nineteen

A squad car and a blue sedan rolled to a halt on the dark street in front of the museum. The pavement glittered, its sheen of mist reflected by the street lamps.

I stood on the brick sidewalk, coughing into the sleeve of my Paranormal Museum hoodie. Shivering, I rubbed my arms for warmth.

Slate, rumpled in a navy blue V-neck sweater and jeans, stepped from his sedan. He strode toward me.

I winced. “You were off duty?”

“Given the circumstances,” he said, “I’m glad you called. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Two uniformed officers emerged from the squad car.

“Tell me again what happened,” he said.

I ran him through the attack.

“Did you touch the fuse box?” he asked.

“Not tonight.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Cowardice rather than quick thinking had motivated me. I hadn’t wanted to return to the dark tea room. “What about the rear door?” he asked.

“I checked to make sure it was locked. I didn’t touch it, but my prints will be all over it anyway. I use that alley door almost every day.”

“Okay. Wait here.”

He spoke to the uniformed officers, and all three men walked into the museum. Slate stepped outside a few moments later. “How do you open that bookcase?”

“There’s a book that says Open on the spine. I’ll show you.” The book could be hard to find if you didn’t know what you were looking for.

He held the door for me, and I passed inside. The two uniformed cops skimmed their flashlight beams over the bookcase.

Edging the rocking chair aside, I pressed the book and the case swiveled open. The two uniformed officers darted through.

“This is where he pinned you?” Slate asked.

“Or she.”

“A she?”

The lights flooded on, and I winced.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “The person seemed big, but it happened fast and was dark. I didn’t get a good look at whoever it was.” My throat thickened with shame. But it might have been the pepper spray I’d inhaled.

“So he would have had his hand on the bookcase?” Slate said.

I nodded.

“All right. We’ll take prints there as well. Tell me more about this Death Bistro.”

“In spite of the name, it’s a strangely normal group of people who talk about issues around death and dying. Romeo used to be president of the group, and I suspect his interest in death ran deep. Did you know Trivia was the Roman goddess of death?”

“Otherwise known as Hecate, goddess of the underworld and magic.” Slate smiled. “I do my research.”

My face warmed. Of course he did. “Laur—Detective Hammer was here tonight, taking notes.”

As if she’d been summoned by a dark force, the museum door burst open and Laurel strode inside. “What happened?”

“Someone assaulted Miss Kosloski after the Death Bistro ended.” Slate explained about the attack.

Laurel swore. “What is it with this place?”

“It’s not the museum’s fault,” I said. And technically, the attack had occurred between the museum and the tea shop.

My stomach quivered. I’d found a body in that exact same place last winter. Was there something about the museum? I shook myself.

“Is there anyone who might have it in for you?” Slate asked.

“The mystery is who wouldn’t want to kill you,” Laurel muttered.

“Now you’re just being mean,” I said.

Slate shot us repressive looks.

“Sir?” a male voice called, from the other side of the bookcase.

Slate and Laurel walked into the tea room. Since they hadn’t told me to stay put, I followed.

A cop squatted beside a square table. He lifted the white tablecloth and pointed to a stainless steel folding knife. “It doesn’t look like the other kitchen cutlery.”

“That’s a pruning knife,” I said.

They looked at me.

“Sorry,” I said. They hadn’t asked my opinion, but that was a farmer’s knife. It didn’t belong in a tea room.

“She’s right,” Laurel said. “Bag it.” She pointed at me. “And you. Out.”

I backed through the open bookcase. Romeo had been stabbed. So had Jocelyn. Was that knife the murder weapon? My legs went wobbly. Had I been the intended next victim?

Laurel shrieked.

GD streaked from the tea room, roast beef and a limp watercress leaf dangling from his mouth.

“Were you in her kitchen?!” I glared at the cat. If Adele found out, she’d call out a hazmat team and stick me with the bill.

The cat dropped the meat into his bowl and sat, smirking.

Laurel stuck her head through the secret door. “And keep that overgrown rat away from me!” She slammed the bookcase shut.

GD and I looked at each other.

“I agree. The rat comment was uncalled for.”

Making an O with my mouth, I sucked in my breath. There were cops in Adele’s tea room, dusting for prints, and I hadn’t bothered to give her a heads-up.

The trend for the evening was not improving.

Morning sun slanted through the miniblinds, warming my shoulders through my Paranormal Museum T-shirt. I sold a ticket to a retired couple and eased back onto my high chair behind the counter. A spectacular bruise purpled my torso, and I was moving carefully.

New York chic in a black turtleneck and slim skirt, Adele sipped a mug of tea. She leaned one hip against the glass counter, rumpling her Fox and Fennel apron. “I told you no good would come out of a Bistro of Death. We shouldn’t have let them anywhere near us.” She tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, brushing a finger against her pearl earring.

“I went into the storage room to get new stock,” I said. “What I can’t figure out is why whoever it was didn’t attack me at that point. They must have been lurking since after the Death Bistro ended.”

“Maybe he wasn’t sure if everyone had gone yet.” Adele’s knuckles whitened on her mug. “Or maybe he was a she.”

I coughed. It felt like a fragment of pepper was wedged inside my throat. “At least Leo is off the hook. He wasn’t at the Death Bistro.”

“Unless he used an accomplice to attack you and give him an alibi.”

“A conspiracy in San Benedetto?” I started to laugh but thought of Ladies Aid. Maybe it wasn’t so far-fetched. “I don’t know. Two killers seems like an awful lot for a small town.”

Adele put her mug down with a clatter. “For a small town, we’ve certainly been racking up the bodies.”

