The Stolen Chalicel (23 page)

“I have to talk to the museum directors about the mummy; they lent it to us. He was my responsibility.”

“You have to wonder who would steal a
mummy,
” VerPlanck remarked with distaste, obviously recalling his encounter with Holly’s specimen at the hospital.

“A lot of people might. You have no idea the kind of mania that mummies generate,” Holly explained.

“Like what?” he asked, slicing his game with the precision of a surgeon.

“Not to be too graphic while we are eating, but in the Victorian age, there were some
unspeakable
practices. The Pre-Raphaelite painters actually mixed up a paint color known as mummy brown.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Totally. It was a blend of pitch and myrrh. The
exotic
ingredient was the ground-up remains of Egyptian mummies!”

“That is absolutely incredible!”

“Oh, it gets worse. Some Victorian medications actually contained mummy dust.”

“How
appalling
!”

“You can see why I would believe anything when it comes to mummies. Stealing one seems fairly tame.”

“Was your mummy very rare?”

“It was one of the most beautiful Fayoum mummies in existence,” Holly said sadly.

“Fayoum? That would date from the Roman occupation of Egypt, wouldn’t it?” asked Ted.

“Yes,” Holly said, impressed with his knowledge.

Ted finished his entrée and wiped his lips with a linen napkin.

“Are you finished?”

“Yes, it was delicious.”

He signaled for the waiter to clear the table.

“I actually owned one, once,” VerPlanck continued. “The portrait, not the mummy. When I bought it, I found out there are only a thousand or so Fayoum portraits in the entire world. During the early years of Egyptian exploration, people took them as souvenirs. So quite a few survived.”

“You
owned
one? How incredible!”

“Yes, I gave it to the Met a few years ago,” he said, picking up the decanter and pouring her more wine.

“Well, next time you want to give away a Fayoum portrait, give it to the Brooklyn Museum,” she joked. “I promise we won’t let anyone steal it.”

He laughed heartily, finally looking like he was enjoying himself. The waiter arrived with their dessert—traditional bread pudding for her and sherry trifle for VerPlanck.

Just then Holly noticed a buzzing sound near her feet, and her purse started vibrating on the floor. It was her cell phone! She bent down to retrieve it and saw the main number of the Brooklyn Museum. It was late in New York! Something must be wrong.

“Excuse me,” she apologized. “I have to take this. It’s work.”

“Certainly.”

“Holly Graham,” she answered briskly.

“Hi, Holly, sorry to bother you.”

Carter, of all people! He didn’t waste time on pleasantries but wanted to know how soon she would be coming back to New York.

“Holly, I need your help. I’ve been working with the FBI Art Recovery Division to identify stolen objects. They just found a warehouse full of art in Queens. Many of the artifacts are Egyptian.”

“Do you think they are the pieces from the Met?”

“Yes, some were taken during the gala.”

“How did they find all that so fast?” Holly exclaimed.

“Well, they had a tip that led them to the warehouse.”

“What kind of tip?”

There was a long pause on the other line. Holly thought for a moment she might have lost the call, but then Carter’s voice came through again.

“My tip. After I left you that night, I noticed a suspicious van, wrote down the license plate, and went to the police the next day.”

“Carter, that is wonderful!”

Carter brushed her comment aside. “The FBI found the warehouse, not me.”

“Any chance there was a cup? A sort of chalice?”

“No, nothing like that. Mostly funerary objects. Artemidorus is
not
there, I’m sorry to say.”

Ted was sipping his wine, looking around the restaurant, waiting for her to finish her conversation. Carter’s long-windedness was getting embarrassing. The headwaiter had already glanced over at her several times, clearly perturbed she was talking on a cell phone in such a decorous establishment.

“Carter . . . listen, I’m at dinner right now—”

“It’s not just ancient artifacts in the warehouse,” Carter continued excitedly. “There’s all kinds of stuff. There was a huge painting—a Cézanne that belongs to that famous collector Ted VerPlanck.”

Holly’s eyes flew over to her dinner companion.
How odd Carter would mention VerPlanck!

“Who told you it was Mr. VerPlanck’s?” she questioned.

Ted had been eating, but his eyes now scanned her face anxiously.

