nine

The next morning, I opened the Paranormal Museum. Fog hung low on the streets, watery light filtering through the windows. My tongue felt like cotton, and my eyes burned from last night’s drinking.

GD Cat trotted to me, meowing. When food was at issue, he seemed able to put aside his contempt. I poured kibble into his bowl and explored the museum. I’d already searched the obvious places for receipts or records that might have Herb’s name on them and come up empty. But there were all sorts of cupboards and cubbies built into the lower part of the walls. I wondered if any records had been stored in non-obvious places.

I wrenched open a stuck cupboard, releasing a Vesuvius of dust, when someone knocked at the door. Sneezing, I shut the sliding door. The museum didn’t open until ten o’clock, and whoever it was could wait.

Someone rattled the knob.

I stalked to the door. “All right, all right!” With two fingers, I pried the blinds over the door apart.

Harper stood outside, framed in the top glass panel. She shifted her weight, hugging herself in her puffy blue parka. Her long dark hair was knotted in a bun.

I opened the door, and she hurried inside. “Cold. Cold.” Her teeth chattered. “My head is killing me. Please tell me you’ve got a coffeepot in here.”

“Sorry.” I sniffled.

She nodded. “Expect a housewarming gift. Or business-warming. Have you heard anything about Adele?”

“No. And since it’s Sunday, there’s no paper. I don’t want to bother her family and ask.”

“She didn’t do it.”

“I know.”

“She couldn’t have.”

“I know.”

But I read my own doubt written across her face. Could Adele have done it?

Harper looked around, and the tightness in her expression released. “This place really does have atmosphere.”

“The stench of failure?”

Her green eyes grew thoughtful. “That bad?”

“No.” I sighed. “I think the problems are fixable. But I’m not sure who’s going to do the fixing.”

“Are you kidding? This place was made for the Mad Kosloski touch. Besides, do you really want to work for someone else? You know you don’t play well with others.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think you knew.”

Harper snorted. “What are we going to do about Adele?”

“Find Herb. Like I told you the other night, he heard Christy arguing with a man inside the museum the night she was killed. But he ran off when the cops showed up. I’ve been going through our records, trying to find a receipt or invoice with his name on it, but so far haven’t had any luck. I was just going to start looking through that wall cupboard for more files.” I pointed.

She sighed. “Let’s do it then.”

We ransacked the shelves. I found an old Ouija board planchette, a broken doll, and a mummified mouse. The cat nudged it with his nose.

“Not for you,” I said.

“What about this?” Harper dragged a dusty cardboard box from the shelf and unfolded the lid. “Ah ha! We’ve got paperwork.”

She grabbed a fistful of folders and handed them to me, then sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through those in the box. “You said his name was Herb?”

“You found him?”

“No. Someone named Harold. Sorry.”

We reached the bottom of our respective stacks.

Harper blew her bangs out of her eyes. “And this guy Herb is the only lead that points away from Adele?”

“The only one I know of, but the police haven’t exactly taken me into their confidence.”

“And they’ve arrested Adele.” Harper bit the inside of her cheek. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Someone rattled the handle of the door.

I checked my watch. It wasn’t even nine o’clock. “Why do people think it’s okay to do that when the sign says ‘closed’?”

Whoever it was banged on the door.

“Urgh.” I hauled myself to my feet and stumbled. One foot was asleep. On pins and needles, I hobbled to the door and cracked it open. “The museum’s not open for another hour.”

A fat man in a stained hunting jacket peered at me through reddened eyes. “Is Dieter here?” he asked on a cloud of alcohol.

“No!” I slammed the door shut. “Dieter gets almost as many visitors as the museum. It’s a plague of oddballs. Why is he so popular?”

“You haven’t heard?” Gracefully, Harper unfolded herself and stood, brushing off the back of her jeans. “He’s a bookie.”

I eyed her askance. “No, I didn’t know that. How did you?”

“One of my clients made twenty grand betting on the Christmas Cow two years back.”

“People are taking bets on the Cow?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine its odds for survival were high.

“He bet that the Cow would be destroyed by a means other than fire. That was the year it got hit by a runaway RV.” Harper smiled wryly. “Not even Dieter predicted that.”

“Have you ever placed a bet with him?”

“Are you kidding? I trust that guy as far as I can throw him.”

“But isn’t betting illegal?”

Harper stuffed the papers back inside the box on the floor. “Only if you get caught.”

Fabulous. Dieter had turned the tea room into a part-time casino. Did Adele know? I dismissed the idea. She’d never allow gambling in her perfectly proper tea room. With Adele in jail, I’d have to deal with this, and I really didn’t want to. My jaw tightened. “You said you wanted to tell me something about Adele?”

Harper busied herself straightening the papers in the box. “About Adele? No, not really. More about Christy. And it’s confidential.”

I frowned at that. “Too confidential to tell the police?”

“I was wrestling all last night with if I should tell you. A … client of mine told me something about Christy. She’d been”—Harper scrunched up her face—“not exactly blackmailing my client, but she was holding some information over her head.”

“What sort of information?”

“I can’t tell you that. But it might have damaged my client’s business if it had gotten out.”

“Which could be a motive for murder. Harper, you have to tell the police.”

“My client’s a woman. You said Herb heard Christy arguing with a man. I’m not going to blow my client’s confidence for nothing.”

