twelve

Taking the cat’s assault as a sign to leave, I shut down the computer and turned off the lights. I reached the sidewalk and was locking the door to the museum when a woman cleared her throat behind me.

Startled, I turned.

She dressed like my mother—expensively—in a cabernet-colored suit, pearls, and two-inch heels. Maybe that was why I felt a ping of familiarity. Graying hair mounted her head in marcelled waves. Her lips pinched. She stared at me like a hawk considering a slow-footed rabbit.

“Hello.” I gripped my canvas messenger bag to my chest.

“Are you in charge of the museum?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but we’re closed on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

“I am aware.” She unsnapped the hook on her purse and handed me an envelope.

Automatically, I took it. “What’s this?”

“A petition for the closure of the Paranormal Museum.”

“Closure? Why?”

“It’s in the petition.” She turned on her heels and click-clacked down the sidewalk.

I tore open the envelope. It could have been worse. She could have been a process server.

Inside were two sheets of paper with columns of loopy, feminine signatures. At the top, it read: We the undersigned do not want the Paranormal Museum within the city limits of San Benedetto. We stand with concerned citizens in opposition to an occult attraction that threatens the image of San Benedetto as a producer of world-class wines.

“What?”

A woman pushing a stroller gave me a startled look and hurried past.

Muttering, I walked down the street to my truck and got inside. Cracking a window, I skimmed the list of names, sucking in my breath at the sight of a familiar signature.

I rummaged in my purse for my phone and called my mother.

“Madeline! We’re still on for dinner next week, aren’t we?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Funny thing. Someone just handed me a petition to close the museum, and your name was on it.”

There was a long moment. Then, “Oh, dear. I was afraid something like that would happen.”

“What did you expect to happen when you signed a petition to shut down the museum?”

“I signed it weeks ago, before I knew you were going to take it over. And I told Mabel to take my name off. I will have words with the committee.”

“The committee?” I slumped. There was a committee? Of women like my mother? I would have preferred a process server.

“It’s part of the San Benedetto Ladies Aid Society.”

“But … why? What do they have against the museum?”

“Some people think it’s not the image we want to promote. Of course, now that I know you’re in charge, I’m sure you’ll take it in a new and more sophisticated direction.”

My grip tightened on the phone. “I will do no such thing. And what’s wrong with the image? The mayor’s behind it. Mr. Nakamoto even changed the name of his wine label to fit the haunted theme.”

My mother sighed. “And therein lies the problem. Not everyone approves of the mayor’s ideas for economic development. And now that his best friend’s daughter has been arrested, it’s leverage against his development program.”

A motorcycle rumbled past.

“This is a town of twenty thousand people,” I said. “You’re talking like this is a high-stakes political game.”

“Don’t you know that the smaller the stakes, the more vicious the infighting? Size is no guarantee against political shenanigans.”

“For Pete’s sake!” My gaze flicked upward to my pickup’s fading red roof. “The dairy farmers build a stupid giant straw cow every Christmas.”

“And we’ve been talking to the farmers about stopping. The larceny is becoming more of a draw than the cow. Do you know they put up live webcams in December? They said it was to prevent another incident, but the online video of the conflagration got over seventy thousand hits.”

“If the dairy farmers can burn a giant cow,” I said hotly, “I can have a paranormal museum.” If I wasn’t inside my truck, I’d have stomped my foot on the ground in a fit of petulance. Maybe it was a good thing I was in the pickup.

“I knew this would make you more stubborn.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that museum.”

“Stick to your guns, darling, and don’t worry about the petition. I know you’ll be a huge occult … er, success, if that’s what you want. I just don’t want you to settle for something because it’s there. Are you sure it’s what you want to do?”

I thought I’d known what I wanted, but now I wasn’t so sure. Why did I care so much about the museum? Was it simply because of Adele?

As if she’d read my mind, my mother asked, “How is Adele?”

