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  Copyright Information

  Pressed to Death: A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery © 2017 by Kirsten Weiss.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2017

  E-book ISBN: 9780738750750

  Book format by Cassie Kanzenbach

  Cover design by Kevin Brown

  Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher-Dodge

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Weiss, Kirsten, author.

  Title: Pressed to death / Kirsten Weiss.

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2017] |

  Series: A perfectly proper paranormal museum mystery ; #2

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016049794 (print) | LCCN 2016058939 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738750316 | ISBN 9780738750750

  Subjects: LCSH: Paranormal fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3623.E4555 P74 2017 (print) | LCC PS3623.E4555 (ebook)

  | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016049794

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To Karen, Raymond, and Alice

  one

  I was going to jail.

  Worse, my arch nemesis would be the one to drag me from my own paranormal museum.

  “I do not traffic in stolen goods.” My voice cracked on the final word. You’d think my innocence would go without saying, but Detective Laurel Hammer’s loathing for me was irrational.

  So I was saying it. I crossed my arms, defiant. The photos of executed murderers watched, impassive, from the museum’s glossy white walls.

  GD, the museum’s ghost detecting cat, hopped off the haunted rocking chair in the corner. He landed, silent, on the checkerboard floor and cocked his sleek black head.

  Blue eyes crackling, the detective planted her hands on the glass counter and loomed over the tip jar. Looming—of the tall and blond, beautiful and terrifying variety—was Laurel’s signature move.

  I edged away, dropping my arms to my sides. Unable to meet her gaze, I focused on her manicure, pale pink and elegant.

  “Mr. Paganini says otherwise.” She blew a wisp of short, sideswept hair out of her eyes. “He reported his antique grape press stolen from his winery, and said it was in your possession.”

  I shivered, tugging my black Paranormal Museum hoodie closer around my matching tank top. The museum was freezing, and I turned to the thermostat to escape her glower. The seven a.m. sun slanted through the blinds. I winced at the morning light as I pretended to adjust the heat. It was going to be another warm autumn day in California’s Central Valley. There was no sense in turning down the AC.

  “I bought the press from Herb Linden,” I said. “My collector. I have a copy of the receipt.”

  I never should have done business with a man who lived with his mother and worked out of the trunk of a VW. But paranormal museum curators had to take what they could get. I’d taken over the museum less than a year ago. It wasn’t the only paranormal museum in the country, but I was determined to make it the best. Or at least make a decent living off it. That wouldn’t be possible from jail. What was the penalty for trafficking in stolen goods?

  “Stolen is stolen.” Laurel gazed at me coldly.

  “It’s not stolen! Look around you. Do you see anything in this museum worth going to jail for?” I motioned to the glass-enclosed shelves filled with haunted objects. Below the room’s shiny black molding hung a rogues’ gallery of haunted photos. Two doors, set in the wall to the right of the cash register, led to the Fortune Telling Room and my gallery space, which was currently packed with Halloween-themed art. A false bookcase was embedded in the opposite wall. Push the correct book and it swung open to the Fox and Fennel tea room, owned by my friend Adele (and, most importantly, to our shared bathroom).

  Laurel’s lip curled. “This isn’t a museum, it’s a con game.”

  “Con game?” I sputtered. I might be uncertain about the existence of the paranormal, but I believed in my museum. It was fun, spooky, and had an ounce of historical relevance. I drew a deep breath. Obviously, rational discourse wasn’t working. I needed to take a different tack.

  Flattery. “Actually, Laurel, if it weren’t for you, the museum might not exist at all. I don’t think I ever got a chance to thank you for helping me out with that fire last winter. We’ve completely remodeled the—”

  “Stop trying to butter me up.” The detective barred her teeth. “If your collector stole that grape press—”

  “He didn’t. Look, the receipt is right here.” I drew a thick binder from beneath the cash register and flipped through the pages. Swiveling the open binder, I pushed it across the counter toward her.

  Laurel glanced at it. “Doesn’t mean a thing. I’ll need to confiscate the grape press until this gets sorted out.”

  My mouth went dry. This had to be a mistake. “Laurel, please—”

  “Detective Hammer!”

  “I can’t give it to you. It’s not here.”

  “You sold it? Do you know what the penalty is for selling stolen goods?”

  “It’s not stolen! And I didn’t sell it. It’s part of my exhibit at the Harvest Festival.” And also the only wine-themed haunted object I had.

