seventeen

I stumbled down my apartment steps, yawning at the morning sun. My breath made little puffs in the air, and I turned up the collar of my gray pea coat. Digging my keys from my pocket, I hiked myself into the truck and drove to the lawyer’s office.

Its parking lot abutted the creek, which was crashing and splashing against round stones darkened by the water. The grasses along its bank were white with frost. So were the poor geraniums in the building’s window box. They drooped beneath the crust of white, and I wondered if they’d survive.

I jogged up the short flight of steps to the building, half-expecting the office’s tinted double doors to be locked. But they opened at my touch. I walked inside, scanning the sign board for the suite belonging to Fred, Adele’s criminal attorney. The name was easy to find, the firm taking up the entire second floor.

I trotted up the stairs. They opened onto a plush reception room, with a cheerful patterned carpet. Inoffensive watercolors of geometric shapes decorated the walls.

The gray-haired receptionist looked up and adjusted the pink cardigan around her shoulders. “May I help you?” An antique-looking broach sparkled at her breast.

“Adele Nakamoto asked me to drop this off,” I said.

She rose. “Of course. I’ll take that.”

A door burst open down the hall. We both paused, hands outstretched.

Sam stopped in the hallway, gaping.

I stared, confused to see the lawyer/taxidermist here.

Straightening his blue blazer, he strode in our direction. “Miss Kosloski! What are you doing here? Is this about my showing at the gallery?”

“Uh, no,” I said. “I came to drop this off for Adele Nakamoto.”

“Please, this way.” He motioned toward a windowed conference room, its blinds half drawn.

Feet dragging, I followed him. I really did need to set him straight about the gallery, which only existed in my head.

Closing the door behind us, he took the envelope and ripped it open, peered inside. “The retainer, I presume? I’ll deposit this in the trust today.”

“The trust? But I thought this was the office of her criminal attorney.”

“We are. A trust is just a legal term for an account, but I can see how you’d be confused.”

“I guess I still am.” I eyed the closed door. “How is it that you’re working on Adele’s case when she’s accused of murdering your ex-girlfriend?”

“I’m not even a junior partner in the firm. My boss is managing Adele’s case.”

“But you’re a part of it, or you wouldn’t have taken the check. And even if you’re on the case’s periphery, this must be difficult for you. Christy was once your girlfriend.”

“I am quite certain Miss Nakamoto is not the guilty party,” Sam said.

“I am too, but that’s because we’ve been friends since high school. Adele considers any form of violence inelegant and unladylike. She refused to play soccer because of the risk of accidental kicking. Her mother had to send her to ballet and get her a special exemption from P.E.” That was probably too much information, but Sam’s legal persona had me rattled. It was a far cry from the weepy Sam who’d first entered the museum, or even taxidermy Sam. The difference in behavior was jarring.

I edged nearer to the door, wishing he hadn’t closed it. “Why are you so sure Adele is innocent?”

“Because Miss Nakamoto is too short. Christy would have to bend over for a woman of Miss Nakamoto’s stature to hit her on the head like that. The police tried to argue it was what happened, but Christy wouldn’t have bowed to anyone.”

That jibed with what little I knew about Christy. But I was having a hard time getting my head around Sam the legal eagle. Granted, we all have different aspects to our personalities. And the taxidermy—well, it wasn’t my kind of hobby, but there was nothing inherently wrong with it. Yet Sam’s personality change seemed borderline Norman Bates. I wondered where he got the animals he stuffed.

“Christy worked with Mr. Nakamoto’s estate attorney, didn’t she?” I asked.

The corners of Sam’s mouth drew downward. “Yes. That firm does business and estate law. Trust work, wills, trademark licenses, that sort of thing.”

“And that’s how you met her?”

“It’s a small town, and there tends to be overlap between clients.”

“Did Christy have any trouble at her firm?” I asked, thinking of the woman at the Wine and Visitors Bureau complaining about her high-priced trust.

“Trouble? She was the top earner!”

“I thought she was a junior partner.”

“Yes, but the old guys in her firm are semi-retired. Christy brought in the business. I told her she’d be better off on her own, but she liked the prestige of being with an old firm.”

