Deja Moo Read online

  “No, but the police need to see that footage.”

  “You mean … now?”

  “Now.”

  “Are you at the cow?”

  I stared at the pile of sopping ashes beneath the metal frame. “What’s left of it.” The firemen had done a thorough job killing the embers. The park stank of smoke and wet straw.

  “I’ll get to the museum and post it on YouTube, then—”

  “No.” My grip tightened on the phone. “Don’t.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance.

  “Why not?” Leo asked. “That’s what the plan was.”

  “I know, but … Don’t tell anyone, but the Dairy Association president was killed.” I probably shouldn’t have told him this, but he’d hear about it soon enough. And I trusted him not to blab the news at the party.

  Leo sucked in his breath. “Damn. But your mom’s okay?”

  “She is. Can you email the video to Detective Slate? I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”

  “Sure. What’s his address?”

  I recited it, shouting above the blaring sirens, then scrunched my brows. Even to me it seemed odd that I had a detective’s email address memorized. In my defense, it was an easy one to remember. Plus, Slate had helped me research objects in my museum connected to local historical crimes.

  And in the past, I might have been peripherally involved in a crime or two.

  A blue Mustang with flashing lights screeched to a halt by the park. An Amazon with short blond hair emerged and surveyed the scene, fists on the hips of her tight pantsuit.

  My shoulders hunched.

  “If the police are still there,” Leo said, “I can come and bring the file.”

  Leery, I eyed the newcomer, Slate’s partner Detective Laurel Hammer. “Uh, no thanks. That’s okay.”

  “Are those sirens? The cow’s not still on fire, is it?”

  “No, it’s out. There mustn’t be much happening tonight, so the entire fire and police departments are here.”

  Laurel spotted me. Nostrils flaring, she stormed across the remains of the cow.

  Discretion being the better part of valor, I hustled toward my mother, who was speaking with Detective Slate beside the gazebo.

  “Kosloski!” Laurel shouted. “Halt!”

  My mother turned.

  I kept moving, head down, phone pressed to my ear. “Gotta go. I’ll tell Slate to expect that email.” I hung up.

  “Leo’s going to email you the video file from the webcam,” I said brightly. “I told him it was urgent.”

  Slate nodded.

  “Kosloski!”

  My mother waved. “Over here, Detective Hammer.”

  “I can see where you are,” Laurel snarled. “What I don’t understand is why your daughter didn’t stop when I told her to.”

  “Oh,” my mother said, “Madelyn never does what she’s told anymore. It’s strange, since she was such a well-behaved child.”

  A muscle beat in Laurel’s jaw. “What happened?”

  “Mr. William Eldrich is dead.” Slate pointed to the body with his pen. “Apparently killed by one of the Christmas Cow attackers. Mrs. Kosloski was in the middle of telling me what she witnessed. We’ve got webcam footage being emailed to the station. Mrs. Kosloski, would you mind repeating what you told me?”

  My mother nodded, her silver earrings swaying. “Certainly. As you know, the Christmas Cow is a long-standing tradition in San Benedetto and a tribute to our sister city in Sweden. Only they have a giant goat. I’m sure you also know that nearly every year someone sets our cow on fire.”

  Laurel shifted, scowling.

  “Except for that year it got hit by the RV and knocked into the creek,” I said, enjoying the history because Laurel was not. She already knew the legend of the Christmas Cow. The whole state did.

  “And the cow survived ’86, ’98, ’04, and ’05,” my mom said.

  Three police cars roared by and came to a stop. The uniformed officers leapt out and converged on us.

  “The body is on the rear gazebo steps,” Slate said to them. “You know what to do.”

  The uniformed cops nodded and hurried to the gazebo.

  “And tonight?” Laurel prompted.

  My mother drew a long, shuddering breath. “Mr. Eldrich, who’s the president of the Dairy Association, and I were guarding the Christmas Cow. We’d agreed to man opposite sides for better coverage. I was near the street. He took the creek side, thinking any potential arsonists might attack from the direction of the high school.” Her breath hitched. “We were both right. They came from all directions, yelling and whooping and shooting flaming arrows. The monsters were everywhere! There was nothing I could do to stop them. We were fools to try,” she said, mournful.

