The Stolen Chalicel (16 page)

Again she was struck by the handsome man—distinguished in a “senior diplomat” sort of way. He wore a cashmere topcoat and carried a pair of shearling gloves.

“I wanted to talk to you, if it is not too much to ask.”

“Certainly.”

“I am ready to tell you why I can’t go to the police.”

“All right.”

“It’s my wife—she is not well. She is . . . went through rehab just recently.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My wife and I were at the gala last night.”

“So was I.”

“Well, then, you saw the press lining the steps.”

“Yes . . . ?”

“My wife was not in good . . . well . . . she had been drinking.”

Holly felt sorry for him. Despite the cool night, his forehead was beaded with fine drops of perspiration. He shifted from foot to foot in anxiety.

“If news of this theft goes public, they’ll dig up those pictures and she’ll be subjected to another trial-by-tabloid about her so-called relapse.”

“Well . . . I’m sure—”

“She had only a couple of glasses of wine, you understand,” Ted cut in, “but I think Tipper’s system is very delicate and it hit her hard.”

Holly nodded, uncertain what to say.

“Can I drop you somewhere?” VerPlanck asked. “We could talk further in the car.”

“I’m just going home on the subway.”

“Please let me give you a ride.”

Before she could answer, he punched a number on his cell phone.

“Gavin, would you please bring the car to the front of the museum?”

Within a moment, a dark blue Bentley Mulsanne pulled up and the driver came around to open the rear door. There really was no choice. Holly got in.

British Air, First-Class Lounge, Kennedy Airport, New York

L
ET’S EAT HERE
so we can sleep on the flight,” Sinclair suggested to Cordelia.

She silently perused the menu, so he went ahead and ordered. “I’ll have the sole, and a green salad to start.”

“The same, please,” Cordelia said, handing the menu back to the waiter. When he walked away, she turned to Sinclair.

“John,
darling,
I was very surprised you want Holly Graham to help you find the Sardonyx Cup.”

The “darling” made it clear she was annoyed. Sinclair shifted and took a sip of his drink.

“She often consults with the FBI Stolen Art Bureau to identify missing objects,” he replied.

“So her name just
sprang
to mind?”

“Look, I almost didn’t mention her. But then I assumed you couldn’t possibly be
that
petty.”

“You think I’m being petty?” she asked.

“Holly and I won’t be working
together.”

“Oh, really?”

“I’ll be in London. And she’ll be based here in New York.”

“So you think it’s silly of me to be making a fuss?”

Cordelia accepted her Perrier, and Sinclair kept quiet until the waiter walked away. Then he leaned forward and spoke to her quietly.

“Look, Delia, Holly and I were very serious—once upon a time. But it’s been over for years.”

“Mmmhmmmm . . .” she said, pulling the paper end off her straw and taking a sip of Perrier.

“Delia! I can’t believe you are carrying on about something that ended years ago!”

“You’re so defensive, John. Why
is
that?”

“Because you are being
ridiculous
! When I tell you it’s over, it’s really over.”

“Not for
her
.”

“What makes you think
that
?”

Cordelia gave him the look she always used for proving her points. “The night of the gala, she was absolutely
clinging
to your arm.”

Flight A 31 overnight to London was ready for takeoff. Sinclair turned off his reading light and looked over at Cordelia. She was curled up, her hand tucked under her cheek.

A painful thump squeezed his heart. Thank God she had not been hurt at the gala.

It would be good to get home to London and settle into a normal life. There had been too much change, and Cordelia was emotionally fragile.

The nonsense about Holly being in love with him was a prime example. Cordelia was imagining things. A few days of a predictable schedule, lots of free time, and some TLC on his part would do her a world of good. He made a vow to let her know just how much he loved her. Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Brooklyn, New York

H
OLLY
G
RAHAM SET
her briefcase down on the backseat of the Bentley and tried to appear relaxed. Ted VerPlanck leaned forward to give directions to the driver and then sat back in the leather seat.

She looked out her side window as they drove toward Brooklyn Heights. Traffic passed by on Atlantic Avenue in a soundless panorama. It didn’t take long for VerPlanck to bring up the Sardonyx Cup again.

“I don’t know what else to say to persuade you to help me.”

“I don’t think there is anything
to
say. I’m sorry.”

She kept her eyes turned toward the window. What more did the man
need
to realize she wasn’t interested in helping him?

“It’s not like you’d be working alone. You’d be consulting closely with John Sinclair.”

Holly’s heart skipped a beat, but she stayed composed. Funny, Sinclair never mentioned they’d be working
together.

“I know him well,” she admitted. “He has a lot of important connections in the antiquities world.”

“He says the same about you.”

Why did Sinclair want to work with her again? Maybe this cup business was a ruse to get back together.

