Page 22 of Dead and Gone

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'dlikethe 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.

Thepissedcurator 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 casemy 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 wasanotherprank."

"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, youdoknow 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. "Nostudents."

"Doesn't that make your museum pointless?" I ask.

"Excuse me?"

---