Rare Objects (19 page)

I found Mr. Kessler talking to a couple of rather eccentric-looking gentlemen who, I deduced, were other dealers. He had availed himself of coffee and a generous pile of free macaroons.

“It came through Istanbul,” he was saying as I approached. “Of course we don't auction anything. We're not Bonhams or Christie's! But I knew who to call, and that was that. He bought them immediately!”

“Quite right,” one of them agreed, jamming a chocolate éclair into his mouth.

“But this”—Mr. Kessler smiled, rolling his eyes heavenward—“this is beyond my wildest dreams! To see some of our pieces join a
national collection
!”

This clearly struck a raw nerve; terse smiles followed.

“In fact, I'd like to have a word with Mr. Kimberly.” He cast round anxiously. “Have you seen him? I have some suggestions for the Anglo-Saxon exhibit.”

One of the other dealers jerked his head. “He's over there. Behind the senator.”

“Here.” Mr. Kessler thrust his empty coffee cup and plate into my hands. “I must speak to him before the ceremony.” And he was gone, plowing his way across the room.

“You must be Kessler's blonde,” one of the men guessed.

“My name is May. With a
y
,” I informed him, in what I hoped was a withering tone. I looked round for somewhere to leave the dishes but couldn't find one.

“Don't be cross!” The man laughed. “He's been bragging about you.”

“I find that hard to believe.” I tried to catch sight of Mr. Kessler. “Why does he want to talk to Mr. Kimberly so badly?”

“Why?” The man looked at me strangely. “Because he's the head curator, of course!”

I hadn't realized the man I'd met at the Van der Laars' was buying pieces for the collection he oversaw.

“Another bequest, another exhibit,” the man went on. “Kimberly's done well for himself.”

“He certainly has,” the other man agreed, taking out his cigarette case. “He's got to be relieved about that.”

“Why relieved?” I asked.

He offered me a cigarette, oblivious to the fact that I didn't have a free hand. “He was on sticky ground before. There was talk of a replacement. Perhaps temporarily redirecting funds. But now the Van der Laars have stepped in and saved the day—again.”

“It's getting to be a habit.” The first man helped himself to one of Mr. Kessler's uneaten macaroons. “Two years ago they donated an excellent Ancient Roman war helmet and spear.” He nodded to a case at the far end of the gallery. “They're starting to make quite a name for themselves.”

His companion exhaled. “Good on Kimberly, that's what I say. He's no fool. He's got a talent for digging out new money. And he isn't afraid to ask anyone to the table.”

I was surprised by this last remark. “What do you mean?”

The two men exchanged a look.

“Well, the Van der Laars are rich, no one's disputing that. But no one's quite sure where the money comes from. Or where they come from, for that matter. Some say Denmark, others Germany. It's not old money, that's for sure. They're not really the kind of people one usually solicits for such public contributions.”

“And that matters?” I couldn't help but feel slighted on Diana's behalf.

“They have no history. No cachet.”

“Let's just say they benefit from the social connections,” concluded the first man, popping the last bite of macaroon into his mouth. “But the quality of the pieces, the focus on classical Greece and Rome—you have to hand it to them, it's a very shrewd calculation on their part.”

“No doubt guided by Kimberly,” his friend pointed out.

“No doubt.”

“Why calculated?” I wanted to know.

“The pieces that you donate are your calling card; they have your name on them, simple as that. Do you want to be associated with primitive aboriginal wood carvings or the Venus de Milo?”

“Classical collections guarantee good press. And impress all the right people.”

“Unlike your African fertility statues.” The man smiled. “Speaking of which, any news from Winshaw?”

I'd assumed Mr. Kessler had told them the pieces came through Mr. Winshaw, but now it appeared he hadn't mentioned it. I wondered if there was a reason for his subterfuge. “Ah, no. Not that I'm aware of.”

“I'm not surprised,” said the other man, glancing round for an ashtray.

“Did you know him?”

“Oh, yes! Everyone knows Winshaw!”

“Except me,” I told them. “I was hired after he'd already gone abroad.”

