybe someone needs to tell them that. And if they weren’t involved, then we need to know that too.”

Leo blew out his breath. “Fine. I went to his house for a study group once. I’ll get you the contact info.”

“Thanks.” I clapped him on his leather-clad shoulder. “We’ll sort this out.” I hoped. “What’s Craig’s number?”

Leo dug his phone from the pocket of his motorcycle jacket and scrolled through the contacts. “Here.” He handed me the phone.

Using my own cell phone, I dialed.

“Yeah?” a young man answered.

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

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to ask you about the Christmas Cow. May I—”

He hung up.

I stared at the phone. “Looks like I’ll have to go to Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B?”

“My mom,” I said, grim.