Daffi frowned. “I’m not sure. The last time I saw her was yesterday, during the… uhm… meeting we had.”
She didn’t want to mention it had been a disciplinary meeting, not in front of the watcher anyway. But Whipsnide knew what she’d been about to say, and her smile split like a killer clown’s.
“Yes. We have had some… issues with Miss McGee. Haven’t we?” she asked, her voice sickly sweet.
“Really now?”
If the sergeant had been a dog, his ears would have pricked up. Daffi’s heart sank. A disciplinary combined with her being the last person to see Sybil alive didn’t look good at all.
“There was an incident in my exhibit area,” she explained in a calm and professional voice, getting it out there before Whipsnide could. “A magical creature was inadvertently released, and I took appropriate action to stop members of the public from being harmed.”
The sergeant had his notebook on his lap now, lips pursed as he tried to juggle the tea cup and saucer as well as make notes.
“So, there was an incident at the museum prior to Miss Bulcock’s mur… unfortunate demise?” he corrected himself mid-sentence as though remembering that reminding the coworkers and possible grieving friends of the victim that she had been murdered was actually a bad idea.
“Correct,” Ms. Whipsnide’s voice cut through the air like… a thin leather thing. Prim. Proper. Sharp. “Due to Miss McGee’s negligence with her exhibit, a magical creature of fae origin was released in the museum. Not only that, but Miss McGee then did not follow correct museum procedure for such an incident.”
Daffi kept her face level, neutral, as the sergeant scribbled in his notebook. How this had anything to do with Sybil’s murder she had no idea. The fae didn’t use hellfire, and dragons couldn’t use machetes… if the fae dragon had been responsible, Sybil would have resembled a somewhat charred chew toy, not had her throat cut.
She focused on Wanker’s picture above the fireplace. Her gaze narrowed on a pin. She’d never really spent much time studying it, but she was sure it hadn’t been there before. It looked like a lopsided duck. She frowned, searching her memory. She’d seen that before somewhere. She was sure of it.
Then her expression cleared. Old Wanker had been a Butterknife.
The Order of the Hidden Butterknife (such names were the somewhat unfortunate and inevitable result of a drunken “design by committee” naming process) were a “secret” society set up by Merlin to hunt down the bloodline of Morgan La Fay. Rumor had it that the enmity between the pair was less to do with anything about Arthur Pendragon and far more to do with the fact they’d been a couple once. Merlin had gotten caught shagging a maid and Morgan had thrown him out. When she’d refused to take him back, he’d completely thrown his teddies out of the pram and they’d become mortal enemies.
“Miss Bulcock brought this… lapse to my attention and was present during the disciplinary meeting. She left the room just after Miss McGee. And that—” Ms. Whipsnide’s voice broke, and she dabbed artfully at the corners of her eyes. Large crocodile tears rolled down her cheeks in a performance worthy of the stage. “That… was the last time anyone saw poor Sybil alive.”
“Hmmm… motive and opportunity,” the sergeant mused.
Daffi thought quickly. This was not good, not good at all.
“Neither,” she argued. “Miss Bulcock was only present at the disciplinary. She has no actual power to level any reprimand. That lies solely with Ms. Whipsnide. And if the murder occurred between six and seven p.m., I was on my way to Daphne’s Bakery over on Friar’s Clunge. I have receipts and passed several cameras, both mortal and magical, on the way home so my movements can be corroborated.”
Whipsnide’s tearful expression slipped and she looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp.
“Well,” the older witch huffed, “I’m afraid this is the last straw, Miss McGee. I would have allowed the incident with the fae beast to slide but insubordination and being questioned by the watch over the murder of our beloved Sybil because you were jealous…” She sobbed again, all for the benefit of the sergeant. Daffi doubted she ever let anything as crass as actual feelings affect her cold, blackened heart. “… I’m afraid I can’t tolerate that on my staff. I have to let you go. You’re fired.”
7
She’d been sacked. Actually sacked. All because the watch had asked her a few questions. The sergeant hadn’t even taken her down to the watch house, despite Whipsnide throwing her not just under the bus, but the plane, train and tram as well.
Daffi had barely had time to process the fact that she’d been sacked from the museum, a “helpful” spell from Whipsnide packing up all her personal belongings and dumping them in a box on the front steps as she was frog-marched out by Whipsnide herself and Iggy, the gargoyle on the museum’s security team.
She hadn’t bothered arguing. As museum director, Whipsnide’s word was law and it was well-known that Iggy thought the sun shone out of her proverbial. So there was no point appealing to him. She just took her box and left, back ramrod straight as she walked away from the job she loved.
The box didn’t contain much. Just a cute mug with a cat in a witch’s hat, a small plastic succulent (she’d managed to kill every plant she’d ever bought) and three notebooks with her research. Not much for three years of work.
Fortunately, Garlick had had enough presence of mind to get Oberon and himself out of the building, and they trailed behind her as she stalked home. She didn’t talk, didn’t want to talk right now. Not at the moment, and both boys—fae and feline—seemed intelligent enough to realize that. Either that or their survival instincts had kicked in at the