“I don’t know. She sent me a to-do list from jail.”

“She’s still in jail? I’d have thought she’d have made bail by now.”

“So would I, but one of her lawyers told me they couldn’t have the bail hearing until the weekday.” It wasn’t lunchtime yet. Maybe they’d had the bail hearing by now?

“Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if she ended up running the place.”

“She hates orange.”

“Sensible of her. Now be nice to your brother.” My mother hung up.

Baffled, I stared at the phone. When wasn’t I nice to Shane? Even if I wasn’t nice, it wasn’t as if his ginormous ego would notice.

Shaking my head, I reapplied myself to the problem at hand. It was just a petition. It wasn’t as if they could revoke my liquor license, since the museum didn’t have one (if only). What could they do? Picket the museum? I tugged my jacket more firmly into place.

Starting my pickup, I aimed for home, determined not to think about Adele, or the petition, or the museum’s finances. Instead I focused on the land. Even beneath iron-gray skies, and even denuded of leaves, the vineyards were magic, gnarled and dark. I felt the knots in my shoulders loosen.

At home, I made lunch, swallowed an aspirin, read a book. Monday was my day off, so I was going to enjoy it. But my mind kept wandering back to the murder and Adele.

The lighting dimmed, and I checked my watch. It was eight o’clock, and velvety blackness hung outside my windows. Had Adele made bail? I didn’t want to call her family—if Adele hadn’t gotten in touch with me, she probably wanted some alone time, assuming she was home. And if she wasn’t home … that meant she hadn’t made bail. How could I find out?

I checked the local newspaper on the Internet, but there was nothing new about Adele. My stomach rumbled. I called in an order for a large pepperoni pizza and drove through streets sunk in fog. The streetlights cut disembodied, glowing orbs in the swirling mist.

A man darted in front of my pickup. Heart in my throat, I slammed on the brakes, half-standing. Shoulders hunched and face obscured, he looked a bit like Herb. But by the time my heart returned to normal operations, the man had vanished, a phantom in the fog.

I picked up a couple of beers with the pizza and drove to the museum, parking in front. The lights were on inside the motorcycle shop, the chrome in its windows gleaming. I walked past, looking for a staircase that would lead me to Mason’s upstairs apartment. Finding none, I balanced the pizza and beer on one hip and unlocked the museum.

“GD?”

The cat didn’t respond.

I flipped on the lights. The plastic curtains billowed. I froze, rooted to the spot, then shook myself. It was the breeze from the front door closing, not a killer or a ghost. Suppressing a shiver, I hurried through the tea room to the back alley exit.

A narrow concrete staircase led me up to a studded metal security door, built to repel marauders. I rapped with my knuckles, the beer bottles balanced atop the pizza box. My knock echoed, clanging hollowly.

Sounds of bolts drawing back, chains rattling. My heart squeezed. Had this been the best idea? I barely knew Mason, and the fact that he looked like a tattooed Nordic god was no reason to split a pizza with him.

The door creaked open, and Mason’s shaggy blond head emerged. “Hey. Come on in.” He drew the door wide.

I skittered past, stumbling to a halt. A massive skylight soared above the studio’s industrial-chic living area. A half moon glowed yellow through the fog above. The furniture was white, black, and modern, the walls bare brick, the floors distressed. Glass bricks divided a bedroom from the living area. The kitchen was open, stainless steel, and gleaming.

“Wow,” I said.

He came to stand beside me, and I thought I could feel hot energy coiling from his body.

“Yeah,” he said. “Nice night.”

He took the pizza and beer from my hands and placed them on a glass coffee table. I gaped at the expensive-looking oriental rug, the big screen TV, the stone Buddha cross-legged in an alcove.

“Were you expecting a half-built motorcycle in my living room?” he asked.

“I didn’t know what to expect. You’re a mystery wrapped in an enigma. The loft is amazing. Did you build this?”