  October was high season for us in San Benedetto. Although sort of a cow town, San Benedetto was also known for its vineyards, and lately we were gaining a reputation for our zinfandels. In the fall, we not only had pumpkin patches and apple picking, but a Harvest Festival—put on by the Wine and Visitors Bureau—that brought in tourists from miles around. The highlight, naturally, was wine, with tastings promoting local vineyards. This was my first time participating, and I wanted my Paranormal Museum display to shine. After the wineries, the museum was the second-most-important tourist attraction in the area. Of course, there was also the giant straw Christmas Cow that someone torched every winter holiday. But it was fall, so the cow didn’t count. My display at the Harvest Festival was small potatoes, yet I needed it to be a succes
s if I wanted to lure tourists to the museum.

  “Then I’ll just go confiscate it at the festival,” Laurel said.

  Green eyes narrowed, GD Cat prowled behind her. The ghost detecting cat had taken a dislike to the detective ever since she’d helped save his life. Cats. Go figure.

  Casually, I draped my hand over the counter and made shooing motions. “You can’t. The fairgrounds aren’t open yet.” Ha!

  “I’m sure I can get inside.”

  GD Cat hunched, preparing to pounce.

  Sweat dotted my brow. Cosmic forces were clashing—Laurel and GD—and I was pretty certain I’d be the one blasted to smithereens. I hissed at the cat, “Go away!”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Laurel snarled.

  I hurried around the counter and scooped up GD, depositing him on the rocking chair.

  “Herb may be odd, but I know he wouldn’t do anything underhanded,” I said. “Besides, the receipt is signed by Paganini’s wife. Providence is important in my line of work.” Providence helped me keep the paranormal stories behind the objects straight. And I liked saying “providence.” It made me feel like a real museum curator.

  Laurel snorted.

  GD slunk from the chair, ears flat against his ebony head, and stalked toward her.

  I edged between Laurel and the cat. “The festival only lasts for two days. Can I bring you the grape press on Sunday?”

  “Why don’t I just arrest you today?” Laurel reached behind her back and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

  “But … the festival!”

  “You can’t keep stolen goods until it’s convenient for you to return them.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s not stolen! That’s the receipt.”

  The cat growled behind my ankles.

  “Oh well, if you’re telling me, then I guess I can just forget police procedure and let you keep the item.”

  “Would you?” I held my breath. Maybe Laurel had forgiven me after all.

  “No.”

  My cell phone rang and I snatched it up. “Hello?”

  “Madelyn, this is your mother.”

  “Yes.” I eyeballed GD. The cat licked his paws, indifferent. “Your name shows up on my cell phone screen.”

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “Um …”

  “Good, because I’m here.” My mother breezed through the door, setting the bell above it tinkling. Country-chic, she wore white jeans and a blue denim blouse. Her favorite turquoise earrings swung from her ears, and the matching silver squash-blossom necklace encircled her neck.

  Tucking her phone into the pocket of her linen blazer, she stopped short. The overhead lights glinted off the silver threads in her pixie-cut hair. “Detective Hammer, what a lovely surprise. Will you be assisting us at the festival today?”

  “No, I’m on duty,” Laurel said.

  “Oh? I was sure I heard that the police would be sending someone to help. After all, Ladies Aid funds the policeman’s ball, and the Harvest Festival grape stomp is our most important fundraiser.” My mother was heavily involved in organizing and promoting the grape stomp.

  Laurel blanched.

  “But since you’re on duty,” my mom went on, “what brings you to San Benedetto’s third biggest tourist attraction?”

  “Second biggest,” I corrected.

  “Third,” she said, “after the Christmas Cow.”

  “The cow isn’t even built yet,” I retorted. “And Laurel’s here because Mr. Paganini told the police that the haunted grape press I bought was stolen.”

  My mother blinked. “Not the grape press in your display at the festival?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “But you have a receipt, don’t you?”

  “It doesn’t matter if she has a receipt,” Laurel said. “If the guy who sold it to her stole it, it’s stolen property.”

  “This all sounds like a simple misunderstanding.” My mom turned to me. “Dear, we really must go. The festival starts in less than four hours. There’s tons of work to do.”

  “Leo’s not here yet.” Leo was my new part-time employee. I had an employee! The museum was at that awkward adolescent stage—on the verge of growth. Hiring an employee, even if he was only part-time, was a big risk. If my projections were wrong and more help didn’t result in more money, well, I was screwed. And I was responsible for Leo now, making sure he had his pay on time to buy food. It was mildly terrifying.

  My mother frowned. “A bit late, isn’t he?”

  “Nope, early. He usually doesn’t get here until nine. He’s doing me a favor, coming in at seven to decorate.” I wanted to put up Halloween decorations before the Harvest Festival crowds migrated to the museum.

  “You’re not going anywhere until this is resolved.” Laurel banged her fist on the glass counter, rattling the tip jar.