  “But you had time to call your daughter,” Slate said.

  I shot him a dark look. What was he implying? This was my mother, President of Ladies Aid he was talking about!

  “I’d begun dialing right before the attack began. Madelyn was late—”

  Laurel snorted.

  “—and I wondered what had happened to her. Then the arrows started flying, and all I could think was to tell her to stay away.”

  “When was the last time you saw Mr. Eldrich alive?” Slate asked.

  My mom’s cheeks pinked. “Our shift began at ten o’clock. He was late. I think he arrived around ten thirty. I’m afraid I was rather severe with him.”

  “You argued?” Laurel asked sharply.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Oh, no, Madelyn,” my mother said. “We had strong words.”

  My stomach bottomed. What was she doing? You never tell the cops you had a motive to kill someone. Not that anyone could seriously think my mother was involved, especially not anyone as smart as Detective Slate.

  “He thought being president of the Dairy Association meant he didn’t have to pitch in on projects like these,” my mother said. “But when you’re president, it’s important to set a good example. If you don’t care about the project, then why should you expect anyone else to? Unfortunately, Bill had such an unpleasant attitude that I didn’t explain my philosophy as calmly as I could have.”

  “How did you explain it?” Laurel asked.

  “What does it matter?” I asked. “My mom didn’t shoot an arrow through him because he was late for guard duty.”

  Laurel eyed me. “All right, Kosloski. Why don’t you come over here and tell me what you saw?”

  Now they were separating the witnesses? I knew what this meant. Laurel thought my mother might actually have something to do with the murder. I shifted my weight and something cracked beneath my foot. I lifted my tennis shoe. A broken arrow lay in the straw, the wood cracked like a number two pencil after the SATs.

  Whoops. “Sorry,” I said.

  Laurel growled, stepping closer.

  “Miss Kosloski was with me,” Slate said, his tone mild.

  Laurel sucked in her cheeks and took a step backward.

  “Her truck was stalled on the side of the road,” he said. “I’d pulled over to assist when the call came in from her mother. We drove here together.”

  “Maddie!” a woman shouted.

  Laurel hissed, “Finkielkraut.”

  I turned. One of my best friends, Adele Nakamoto, was hurrying across the park. Her boyfriend, Dieter Finkielkraut, loped beside her. The two were a classic example of opposites attracting: Adele’s parents owned a vineyard; she owned a hoity-toity tea room, which had the misfortune of being next to my low-brow paranormal museum; and she had a penchant for Jackie Kennedy-style suits, though tonight she was dressed like a pink snow bunny in a furry parka and white jeans. Dieter was a shaggy-haired, devil-may-care contractor, who worked to ski and ran a bookie business on the side.

  My eyes narrowed. D
ieter specialized in odd bets, such as when and if the Christmas Cow would burn. No wonder they’d turned up.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” Laurel said. “Fancy finding you here, Finkielkraut.”

  He grinned and saluted with one finger.

  “There’s smoke drifting down Main Street,” Adele said. “I thought my tea room might be on fire. Maddie, what are you doing here? Are you all right?”

  “My mom was on Christmas Cow duty.”

  “Oh no!” Adele’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Kosloski, were you hurt? You’re covered in soot.”

  “Am I?” My mom brushed off her pressed jeans. “No, I’m fine, Adele. Thank you for asking.”

  Laurel smiled unpleasantly. “It’s nearly three a.m. What were you two doing on Main Street? Nothing’s open at this hour.”

  Dieter looped a muscular arm around Adele. “We just got back from Tahoe.”

  “On a Thursday morning,” Laurel said, voice flat and disbelieving.

  “It was so romantic,” Adele said, her breath visible in the chill night air. “We snowshoed through the forest at night and picnicked in a clearing overlooking the lake.”