“Why pay someone else when you can do it yourself?” Mason grinned. “And avoid getting permits.”

“Are you sure you want to reveal your criminal past?”

“Why? You’re not going to narc on me, are you?”

“I’ll leave you in suspense.” I checked my watch and cleared my throat. “Speaking of which, the ghost hunters will be here any minute. You can start on the pizza. I’ve got to get down there.”

“Hold on.” He took the pizza to the kitchen and slid it onto a pizza stone, and then into the oven. “To keep it warm. I’ll walk you down.”

I thought of Christy and those billowing curtains. My inner feminista fled, cowering behind the black leather cushions on Mason’s couch. “Thanks.”

He followed me downstairs and through the darkened tea room. Its concrete floors and bare walls seemed to glow, chalky in the light streaming through the plastic drapes. I brushed through them into the Paranormal Museum. A woman’s figure shifted behind the window, and I opened the door.

Grace hurried inside, her teeth chattering, a green knit scarf wrapped around her neck. “Whoo, it’s cold out there.”

It was cold enough inside the museum to see my own breath, and I offered to turn on the heater.

“No,” she said, “you’d better leave it off. It’ll create air currents and noise, and that will confuse our recordings.”

It would also save on heating costs, so I nodded wisely.

GD Cat leapt onto the counter beside the cash register. Grace scratched his head.

There was a knock at the door and ghost hunters streamed inside, bundled in parkas and woolen hats.

Grace did a head count. “Eight. I think we’re all here. Madelyn, is there anything we should be aware of?”

“The tea shop next door is under construction and off limits. I don’t want anyone falling over equipment or stepping on a nail.”

“Since it’s never been part of the museum, that area isn’t our target anyway,” Grace said. “We’ll stick to the main room, the Creepy Doll Room, and the Fortune Telling Room.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll pop down at eleven to make sure you’re okay, and then when you’re finished to close up. You’ve got my cell phone number if there are any problems. I’ll be with Mason upstairs.” Feeling suddenly awkward, I avoided Mason’s gaze. My cheeks heated. That hadn’t come out right.

A lanky, twenty-something woman raised her hand. “The woman who was killed here—where did that happen?”

The police hadn’t told me to keep quiet about what I’d seen. But I also didn’t want to encourage them to explore the tea room looking for Christy’s ghost. I gave them an edited version. “Her body was found here, in the main room of the museum.”

Mason frowned but said nothing.

Another woman, short and round, unzipped her parka, revealing a photographer’s vest stuffed with electronic equipment. “Have you experienced anything unusual here?”

Aside from finding a dead body and discovering that the contractor was a bookie? “No, but I haven’t worked here long.”

She nodded.

“Thanks, Madelyn,” Grace said, dismissing me. “We’ll see you at midnight.”

Mason and I escaped upstairs.

“I thought Christy was found in the tea room,” he said as he opened the door and ushered me into his studio.

“You’re half right.” I watched him stride to the kitchen—his movements economical, fluid—and remove the pizza from the oven. The scent of melted cheese and pepperoni filled the room. “She was lying between the two, though from the position of the body, I’d guess she was hit in the museum and fell into the tea room. The mystery is why she was there at all.”

Mason shrugged, muscles rippling. “She was a troublemaker.”

“You knew her?”

“She had a bike. I saw her around.”

“And when you say bike, I take it you don’t mean a Schwinn.” I tried to picture the uptight lawyer in leather, but failed.

“A Kawasaki. She’d come by the shop and hang out on weekends.”

I’d noticed a lot of bikers hanging around his shop during the day. They took up all the street parking in front of his business but were careful not to infringe beyond that. “How did she cause trouble?”

“She was a flirt. Liked to get a rise out of the guys—or out of their girlfriends.”

“I wouldn’t have pictured Christy as a biker.”

“Why not?” He dropped the pizza on the coffee table with a clatter. His Nordic-blue eyes hardened. “You think bikers are all anarchist thugs?”

