I smirked. “Nice low-key burn, Peter.”
“I didn’t mean to—they’re just—”
I chuckled. “Hideous?”
He shrugged and grinned. “Pretty much.”
I shook my head. “I was thinking the same thing.”
I rose on my toes and looked around. “Do you see anyone?”
Peter, a good head taller than me, scanned the room. “No.”
Daisy, nose to the marble floor, threaded through the displays, pausing only to give some boxes of chocolate a quick second sniff. She stopped at the tall checkout counter in the back with the gold till on top. I smell someone.
Fairly confident no one was around, I woofed, then whined. You sure you’re not just smelling yourself?
Daisy growled. You should talk!
I barked. That’s the beauty, Daisy—I can talk. Unlike some people.
She bared her teeth at me.
Peter pulled his scroll out of his breast pocket and scanned his notes from the other night. He cleared his throat and called out, “Hello? Mrs. Abernathy?”
An older lady popped up from behind the counter, and I jumped. She blinked rapidly at us, pink spots forming on her pale cheeks. “Oh, my.”
Oh, my, indeed. Had she heard me barking and whining like a lunatic?
The woman patted at her perfectly coiffed white curls and smoothed her cardigan down. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we had patrons.” Her eyes landed on Peter’s uniform and lingered. “Officer.” Her flat tone implied she was less than thrilled to see us.
16
MRS. ABERNATHY
“You’re Mrs. Abernathy?”
I followed Peter to the back of the shop.
The older woman, probably in her late seventies, nodded. “I am.” Her eyes landed on Daisy, right below her on the other side of the counter, and she gasped, a hand pressed to her chest. “No pets allowed!”
I smirked as Daisy’s ears flattened.
Peter sidled up beside his dog and ruffled her head. “Daisy’s actually my partner, not a pet.”
The pup licked his hand, but Mrs. Abernathy just huffed and pulled the neck of her cardigan tight.
I came up next to Peter and leaned my elbows on the counter, peeking over to the other side. What had she been doing back there? Shelves under the counter overflowed with paper gift bags stamped with the museum’s logo, tissue paper, and a couple of leather-bound ledgers.
And right behind the counter, against the back wall, sat a mouse hole in the baseboard. I squinted and leaned forward. Something shiny glinted just inside it—though I couldn’t make out what it was.
I drummed my fingers on the wood. I really needed to find that mouse to ask it if it had seen anything that might help us catch Geoffrey’s killer.
“Mrs. Abernathy, I’m Officer Peter Flint.” He made introductions as his scroll moved to hover beside his head and his quill magically appeared to take notes. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Geoffrey Ibsen.”
She crossed one arm over her stomach and fingered a necklace with her other hand. “He died because of the curse.”
Daisy growled. Lie.
I smirked. Off to a good start already.
Peter glanced down at his dog, then at Mrs. Abernathy. “Please be honest with us.”
She let her necklace drop, and I froze as I recognized the symbol—the tiny trident rune plastered all over the protesters' signs outside. Was she a member of the Temple of Purity? If so, how did she feel about working for the museum when she might normally be outside with her spiritual brothers and sisters, protesting it?
She tapped a finger emphatically down on the counter. “It isn’t wholesome to display such objects! That boy didn’t have the proper respect—he should have never brought those cursed objects into this museum.”
Daisy cocked her head and whined. I’m getting mixed readings—some truth, some lie.
There was a lot of that going around in this museum. Was she angry enough about the lack of wholesomeness to kill over it? Seemed like quite the contradiction, but people were capable of pretty twisted logic.
I pointed at her necklace. “Did you have anything to do with the protest outside?”
Peter followed my gaze, then shot me a surprised look. He grinned and gave me an approving nod.
The old woman scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Daisy growled. Lie.
“My canine partner here can smell lies.” Peter leveled the old woman a hard look. “I’ll ask you again—please be honest with us.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, I belong to the Temple of Purity—that’s not a crime.”
“Nope.” I shook my head and played with a display of feathered quills. “But last time I checked, murder is.”
Her expression darkened. “Did I disagree with bringing occult, cursed objects into the museum? Yes. Did I make my views known to that uncaring little upstart, Geoffrey? Yes.”
Daisy’s tail wagged. Truth.
“Did I possibly suggest protesting it to my fellow members?” She looked away. “Yes….”
I rolled my eyes. So she clearly had a lot to do with the protest outside—sounded like she’d practically organized it.
“But did I kill Geoffrey because of my strong moral objections? No! I understand that one’s beliefs and one’s work can sometimes be at odds and one just has to suck it up.”
Daisy’s tail wagged again. Truth.
Peter and I exchanged looks. Was the lady prim and preachy and a pain in the barnacle? Yes. Was she a murderer? Apparently not.
Peter pointed at the display of garish figurines to our right. “This is the figurine used to kill Geoffrey, correct?”
She shrugged. “It’s what I hear.”
“Did you sell him one?”
“Yes.”
I walked over to the display, curious to see them up close. I picked one up and gaped at it. “What is this thing made of? Lead?” I hefted it up and down. Okay, so maybe it wouldn’t take that much force to kill someone after all. I frowned down at it. “From what I know of the victim, I’m surprised he wanted one. Kinda clashed with the rest of his office decor.”
Mrs. Abernathy pursed her lips and looked smug. “I believe he thought it was some kind of peace gesture.”
“Were you at war?” Peter arched a brow.
She sniffed. “He wanted to get rid of half the