  And even though it was totally inappropriate for me to feel a twinge of jealousy, I did. It had only been two months since my boyfriend Mason and I broke up. I’d gotten past the hurt, but I was keenly aware of my single status.

  Slate cleared his throat. “All right. I need to speak with Mrs. Kosloski alone. Laurel?”

  Laurel marched the rest of us across the street, and we dutifully lined up beside my mother’s butter-colored Lincoln. After pinning us in place with a glare, she strode back across the park toward the gazebo.

  “Wow,” Adele said. “The police are really taking this year’s cow burning seriously.”

  “That’s because it’s more than arson,” I said in a low voice. “The other guard, Mr. Eldrich from the Dairy Association, was killed.”

  Adele gasped.

  Dieter hugged her shoulders more tightly. “Killed?”

  “They attacked with flaming arrows,” I said. “Mr. Eldrich was hit.”

  “Oh my God.” Adele pressed a hand to her mouth. “Your mother could have been killed. I always thought the annual Christmas Cow shenanigans were funny. But this is terrible. We knew Mr. Eldrich.”

  “We did?” I asked blankly. I’d spent most of my adult life overseas, only coming home last year. I was still getting reacquainted with my hometown.

  “Remember?” Adele said. “We took a school trip to visit his dairy farm. Harper got to milk a cow.”

  “Oh, right.” I’d gotten chased through a field by a cow, scrambled over a fence to escape, caught my shirt on a post, and exposed myself to the entire fifth grade. No wonder I’d blotted out the memory. “Did he have any family?”

  Adele shook her head. “Not anymore. His wife died five years ago. They never had children.”

  “It must have been an accident,” Dieter muttered. “Kids with arrows, lots of chaos …”

  “Dieter,” I said, “were you taking bets on the cow this year?”

  He glanced toward the gazebo and Laurel and the milling cops. “I can’t talk about it here.”

  I crossed my arms. “Dieter—”

  “I’ve kept Adele out too late as it is. She’s got to open the tea room in the morning. Come on, Adele. Let me get you home.”

  “We can’t leave Maddie here alone,” Adele said.

  “No,” I said, “it’s okay. I’m not alone. My mom’s here. You and Dieter go on.” I gave her what I hoped was a significant look: And wheedle what you can from him about the Christmas Cow betting.

  She nodded and yawned. “I’ll see you in the morning. If you need anything, call.”

  “Thanks.”

  They piled into Dieter’s rickety pickup and drove off, tools and construction equipment rattling in the bed.

  Turning toward the park again, I watched and waited. Watched and waited while Slate interrogated my mother. Watched and waited while the cops unrolled yellow police tape around the gazebo. Watched and waited and felt Laurel’s gaze on me the whole time. She and I had a history that went back to junior high. And though I wanted to repair it—we were both adults now—everything I’d tried had made things worse.

  My mother walked across the park toward me and I straightened off her Lincoln. If they weren’t taking her into the station for questioning, then she wasn’t a serious suspect. But who could really suspect my mom, president of the San Benedetto Ladies Aid Society, mother of three, and doer of good deeds?

  “Where’s your truck?” she asked.

  “Stalled on Euclid Road by Rift Vineyards.”

  “Stalled? Your father’s truck never stalls.” She pursed her lips. “But thank goodness it did or you would have been here on time. You might have been hurt too.”

  “I don’t need that kind of good luck.”

  Her jaw tightened. “Have you called for a tow?”

  “I was about to when Detective Slate drove up. And then you called and we drove here together.”

  She patted my shoulder. “The detective’s a good man. Get in. I’ll drive you to your truck and we’ll wait for a tow together.”

  “You don’t have to wait with me. You must be exhausted.”

  She unlocked the doors and walked to the driver’s side. “Actually, I feel strangely exhilarated.”

  “Exhilarated?” I slid inside.

  “And angry. This will not stand.”

  Uneasy, I twisted the seat belt. “What won’t stand?”

