fourteen

So, there was no bomb.

But the museum was shut down for the rest of the day while the police and fire departments poked around looking for one. The ticket refunds were a dagger to my shriveled heart, though most of the customers seemed cheerful enough about having a bomb-threat story to tell.

The authorities finally let Jason and me inside at closing time.

“Oh, Maddie.” Hands on his hips, Jason surveyed the museum. Books and curios lay tumbled from shelves and scattered across the checkerboard floor. “I don’t like this.” Muscles rippled beneath the shoulders of his navy suit jacket and quickened my pulse.

I tore my gaze from him and swallowed. “Me neither. Couldn’t your officers have been a little neater?” I picked up the bronze skull, which had rolled beneath the antique rocking chair. My forehead scrunched with annoyance. Bronze skulls aren’t cheap! Fortunately, it seemed undamaged.

Imperious, GD perched on the counter, his tail wound around his paws.

“I’m talking about the bomb threat,” Jason said.

“I know. It’s a lot like what happened in the park, isn’t it?”

He stared at me.

“A prank that isn’t funny,” I explained. “It might have been only firecrackers at the vigil, but the stampede caused real harm.” I jammed my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. Today’s bomb threat might have had the identical effect if people had panicked. Was the same mind at work? And what did it have to do with Atticus’s murder, if anything?

“You think the two incidents are connected,” he said slowly.

“Well … maybe.” Were they? Having an overactive imagination was both blessing and curse. My imagination was great for marketing the museum. But it also led me down dark rabbit holes of imagined future ruin and an impoverished old age. I pushed my hands deeper into my pockets, stretching the black fabric. Was I imagining a connection between the disaster at the vigil and the bomb threat?

Jason rubbed his chin.

“You think I’m crazy,” I said.

“No. No, I don’t. But we don’t have any evidence the firecrackers at the vigil were anything more than a prank. I can’t make a case built on speculation. But I don’t know why kids would target your museum. The local kids like your museum.”

We were a special favorite among Goths and teenage boys. “I don’t know why someone would do this either, unless it’s also somehow connected to the murder. The timing is suspicious.”

His brows lowered. “Why would someone threaten your museum over a chocolate maker’s murder?”

“Because I was the one who found the body? Maybe the killer thinks I saw something I shouldn’t have?”

“Which you didn’t.”

“No, of course not.” My cheeks seemed to tingle. “I told you everything I saw and heard.” I hesitated. “But I do have sort of a reputation for, um, getting involved. And since Atticus’s death, I’ve been, well, seeing more of the suspects than usual.”

“Seeing.” His gold-flecked eyes narrowed.

Uh oh. “Penny invited me to be her plus-one at Lola’s tea on Monday.” And I’d forgotten to send him Lola’s photo of Tilde at the vigil. My stomach sank.

He grunted. “Don’t those sorts of things usually happen on weekends?”

I relaxed a bit. He wasn’t going to bust me for interfering, which, let’s face it, I just might have deserved. “Not in San Benedetto. Not when most of our business happens on weekends. Monday is a local business owner’s only real day off.”

“Anything unusual happen at the tea?”

“Not really. Lola told me that Tilde—the accountant—was obsessed with Atticus, who happens to be her cousin-in-law. I think the phrase Lola used was ‘practically stalking.’ Oh, and my mom wanted to ask if you were free for dinner.”

“Hmm. Did India know about her cousin and husband?”

“I’m not sure if there was anything to know. Lola said Tilde was obsessed, not that she and Atticus had an affair. She thought Tilde might have set off the firecrackers. She sent me a picture. Here.” I grabbed my cell phone and forwarded him the photo.

His phone pinged. He ignored it. “Lola Emerson-Malke said that?”

“Yes.”

“But why tell you? You were snooping, and she knew it, didn’t she?”

“It’s not like I was searching her closets.” I hadn’t gotten farther than the master bathroom. “I mean, sure, we were talking about Atticus. I found the man’s body. He was her husband’s business partner. His death is front of mind.”

Jason glanced toward the wreckage in the Gallery. My neat pyramids of chocolate bars and tarot decks lay in untidy heaps.

“What about the molinillo?” he asked. “Were you able to get in touch with that shop owner in Oaxaca?”

And the subject was changed. I felt an instant’s squeezing disappointment, then shrugged it off.

