Maverick gave him another salute, and we headed up into the museum. I looked around, impressed that there appeared to be a couple dozen patrons milling about the main room. Guess the protestors hadn’t kept them away.
We quickly found Kalia, the curator, and she escorted us back to the director’s office. She looked slightly more rested, but still had bags under her eyes and spoke very little.
I eyed Geoffrey’s door as we passed. It was blocked off with police tape and shimmered with what must be a protective spell. The director’s office was just a few doors further down. Kalia knocked a few times, then spoke through the wood door.
“Dr. Pendergast? It’s Kalia—I’ve got an officer and his—” She glanced back, looking me and Daisy up and down. “—associates here to speak with you.”
“Come in!”
Kalia pushed the door open and motioned for us to enter. I followed Peter and Daisy inside. Guttering candles and a dying fire in the stone fireplace dimly lit the space.
Bookshelves, floor to ceiling, took up three of the four walls, crowded with hundreds of tomes, piles of scrolls, and dusty knickknacks. The director, a small, older man, sat behind a massive wooden desk, barely visible over the stacks of books.
He pushed himself up out of his leather wing back chair and bowed his head in greeting as Kalia introduced us. She gestured at the older man, “This is Dr. Oscar Pendergast, museum director.”
He motioned to the two chairs across the desk from him. “Please, sit.”
Daisy sniffed at a glowing purple fire in a glass case while Peter and I stepped forward. As I came around the side of the leather chair, I stopped short. The seat was piled high with more books. How much did this man read?
Kalia hurried forward and gathered the stack in her arms, then pulled her wand and magicked the others off the seat of Peter’s chair.
“Sorry about that.”
I nodded my thanks and sank into the plush chair.
The director shook a spotted, knobby finger at Kalia as she looked around for a place to put the books. “How’s the attendance out there?” He grinned, licking his lips. “Still bustling?”
She glanced over her shoulder before crouching down and depositing the books on the floor. “It’s fairly busy, yes.”
“Aha!” He shook his finger again. “You see? I told you, didn’t I?” He beamed, triumphant.
Kalia didn’t look up, so the director turned to us. He slammed a slightly trembling hand on his desk, which sent up a puff of dust. “We didn’t need that fancy, know-it-all RP guy.”
“PR,” Kalia quietly corrected.
The director swept a hand, as if brushing it away. “Bah. Whatever it was, nobody needed him. Now that he’s dead, we have more patrons than we’ve had in months!” He rubbed his hands together.
Peter and I exchanged looks. Pretty brazen to talk about a recently murdered employee this way.
Kalia stood and dusted off her hands. “Dr. Pendergast, that’s—an extreme thing to say.”
He lowered himself down into his chair, groaning. The guy had to be in his late eighties.
Kalia sighed and came to stand beside him. “But yes, Geoffrey’s death made the front page of The Conch. Ironically, it’s garnered a lot of attention for the museum. People are saying it’s proof that the cursed objects in our special collection are indeed… cursed.”
I raised a brow. “Aren’t they?”
She shrugged. “If you ask Quentin—our archivist, he’s big into that stuff—he’ll tell you, yes, of course they are.”
Peter leaned forward. “But if we ask you?”
Her throat bobbed. “These would have to be incredibly strong curses to cause death or even bad luck after all this time. Either that, or someone would have to be magically recharging them. They just don’t last this long, really. People like the sensationalism though, and if it helps the museum….” She shrugged again. “Excuse me.” Kalia bowed her head. “I’ve got to get back to helping Quentin setting up the new collection.”
The director curled his lip. “We’re still going through with that abomination?”
She shot him a weary look. “We’ve been over this. It’s what the board wants.”
She started toward the door, then stopped beside me and lowered her voice. “The director—” She glanced at the old man, who studied some scroll over his spectacles. “—he isn’t really himself. Please excuse his seeming coldness. He’s been my mentor for decades. I know him. He’s a good person. It’s just…” She licked her lips with another quick glance at him. “Things are changing and change is hard for him.”
Peter nodded. “Thank you.”
She patted the back of my chair, then left the office, closing the door behind her.
13
MUSEUM DIRECTOR
Silence filled the cluttered office except for the crackling of the fire. It dragged on until Peter and I exchanged confused looks. He cleared his throat, and the director jumped and looked up from the scroll he’d been reading, as though he’d forgotten we were there.
“Oh. Right. Now what was it that you wanted?” He set the parchment down and looked between us.
Peter scooted forward in his chair. “We’re here to ask you about the murder of your employee, Geoffrey Ibsen.”
Dr. Pendergast snorted. “Not my employee, I didn’t hire him.”
“Who did?”
The director leaned back in his leather wingback. “The board brought him in. Worst decision they ever made.”
I arched a brow. Well, the director certainly had motive. He clearly despised the victim.
“Really?” Peter frowned. “But I thought you just said attendance was up. Highest it’s been in months, right?”
The director barked out a laugh that ended in a coughing fit. Once he regained himself, he sniffed. “The board was pleased.” He rolled his eyes. “They were fooled by all his fancy terms and promises—who knew what he was ever talking about? No.”
He shook his head, his bushy white brows pulled together in a deep frown. “No. He wanted to turn my reputable, respected museum into a curio shop for the macabre and ridiculous.”
As I thought over