“That's probably a good thing!” They both laughed.

“Why?”

“Oh, he's a terrible womanizer!”

“Absolutely!” his friend agreed, flicking his ash into the remains of Mr. Kessler's coffee. “You couldn't leave him alone with your mother!”

“Oh.” I'd expected him to be older, like Mr. Kessler. I pretended to be only casually interested. “So he is a handsome man?”

“He's attractive,” the man with the cigarette said, “but it's more his personality than his looks. Who knows?” He shrugged. “He's been off the radar a long time now—probably pushed his luck too far. He could be dead, for all we know.”

“No, he's not dead,” the other one asserted. “Winshaw's too
wily for that. If he's gone missing, it's because he's not ready to be found yet.”

Just then Mr. Kimberly stepped onto the stage, and the room went quiet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I want to welcome you to what is surely one of the most remarkable acquisitions in the recent history of the Museum of Fine Arts, and certainly a milestone for the Art of the Ancient World collection. We are now well on our way to rivaling the classical collections of both the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and the Philadelphia Museum of Art with these exceptional examples of classical Greek vase painting, dating from 456 BC.” The security guards removed the black cloth with a flourish, and there was an audible gasp, followed by applause. Mr. Kimberly raised his hands to silence the crowd. “And we owe our tremendous good fortune to the incredible foresight and devoted civic generosity of one charming young woman . . .” He turned, his eyes scanning the room, and everyone turned too, looking for the girl of the hour. But she wasn't there. Finally, in desperation, he gestured to Mrs. Van der Laar. “My friend and a great friend to our dear city, Mrs. Jacob Van der Laar.”

Mrs. Van der Laar stepped onto the stage and gave him a stiff nod of the head. Mr. Kimberly took her hand, and a flurry of flashbulbs went off. She blinked, clearly irritated, as Kimberly pulled her in closer, posing for the cameras.

I took the opportunity to slip into the unattended tea room and finally dispose of the dishes. I was about to go back into the main gallery when I heard voices, whispering quietly. I followed them. Tucked into one of the marble alcoves, hidden from view, Diana was seated on a wooden bench next to a small boy, chatting pleasantly, perfectly oblivious that she was missing her own party.

She looked up as I approached. “Oh! May!” She seemed not just surprised but shocked to see me. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm here with Mr. Kessler. For work,” I reminded her.

“Oh, yes.” I could see her making the connection in her head, and she relaxed a little. But it struck me that she was so instinctively guarded.

“The question is: What are
you
doing?” I pointed out. “Aren't you meant to be, well, onstage?”

“When am I not onstage?” Then her face brightened as she indicated the little boy next to her. “Let me introduce you—this is Andrew. My most favorite cousin. We've just been amusing ourselves away from all the hubbub.” She gave him a smile. “We like the museum but not really all these people, isn't that right?”

The boy shook his head solemnly. He couldn't have been more than eight or nine, dressed in a gray flannel private school uniform. He had dark hair, and round wire-rimmed glasses framed his large blue eyes. He looked past me rather than at me and was holding a cloth school bag tightly on his lap.

I held out my hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

Andrew nodded but kept his eyes down. I let my hand fall to my side.

“Say hello, darling,” Diana prompted.

“Hello,” he murmured.

“Is that your school bag?” I asked.

“Oh, he takes that everywhere, don't you?” she said brightly. “It's his explorer bag.”

“Really?” I knelt down. “What have you got in there?”

He shrugged, edged away. “I don't know.”

“He likes certain books, don't you? He takes them everywhere with him, just in case.”

“What a brilliant idea!” I smiled. “I wish I'd thought of that. I have some favorite books too. What are yours?”

Andrew tilted his head, looking at me directly for the first time, out of the corner of his eye. Then slowly he opened the satchel and pulled out a large field guide,
Brentworth's Encyclopedia of Insects and Beetles
. Its cover was tattered, its pages clearly well thumbed. He opened it up to a life-size drawing of a gigantic horned black beetle. “This is one of my books. It's got many magnificent color illustrations,” he said.