“But if Christy made a habit of this sort of thing, she may have had other victims.” Something gray whipped past me, and I swatted at the air. Why was Harper arguing about this?

“Look,” she said. “Let’s see how things go with Adele. She’s got a good lawyer, and I can’t believe the police have anything but circumstantial evidence against her. If things look like they’re going badly, I’ll talk to the police.”

“Things are going badly. Adele is in jail.”

“Just … let me think about it. Okay?”

“Think fast,” I grumbled. I couldn’t force Harper to call the cops. Besides, she and Adele went way back. I couldn’t believe she’d let her best friend since fifth grade twist in the wind.

“We need to concentrate on this Herb guy,” Harper said. “Look, I’ve got a client who’s a private investigator. Let me ask his opinion. Maybe he can give us some tips on how to find him.”

Still annoyed, I grunted my assent.

Harper handed me the box of papers and left. I prowled the museum looking for more hiding places, but didn’t find any caches of hidden records.

At ten o’clock I opened the museum and was pleasantly surprised by the steady stream of customers. For a moment, I fantasized about making a go of the place. Could I make it work? I shook my head, banishing those thoughts as unrealistic. One busy Sunday did not a successful business make.

In spite of the crowd, there were gaps between selling tickets and answering questions. I couldn’t do anything for Adele, so I called the San Benedetto Historical Association. The nice lady who answered the phone didn’t know any more than I did about Cora McBride, but for a small donation offered to research the crime.

“But I have to warn you,” she said. “If you’re looking for court records from that era, they’re kept at the police department.”

“Not the courthouse?”

She sighed. “The police department had plans to open their own museum and took all the records. But the museum was never opened, so they’re sitting in their archives, by which I mean their basement. Do you still want me to see what I can find here?”

I did, and I gave her the pertinent details and my credit card number. She promised to email anything she turned up.

Feeling virtuous, I opened a bag of pretzels and returned to the inventory.

Adele’s family lawyer ambled through the door. Roger was out of his legal togs and wearing jeans and a black golf shirt. “Hey, ghost lady.” He opened his arms wide. “How about a hug?”

“I don’t do hugs.” At least not with relative strangers.

“I had to try.” Shrugging philosophically, he drew a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “Adele asked me to give you this.”

I took the paper and unfolded it. A to-do list: Pick-up morning coffee (on order under my name) for Dieter (daily). Feed cat (daily). Collect spare keys from Wine and Visitors Bureau, etc. Oversee installation of marble counter on Wednesday … It was a long list, but I knew it was only a fraction of Adele’s daily grind. How many other lists like this had gone out?

“You’ve seen Adele?” I asked Roger. “How is she?”

“I think she’s more worried about what’s going on out here now than about a future in jail. That’s a good thing.”

“But since you’re not her criminal lawyer, how did you get in to see her?”

He quirked a brow. “I got myself on the list.”

“Can I do that?”

“No. It’s a very short list. So can I tell Adele you’ll take care of that?” He tilted his head toward the to-do list on the counter.

Unenthusiastic, I reviewed it. “Sure.” But with Adele behind bars, how could I say no? The museum was closed Mondays and Tuesdays, and I probably could get most of the stuff on the list done then.

“Thanks,” Roger said. “I’ll let her know. Is there anything else you’d like me to tell her?”

I thought of Dieter’s betting operation. “Please tell her everything is okay with the museum, and I’ll take care of her list. Do you know when she’ll be released?”

He shook his head. “It’s the weekend. She’s stuck at least until her bail hearing on Monday. And who knows what they’ll set bail at?”

I hesitated. “You’re a lawyer.”

“That’s what they say.”

“You know, I heard something that might bear on Adele’s case.”

“Oh?” Roger poked my open bag of pretzels. “Do you know what’s in those things?”

“Pretzels?”

“Sodium and thiamine mononitrate! It can cause allergies.”

“I seem to be doing okay.”

He shook his head. “You only have one body.”

“I heard Christy liked ferreting out secrets and using them against people,” I said, trying to get the conversation back to Adele and away from my eating habits.

“Blackmail?”

“If it’s true, there may be other people out there with reasons to kill Christy.”

Roger raised his brows. “If it’s true. Christy was a lawyer, and attorneys know lots of secrets. But we’d be out of jobs pretty quick if we held them over our clients.”

“You worked with her. Was there ever any hint that she might have been doing this?”

He shook his head. “There is such a thing as professional ethics. You need to be careful who you share that gossip with.”

I nodded, chastened. But the power of gossip was that it was frequently true. Christy hadn’t been the nicest person. But Roger was right—it was a big leap from being unpleasant to being a blackmailer.

He opened his arms. “Come on. Hug?”

“Out.” I pointed to the door.

Laughing, he left, the bell above the door jingling in his wake.

Sure, there were professional ethics. But it was Roger who’d told me everyone lied in court—including attorneys. And as an estate attorney, Christy would know where a family’s proverbial bodies were buried.

I took another look at Adele’s to-do list and frowned over the third item: Collect spare keys from Wine and Visitors Bureau, etc.

“Etc.”? Did that mean there was more than one spare key outstanding? Dieter had one, but he needed it to get in and out of the building for the construction. Adele couldn’t want me to confiscate his key. But if it wasn’t Dieter, then who was the “etcetera?”

I growled beneath my breath, startling an elderly woman in khakis and a fisherman’s hat. She jammed a dollar in the tip jar and scuttled out.