Free The Vandemark Mummy by Cynthia Voigt

museum,” and said hello to those he already knew, “Ken, how’s Michelle? Mrs. Prynn, I always enjoy seeing you.” But he was impatient to look at the collection, and it was the mummy he stood over first. Everybody waited for what he would say, as he bent over the mummy. But he said nothing. He just turned to the shelves, and moved slowly along them, his face without expression. Still, the room awaited whatever words he would choose to speak.
    â€œNothing to be ashamed of about this,” Mr. Batchelor finally said. “You’re right to be concerned, Lucille.”
    â€œI thought so. I knew it. What do you think the library should do?”
    â€œThe mummy isn’t a bad one either.”
    Not bad? The mummy? The mummy was miles better than not bad. Even Phineas could see that.
    â€œYou know of course what the gemstone is?” Mr. Batchelor didn’t sound as if he thought they knew anything. “The wreath.”
    â€œGemstone?” O’Meara asked, moving over to point her camera at the wreath. “Are the berries rubies?”
    â€œI spoke metaphorically,” Mr. Batchelor said.
    O’Meara nodded her head and clicked her camera.
    â€œOnly if it’s proved genuine,” Mrs. Prynn pointed out at the same time that Mr. Fletcher asked, “What kind of value would you put on it?”
    Mr. Batchelor talked on, dropping hints about all the important museums he’d been in, not exactly saying he’d worked there but implying that he might have. “At the Met, they maintain a temperature of . . . The Egyptologysection of the Reading Room at the British . . . When I was preparing a monograph in Cairo . . .” He offered his help in arranging to have the mummy X-rayed: “You plan to do that, of course, it’s standard practice”; he offered transportation in one of the museum’s vans; he offered to send the official museum photographer over, for insurance records; he said he didn’t know if he could promise but he’d be glad to inquire about the possibility of transferring the wreath—“We wouldn’t want to give room to the entire collection, of course”—to one of the museum’s storage rooms. “You’ve done well by way of security, with your limited resources,” Mr. Batchelor said, making it sound like Mr. Hall hadn’t done well enough. “If I can be of help, you’ll be sure to let me know? Any advice—since I gather from my wife you have no experience, have had no training—”
    Mrs. Batchelor seconded her husband’s opinion. “I’m not happy having something like that in the library, especially now that I know it’s valuable.”
    â€œAnything at all I can help you with, I’d be glad to. Do think over my offer to take the wreath. If anything were to happen to it . . .” He let them imagine all the things that might happen, and what would be the consequences of that. He left the room, his wife following behind asking, “You don’t think anything will happen, do you?”
    For a few minutes, everybody had to stare at the wreath, which nobody had paid much attention to before, and then finally they began to leave. And about time, Phineas thought. O’Meara was the last to go, and she lingered at the doorway.
    â€œI for one wish there was some kind of curse,” she said.
    â€œI’m sure there is none. And you can quote me,” Ken answered.
    â€œIt would make such a good story,” O’Meara said, and left the room.
    Ken looked at his watch. “I have to go,” he said, sounding surprised. “I’m sorry, Sam, I had no idea how long—The thing is, one of Michelle’s clients has invited us for a supper sail, I promised I’d be home and ready to go at three-thirty—”
    â€œGo ahead. We’re just going to close up in here and be right behind you. You