“I’m tempted,” she conceded. “Sinclair and I have often worked on projects in the past.”

“Do you want to think it over for a few days?”

Holly looked at VerPlanck. He really had no idea what he was asking. This was a huge job. It could take months, even years. The cup could be anywhere, floating in the underground market for purloined art. But if Sinclair was convinced the cup could be found, it would be wonderful to try to find it.

“Well, I can’t really decide on the spur of the moment. And, in any case, I’m heading out to . . . London, for a meeting.”

“How long will you be there?”

“A few days. I’ve been consulting with the British Museum about some of their Egyptian collection. The Met wasn’t the only museum that was hit last night. We lost a Roman-era mummy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. So it seems you’ll be busy for a while, then?”

“Yes, I’m afraid my work is even more complicated, under the present circumstances.”

“Listen, speaking of mummies. I’m sorry I rushed off at the hospital earlier today. I’m afraid I don’t have the . . . talent to deal with that sort of thing.”

“It does take some getting used to,” Holly said, smiling.

There was a moment of silence, and then VerPlanck spoke.

“Forgive me if you think this is out of line—and you can refuse if it makes you feel uncomfortable—but I was planning to fly to London tonight. Why not come with me tonight to meet my lawyer, Jim Gardiner?”

“Why?”

“You might be more comfortable about all of this if you talk to him.”

Holly looked at him in surprise.

“My flight is tomorrow.”

“I could fly you there tonight.”

“You have a
plane
!” said Holly.

“Yes, I keep it at Teterboro Airport, in New Jersey. We could be in London by morning. You could meet with Jim Gardiner and still make your appointment at the British Museum the next day.”

“I’m . . . I’m not packed.”

“I can wait.”

She was booked on the overnight flight in an economy seat. The last-minute booking had put her in the worst row on the plane, opposite
the restroom. If she accepted VerPlanck’s offer, it certainly would be more comfortable. And it might be better to get away from the newspaper reporters. The last thing she wanted to do was have them calling her all day tomorrow.

“We are here, sir,” the chauffeur announced.

Holly looked out the window at her apartment building and made an impulsive decision.

“I would need about a half hour.”

“That’s fine. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

The driver came around and was opening the door for her.

“I won’t be long,” she assured him as she got out.

“Take your time.”

Holly looked back. There was something forlorn in VerPlanck’s expression.

“You can come up if you prefer.”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

Her apartment was on the top floor of an old 1901 brownstone. The daily slog up the five-floor walk-up had become so routine she barely noticed it. Now, with Ted VerPlanck on her heels, she realized how strenuous it was. But as they ascended he was easily keeping pace with her.

“It’s just one more floor.”

“Good way to get your exercise.”

“I took the top floor for the view,” she said, not mentioning that it was also much cheaper.

Her apartment had always seemed large in the past, but with a billionaire standing behind her it suddenly appeared small. There were just three rooms: a large square living room with an enormous bay window alcove, a dining room, and a bedroom.

The view across the water to Manhattan was gorgeous. The kitchen was the kind New Yorkers favor—just large enough to open the Chinese food containers. Her bedroom was at the rear of the apartment, but there was no way he was seeing
that.

“What a lovely view,” he said, glancing out the window.

“I find it very soothing after a long day.”

“Like today?”

“Exactly. Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a moment.”

Ted VerPlanck stared out the window at the treetops and the promenade. He waited until he heard Holly go into the bedroom, then he turned and surveyed the apartment.

It was a beautiful space, with polished oak floors and a slightly nautical feel: blue-and-white-striped couches, cream wool area carpet, lovely old blue-and-white Chinese jardinieres. A traditional Nantucket basket held knitting. A classic nineteenth-century sea chest served as a coffee table. He looked at the nautical charts on the wall—the Elizabeth Islands off the coast of Cape Cod, Massachusetts, and a series of excellent oil paintings of the ocean, a fishing port, a lighthouse—the brushwork all by the same hand.

Holly reappeared wearing a pair of black slacks, short black boots, and a tan cable sweater. Her wavy blond hair was freshly brushed and pulled into a chignon. She looked absolutely smashing.

“I’m admiring your paintings. I see they are signed H. Graham. Did you do them?”

“No, actually, my mother—Helen Graham.”

“I gather from her work, she spent a lot of time around the sea.”

“Yes, my father ran the ferry from Cuttyhunk Island to the mainland.”

“I know the area well. I have a sailboat. The ocean is a great solace for me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t get much chance to go there these days,” she admitted, looking at a beachscape on the far wall. Her expression was wistful.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, all set.”

“Let me carry your case.” Ted reached for the small rolling bag she had packed. He glanced at his watch. “If there is not much traffic on the way to the airport, we’ll be in London by seven a.m.”