twenty

Who doesn’t hate hospitals? Aside from giving birth, there’s no good reason to be inside one. We sat in the waiting room over an hour, Mason growling and pacing, before a nurse led us into a small examination room. Another forty minutes before a doctor stuck his head in and disappeared. More waiting. Finally, a nurse sewed three stitches into my scalp and ordered Mason to make sure I wasn’t left alone that night.

Being alone with Mason sounded exciting. But the night was pretty much over, the sun lightening the horizon, by the time he drove me back to the museum. Adele waited for us outside, her fingers tapping the leather-lined steering wheel of her Mercedes.

“She shouldn’t be alone tonight,” Mason said.

“Got it.” Adele saluted with two fingers. She drove me home, and I tumbled into bed.

I woke up and staggered to the kitchen. In her cream-colored silk pajamas, Adele was sipping a cup of tea at the round linoleum table.

She folded her legs beneath her on the sixties-era blue vinyl chair and flattened the morning paper beside her cereal bowl. “Hungry?”

I wasn’t. But breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so I stuck a piece of sliced sourdough in the toaster. “Thanks for bringing me home,” I said.

“It was the least I could do.” She tapped a manicured finger on the newspaper. “You’ve been busy.”

The toast popped up, and I smeared it with butter and peanut butter. “I try to stay active.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t believe you’re eating that. And the Ladies Aid Society will not be pleased by your quotes in this article about the museum.”

“Oh. The paper quoted me? Gimme.”

“Maddie—”

“Well, I’m not pleased they took out a full-page ad voting the Paranormal Museum the tackiest museum in San Benedetto.”

She handed me the paper. “I hate to break it to you, but it is the tackiest museum in San Benedetto.”

“Then I’m honestly not sure what I can do.” I sat across from her. “Ladies Aid’s reaction seems over the top.”

“At Harvard I took a class on negotiating—it’s one of the few classes I use on a regular basis. Have you heard the story of the orange?”

I sighed and propped my head on my fist. “I’m sure I’m about to.”

“One orange, two sisters. Each wanted the orange for a dish they wanted to bake, and they squabbled over it. In the end, they discovered that one sister needed the rind, while the other needed the flesh. Problem solved.”

“I’m certain there’s a lesson in there somewhere.” I scanned the article. They mentioned the mock trial. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but I’d been the one to shoot off my big mouth.

Adele made a face. “I suggest you find out what Ladies Aid really wants. Does your very existence bother them, or is it something else?”

“Fine,” I grumbled.

“So what were you really doing at the museum last night at midnight?” she asked.

“I was really helping my brother’s girlfriend find her earring.”

She stilled. “They’re a couple? Are you sure?”

“Shane took her to the airport this morning. He’s not that nice unless he’s getting something out of it.”

“He’s not bad.” Adele lined the paper up with the edge of the pale-blue place mat.

“No, not bad. But contrary to popular belief, he’s not perfect either.”

She arched a brow. “I do believe you’re jealous of his success.”

“I have a hangover-worthy headache that wasn’t preceded by a wild night on the town. I’m irritated.”

“Well, I like your idea of a re-creation of the McBride trial.”

“Thanks. But as long as we’re making confessions, there’s something else about the museum I should tell you.”

“Oh?”

“Dieter’s a part-time bookie. He was using the alley behind the tea room for his business.”

Adele put her tea cup down with a clatter. “What?”

“Did you know about the bookmaking?”

“Of course not! Wait—was using? He’s not anymore?”

“I put the fear of you into him and told him to knock it off. And I think he has.”

“Anything else?”

“Harper thinks the museum is haunted.” And the more I thought about Cora’s photo, the more I wondered if she might be right.

Adele laughed. “I’ll hold off on calling an exorcist. Look, why don’t you take the day off? I can manage the museum today.”

A day free of the museum? And a Friday!? “That’s … seriously?”

“Absolutely.” Adele checked her watch. “I’m going to get dressed.” Grabbing her overnight bag off my couch, she beelined for the bedroom.

It almost felt like I was playing hooky from school. But I couldn’t slack off. I had to job hunt. And get dressed.

I took a quick shower. Pulling a white T-shirt over my head, I slipped into an old pair of faded jeans and waited for the computer on my unmade bed to boot up. When it did, I opened my email and slid my belt through the loops.

“Can I borrow your toothpaste?” Adele shouted from the bathroom.

“Uh, sure.”

My heart stopped. An email from the financial firm I’d applied to.

Holding my breath, I clicked it open. Dear Applicant …

I collapsed on the bed, and the laptop bounced on the rumpled sheets. Rejection. I hadn’t even made it to an interview. I hadn’t even made it to getting my name on the rejection letter.

What was wrong with me? I’d been … well, not a big deal, but I’d had a job with big responsibilities, managing operations for multiple countries. That should mean something. Shouldn’t it?

