The Stolen Chalicel (10 page)

VerPlanck sighed and turned to see the Met chief of security standing behind him.

“Mr. VerPlanck, I’ve been asked to locate you. The FBI would like a word.”

Carter Wallace stood outside, waiting for Holly to emerge. There was no use looking for her in that mob. It would be better to intercept her out here as she passed by.

When they started to evacuate the hall, he had been swept up in the center of the crowd and pushed out onto the steps. There he had witnessed the First Lady’s dash to the waiting motorcade, with crimson skirts flying, looking like some exotic bird of prey surrounded by a flock of black crows. Except the crows were carrying automatic weapons.

The motorcade tore away, sirens shrieking at pedestrians to get out
of the way. Now Fifth Avenue was eerily devoid of moving traffic, and the side streets had been cleared.

He lit a cigarette, shakily. It wasn’t a regular habit, but he always kept a couple of Dunhills in a silver case for the occasional jitters. To his mind, this evening definitely qualified as a legitimate time to light up.

The last time he saw Holly, she had been dancing with John Sinclair in front of the Temple of Dendur.
He
should have been dancing with her, instead of that damned interloper.

Of course,
he knew who Sinclair was—the archaeologist was a legend, a titan in the field. The man had discovered more artifacts than any person alive. And now, rumor had it, he had located Pharos, the ancient lighthouse of Alexandria.

While Sinclair’s professional reputation was stellar, his
personal
reputation was notorious. He was a playboy, a real lady-killer. And if you listened to the excavation gossip, he had legions of ex-girlfriends from Khartoum to Kazakhstan. It was
incredible
that Holly had greeted him in such an intimate tone.

As Carter stood there, a woman exited the museum. With her pitch-black hair, golden skin, and high cheekbones, she could have been an Egyptian deity fleeing the scene of destruction. He noticed that she was attired in what looked like a modern version of an Egyptian
kalasiris
. Carter had never seen a dress like that, except perhaps carved on the wall of a tomb.

The woman carried high-heeled gold sandals in her hand and ran down the red-carpeted steps in her bare feet, lifting the hem of her dress as she moved. Carter could see she was not wearing stockings; her legs were tan and bare.

Several news reporters noticed her and the camera crews turned on their lights. The crimson silk of the
kalasiris
became as transparent as gauze.

“Will you look at
that
!” Carter said to himself in surprise.

He blinked, half wondering if he was hallucinating. She was wearing
nothing
underneath that dress!

“I’ll be
damned,
” he said.

There were two policemen at the bottom of the steps, both portly,
one short and the other tall. She stopped and spoke to them for several minutes.

Then the woman did something odd—she leaned heavily on the arm of the policeman to retain her balance as she fastened the straps of her evening sandals. The policeman didn’t seem to mind. He just kept talking to her. When she had finished putting on her shoes, the woman and the policemen started off together down Fifth Avenue. Carter had a final glimpse of the trio as they wove in and out of the parked patrol cars—an Egyptian goddess escorted by the two uniformed officers.

Ted’s search for Tipper was futile. The marble hall was packed with hundreds of people walking around aimlessly. Police officers were now urging people to move outside. Suddenly Tipper stood before him, ghastly, white-faced, weaving.

“Ted,” she demanded. “Take me
home
.”

His heart sank. Drunk again. Would it never end? Her first trip out into society and she gave in to the bottle.

He held her arm and escorted her out of the building. The stairs were going to be a challenge. Tipper kept her head down to monitor her voluminous skirts. Just as she navigated her way past the camera crew, she tripped and nearly fell. Ted caught her in time. Then she managed to wobble down the remaining twenty-eight steps without incident.

The doorman at 1010 Fifth Avenue was standing outside, gawking at the mayhem. When he saw the VerPlancks, he recovered himself and swung open the heavy iron doors.

“Good evening, sir.”

VerPlanck gave him a nod as Tipper sailed straight past him.

Inside the lobby, it was as cool and silent as a tomb. There were several large vases of calla lilies, which reinforced the impression of a sepulcher. Ted escorted his wife to the elevator. But it wasn’t until the doors closed that he finally spoke.

“Tipper, you’re drunk.”

Tipper pulled her arm away from him with irritation and stood in silence. As the elevator door opened, she stepped directly into the foyer
of their penthouse, but ruined her haughty exit by tripping on the Persian carpet.

Ted leaped forward to steady her, but she waved him off and plowed straight on toward the bedroom, shedding her shoes and handbag as she went. Ted had often witnessed Tipper’s late-night drunken trail of clothing and walked behind, collecting things as she dropped them.

As he bent for the bejeweled pump in the middle of the living room, he marveled at its small size. The tiny evening slipper looked fit for a child. That’s what she was, Ted mused, a child who had never grown up.

