Dead and Gone (Thornwood Academy)

Chapter 17

17

Altering minds, especially humans, is illegal but necessary for Corrie and Alistair. I'd toyed with the idea of messing with Dale's and Kai's heads, too, but I left them alone as they never witnessed events in the house. Well, left them with threats that I'll inform authorities if they mention anything about this evening's illegal activities.

Now, I stand with Leif and Rowan in the darkness opposite the museum building. Leif holds the mole inside his jacket, and Rowan curls his hand around the pouch of jewels in his pocket, including the Redridge gems which we've removed from the manikin's sockets.

I'll give the curator his mole, and in return, he will furnish me with the truth.

Grayson strolls over to us from his stealthy investigation of the museum's perimeter. "Any police presence when you arrived here after leaving Corrie's house?" I ask him.

"No. The curator is alone in the building."

I nod and prepare to cross the street, but Leif catches my arm. "Tell me. When did you figure out the gems are the mole's original eyes?"

"I wasn't a hundred percent sure at first, but when Dale mentioned the collector only wanted the eyes—red gems—things clicked into place." I glance at the mole. "As did the rubies fit into place in the manikin, although I worried the eyes may trigger a spell when I replaced them."

Leif chokes. "But you put them into the mole anyway?"

"Irrelevant. Nothing happened." I tap my lips. "Alistair confirmed to me the gems were hidden in the mole years ago, long before somebody placed them in an ivory box."

"Do you still think that the curator took them?" asks Rowan.

"That's what I can't figure out. How would the curator know the eyes were valuable and not glass? Did he know they had magic properties?"

"Maybe he didn't hide them?" suggests Leif. "Somebody else could have access to the exhibits. Alistair said that he took the watch from an unlocked cabinet."

"But where are the other jewels from?" asks Grayson. "They're not magical—why hide them?"

"I've thought about this a lot." Rowan pats his pocket. "Somebody is removing and hiding gems from other exhibits, not only the mole. We should compare the jewels we have in the pouch to the necklaces and rings in the museum. What if the curator—or whoever—replaced those gems with glass too?"

"Why do that and put them in a box?" asks Grayson.

"Not sure, but I bet the curator has the answer."

"You have a valid theory," I tell Rowan. "Good thinking."

Leif nudges him and mock gasps. "A compliment from Violet!"

I slice Leif a look. "We're wasting time." I gesture across the road. "Let's see what happens when we give the curator his missing mole, and what I see in his mind."

The museum entrance is even less welcoming than the first time, dim and colder since nobody would waste money on heating a place that receives no visitors. The curator waits by the front desk, still dressed in his green jacket and his attitude still suspicious.

Without speaking, he ushers us into a room that resembles a classroom more than a meeting room. Plastic pots containing pencils are set at intervals along a rectangular table, and completed, colorful worksheets with children's names and ages beneath are pinned to the walls.

The curator gestures at us to sit in the child-sized bucket chairs, and I glance at a blank pile of worksheets on the desk. "I do hope you're not requesting we create something decorative. Art is not my strong suit."

Ignoring me, he flicks on the overhead light. "Do you have the mole?"

Leif leans back and crosses his arms. "We do but can't give you it because?—"

"But what ?" interrupts the curator. "You do want money! I'll tell the police about the blackmail. I have evidence."

"Leif." I look at him, and he dutifully pulls the mole from inside his jacket.

The curator moves from his position in the doorway and snatches the stuffed creature from Leif's hand. As he strokes the white fur, his face tinges pink then borders on red. "What happened to the eyes?"

I lean forward. "I was hoping you'd know."

"Me? How would I know? I haven't seen or touched the mole since the hooligans stole it."

"The kids lost the eyes," puts in Leif. "They fell out."

The curator's face turns an even more impressive shade of red as he chokes in indignation. "What?"

"You seem unusually attached to the exhibit," I say. "Perhaps you'd like to explain why you're panicked about the mole disappearing but not the pocket watch? You failed to answer me before."

His grip tightens on the mole. “I—” He stumbles, then blurts, “I worried the Redridges might pull all their donations if another of their items disappeared. I had to find the mole quickly before they noticed.”

"How fortunate for you that the family don't use Instagram," I say. "And the missing pocket watch? Were they not upset by that?"

Mr. Wright runs fingers down his cheek. "The family weren't happy, naturally, but the pocket watch is common and not valuable. You don't understand how unusual the mole is. It's one of our most important exhibits. I've had offers from collectors who wanted to buy the item, and I refused."

"Recent ones?" I frown.

"Yes. One person offered a lot of money."

"Who?" asks Grayson.