Sheesh. Sensitive. “No. My father rode a motorcycle. I thought Christy wasn’t the sort to mess up her hair with a helmet or wind.”

Mason grunted and dropped onto a black leather lounge chair across from me, a slice of pizza in one hand. “What did your father ride?”

“A Harley.”

“Wait … your father wasn’t Fred Kosloski?”

“You knew him?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I knew him. He was a good guy. A straight shooter. I was sorry to hear about his passing.”

I swallowed. Not a day went by that I didn’t miss him.

“So what’s your story?” Mason asked.

“I grew up here and couldn’t wait to leave. Got an MBA with a specialization in international management. Went overseas for nearly a decade. Came home.”

“Why’d you come home?”

“I was fired.” I sank onto the couch, trying the admission on for size. I didn’t like it. I’d suspected I’d get fired for the decision I made. But the truth shamed me, stinging my cheeks, forcing my gaze down to the plate in my lap. And that annoyed me.

“Downsized?” He bit into a slice of pizza.

“Something like that.” I didn’t regret refusing to pay that bribe. So why did I feel so small? “What about you?”

“Grew up in Fresno, couldn’t wait to get out. Joined the Army at eighteen. Got a degree while I was in. Left the service ten years later and started building custom motorcycles. I still do, but most of my business now is selling bikes other people build.”

“Why San Benedetto?” I sensed there was something important he’d omitted.

“It’s affordable, and I like the vineyards. Are you really taking over the Paranormal Museum?”

“I don’t know.” And with a shock, I realized that was true. There was a possibility I might buy the place. Was I settling, as my mother had suggested?

I took a bite of the pizza and followed up with a slug of beer. “It feels good to be home,” I said slowly. “And I can’t get an internationally flavored job in San Benedetto. I’d have to work in a big city, like San Francisco or Los Angeles or New York, and I’m not really a big city kind of girl.”

The conversation was easy and relaxed, and more tension leaked from my shoulders. When we ran out of things to say, we watched old Rockford Files on TV. I fell into a semi-doze on the couch.

At eleven, Mason nudged me awake. “Time for you to check on the ghost hunters.”

I stumbled downstairs, expecting to go on my own, but again, Mason accompanied me. Warmth at his chivalry warred with guilt. He surely hadn’t played bodyguard to Chuck when he ran the museum.

Tensing, I stopped inside the darkened alleyway entrance to the tea room. It was black as pitch, silent as a tomb. When I’d left them, the lights had been on.

Mason prodded me in the back. “It’s okay,” he said in a low voice. “They keep the lights off for their hunts.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I tossed my hair and strode down the hallway, stumbling over a can of paint. It clanked to the floor.

The Paranormal Museum hadn’t burned to the ground. No one had been sucked into another dimension by hungry poltergeists. So we retreated upstairs until one o’clock, when once again Mason saw me to the museum. This time, yawning, he left me inside the door, and I entered the museum alone.

Someone had flipped on the lights. Grace waited beside the front counter, fiddling with a digital recorder.

She looked up when I approached. “You missed the others, but I wanted to ask you to listen to something. An EVP we picked up.”

“EVP?” And what had Herb been talking about? EMFs? I’d have to learn the ghost hunting acronyms if I was going to work here.

“Electronic voice phenomenon. We caught it on the tape recorder in this room. It sounds like a woman’s, saying … Well, I’ll let you hear it first. I don’t want to taint your opinion.”

The framed photo of Cora and her husband lay face-up on the counter. Forehead creasing, I picked it up. I thought I’d hung it back on the wall before I’d left for the day. Had the ghost hunters been messing with the museum exhibits? I hadn’t told them not to touch anything.

I scanned the room. Everything else seemed in place.

She coughed. “Ready?”

On tiptoe, I hung the picture on the wall. “Yeah, sure.”