“So her firm did well?”

“Christy did well. The firm was on its last legs before she turned it around. So, what about March? Is that too soon?”

I blinked. “Too soon for what?”

“To promote my exhibition. I plan on dedicating it to Christy. Under the circumstances, March seems the right amount of time.”

“Sam, I don’t know when or if that gallery will exist.”

“That’s not a problem.”

It was a problem for me, and I drew breath to object. There was a soft knock at the door, and the receptionist stuck her head in. “Your eight-thirty appointment is here.”

“Thanks.” Sam checked his watch. “Sorry, got to run. Thanks for dropping this check by.”

“But—”

Waving Adele’s envelope in farewell, he rushed from the room.

I shook my head. I’d worry about Sam’s taxidermy exhibit later. Right now, I had a cat to feed and a museum to open.

GD was waiting at the door. He twined around my ankles and I stumbled, grabbing the counter. The cat’s whiskers twitched with amusement.

“That’s not funny.” I poured a bowl of kibble and refilled his water, then checked the computer. An email from the Historical Association waited in my inbox. They’d sent an article on Cora’s husband, Martin McBride:

IRATE SUBSCRIBER ATTACKS NEWSPAPERMAN

Bad Blood Between San Benedetto Businessmen

Mr. McBride Airs His Grievances with His Fists

Thursday afternoon, Mr. Martin McBride burst into the offices of the San Benedetto Tribune. Drunk and raving, he hurled epithets at staff and assaulted the owner. Police were called, but no charges were filed.

Nice guy, that Martin. I could see why Cora would have wanted to get rid of him. But would she have had the strength to hang him? I unhooked their photo from the wall. She was tiny compared to her husband.

Someone knocked at the door. It still wasn’t opening time, but I plastered on a smile and opened it for a freckled man with a boyish face. He wore an earnest expression, jeans, and a button-up shirt beneath an open leather jacket.

“We’re not open yet,” I said, “but I’ll sell you a ticket if you’re willing to put up with the cold. The heater hasn’t kicked in.”

“I’m not here for a ticket.” He reached into the front pocket of his shirt and handed me a business card.

“The San Benedetto Daily ?” I stiffened. “Look, I can’t comment on the murders. I don’t know anything.”

I started to close the door.

He jammed his foot in the gap. “I’m not here about the murders. That’s another reporter’s beat. I’m here about the petition to shut down the museum. Since we ran the ad from the Ladies Aid Society, my editor thought it would only be fair to get your side of the story.”

“I’m not buying an ad.”

His serious eyes widened. “Even if you were, that’s the advertising department. I’m a reporter.” He pulled a digital recorder from the pocket of his leather jacket. “Why do you think people feel antagonistic toward the museum?”

I gripped Cora’s photo to my chest like it was armor plating. “I have no idea. It’s a perfectly harmless museum. The ad placed by the Ladies Aid Society says it’s tacky. To each his own.”

He raised a brow. “But how do you feel about their petition? Isn’t it a slap in the face?”

I shrugged. “I’m happier when I don’t indulge in outrage.” I may have been quoting the self-help book I’d been reading. But I wasn’t about to let Ladies Aid know they’d gotten my proverbial goat.

“Still, it’s your museum. You must have some feelings on the matter.”

“Why? Why take myself or the museum so seriously? The Paranormal Museum is a reminder that life is short and often strange, and we should enjoy it while we can.”

“But it’s not really a museum, is it? More of an attraction.”

GD Cat leapt onto the counter and rubbed against the tip jar. Coins rattled.

I grabbed the jar before it could fall. “Call it what you want, but there’s some real local history here, even if it’s told from an offbeat perspective.”

He tilted his head. “Such as?”

“Such as …” My mind scrambled. Such as, such as, such as … what? The spirit cabinet wasn’t exactly local history. I thrust the photo of Cora and Martin toward him. “Such as Cora McBride. She was the first woman convicted of murder in San Benedetto, but there’s evidence that she was innocent.” Okay, all I had was suspicion, not actual evidence. But the case was over 115 years old, and I wasn’t concerned about libel.