  “The attack on the cow. The murder. I’ve had enough. It’s one thing for people to kill each other in Sacramento, but this is San Benedetto. The reason people live here is because it’s a nice, quiet sort of place without big city problems.”

  “I doubt people in big cities like crime any more than we do.”

  “But don’t you see what’s happening?” My mom started the car and we glided from the curb.

  “Kids set the Christmas Cow on fire, like they did last year and the year before that. Flaming arrows probably seemed a fun twist. The cow’s such a big target that even if you don’t know what you’re doing—and I’ll bet none of those gingerbread men did—someone is bound to hit it. It’s horrible that one went astray and hit Mr. Eldrich, but it was an accident,” I said, trying to convince myself. Knobs of anxiety formed in my stomach. It had been an accident, right?

  “That was no accident, Madelyn.”

  I edged sideways on the front seat and pressed my back against the door, the better to study her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Santa Claus.”

  My eyebrows scrunched together. “Santa Claus?”

  “Bill had enemies. When you’re the president of an organization like the Dairy Association … or Ladies Aid for that matter … you’re bound to attract them. But Bill delighted in rubbing people the wrong way.”

  “Yeah, but accidents do happen to annoying people. And what does that have to do with Santa Claus?”

  “All the other attackers were dressed as gingerbread men. Why add a Santa?” My mother piloted the car beneath the adobe arch. The distance between the low brick buildings grew wider.

  “Maybe the costume shop ran out of gingerbread men.” Did San Benedetto have a costume shop? Would the Christmas Cow attackers have been stupid enough to rent their costumes?

  “Good point. I’ll have to figure out where the costumes came from.”

  “What do you mean, you’ll have to figure out?” My voice jumped an octave.

  “You’ve taught me a thing or two since you’ve been home.”

  “I have?” I gripped the seat belt across my chest.

  “I’ve always had confidence in your ability to unravel any problem. Why, look at what you’ve done with that paranormal museum. And you’ve d
one a marvelous job solving all those murders.”

  I squirmed. “I wouldn’t go so far as marvelous.”

  “But tonight a man was killed under my watch. Mine. Enough is enough.”

  “Detective Slate knows what he’s doing. And the police have resources you don’t.”

  “But I have resources they don’t.”

  “You do?” I squeaked, not liking the direction this conversation was going.

  She didn’t respond, her knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

  A tense silence filled the car.

  The Lincoln purred along the grid of roads, its headlights turning the shadows of the grapevines into wraiths. She pulled up behind my red pickup.

  “I’ll call for a tow,” I said. I should have called while we were driving, but I’d been too busy thinking of ways to dissuade my mom from doing what I feared she was going to do—play amateur crime-solver. And yes, I’d been guilty of exactly the same thing in the past, but it hadn’t been by choice.

  “Why don’t you try the ignition again?” she asked. “You never know with these old trucks.”

  Too tired to argue, I brushed aside the detritus from my overturned purse and turned the key in the ignition.

  The truck roared to life.

  I pursed my lips. What. The. Heck?

  My mother slammed shut the hood of the truck and walked to my open door. “At least that’s one problem solved. I’ll follow you home. Just to make sure it doesn’t stall out again.”

  “Thanks,” I said, puzzled. I’d still have to take the pickup into the garage. It had stalled for a reason.

  She followed me to my garage apartment beside my aunt’s house and waited in the driveway until I’d unlocked the upstairs door and trudged inside.

  Through the window, I watched her drive away, a roller-coastery, fluttery feeling in my stomach. It didn’t take a fortune teller to predict life was about to go sideways.

  three

  I yawned, flipped the Closed sign to Open, and slumped behind the paranormal museum’s glass counter. Frost laced the windows overlooking the sidewalk, empty of shoppers at nine a.m.

  Grabbing a feather duster from a hook beneath the register, I did a quick walkthrough, making sure I hadn’t missed anything that needed cleaning. But no spider webs hung from the glossy black crown molding. No dust bunnies congregated on the checkerboard linoleum floor. No haunted photos tilted, askew, on the wall. The secret bookcase door was firmly closed.