Grace pressed play, and a burst of static erupted from the machine. Something creaked. “That was my chair,” a voice said.

“We ask everyone to call out whenever they make a noise,” Grace explained. “That way, later, we don’t mistake the sounds for paranormal phenomenon.”

“Makes sense.” I edged closer to her, craning my neck toward the recorder.

There was another blare of static.

Grace looked up, her expression gleeful. “There! Hear it?”

All I’d heard was an earful of white noise. I shook my head.

She rewound the recording. “I’ll turn it up.” Static again, then something that sounded like a sigh.

“Was that a breath?” I asked.

“Listen again.” She raised the recorder to my ear and clicked play.

Static blasted, and I winced.

A woman hissed, “Innocent.”

The skin prickled on the back of my neck.

“Did you hear it?” Grace asked.

GD Cat sat beside my feet.

“Play it again,” I said.

She fumbled in one of the pockets of her parka. Pulling out a pair of earbuds, she plugged them into the recorder. “Try it with these.”

I examined them for cleanliness, and, finding them acceptable, stuck them in. The static was loud enough to make my teeth hurt. And then a breathy voice: “I’m innocent.”

GD Cat pawed at the cuff of my jeans. Adrenaline spiking, I yanked the earbuds free.

“Did you hear it?” Grace raked a hand through her long brown hair, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“It sounded like a woman,” I said, grudging. But there was so much feedback, it was hard to tell if I had imagined the words or not.

“It was Vincent! She said, it was Vincent! Do you know of a Vincent associated with any of the objects in this museum? Or maybe with the murder of that poor woman?”

I shook my head. “I can’t think of any, but I’m in the middle of an inventory. If there’s a record of a Vincent attached to an object, I’ll let you know.” Now I was sure we’d imagined the words. I’d heard “innocent,” she’d heard “Vincent,” and it was all probably just a bunch of random static.

“Do you mind if I post this online?” she asked.

“Go for it.”

“And you’ll let me know if you find anything?” Grace fingered the gold chain around the throat of her turtleneck.

“Of course.” The museum could always use good press, and if I could dig up a creepy story on someone named Vincent, all the better.

“We got some great orbs as well, around your counter and around the entryway between the museum and the tea room. I’ll send you copies.”

Orbs between the museum and the tea room, where Christy had died? Weren’t orbs supposed to be ghosts captured on film? I swallowed. “That’s great news.”

We agreed do it again on Saturday. Grace left, and I locked the door behind her. I took a quick tour through the museum, the cat at my heels, to see if anything else had been disturbed. The creepy dolls stared balefully from their shelves. My skin twitched, and I moved on to the Fortune Telling Room. It, too, appeared undisturbed. I gazed at the Ouija board on the table. A psychic had once told me to never, ever, ever bring a Ouija board into a home. As far as I was concerned, the board was just wood and paint. A game. But was there more?

A chill rippled up my spine. Two spots heated between my shoulders, burning.

I wasn’t alone.

I whipped around. The cat startled into a crouch, teeth bared. He bounded from the room, tail low.

The feeling of being watched intensified, stripping my nerves. I yanked open the doors of the spirit cabinet.

Its wooden bench was empty. A spider crawled down its back.

There was no such thing as ghosts, and my only living company in the museum was the cat. I was imagining things. Perfectly normal when someone I’d known had been murdered here days before. But there was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.

I returned to the main room, jingling the keys in my pocket. I stepped beside the cat, who was seated in the center of the checkerboard floor. He stared at me, emerald eyes unblinking.

“I’ll need to do something about these drafts,” I said.

Another chill prickled my scalp. It wasn’t my imagination. Someone was watching, their gaze heating my skin. I turned. An apparition blurred in the darkened window.

I gasped, clutched my chest, then realized I’d caught my own reflection. I laughed, an uncertain sound. “Yes, GD, I really am afraid of my own reflection.”

I looked over my shoulder. The cat had vanished.