The curator shrugs. Alistair?

"Was your true concern that somebody may discover you'd swapped the mole's eyes for glass beads?" I ask.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replies, avoiding my gaze.

I strike out at that confused mind, catching his first thoughts and images.

The rubies. The ivory box. Jewels.

"Oh, I think you do know what I'm talking about," I say. "The real eyes were missing before the kids stole the exhibit."

"Real eyes? What's that supposed to mean? The mole was intact when thieved—the delinquents vandalized it!" he replies, voice rising.

"Were you planning to sell the mole's real eyes?" I continue.

"Was your purchaser a witch?" adds Rowan.

"Purchaser of what? I told you; I refused to sell the mole." The curator grips the thing tighter. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"We know the mole's original eyes are rubies, and somebody removed and hid them before the kids stole the mole," says Rowan. "This person replaced the eyes with glass beads. You. What other gems have you taken from exhibits to sell?"

The curator's jaw slackens. "What a ridiculous accusation! I'm grateful to the Redridge family for their generous donations to fill empty space in the museum." He looks rather pointedly at me, emphasizing the word empty.

"I bet the family wouldn't be happy if they knew a corrupt curator stole and replaced the gems their donated items," says Rowan.

The curator chokes. "Do you have any evidence for these ridiculous claims?"

"Yes." Rowan can barely suppress his triumphant smile as he produces the small black pouch and hands it to the man.

The curator fumbles to undo the ribbon before tipping the contents on the table. His jaw slackens. "Where did you get these?"

"From where you hid them, Mr. Wright," I say.

Mr. Wright's red face blanches, and he gawks at the gems as if he had tipped tiny explosives onto the table. " You took the gems from the box,” he whispers. "How? Nobody has the key apart from me, and I keep it at home. How did you know what was inside? You thieving little?—"

"I rather think that's the pot calling the kettle black, Mr. Wright," I say tersely.

"I bet if you brought us jewelry from the display cabinets, they'd contain fake jewels. You replaced them with glass, didn't you?" says Rowan. "Were the gems now on the table stored in the box while you waited for a buyer?"

The curator's mouth becomes a line so thin that it almost disappears.

"There's no point denying this," I say.

Mr. Wright places a tiny emerald in his palm before running his finger along the gem. I fidget, annoyed by his silence.

He draws in a long breath. "Alright. Yes, I swapped gems in some jewelry. Plenty of museums display replicas. Nobody knows the difference. The museum is struggling for funds, and we decided that we can't allow our town's history to die."

"We?" I ask sharply. "Who else is involved?"

The curator blinks. "You don't know what it's like! Nobody cares about history anymore! We barely scrape by with the grant money—this place is falling apart.”

"All very moving, but who else is involved?" I press.

"Nobody," he mumbles. "Just me. I thought the idea was harmless. Swap out a few gems here and there, sell them, and I'd finally have enough money to save this place. I just wanted the money for the museum."

"Are you selling these gems to anybody in particular?"

A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Jewelers. I'm not giving names and causing trouble for anybody else."

But there are vague images of other people in his mind, which are frustratingly not clear enough for me to memorize.

But I will find these names.

"You are dishonest and despicable," I say.

"What's the harm? The exhibits look the same, and the museum survives!"

Leif barks a laugh. "Until someone demands their heirlooms back and notices the missing gemstones."

"Which is the real reason for your worry, isn't it?" I say. “What if the mole landed in the hands of somebody who discovered the 'damage’ and told the family? The Redridges would demand their heirlooms back. They’d inspect everything and discover missing gems—gems you've already sold and can't replace."

The curator looks at his linked fingers and drops into silence again. "Yes, I couldn't risk the mole getting into the wrong hands," he says eventually. "Somebody could uncover the scheme and expose me, and not just to the Redridge family.”

"Have you stolen from other family's exhibits too?" Rowan stares, and the curator's silence answers. Guilty.

"How many gems have you sold?" I ask.

"I bet you keep some of the profits for yourself," adds Leif.

"No! I do not! I told you; I'm saving the proceeds to spend on the museum's upkeep and upgrade. I haven't spent a single penny on myself." Perspiration beads his brow. "Wait there."

The curator rises and crosses to the door, and Grayson darts after him. He looks back and shakes his head. "Mr. Wright isn't leaving. He went to his office."

A couple of minutes later, the curator returns with the black tin I discovered on the night Rowan and I investigated the museum. He places the box down and unlocks it with a small key before opening the lid.

Rowan leans across and grabs a fistful of ￡50 notes. "You could buy a lot of biscuits with this."

