Page 86 of Fairy Godmothers Aren't Cheap

“Okay, how about more recently? Have other items in the museum’s collection been swapped out for reproductions? Or is it limited to the pottery items?”

“Only the pottery, as far as I know. But I’m not an expert.”

“I’d like you to think hard. What day did you first notice the swapped-out items?”

“Maybe two or three weeks ago. Around May long weekend?”

He made a note in his pad. “Tell me about the scrap metal workers working on your warehouse.”

“They’re taking the siding off to recycle it.”

“Are you paying them?”

“No. They get to keep the siding. The reclaimers pay them something for it.”

“Do you know the workers?” He listed some names, and I shook my head. He studied me for a long moment. “They discovered something of value in your warehouse while stripping the siding off the one side.”

“They did?” I perked up. Gold? Finally, some gold! What if it was a treasure map? Or something hidden in a rafter that had been lost for years and was culturally significant?

“The crates.”

Crates? I shook my head. In the small office where James had broken down the door, there had only been one crate along with the cardboard box. Both empty. I hadn’t spotted crates anywhere else and, thinking over the floorpan, there was nowhere to hide them.

“There was only one crate when we went inside. There was nothing in it.”

Officer Beddoe looked grave. “The scrap workers discovered three wooden crates in your warehouse.”

“Three?”

“And they were filled with the missing artifacts.”

CHAPTER28

~ James ~

Char and I had been released from questioning at the same time, and instead of going in to work, we’d both taken the rest of the day off to decompress. And maybe figure out who’d put the stolen pieces in the warehouse, and why.

My mom, whom I’d texted to ask for the name of our family lawyer, just in case, had insisted we stop by the house. She wasn’t working today and promised us lunch.

“What if they don’t clear our names?” Char asked me as we made our way to the front door. I could tell her thoughts, like mine, were slipping down Worst-Case Avenue as though it was a shortcut to somewhere good. Which it wasn’t.

We were persons of interest who’d been asked to stick around the city for the next few days, as they “might have more questions.”

Both Char and I had watched enough TV to know they hadn’t struck our names from their suspect list. We had the means and opportunity, and Char’s passion for all things ancient and made of clay gave her motive.

“We’ll never get a good job again,” I said in a drawl, like I was quoting an old movie.

“We’ll be flipping burgers. No, just washing the floor. They wouldn’t allow us to flip burgers.” There was no humour in her tone despite her joking.

“Frying donuts.”

“Picking trash.”

“There you are.” My mom opened the front door before we got to it. “Oh, you look beat. Come in, come in.”

She’d already set out milk and homemade cookies for us, and Char’s eyes welled at the homey warmth I took for granted. She looked like a kid who’d come home from school, but landed in the wrong house. Half ready to bolt, and half-hesitantly venturing in to test the foreign waters.

Mom fussed over us, but something was off. She seemed exasperated or annoyed. I turned to her. “What?”

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