“Yes, it has!” I agreed. “What a beautiful big beetle!”

“It's a Hercules beetle. The Hercules beetle is the most famous and largest of the rhinoceros beetles. It is native to the rain forests of Central America, South America, and the Lesser Antilles. The beetle has also been observed as far north as southern Veracruz in Mexico.”

It was as if he were reciting from the book word for word. “So it is. How clever you are!”

“Yes, he's a very clever boy.” Diana smoothed his hair down affectionately. “You can ask him absolutely anything about insects, and he can tell you exactly what you need to know.”

“That's handy. Will you show me your favorite?”

Andrew's brow wrinkled in concern. “I don't have a favorite. I like them all equally. It would be wrong to choose one over the other.” There was a thin edge of panic in his voice.

“Of course,” I said quickly. “That's an excellent attitude to take. But you might find one or two especially interesting.”

Pausing, he considered carefully. Then, flipping through the pages, he landed on another color illustration. “This is a giraffe weevil from Madagascar. It's called that because of its . . .”

“Oh, for God's sake, will you put that stupid book away!” The woman with the silver-white hair was standing over us, arms
crossed. She spoke in the same clipped accent as Mrs. Van der Laar. “I told you, I don't want you dragging that thing all over town with you anymore!”

Startled, Andrew let the book slide off his lap and fall to the floor. Diana quickly picked it up and put it back into his bag.

“It's my fault, I'm afraid.” I stood up. “I asked him to show me a few pictures.”

But she ignored me, addressing Diana instead. “Where have you been? Your mother had to make the presentation herself!” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you been here, hiding, this whole time?”

Diana seemed to recede, shrinking back from her. I'd never seen her defer to anyone before, not even in the hospital. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize the time. We just wanted to find somewhere quiet, that's all. The echo hurts his ears.”

“
Echo
? What echo?”

“The echo of all the voices, off the marble walls,” she explained weakly.

“Don't be ridiculous! You're always coddling him. How you can throw away every single opportunity that's given you is beyond me! You've ruined it—the entire thing!” She thrust her hand out, speaking to Andrew. “Come on now. Cousin Didi has been very foolish and selfish. I think it's time you went back to boarding school, don't you?”

“No, Elsa!” Diana sprang to her feet. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!”

“Then you should've thought of that earlier.” She snapped her fingers impatiently at the boy. “Come on!”

Clutching his bag, Andrew reluctantly took her hand, and they walked back into the main gallery.

Crestfallen, Diana stared after them.

“Who's that?” I asked.

“Elsa. My aunt.”

“Your aunt?” She seemed too young to be the sister of Mrs. Van der Laar.

“She's my mother's stepsister,” she explained.

“Her hair is so—”

“I know. It's mad, isn't it? She had a very high fever when she was younger, and it changed overnight.” Diana leaned her head against the portico. “I'm in it now. Though if they had it their way, I'd be cutting ribbons and giving speeches all over Boston.”

“Well, why does it have to be you? As long as it remains in the family, what difference does it make?”

“Oh, May! How else are they going to marry me off? I wasn't a debutante and I'm not a socialite and I don't have my picture in the right sorts of magazines and in fact, if anyone did know anything about me, they'd discover that I'm mad as a box of frogs! The only thing left for me is to become a patron of the arts!”

I wasn't sure what to say. Here was a problem I would never have to face.

“Did you see the speech?” She looked quite worried now. “Did my mother really bungle it?”

“No. It only lasted a few minutes. I think it was universally agreed that everyone was exceptional and wildly generous and that was it. Why?”

“Elsa can be a cow. And when she's in a bad mood, she takes it out on Andrew.” She peered into the crowded room. “Poor little mite!”

Mrs. Van der Laar and Elsa were talking to Mr. Kimberly with Andrew wedged between them, staring down at his shoes. Elsa had her hand anchored on Andrew's shoulder; I could practically feel her manicured nails digging into his flesh.

Now that the ceremony was over, the tea room began to fill again. I tried to cheer her up.