The curator scowls at his joke. "Every pound is in that tin."

"You expect us to believe you didn’t take a single penny?" Rowan challenges.

Leif crosses his arms, his tone sharp with disbelief. "You really did all this just for the museum?"

"Yes! So, what is the harm? The exhibits look no different, and the museum can remain open." The curator’s voice rises defensively.

"Until the families want their valuable jewelry returned," I reply. "Tell me, how did you know the mole's eyes were rubies? That's a rather unusual discovery to make. Necklaces and bracelets would be an obvious place to take gems from, but who would think to check a taxidermy mole's eyes?"

A witch who knows the truth. And this man is not a witch.

The curator's lips thin. "I examined everything in the museum."

A feeble excuse. I study him, picking up the quickening rhythm of his heartbeat."So, nobody assisted you in locating the eyes?"

"No. I worked alone." He looks me straight in the eye. "Nobody connected to the museum helped. I work alone ."

Too much vehemence. He’s not telling the whole truth.

He pokes at the rubies again, his fingers trembling slightly. "How did you know about my scheme? That I hid the jewels in a box while waiting for buyers?” he asks. "I don't understand why you'd look in such a random place.”

"We weren’t searching for jewels. We sensed something unusual when looking at your exhibits." I take the rubies. "We would never have discovered your enterprise if these weren't magical."

"Magical? I thought they were just rubies!" he protests. “And once the mole disappeared, I kept a hold of the gems. I couldn’t sell the rubies because I needed to put the eyes back once the mole was returned.”

I exchange a skeptical look with Rowan.“And the other gems in the box?” he asks.

“I have buyers waiting for the other gems you took, but I’m not selling now. Obviously.” He points at the rubies. “What are they for? Are they dangerous?" The curator's voice changes to genuine curiosity. He wasn't aware at the time—but was somebody else?

"The real meaning of the gems is irrelevant to you. I would like to deal with the status of the stolen gems . I'll need a full inventory of the museum's collection and a note of every gem you've sold and from which exhibit."

"For whom? The police?" His voice wavers.

“My father. He’ll take the magical rubies, and I imagine he'll re-examine the remaining exhibits and take anything remotely suspicious."

The curator blanches. "You wouldn't involve the police.”

“We'd prefer to resolve this quietly and without others' involvement. No one else needs to know about your... indiscretions, as long as you work with us. Here's what's going to happen." I point at the gems on the table. "You'll return the unsold gems to their rightful places, and we won't report you to the authorities for selling any. In return, you'll help us with our research."

He stares at me. "Research?"

"We have a school history project. Remember? You help us, we help you." No response. "Do you agree to my requests?"

The curator stares at the jewels on the table, and his shoulders sink. He half-nods.

"Very well."

Rowan tips his head up as I stand. " Very well ?"

"Mr. Wright agrees he'll return these gems to their original jewelry. We'll keep quiet about the ones sold previously, and he will not report the teens for their misdemeanors." The curator opens his mouth, but I continue, "I suspect a jewel thief would face more trouble than a fumbled blackmail attempt by juvenile delinquents. You have the mole, and I'll give you the beads to replace the eyes with. Case closed."

"And if a Redridge wants the mole back?" He chews his lip. "The eyes would be fake."

"Yes, and my father can meet them and explain what has happened." I smile. "Or they may be the one who needs to explain why they want the gems.”

The curator's jaw tightens. "Who are you to decide what's right or wrong?"

"I feel I have a better moral compass than you," I reply. "And I am trusting that all the money will contribute to museum upgrades. If I suspect otherwise, I will reconsider my decision."

"Violet?" asks Grayson in shock.

"What you did is wrong, Mr. Wright. But for now, the secrets in your museum matter more to me than what's missing from the exhibits. You will assist me in uncovering the past."

He's silent for a long moment, conflict apparent on his face. "And why should I trust you?"

"Because you have no choice." I smile. "Otherwise, you risk ruining your reputation, and the museum's closure."

How many families with witch ancestry and traces of magic in their blood possess items with hidden magical pasts? Are many in museums despite my father sweeping the places for magic artifacts? Clearly, some families donated items after the supernatural council purged the museum.

I haven't found all the answers tonight, nor has the curator told us everything. In good time, he will—because I won't stop until I know this was merely a personal scheme to secure the museum's future.

I'm about to become a close acquaintance of his.

In a world where the supernatural hid themselves for hundreds of years, not every supe would be prepared to let go of secret influences on the town once the humans discovered our existence. What else might I find if we dig further into this community of witches, humans, vampires, and shifters?

Who would've thought a deceased, stuffed mole could uncover so much dirt?