I guessed it didn’t. Maybe work overseas didn’t translate to work in California. Or I was doing a rotten job of marketing myself? Or both?

What had happened to my life? Harper was a success. Adele was a success. My whole family was a success. And in nine months, I’d scored two lousy job interviews.

On one foot, Adele hopped to the door, slipping a strappy heeled shoe over her other foot. “Mad, you’ve been running my errands and holding my hand through this awful murder investigation. And you’ve really stepped up with the museum. But your mother’s right. You’re better than the tackiest museum in San Benedetto. Don’t feel like you have to buy it because we’re friends. I know you’ve got bigger and better things in front of you.”

I blinked, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Don’t be silly. I love the museum.”

“You do? That’s wonderful!” Adele did a little shimmy and hugged me. “I knew you’d come around. Do you think you might actually buy it?”

Awkwardly, I returned the hug. “I haven’t decided yet.” My gaze fell to the dusty boxes I’d never gotten around to unpacking. The bottom dropped out of my rib cage.

“That’s not a no … ”

No, it wasn’t. Was I actually considering this?

I saw Adele out the door and turned to stare at my (temporary) nautical-themed apartment.

I needed to get out, get away. And the farther the better. Tahoe? Santa Cruz? Yosemite? Any destination would work, as long as it was elsewhere.

Grabbing my keys off the counter, I paused at the top of the stairs and breathed a curse. The driveway was empty, my pickup still at the museum. It wasn’t a long walk, but I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew.

I wiggled through a gap in my aunt’s fence and cut through an apple orchard to a deserted road. Weeds silvered by frost sprouted along the shoulder. The sky was clear and bright, the morning air nippy. I pulled my soft olive-colored jacket more closely about me.

When I was a kid, I’d had my thinking place. It had been years since I’d gone to it, and I wasn’t sure that a stroll down memory lane wouldn’t make me morbid. But my legs seemed to move of their own accord, and soon I was pacing the wide rows of the Nakamotos’ vineyard. The bare January vines were twisted miniatures of gnarled oaks, and I saw that they’d been recently pruned. Tall emerald grass and yellow wildflowers beaded with melting frost dampened the cuffs of my jeans. I headed toward the old water tower, near the edge of the property.

A small brown bird flew past, low to the ground, and my disappointment began to drain away. Some of these vines were over a hundred years old, and their grapes improved with age. They’d survived Prohibition, droughts, and unseasonable frosts. By comparison, I had it easy.

The shadow of the water tower fell across my path, and the temperature dropped. Shivering, I looked up. The ladder seemed taller, more rickety than I remembered. I grasped a metal rung and climbed.

Reaching the top, I edged to a wide platform and dangled my legs over the side. The rows of vines angled away from me, converging on the horizon. A puff of dirt rose from a distant road, kicked up by a passing farm truck.

I dug my cell phone from my pocket and called a recruiter friend of mine. Her specialty was non-profits—not my field—but she’d given good advice in the past.

“Hey, Mad! How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. I’m still job hunting.”

Her voice turned sympathetic. “Haven’t been able to find anything yet? Well, the economy is weak. Give it time.”

“In the last nine months, I’ve only had two interviews.”

“Really? That surprises me.” There was a long pause. “I’m sure your last job wouldn’t say anything bad about you.” But her tone echoed my uncertainty. “In today’s litigious society, they’d be sued.”

“But?”

“But if they only give out basic information about you—date of hire, etc.—it can be a tip-off that you were fired. During an interview, honesty is usually the best policy. But in your case, it does sort of clash with the rule that you should never badmouth an old employer. You can’t tell anyone you were fired because you wouldn’t pay a bribe.”

So I was between a rock and a hard spot, damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. I reached for a few more tired metaphors and came up empty. There was really nothing to say.

“Thanks,” I said. Feeling I’d monopolized the conversation long enough, I turned it back to her. She regaled me with the antics of her toddlers, then rang off to take another call.

Bad economy plus career transition plus indications I’d been fired … It wasn’t a recipe for job hunt success. I pocketed the phone, nodding to myself, and touched something paper. I pulled out the folded Tackiest Museum “award” and studied it.

Biting my lower lip, I gazed across the fields. A breeze rippled the grass and wildflowers, rapid waves of green and yellow flowing west. For a moment it seemed the gnarled vines anchored a sea of emerald and gold, and I flew above it all.

An ache swelled in my chest—not depression—love. I loved this broad land and the people who farmed it. I loved the fog that hung heavy over the vineyards on cold winter mornings. I loved launching myself from a tire into the swimming hole in the heat of summer. I even loved the stupid Christmas Cow.

San Benedetto was home. Carefully, I folded the clipping and returned it to my pocket.