“I doubt the Ladies Aid Society will find that has any educational value. Besides, aren’t most of your visitors from out of town?”

“Even better that out-of-towners get a flavor of our local history.” I told myself to stay cool, but my heart raced. Why did this silly interview feel so intense?

He returned the photo to me. “But you’re not engaging the community, are you?”

“Of course we are,” I lied. “I’m currently preparing a mock murder trial, so the community can review the evidence and determine if Cora was guilty or unjustly accused.” What? Why did I say that?

His head jerked upward. “A mock murder trial? That’s something I’d like to see.”

“The owner of your old competitor, The San Benedetto Tribune, will figure prominently.” Oh, geez, shut up, Maddie! But I couldn’t stop. I was on a roll of panic.

“Who?”

I laid Cora’s picture on the counter. “The ghost of the owner, Zane Donaldson. We’ll be calling him as a witness.”

“How?” The reporter’s lips quirked. “In a séance?”

Ooh, a séance was a good idea. “How else? But as I’m no medium, we’ll use actors to play the roles of the ghosts.”

He chuckled. “That will give the Christmas Cow a run for its money. When’s the trial?”

“I’m still gathering evidence, so we don’t have a date set. But I’ll let you know.”

The reporter tapped the business card in my hand. “Please do.”

He left, muttering into his recorder.

I sagged against the counter. A mock trial? What had I done? If this story appeared in the paper, I’d be committed to the project. I didn’t know the first thing about mock trials. I’d never even served on a jury. Would the Historical Association let me use the old courtroom in their museum?

GD batted my sleeve.

“I don’t care what you think. I had to say something.”

He sneezed and stalked away.

A mock trial wasn’t such a bad idea.

I whisked a feather duster over the exhibits. At nine, I flipped the Closed sign to Open and took my place on the high chair behind the counter. No one beat down the door to get inside. But at nine thirty the bell jingled over the door, and I closed the job search window on the computer.

My brother walked in with a model on his arm. At least, I assumed she was a model. She stood nearly six feet tall, and most of that was legs. Her glossy, chestnut-colored hair, faded jeans, and black turtleneck sweater shouted wealth. Shane was also dressed casually, but next to her, he didn’t have quite the shine. And compared to them both I was a tarnished penny.

Straightening, I pressed my lips into a smile. “This is a surprise.” I should have been happy to see Shane—he was trying to be supportive—but all I felt was failure. And I needed to get over it.

“Hey, Mad.” He came around the counter and kissed me on the cheek. “This is Brittany.”

Of course she was. I shook hands with her across the counter. Her manicure was flawless, her nails a soft pink. I hid my own chipped nails beneath the counter. “Welcome to the Paranormal Museum. What brings you to San Benedetto?”

“It’s that obvious I’m not from around here?” she asked.

My brother picked up Cora’s picture and studied it. “I talked Brittany into doing some wine tasting.”

“Napa is passé.” Brittany grinned. “Or at least that’s what Shane’s told me. I’m waiting to be impressed.”

Shane held up the photo. “Who’s this? They look grim.”

“I’m still doing some research on them.” I felt suddenly protective of Cora—amends, perhaps, for offering her up to the local paper.

Brittany peered over his shoulder. “She doesn’t look grim. She looks sad. Who was she?”

“Cora McBride. She was convicted of murdering her husband, Martin, and died in prison.” I re-hung the photo in its spot.

“Why?” Brittany asked.

Why did she die in prison? Why had she been convicted? Why did she do it? I settled on the latter. “The prosecutor argued she killed Martin because he was abusive.”

Brittany shook her head. “So many stories here. If San Benedetto were more picturesque, my magazine could do a spread on it.”

I bristled, looking to Shane for backup. Our downtown was charming. And San Benedetto couldn’t help it if it was as flat as a mashed pancake. It’s hard to be picturesque without rolling hills. But the town had character: brick sidewalks, nineteenth century buildings, and a creek flowing through its center. Plus, wineries!

“Brittany works for a fashion magazine,” Shane said hastily. “She’s used to more European landscapes.”