“Yes,” I said casually, “he was a big help. He told me the original owner was a woman named Felicitas Ocasio. She died of a broken heart over some guy. Her sister inherited the molinillo, but the rattling freaked her out. So she sold it to his chocolate shop.”

Jason lounged against a freestanding shelf and propped his chin on his broad hand. “A broken heart? You mean a heart attack?”

“I don’t think so. If it had been, he would have told me straight out, wouldn’t he?” I frowned. Unless Mr. Moreno’s command of English wasn’t as good as I’d thought. “When I pressed him, he just repeated himself. I don’t think he had a high opinion of Felicitas’s boyfriend.”

“Interesting. Felicitas Ocasio …” Jason grinned, and I felt my worries melting. “I’ve got a friend on the Oaxaca police. We can ask if he knows anything about her death.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket and dropped it on the counter beside GD. The cat sniffed its navy sleeve.

“Really?” I asked. “That’s fantastic! Thank you!”

“So where do I start?” he asked.

“What?”

He rolled up his sleeves. “With the cleanup. You’ll be here all night if you’re on your own, and since I don’t see Leo anywhere, I’m guessing you are.”

“I didn’t want to call him in for this. He’s studying for an exam.”

“Which leaves me. Where do you want me?” He waggled his brows, and I laughed at the double entendre.

I stepped closer and rested my hands on his broad chest. “Right here.”

Leo sold a ticket to a woman draped in a scarlet caftan and thick scarves. He handed her a brochure and a tarot card. “Your card of the day.”

She glanced at it and smiled. “The Star. My lucky card. Thank you.”

Ears twitching, GD watched the transaction from his perch on the counter.

“If you have any questions about the exhibits,” I said, “just ask.” I leaned on my broom. Jason and I had straightened everything up last night, but I’d saved the real cleaning for this morning.

“Thank you.” She wafted past me. “But my spirit guides usually tell me all I need to know.” The woman vanished into the Fortune Telling Room.

Leo groaned. “A bomb? I miss all the good stuff. Why didn’t you call me yesterday?”

The cat meowed an agreement.

“You were in class,” I said. “And there’s not much you can do for a bomb threat except leave.”

“I wasn’t in class all day,” he grumped.

“Sorry.” Not sorry. Why would I bring Leo into a potentially dangerous situation? I adjusted a creepy doll on its pedestal and brushed off my hands on the hips of my jeans. “You could help me with a new project.”

He cocked his dark head. “Oh?”

The paranormal box-of-the-month service seemed too big for me and Leo, but I had another promotional idea. “What do you think about the museum doing a podcast? You know, we could talk about objects in the museum, weird paranormal stories, take some callers …”

His brown eyes lit. “Are you kidding? Podcasts are hot right now!”

“The thing is, I’m not sure about the technical side—”

“Hey, I got this. We can do it right here in the museum after hours, when it’s quiet. I’ve got equipment we can use.”

The bookcase swung inward and Adele backed into the museum. She carried a box of Reign chocolate bars. “Can you do me a favor?”

I tugged at the collar of my T-shirt. I owed her about a million for the Fox and Fennel being shut down yesterday. She’d soothed all my guests with free Earl Grey on the sidewalk and hadn’t complained about her own loss of business. “Thanks, Leo. Let’s talk more about this later.” I turned to Adele. “Sure. What’s up?”

She set the box on the glass counter. “My parents think they’re going to be short on chocolate, and I’ve got extra bars. Can you take these to Plot 42?”

“When?”

She winced. “Now? I’d go myself, but—”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly and took the box. The bomb threat had lost me some business, sure. But at least my guests had bought tickets in advance (and I’d promised the tickets were good for a return visit). Adele had to be out a lot more. How many of her guests had left without having had a chance to pay? Plus, her staff earned hourly wages whether she sold tea or not.

I checked my watch. It was nearing noon. “Leo, do you want me to get you a burrito on the way back?”

“Do you have to ask?” He quirked a brow. “Super beef burrito, hot salsa, refried beans.”

“Got it. Adele?”

She backed toward the open bookcase. “No thanks. I prefer to keep my stomach lining.”

“I’ll be back in an hour,” I told Leo and hurried to my vintage pickup.

As much as I loved our fifties-era downtown, my muscles relaxed as I escaped through the adobe arch. Rows of twisted vines fanned past the truck windows, the first hints of green sprouts appearing on the vines. Yellow mustard flowers blazed between the rows. Puddles from yesterday’s rain glistened in the sunlight.

