The director’s eyes widened, and moving faster than I’d have guessed possible for an octogenarian, he snatched it away. He threw it in a drawer of his desk before slamming the drawer closed.
Peter lifted a brow. “You know we can get a warrant to look at that.”
The old man scowled at him. “Then get a warrant.”
Wow. So cooperative. He could have just taped a “guilty” sign on his forehead and gotten it over with.
Peter cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Dr. Pendergast, I understand that you didn’t agree with the direction the victim was taking the museum, but did you understand the need to revive attendance numbers?”
The old man scoffed. “You know, I have always cared about this museum. About history and knowledge and furthering our body of research.” He sighed through his nose. “Never been one for caring about the business of it all that much. If the public can’t see the value of what we do here, then typhoon take them, for all I care.”
My eyes slid to Peter. This guy didn’t mince words.
“Do you have an alibi for last night around three to four in the morning, when Geoffrey’s believed to have been killed?” Peter watched the old man closely.
Dr. Pendergast blinked, a deep crease between his brows. “Now—hold on just a minute. I was—I was home. Yes, I went home and went to bed.”
Daisy cocked her head. I’m getting a mixed read.
Peter nodded. “Can anyone corroborate this?”
Pain flashed across the old man’s features. “No. I live alone.” He looked away.
I leaned forward. “Any pets? I’m actually a pet psych—”
“No.” He pressed his lips tight together.
Well, alrighty then.
Peter looked down at his lap, then back at the director. “And we understand you have a key to the museum?”
He snorted. “Of course I do. I’m the director.”
I raised my brows at Peter. “Of course he does.”
He had access to the museum at any time and he hated the victim, but could he have overpowered the young man? I eyed his trembling hand. He seemed pretty frail.
Then again, maybe he surprised Geoffrey and the victim didn’t have time to react? The director could have used magic to hit Geoffrey in the head with one of those ceramic figurines with enough force to kill him. But had he?
The old man took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, then replaced the spectacles and blinked at us. “Why’d you say you’re here again?”
Peter and I exchanged confused looks, and Daisy sniffed the air.
The director frowned, deep creases furrowing his brow. “Who did you say you represent?” His throat bobbed. “I’m afraid we’re not in a position to buy any new pieces currently. Come back next quarter, I’ve got business to get back to.”
I flashed my eyes at Peter and mouthed, “He’s lost it.”
Peter looked at Daisy.
The German shepherd sniffed and sniffed the air, her wet nose twitching, then finally whined. I’m getting a jumbled smell. Not sure whether to call it truth or lie exactly….
I cocked my head. “Director?”
His clouded gaze landed on me.
“Did you kill Geoffrey Ibsen?”
“What?!” He blinked, startled. “Who? No… I don’t remember killing anyone…”
Daisy huffed. It’s useless. I can’t get a clear read on him.
“Thanks so much for your time, Director.” I rose and jerked my head for Daisy and Peter to follow. We quickly left the office, and once in the hall, I spun to face my cop friend.
“He’s senile.” I shrugged. “It’s kinda sad actually, but I bet that’s why Daisy can’t get a clear read.” I gestured at the dog, and she growled at me.
Keep my name out of your mouth.
I rolled my eyes and ignored her. “Pendergast had access and motive—he was having power struggles with the PR guy. Sometimes the elderly experience personality changes when senility strikes, often getting angry and temperamental. I say the guy’s guilty.”
I’d had a case like this once, representing a son whose elderly father was accusing him of trying to rob him. I’d successfully presented the defense that the father was senile, the son just helping manage his finances. In retrospect, my client had creeped me out—I’d probably helped a criminal prey on his elderly father. Go, me.
Yet another example to remind me that my past life as a high-flying lawyer hadn’t been perfect. I’d had to compromise some of my integrity and completely hide my true identity as a shifter from everyone I cared about.
I leveled Peter with an earnest look. A couple weeks ago, I’d told him about my lack of powers but hadn’t been able to tell him about being a shifter. After my encounter with Ludolf last night, it felt like my secrets were coming out left and right. Maybe I should just tell Peter what I was, already. It’d be such a relief… unless he saw shifters the way many magical folk did—as deceitful others.
A grin slowly spread across his face. “What?”
I shook myself. “Nothing.” Aaaand I’d passed up another chance to come clean. What a guppy I was.
He nodded. “I agree with most of what you said, but until we can prove it was the director, we need to keep investigating.”
I gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Alright then, Officer, what next?”
He looked off, thinking it over. “I say we go have a word with Quentin Richards.”
“The archivist who fainted last night? Kalia said she was going to help him set up the cursed objects collection.” I waggled my brows at him. “Think you can handle the spookiness?” I wiggled my fingers and tickled his arm.
Peter chuckled. “I think I’ll survive.”
14
CURSED
Peter and I waited outside the black curtain that cordoned off the cursed objects collection in the east wing and kept it out of view from the public. A moment later, Kalia appeared and barely parted