  Startled, GD Cat flattened his ears against his head.

  The front bell jingled and Leo sloped into the museum. He ran a hand through his dyed-black hair, his watch catching on his silver skull earring. Wincing, he disentangled himself. “Hey. I’m here.”

  My mother’s lips pursed, and I knew what she was thinking. Was a heavy metal T-shirt and jeans appropriate for my newest employee? But casual wear was another awesome bonus to working in a paranormal museum.

  “Hi, Leo. Thanks for coming in at this hour.” I pointed toward the Fortune Telling Room. “The Halloween stuff is in the spirit cabinet.”

  “Cool.” He scooped up GD, stroking his ebony fur. To my surprise, the cat settled into his arms. “What’s with Johnny Law?”

  “Just a misunderstanding. She thinks I stole your father’s grape press,” I said.

  “Why would she think that?” Leo asked.

  “Because Mr. Paganini told me so,” the detective said.

  Leo rolled his eyes. “And you believed him? He’s a congenital liar.”

  My mother laid a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t say that about your father, dear.”

  “Because it’s true?”

  “This seems like a waste of valuable police resources,” my mom said, turning to Laurel. “I’ll speak with Romeo and have this cleared up by the afternoon. Why don’t we come by the police station then?”

  “Who’s we?” Laurel asked.

  “Myself and Romeo Paganini, of course. I’m sure it would be easier for you if we resolved this ourselves rather than wasting your time with paperwork.”

  “Good luck with that.” Shoulders hunched, Leo walked into the Fortune Telling Room.

  “This afternoon, then?” My mother tucked her arms in mine and drew me from the museum. “By the way,” she called over her shoulder to Laurel, “I love your new haircut—attractive and professional!”

  I tensed, half expecting the detective to tackle me to the brick sidewalk. But we made it unscathed to my mother’s butter-colored Lincoln, parallel parked in the shade of a plum tree. I slipped into the passenger seat beside her and we drove off.

  The air conditioning blasted, teasing strands of my hair. I glanced over my shoulder. No blue lights pursued us, and I relaxed.

  “Thanks, Mom. You’re a lifesaver. I didn’t think Laurel would let me go. She holds a grudge.”

  My mother gripped the wheel more tightly and shook her head. “You shouldn’t have set her hair on fire, dear.”

  “I didn’t set it on fire.” It had been an accident. “And it just sort of smoldered.” And it wasn’t as if I’d forced Laurel to run into the burning museum. In fact, it had been kind of a heroic moment on her part, so I didn’t get the hair obsession. It would grow back.

  “She had such lovely long blond hair.” My mother sighed. “Now, why would Romeo say you stole his vintage grape press?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Herb bought the press from his wife. Maybe
he’s regretting the sale and is trying to get it back through the police instead of just asking me.”

  “Is it valuable?” my mom asked.

  I pushed up the sleeves of my museum hoodie. I’d become a walking billboard, but when you own a business, that’s par for the course. “I wouldn’t call it valuable,” I said. I’d paid a thousand bucks for it, which was a huge expenditure for the museum. But wine was a big deal in San Benedetto. A haunted grape press was perfect for the museum.

  We glided through town, past its hundred-year-old brick and stucco buildings, past the park, its fountain decorated with pumpkins and cornstalks, and beneath the adobe welcome arch on Main Street. Soon we were driving past vineyards, their leaves green with tints of orange and purple.

  In the distance, white tents rose above the vines, and I grinned. I’d always loved Harvest Festival. By this time of year, the sweltering Central California summer had given way to temperate, mid-80s bliss. And it was the start to the holiday season. Soon there’d be Halloween, then Thanksgiving and pumpkin pie, then the ill-fated Christmas Cow. And for the first time in years, I’d be home with my family. Or at least with my mom. My overachieving siblings would be scattered across the globe doing remarkable things. But hey, I was curator of the Paranormal Museum, and I could enjoy a real American holiday with all the sugary trimmings.

  two

  My mother steered the Lincoln down a wide road and into a dirt parking lot. Hastily erected metal fencing ringed the festival grounds. A female guard in a black Security T-shirt sat on a metal folding chair by the pedestrian gate.

  Opening the glove box, my mother extracted her pass. “I presume you have yours?”

  “Of course.” Wait, did I? I’d been in such a hurry to get out of the museum … Frantic, I dug in my hoodie pocket and extracted a laminated pass on a lanyard. I blew out my breath.

  The guard glanced at our passes and waved us through the gate. I followed my mom past the pumpkin cannon and a row of kids’ games—pumpkin ring toss, bobbing for apples, and one of those photo setups where you stick your head through a plywood painting of an overweight scarecrow.