“I never would have guessed,” I said, my voice flat. “Vogue ?”

Brittany’s green eyes widened. “French Vogue. How did you know?”

I would not hate her simply because she worked for a fashion magazine in Europe, looked like a model, and dressed like Adele. I wasn’t that petty. I was certain, however, that there were other good reasons to dislike her.

“She’s home on vacation like me,” Shane said. To Brittany: “Mad’s done quite a bit of traveling. Eastern Europe was her old stomping ground before she quit.”

“I love Eastern Europe,” Brittany gushed. “They say Prague is over, but I love the place. And Romania!” She rambled on about spas and high-priced restaurants, and I nodded, smile frozen. Why did her dissertation on the best of Europe irritate me? I wasn’t jealous (well, of her clothes and long legs, a little). My traveling days were over, and good riddance. I was sick of airplanes and hotels. But she was go-go-going, and I was stalled.

I really was that petty.

I clenched my jaw. I had to try harder, with both Shane and Brittany. She wasn’t a green-eyed monster—I was.

“So now you run a paranormal museum.” She looked around. “How quirky!”

“I’m just helping out a friend. I’m not sure what my next step is.”

She placed a hand on my arm. “My advice is not to rush things. Life is too short to choose a dull job.”

Easy advice from someone who traveled Europe for a fashion magazine. I leaned away from her. “There’s nothing dull about the museum.”

Shane pulled out his wallet. “And speaking of which. Two tickets, please.”

I waved away the money. “Friends and family discount.”

His smile was dazzling. “Thanks, Mad.” He put an arm around Brittany’s waist and guided her into the Creepy Doll Room.

I re-opened the windows I’d closed on my computer and bent my head to the job hunt. Options. What I needed were options. I couldn’t take over the museum for lack of anything better to do. That would be an insult to me and to the museum.

A high-pitched giggle issued from the Creepy Doll Room. My brother and Brittany emerged and strolled into the Fortune Telling Room.

The front door banged open. Adele tottered inside on three-inch black-and-white Mary Janes, her face pale against her snowy St. John suit.

“Is it too early for a drink? Chuck kept a bottle of Kahlua behind the counter. Is it still there?”

“I took it home.” Sheepish, I rubbed the back of my neck. “What’s wrong?”

“I just returned from the library board meeting, or the part of it I was allowed to attend. They very politely insisted I take a leave of absence. And our annual fundraiser is in six weeks! Do you know what that means?”

That Adele was off the hook? I shook my head.

“The weeks leading up to a fundraiser are critical. It’s all-hands-on-deck time. And they don’t want me!”

Ouch. A library board meeting sounded tortuous to me, but for Adele, getting kicked off would sting. “They’re idiots,” I said. “But their loss could be your gain. You’ve got a lot on your plate with the tea room. Now you can focus on building your own business.”

“They’re not concerned about the tea room. They’re concerned about the murder accusation. I’m being shunned.”

I darted a glance at the Fortune Telling Room and pressed a finger to my lips in warning. “Once the police find Christy’s real killer,” I said in a low voice, “they’ll be groveling for you to take them back.”

“But what if they don’t find her killer?” Adele whispered. “Crimes go unsolved all the time. This is a small police department. How much experience does Laurel have with murder?”

“Detective Slate seemed fairly intelligent.”

“You’re only saying that because he’s tall, dark, and gorgeous.”

I looked down at my fingernails. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, that’s believable. Even I noticed, and I was the one he arrested.”

Shane and Brittany exited the Fortune Telling Room and headed our way. Adele straightened and smiled, and I made introductions.

Adele gazed at Brittany’s hips. “Tell me those are Earnest Sewn jeans.”

“You have a good eye.” She gestured toward Adele’s suit. “And your St. John—classic.”

“I had a board meeting.” Adele waved one hand negligently.

“And those shoes. Are they …?”

“Vintage.”

Shane drew me aside as Brittany and Adele swapped fashion tips. “Hey, is it okay that I brought her here?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You seemed kind of … unpleasantly surprised.”