He straightened up and started turning off the lights: the twin antique Chinese porcelain table lamps on the sideboard, the overhead lights for the paintings. As he turned off each one, his eyes caressed his cherished possessions: the stately Sargent portrait in the dining room, the Monet in the breakfast room, the majestic Bradford Arctic landscape in the library.

He adored this nocturnal inventory. It was a ritual that calmed him. No matter how harsh the world had become, a few square inches of beauty could always be preserved within a gilded frame. Tonight, especially, he needed that comfort.

He walked to the wall niche and reached for the spotlight on the Sardonyx Cup but stopped, aghast.

The Sardonyx Cup was gone!
The alcove was empty, and the pedestal was bare! He felt a jolt of horror.

Had it fallen off its column? He looked frantically on the floor and all around the base. Even as he searched, intuitively he knew the answer.
It had been stolen!

Holly Graham stood on the top step of the Met getting her bearings.

“May I get you a cab?”

She turned at the sound of Carter’s voice. He looked a little disheveled, the jacket of his tuxedo hanging crookedly.

“
Carter,
are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’ve been looking for
you
.”

There was a hint of accusation in his voice. Inexplicably, his annoyance seemed to be directed at her.

“I just got out here a moment ago,” she said.

Carter said nothing and took a pull on his cigarette, his hand shaking.

“Are you
smoking
?” she said, aghast. “I never knew you smoked!”

He flashed her a look and crushed the remainder of his cigarette underfoot.

“I don’t. I just carry a few around to prove to myself that I don’t need them. Last time I had one was two years ago.”

“Well, you shouldn’t smoke,
ever,
” she scolded.

“I’ll get a cab to take you home now,” Carter said. “If you want me to. Maybe you have other plans.”

Their eyes met. Carter’s mood was shockingly bitter. Was it because she had agreed to dance with John Sinclair? She hadn’t meant to hurt Carter’s feelings. In retrospect, leaving him like that was probably a little bit cavalier.

Holly dropped her gaze in embarrassment and suddenly noticed her gown had a large tear. She picked up the white chiffon skirt and showed it to him.

“Oh,
no
! I must have caught it on something.”

“Maybe it can be fixed?” he suggested, barely looking at it.

Holly examined the gown further. It was shredded in several places, clearly beyond repair. For some reason the destruction of her new gown, along with Carter’s sudden hostility, put her over the edge. The entire evening was ruined. Inexplicably, she started to cry.

“Holly, what’s wrong?”
he said with a gasp.

He took a step toward her. She moved away to hide her face, but he grasped her hand. His grip was strong.

“I’m sorry,” Carter apologized. “I was being rude to you. Please don’t be upset.”

She started to draw back but, surprisingly, found she didn’t want to resist. Suddenly, she was in his arms. She felt like a fool, letting him embrace her in public like this, but it was comforting. Her lips were trembling and a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.

“Holly, don’t be upset,” he said, his voice low and consoling. “Your dress can be fixed. It’s all right.”

He was such a big bear. She pressed her cheek against his jacket and let out a long, shaky breath. After giving herself a moment to recover, she stepped back. He released her gently.

“I’m so sorry, Carter.”

“Are you OK?”

“Yes, I just seem to have . . . lost it. I’ll be all right.”

“What can I do?” he asked, standing with his hands hanging down.

Holly turned away, taking a tissue out of her bag. She faced out toward the street, blotting her eyes.

Why was she feeling so emotional? She
never
cried. Then she realized the problem. There were three things that had caused her to weep: the ruined dress, the spoiled evening, and the fact that she was still in love with John Sinclair.

Carlyle Hotel

L
ADY
X
ANDRA
S
OMMERSET
marched into the lobby of the hotel trailed by two New York City police officers.

“There’s been an incident at the museum,” she told the desk clerk.

“I
know.
We’ve been watching the TV in the bar.”

“Well, don’t concern yourself. Nobody was injured.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper.
“I have to have a police escort to my room. . . .”

The clerk flushed. “Oh . . . of course . . .”

The two policemen nodded brusquely to the hotel clerk and then walked with her through the lobby. Even in the elevator, they kept up their stone-faced composure, protectively flanking her in full sight of the security cameras. But once inside the door of her suite, they immediately lost their formality and sprang into action.

“Quickly. Do it fast,” she instructed.

They unbuttoned their shirts and stripped off the felt packing, laying the stolen artifacts on the bed. Shirts were rebuttoned and they were out the door in less than thirty seconds. Back in the hallway, the policemen had lost several inches off their waistlines.

As they left the Carlyle Hotel, they gave a departing nod to the desk clerk, who was in the doorway of the bar, listening to the CNN report on TV.

Metropolitan Museum of Art

C
ORDELIA STOOD ON
the top of the Met steps, her hair blowing, her eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed into a firm line. She looked absolutely furious.