“Thank you all for attending the opening night of our new Cursed Objects Special Collection.”
Applause sounded, filling the two-story space. Kalia waited for it to die down before she continued. “This would not have been possible without the hard work and dedication of a young man whose life was tragically cut short.”
A sympathetic murmur rose from the crowd.
Kalia gazed out over their heads. “Geoffrey Ibsen conceived of the collection, and I am proud to bring his vision to fruition, along with my colleague Quentin Richards and the Magical Artifacts Museum’s director, Dr. Oscar Pendergast.”
Another round of applause sounded. I glanced around for Quentin but didn’t spot him. Maybe he was behind the curtain putting the finishing touches on the collection.
Peter dipped his face close to my ear. “Do you see the director?”
I rose on my toes and looked around again, this time trying to spot the old man. I shook my head. “No. He didn’t seem like a huge fan of the collection—maybe he’s boycotting opening night?”
Peter’s brows pinched together. “Good point.” He glanced behind us toward the exit. “We may have to go look for him at home.”
“Well.” Kalia’s nervous smile faltered for a moment before she raised her chin and swept her arms to the side. “Without further ado, it is my pleasure to present to you the Cursed Objects Collection.” Her wand flashed and the curtain lurched up, disappearing into the ceiling.
Applause filled the air as the many cases and displays were revealed. A woman’s scream pierced the air. The clapping faltered. Peter and I exchanged concerned looks as the crowd around us rushed forward. I scanned the collection.
A young man near us pointed. “Is that part of the display?”
His date pressed a gloved hand to her heart. “It looks so real.”
I followed their gazes to the cursed death chair that hovered a few feet above the ground. When I’d seen it the other day it’d been empty, but now a body sat slumped in it. My stomach clenched as I recognized the balding head and tweed suit—the director.
Kalia shoved her way through the crowd and reached up to take the old man’s limp hand. The movement made the man’s head loll to the side, revealing vacant eyes and a pale face. Kalia lurched back with a shriek. “He’s dead!”
Well. There went our prime suspect.
24
FORCED OUT
“We’ve got to keep everyone from panicking!” Inspector Bon shouted, his voice cutting through even the din from the anxious crowd of hundreds in the main room of the museum.
A few nearby officers shot him side-eyed glances.
I leaned closer to Peter and muttered, “Screaming to stay calm is definitely the way to do that.”
His mouth twitched before he forced himself to keep a neutral expression. Peter had immediately called in backup and now the museum had been sealed, with all the attendees of opening night cordoned off inside. With Dr. Pendergast, the director, murdered, we had hundreds of potential suspects.
“Now, now, no need to raise your voice.” The new chief laced her thumbs through the belt loops of her trousers, then gazed up at the dead body through the huge lenses of her wire-rimmed glasses. “The body here”—the director still sat slumped over in the hovering, cursed chair—“no one’s touched it or moved it?”
Peter shook his head. “Not after he was discovered.” He gently tilted his head toward Kalia, who hugged her arms tight around herself. She angled away from the director’s macabrely bobbing body. Quentin stood beside her. “The curator, Ms. Magaro here, touched him when she first found him.”
Chief McCray tugged her lips to the side as she looked at Kalia. “You discovered your boss like this?”
Kalia nodded. She darted a quick glance at McCray.
McCray clicked her tongue. “Real shock that must’ve been, hm?”
“It was.” Kalia’s voice came out wooden.
Daisy, who sat at Peter’s feet, wagged her bushy tail. Tawny hairs scattered over Peter’s shiny black shoes. Truth.
Guess that pretty much eliminated her as our killer. If she’d killed and placed the director in the chair, it would hardly have been a shock to find him there.
McCray elbowed Bon and barked out a laugh. “Bet you wouldn’t mind finding your boss like that, eh?”
Bon shot her a horrified look. “What do you—why would you—?”
She clapped him hard on the back. “Oh relax, Bon! I’m just joshin’ you!” She made a face and thumbed at him. “He always this serious?”
Peter and I exchanged looks—was she talking to us?
But she moved on—apparently the question was rhetorical. “Any idea how he ended up dead in that thing?” She jerked her head towards the chair. “I don’t see any obvious cuts, bruises, or signs of violence. Probably killed by magic.”
Bon and Peter nodded their agreement.
Kalia glanced over. Her face scrunched up in pain and disgust as her eyes landed on the director and she turned away again. She shook her head. “No idea how he got there.”
Daisy wagged her tail. True.
A commotion sounded—shouts and the scuffle of feet. “—just want to ask a few questions!”
I leaned to the side and looked past all the displays of cursed objects toward the entrance to the east wing where the curtain had been. Madeline L’Orange struggled against two officers who dragged her back to the main room.
A scroll hovered by her head and she looked our way. “Come on, this is so juicy!” She raised her voice and shouted, “Was he killed by a curse? Care to make an official statement?”
“Get her out of here,” Bon grumbled. He shoved his hands in his pockets and hiked his shoulders up by his big ears.
The officers dragged Madeline back to the main room of the museum with the rest of the attendees—now witnesses and potential suspects.
Quentin Richards let out a little whimper and Kalia rubbed his back. “It was the curse! I know it.” His chin trembled as he eyed the director’s body. “The curses are coming for us all.”
He devolved into tears, and Kalia wrapped him in a hug.
Daisy wagged her