Cranking down my window, I inhaled the scent of damp earth. I wouldn’t want to be a farmer—the work and hours were too hard. But I loved living around farms, cow smell and all.

I turned down the gravel road to Plot 42 and parked behind the weeping willow.

Grabbing the box off the seat, I slid from my pickup and ambled toward the open barn door. Droplets glistened on the orange and yellow mums along the path.

I passed the chalkboard Open sign and walked inside the tasting room. Hanging metal lamps blazed cheerfully from the barn’s rafters.

The tasting bar was empty. But it was still early for wine tasting, and only a Thursday.

Voices floated from behind the steel wine barrel racks on my left. Adele, Harper, and I had played in this barn, so I didn’t think twice about walking behind the wall of barrels. Then I recognized one of the voices—Orson Malke—and stopped short of the narrow corridor.

“… knows about … affair …” The word sputtered on the damp air.

“This is awful,” India said. “Atticus—”

Her words were lost, too low for me to hear.

I edged closer to the wall of barrels. My foot brushed something metal and it clattered on the concrete floor. I winced.

“Hello?” India asked.

Cursing silently, I backed into the tasting room proper. “Is anyone here?” I called. “Chocolate delivery!”

India hurried around the stacked barrels. “Oh, hi Maddie.”

“Adele asked me to bring this chocolate.” I shifted the box in my arms. “But I thought I heard Orson here?” I angled my head toward the steel barrels. “Was there a miscommunication? Did he already bring you the chocolate you need? Because if he did, I’ll return this to the Fox and Fennel.”

Orson emerged from behind the wall of barrels. “No miscommunication.” He combed his fingers through his beard. “I was here to check on India. I didn’t realize there was a chocolate deficit.”

India toyed with her braid, her fingers twitching nervously. “You heard us?”

“Ah … not really.” I walked to the tasting bar and set the box on top.

When I turned, India and Orson faced me. They formed a barricade, their arms crossed over their chests.

I stepped backward and bumped against the bar.

Beneath India’s tank, her muscles were taut as barbed wire. “It’s not what you think,” she blurted.

“India!” Orson half turned, arm outstretched as if to grab her. “We don’t know—”

“Orson and I dated before I met Atticus,” India said. “But we all parted amicably. We were all okay. They never stopped being best friends. And then Lola …”

“Found out about the affair?” Wow, I was getting pushy.

India flushed. “There was no affair. Well, I mean—”

“She misspoke,” Orson said. “When India and I were first dating, I was dating Lola as well. Lola and I weren’t exclusive, but I never told her about India. It wasn’t technically an affair, even though it might have felt like one.”

“There’s no sense telling Lola now.” India bit her lip. “Nothing happened between us after we were each married. There’s nothing between Orson and me now but friendship.”

“And there never will be,” Orson said stiffly.

Color me suspicious, but if that were true, why had they been discussing it? “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“You don’t believe us,” India said, her light brown eyes earnest.

“Look,” I said, “this is between you two and Lola. And from what you say, it was no big deal. Besides, I can only imagine what you’re both going through right now.”

She tugged on her braids. “You have no idea. Someone killed my husband, and all I can think is that they’re still out there, watching. It’s made me paranoid. I even accused—” She glanced at Orson, and he laid a broad hand on her shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Lately I feel like I’m being crushed in a melangeur myself.”

“It’s not all right. It wasn’t fair of me.” India shivered. “I must be going crazy. I even feel like I’m being watched sometimes, watched by someone who—” She swallowed.

“You felt like someone was watching you?” I asked. “When was this?” Maybe I hadn’t been paranoid about those phantom footsteps after all.

She laughed harshly. “All the time. Crazy, right? And then I kept thinking of what Atticus said before he died.”

Orson made a sound in his throat.

“He was worried about the books,” she continued, “but of course they’re fine. Tilde said they were fine. She does the books, and Atticus was never a financial guy. Oh, he was great at making deals, but when it came to day-to-day budgeting …” She smiled wanly at Orson. “You know how he was.”

“But the books worried him?” I asked. “How?”

She gestured with one hand. “I don’t know. He never said.”

Cousin Tilde did the books. Cousin Tilde was in love with Atticus. Cousin Tilde had conveniently disappeared before the firecrackers went off at the vigil. My insides quivered. Was cousin Tilde a killer?