Meowing, GD pawed at her pink heels.

She scowled at him. “And you, sir, are not in my good graces! You know perfectly well my tea room is off limits.”

His green eyes widened, mournful.

“He’s only sucking up to you because you’ve got that kitchen,” I said. GD never looked penitent for me, though he had plenty of offenses to regret.

“Speaking of which,” Adele said, “I’d better get back to work before the morning tea crowd arrives.” Picking up her mug, she walked to the open bookcase and slipped through, closing it behind her.

I gazed down at GD. “Well? After your performance last night, you’d better find some ghosts for the paying customers.”

Whiskers twitching, the cat joined the retirees into the Fortune Telling Room.

I slumped on my seat. Mason’s shop was closed again today, and he hadn’t returned my messages. What was going on? My stomach rolled.

The wall phone rang. I jerked, startled, then lifted the receiver. “Paranormal Museum, this is Maddie speaking.”

“Maddie, this is Harriet Jones from the Historical Association.”

“Hi, Harriet. Have you found something about that old murder-suicide?”

“I have, and I think you’ll find it intriguing. We have a journal belonging to Alcina’s father, Gian. It’s mostly financial, but may I bring it to you at the museum today?”

I canted my head, surprised by the special delivery. “Yeah, that would be great. Are you sure it’s okay to remove the journal from the Association library?”

She laughed. “For you, of course! I was at the haunted house last night. Your Haunted San Benedetto room was delightful. It provided a real flavor of the town’s darker history. And so spooky! Besides, it’s been ages since I’ve been inside the Paranormal Museum. I keep walking past and seeing your Halloween exhibit through the window. It’s time I paid a visit.”

“Then the entrance ticket’s on me. I’ll be here all day.”

“Excellent! I’ll see you soon.” She hung up.

I drummed my fingers on the counter. A journal sounded promising. I was making progress on the real story behind the grape press. But I needed to focus on the modern murders. It was time to turn the screws.

Gritting my teeth, I dug a phone number out of my wallet and dialed Mrs. Bigelow.

“Yes?” the Ladies Aid president snapped.

“This is Maddie—”

“I know who it is. Have you something to report?”

“Yes. Someone tried to kill me last night. I’m done with the investigation.”

There was a pause. “I see.”

“Unless you have some actual information I can use to move the investigation forward, that is. I think you’re the kind of woman who knows the people around here well. There aren’t a whole lot of local secrets you don’t know, are there?”

The pause lengthened. “Romeo and Jocelyn were having marital problems.”

“What sort of problems?”

“Jocelyn knew about his affair with that oddly dressed woman—”

“Elthia?”

“Just so. When Romeo was killed, I was certain Jocelyn had something to do with it.”

“And now Jocelyn’s dead.”

“Indeed. Either she had an accomplice who killed her to keep her quiet, or I was wrong.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“I do not engage in idle gossip.”

“You told me Mrs. Gale was responsible for Romeo’s death.”

Mrs. Bigelow hesitated. “I’m sorry to say that I wanted her to be guilty. I was angry, and she was on the scene, so to speak. But I hope I’m honorable enough to admit when I’m wrong. I think you’re an honorable person, too, and I’m glad you’re investigating. I rather liked Romeo,” she said, wistful.

“Did you know him well?”

“No, but he was quite charming, in a European sort of way. Let’s just say we had a moment, and leave it at that.”

My brows skyrocketed. A moment? “What else can you tell me about Romeo?”

The retired couple emerged from the gallery and wandered to the bookcase. The man pressed on one of the book spines, frowned.

“Romeo and I were friendly acquaintances, no more,” Mrs. Bigelow said. “Ladies Aid interacts with most of the vintners one way or another. On my part, that interaction was only on a superficial basis. I do not care for alcohol.”

“But?”

“But there was something odd going on with him. Unfortunately, I cannot say more as I do not know any more. I suggest you ask your friend Miss Nakamoto about it.”

“What does Adele have to do with this?”

“That is an excellent question. Oh, and by the way, you have to remove your grape press from the haunted house. It’s too haunted.”

I stared at the brass skull, high on a shelf. It needed dusting. “Too haunted? How can a grape press be too haunted?”

“Excuse me?” The retiree pointed at the bookcase. “How does this open?”

I covered the mouthpiece with my hand. “Lower left corner. Press the spine that says Open.”

“… quite another thing when adults burst into tears,” Mrs. Bigelow finished.

“Sorry, what? Who burst into tears?”

The retirees found the proper book and the case swung open. Looking pleased, they strolled into the tea shop.

“Some ridiculous woman. Said she was a sensitive, whatever that means. But she disturbed the other guests, and I’m afraid word is getting around. We don’t want that kind of haunted house.”

“What kind?”

“The haunted kind. I thought you could replace the exhibit with that silly invisible grape press. You know, that thing you had at the festival?”

“But who was the woman? Do you know her name?” Elthia had said she was a sensitive, but she’d been at the Death Bistro last night, not the haunted house.

“How on earth can I be expected to know the name of every tourist who wanders through our haunted house? I’m not psychic.”

Or sensitive, apparently. “All right, I’ll change the exhibit.”

“The haunted house opens at seven.” She hung up.

And tonight the museum closed at six, leaving me just enough time to remove the grape press and swap the signs.

The display had actually made someone cry? GD had reacted to the press, but it couldn’t be that horrifying. The blood stains weren’t even visible, unless you were a cop.

I banged my hand on the counter. “I’m an idiot!”

GD leapt onto the rocking chair, setting it nodding in agreement.

“It wasn’t a murder-suicide at all! It was a double murder.”