“Sorry. It’s me, not you. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I used to have a glamorous career, and now I’m sitting behind the counter in a paranormal museum. I don’t mean to take my frustration out on family. And Brittany seems nice,” I fudged.

“She is.” He grinned.

“Ugh. Go away. And be sure to take her to Adele’s family winery.”

He nodded to the two women. “I think Adele’s got that covered.”

“—it’s not on the list,” Adele was saying, “but tell them I insisted you taste the Haunted Vine Reserve.”

Shane looked back at me. “Mad … I’m sorry. You were right about the thing with Mom. I was using you to relieve my guilt. It wasn’t fair.”

“No, you were right,” I said. “I want to be here, so there’s no reason you shouldn’t be happy in Moscow, or wherever they send you. And even though Mom’s no invalid, I should be spending more time with her. You don’t need to feel guilty about going back overseas. You love your job and you’re great at it.”

“How do you know I’m great at it?”

“Fishing for compliments? Get out of here.”

My brother and his friend finally departed, and Adele disappeared into the tea room to supervise Dieter.

At least Dieter would be happy.

I returned to my job hunt. Between handing out tickets and answering questions, I tried to edit a resume for a project manager position. But my mind kept turning to the museum, to Adele, to the murders. Two murders in one week. That had to be a record for San Benedetto, and I wondered if Adele was right. Would the police be able to find the killer? The murders didn’t seem random, or robberies, which meant the killer was someone who knew both victims. That should make it easier for the police, shouldn’t it?

The bell over the door tinkled.

I was getting sick of that bell.

The attorney, Roger, ambled inside. His yellow polo shirt was untucked, and his khakis sagged around his hips.

“Hi, Madelyn. Is Adele here?”

I nodded toward the curtained-off tea shop. “She’s in back with Dieter.”

He blinked. “Great. Oh, by the way, I’ve got the contact info for that art agent I was telling you about.” He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and handed me a wrinkled business card. “Just tell him what sort of macabre exhibits you’re looking for.”

“Thanks.”

“You know, I’ve never toured the museum. Shame, since this is one of San Benedetto’s biggest tourist attractions.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Do you mind?”

“Go right ahead.” If I kept letting people in without tickets, I’d never turn a profit. But he was Adele’s friend, and this was still Adele’s building. It was more her museum than mine.

I watched him wander into the Fortune Telling Room, head bowed as if in thought. Two more visitors came in, and we chatted about the local wines before they disappeared into the Creepy Doll Room.

Dieter brushed through the curtains, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Hey, Maddie. Adele wants—”

Roger strode from the Fortune Telling Room, grinning. “Well, it’s weird. I’ll give you that.” He went to Dieter and shook his hand, clapping him on the shoulder. “How’s the work going?”

“Good.” The contractor darted a glance at me. “Hey, Roger, you got a minute?”

“Looking for legal advice?”

“Something like that.” Dieter drew the curtains back and jerked his chin toward the tea room.

With a lift of his eyebrows, Roger followed him inside.

In the other room, the men’s voices were a low rumble. I grabbed the feather duster and wandered to the display of haunted objects on a shelf by the plastic curtains. Flicking the duster over a monkey skull, I practiced eavesdropping. It was an art I’d neglected, and one that requires regular cultivation.

“You’re the one who recommended her to me,” Dieter was saying.

“Actually, I recommended you to her.”

“But I wouldn’t have done Christy’s kitchen if it hadn’t been for you. That was six months ago. I need to get paid.”

Roger chuckled. “Since when have you had trouble getting money from a woman?”

“Well, she’s dead now. So who do I talk to about my bill?”

My hand clenched on the duster. Christy had owed Dieter money?

“Her trustee. A fellow named Sam Leavitt.”

My feather duster paused over a dome clock. Sam Leavitt? But he was a criminal attorney. Why wouldn’t Christy have used one of the estate attorneys at her own firm as a trustee?

“Thanks.” Dieter coughed.

I beetled back to my spot behind the counter and whisked a fleck of dust from the top of the old-fashioned cash register. But neither Roger nor Dieter emerged, and I finally figured they must have escaped out the back.