Now I thought I understood why I’d landed so few interviews, and why the few I’d gotten had ended in failure.

I didn’t want those high-powered Bay Area jobs, so I hadn’t tried hard enough.

I wanted to be here.

“Hey,” a masculine voice called from below.

I leaned forward and looked between my toes. Detective Slate peered up at me, shading his eyes with a manila folder.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Just thinking.”

“Thinking about jumping?”

I laughed. “Not a chance.”

“You don’t feel dizzy from that concussion?”

“It was a mild concussion. They’re not even sure I had one at all. And I have an excellent head for heights.”

“Good.” He climbed up, the folder tucked beneath the arm of his navy-blue blazer. The detective thunked onto the platform beside me, breathing lightly. He smelled of musk and wild grasses. “Nice view. You know you’re not supposed to be up here?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve been coming here for years, and the owner, Mr. Nakamoto, doesn’t mind. What are you doing here?”

His face tightened. As a cop, I imagined he was unused to being contradicted or questioned. But he nodded. “Someone called and said a woman looked like she was going to jump from the tower.”

“Not Mr. Nakamoto! He knows I come out here. He wouldn’t mind.”

“No, a passing motorist. I was nearby, on my way to the museum, so I took the call.” He handed me the folder.

Our hands brushed, and a pleasant, electric tingle passed between us.

“Here,” he said. “The clerk found this for me in the police department’s archives. Photography was still new when McBride was killed, and the police were proud of their photos, so they kept them.”

“Photos of the murder scene?” I flipped open the folder and winced at the headshot of Martin McBride. Even in sepia tones, the corpse looked gruesome.

“The local police weren’t sophisticated enough back then to photograph the scene of the crime. But someone did take a shot of the body.” He pointed to the bruise circling Martin’s neck. “See anything strange?”

I studied it. I didn’t know what a rope bruise would look like, but this dark line looked like one to me. “I’m no expert, but it does look like a mark made by a rope, going straight across his neck.”

“And that’s the problem. If the bruise had been caused by hanging, the mark would have been in more of a V-shape, not a straight line.”

I rubbed my temple. “So … someone strangled him and then hanged him?” Martin had been murdered and Cora had been in the house. She was the logical suspect. But …

“I’m no coroner, but it looks that way,” Slate said. “I’m not surprised the police at that time missed it. This was still the wild west. And in a small town, they’d go for the most logical explanation, not necessarily one that fit the evidence.”

“Like arresting Adele?”

He gave me a long look. “She’s not under arrest anymore.”

My jab might not have been fair, and I felt myself flush. But I wasn’t convinced that apologizing was in order, so I changed the subject. “Would Cora have had the strength to strangle her husband?”

A gust of wind fluttered the lapel of Slate’s jacket and carried the scent of wild thyme. “It’s possible,” he said. “Maybe if he was unconscious first.”

I wrinkled my brow. “From what I’ve learned, he was a drinker. A neighbor testified that he’d heard them arguing the night of Martin’s death. Maybe he was too drunk to know what was happening.” Oh, Cora. What had happened?

“What’s wrong?” Slate asked.

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“You just don’t want to believe Cora was the killer.”

“No, I guess I don’t.”

“Wanting to see the good in people isn’t so bad.”

“But I don’t see the good. I’m hardened and cynical.”

He laughed, displaying even, white teeth. “If you say so. You’ve certainly got my partner’s dander up. What’s between the two of you?”

“No idea.” I offered him the photo, and he shook his head. I slipped it into my jacket pocket.

“Well, thanks for finding this for me,” I said.

“Digging through the archives was interesting. Maybe it will help with your mock trial.”

“You read about that?”

“Are you kidding? It’s the talk of the town.”

“Which shows how little we have to talk about.”

He shrugged. “I kind of like it. That’s small-town life.”

“You spend much time in small towns?”

“I grew up in one. Later, I worked in New York City, but the body count got depressing. I’d catch violent offenders and the prosecutors would let them go. Not enough resources to deal with them.”

“So you moved to San Benedetto?” It seemed a big jump from the mean streets of New York City.

“After my divorce I decided to change coasts. San Francisco looked a lot like more of the same problems I was trying to get away from. So I came here. No regrets.”

“It’s strange. When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was get out of here. Now, I’m not sure what I was trying to escape. The beach and the mountains are a two-hour drive away. The streets are clean. The people are friendly. There isn’t much crime.” I paused. “I hope that’s not changing.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” He brushed off his navy slacks. “And on that note, I’ve got to get back to work. You coming down?”

“I guess I’d better, before I scare another motorist.”

We clambered off the water tower. Slate gave me a ride in his blue sedan and stopped in front of the museum.

“Thanks for the lift,” I said.

“Any time. And try and stay out of trouble.”

I stared at the dark windows of the museum. Why did I feel like trouble had found me?