Chapter 10
10
Fewer people than usual sit in the cafe frequented by the local teenagers. Most are at school and not taking unauthorized time out in the pretense of furthering a history assignment.
The curator waits at a table in the far corner of the cafe, intently reading a paperback book, a China cup and a silver teapot in front of him. He finally responded to my repeated messages and arranged to meet me at 3PM. We're late since Rowan, and I took our chance to return the box to the closed museum.
Rowan reminded me the curator might not wait around for long if we're late, so I resisted the temptation to snoop around the museum and exhibits to find clues. We don't return the gems—I've decided I'd like the person who hid them to know their spoils are missing. On the short walk between the museum and café, I clutch the small pouch in my pocket and consider how the ordinary jewels are connected. Why did whoever collected them add magic stones to their stash?
The clues will come from the curator.
The pissed curator whose ruddy cheeks grow redder when I walk into the cafe with Rowan. Has the man visited the museum earlier today and noticed the box missing before we replaced it?
I initially insisted I should meet the curator alone in order to keep the others out of this part of the investigation, but the guys unanimously voted that Rowan should accompany me 'just in case'. We're all aware that this 'just in case' isn't a worry about my safety or the curator's. Just in case my particular style of questioning ends any chance the curator will cooperate.
Begrudgingly, I agreed.
"The man isn't happy," comments Rowan as my eyes lock with the curator's. "Tread carefully."
"In these?" I gesture at my heavy black boots.
"Ha ha, you know what I mean. Don't trample over the situation, Violet-style."
With a nod, I stride to the table and slide into the booth seat opposite the curator, the red-faced man tracking me as I do. He tucks a tasseled bookmark into his book and places it on the table.
"You're late," he snaps. "I almost left the café as I believed this was another prank."
"I did send a message explaining we were running late," I say and attempt a sweet smile.
Rowan slides onto the seat beside me, and the curator glances between us. "Where's the mole? Hand it over."
"We don't have the mole," I reply, and the curator darkly mutters something and stands. "But I will find and return the stolen item. Items —I intend to find your pocket watch too."
A muscle in his jaw twitches. At the mention of the watch? So far, no mention of the box or jewels, and this would be the perfect time to tell—or accuse—us.
"You know where the mole is?" he asks sharply.
"No. But I have excellent detective skills and a friend with connections." I place both hands on the table. "Normally, I solve murders or disappearances of the living, but I'm confident I can solve this mysterious theft for you."
He sneers at me, still standing. "Of course you can, Violet Blackwood."
"So, you do know who I am?"
"I know your father stole many of my exhibits."
I ignore him. "The police evidently aren't offering to help you. I will." Slowly, the curator sits. "But don't think this is a benevolent act as I am not a benevolent person. If I find your mole, I want your help."
"With what?"
"Our history project. We're researching the town's foundation."
"Then spend more time reading the history books," he retorts. "I don't want you inside my museum again."
"Why? What did we do?" asks Rowan, a little too sharply for somebody attempting to hide a recent theft.
"I've consulted with the museum's Historical Society committee, and we've agreed no more minors in the building."
"We're eighteen," I say. "Adults. Legally speaking."
He huffs. "No students ."
"Doesn't that make your museum pointless?" I ask.
"Excuse me?"
"How will you fund the operation of your museum without patrons?" I again watch for signs of unease, but his expression doesn't change. "Because you're hardly a key attraction for the few tourists who visit this town."
"Violet," whispers Rowan, then addresses the curator. "The local history books aren't as valuable as the knowledge I'm sure you have inside the museum. We'd love the chance to look at the town records."
"Try the library."
"No. The original records displayed in the museum. We wouldn't take the books, just look at them with you there." Rowan smiles. "Honestly, you'd help us out a lot."
The curator twists the teacup around in his hands. "How do I know you're not the one holding the mole to ransom?"
I blink. "Ransom?"
The curator regards us both silently. "You either have good poker faces or you don't know. I received a note asking for money in return for the mole. The thieves are threatening to destroy the item."
The curator takes a folded sheet of A4 white paper from his jacket pocket and puts it on the table. Typed black letters cover the top of the page.
We have the mole. If you want him back in one piece pay us ￡100. Wednesday evening. Visitor center. Leave the cash in the box outside. If we see anyone with you, we'll destroy the mole.
Tomorrow evening.
"That's good," I say, pulling out my phone to photograph the note.
"Good?" splutters the curator. "That's blackmail!"
" Good because this means the mole remains intact despite his recent adventurous lifestyle," I reply. "Have you informed the police?"
"No. They think I'm a joke. That this is a joke. When I originally reported the mole as missing, I heard the desk sergeant whispering to the officer while showing them the report I made, and they were clearly amused."
"But blackmail is a serious issue. They'll listen to that," says Rowan.
"Tell the police and risk the hooligans destroying the mole? No."
There's something I can't put my finger on what's happening here. Are all museum curators obsessive about their exhibits?
"Does the mole have sentimental value? You're rather intense regarding its whereabouts, but not bothered by the pocket watch."
"Because the mole is valuable, and an important historical item. The watch is commonplace. Today's town council may not think the museum is worth investing in, but I will not lose more exhibits. My great-grandfather was an important member of the town back in the day, and the original curator. They would've respected him ." The unsettling darkness fills his eyes again.
"Are you a Redridge?" asks Rowan.
"No. My name is Wright."
I tap the table. "Do you know any Redridges?"
"No. Why? Kids stole the mole and according to your 'social media', they still have it. If the family wanted their mole returning, they only need ask."
"And the blackmailers asked for ￡100?" asks Rowan.
"Why? Did you want to charge a fee to match? That's blackmail too!"
I glower. "I am not base enough to demand money, nor does that interest us. I shall deal with the situation. I'm aware the museum struggles to raise funds; I've no desire to take any from you."
The curator's eyes narrow, and again, I reach out for his thoughts. What do my words prompt inside his head? Thoughts of hidden gems? Missing exhibits? All I can pick up are images of the mole. If only his mind weren't so sticky, I could poke around inside for the truth. Is he connected to a witch and influenced mentally?
I drum my fingers on the table. "We would attend the exchange location at the time specified. No money will change hands, but the mole will soon be in ours."
"And what would you do about the individuals involved in the theft?" he asks.
I consider this a moment. "I always ensure people are treated in the manner they deserve."
Why does he look so doubtful? I lean across the table. "If you know who I am, you're aware of my reputation. I may not be a killer, but a lot of people are wary of my unpredictability ."
He pauses, glancing around the café. "And if I agree to this?"
"Then we have a mutually beneficial situation." I smile.
"She likes to correct wrongs, Mr. Wright." Rowan chuckles, amused by himself.
"I do." I stand. "I won't shake hands on our deal as I dislike physical contact with all but a select few, but rest assured your mole will return to its rightful place before the week ends."
As he agrees, the curator looks at me as if he just made a bargain with the devil.
But this man knows more. Either he hid the jewels in a locked museum exhibit, or the alleged supes who stole the watch returned, unlocked the cabinet, and put them there.
Why?
Whoever did this, the curator never mentioned the missing box; therefore, he didn't visit the museum before we did today. But how long before somebody looks inside and discovers the missing jewels? And is that somebody the curator—or a witch hiding magical items?