“Did someone find the cup?”
he whispered.

She shook her head no and held her hand up for him to wait.

“The police told me it was Ted VerPlanck’s Cézanne,” Carter was saying. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Well, it’s good you helped recover those things,” she said noncommittally.

“You know, Holly, I tried to see you the day after the gala.” Carter was gushing. “But by the time I got back from the police station in Manhattan you had left.”

Holly cringed at the sudden shift to a more personal tone. She
looked over at VerPlanck. He was sitting across from her, eating his sherry trifle with studied concentration. Could he hear what Carter was saying?

“I had to go to London. There was no choice,” she said briskly.

“When are you coming back?” Carter asked, his voice wistful.

“Next week. I’ll be back . . . at
work
next week.”

“You’re staying that long?”

She couldn’t elaborate on what she was doing because of her promise to protect VerPlanck’s secret.

“Yes, I have to. Let’s hope Artemidorus turns up,” she said.

“I’ll keep looking. Don’t worry, I’ll find him.”

Silly boy. As if it were up to him to recover the mummy. She said good-bye and disconnected the call.

“Sorry,” Holly apologized to VerPlanck. “I know that was rude, but I
had
to take the call.”

“Not at all. It sounded important,” said Ted, sipping his coffee. He seemed to be waiting for her to volunteer information.

“Good news!” she said. “They recovered the stolen artifacts from the Met.”

“And the Sardonyx Cup?”

“I’m afraid not, but they found your Cézanne.”

“My
C
é
zanne
?”

“Yes, it’s in a warehouse in Queens.”

He stared at her, his demitasse cup suspended.

“My Cézanne is in
Queens
?” he said. “I had no idea it was missing!”

Grosvenor Street, London

A
T FIVE P.M
., there were no lights on in the town house except in the master bedroom. Cordelia was wrapped in the sheet, her hair mussed, her lips without any trace of lipstick.

“John, please come to dinner with me and Jim Gardiner,” she wheedled.

Sinclair pulled her to him, holding her in his arms. Her long body was warm and strong as it lay next to his. Her hair smelled glorious, and he took a dark lock and wound it around his finger.

“I just spent the entire morning with Gardiner. We had a meeting about the Sardonyx Cup, remember?”

“Yes, but it would be fun for all three of us to go out. There’s a new Thai place in South Kensington I want to try.”

“Sweetheart, you know I don’t like Asian food. I’m always starving afterward. Why don’t you two catch up on old times without me?”

“But I
want
you to come.”

“I would think there are things you would like to talk about by yourselves.”

“Don’t be silly,” Cordelia chided. “Jim
loves
you.”

“I know, but you had such a long relationship with him
before
you met me. He’s practically your father. I think sometimes I should just bow out,” Sinclair explained.

“If you feel that way, I understand,” Cordelia acquiesced. “But you are just setting yourself up to be gossiped about all evening.”

“There’s a scary thought.” Sinclair laughed, throwing off the duvet.

Hopefully Gardiner wouldn’t tell Cordelia that Holly Graham was in town. Delia had absolutely no idea, and Sinclair wanted it kept that way. This dinner tonight was a gamble. But there was no way to dissuade Delia from going without raising suspicion.

Tonight, the best thing to do was avoid Gardiner entirely. If he came to dinner, Holly’s name might come up in conversation. But if Cordelia and Gardiner were eating alone they’d probably talk about old times.

Sinclair walked to the bureau and took out a pair of his monogrammed pajama bottoms, custom-made for him in Paris out of navy blue
Gossypium barbadense
cotton from the Nile Delta.

“You and Jim enjoy yourselves. I’m sure you want a walk down memory lane,” Sinclair said, pulling on his pajama trousers.

“Well, I won’t be out late. Jim still tires easily.”

“No rush,” Sinclair said, rummaging in the closet for his paisley silk robe. “I’ll just read and relax.”

As if he
could
relax. Halfway through the day it had suddenly dawned on him that Holly Graham was going to the British Museum tomorrow at eleven o’clock for an appointment. He and Cordelia were scheduled to meet the same curator an hour earlier!

Suddenly, London was getting too small to keep both women apart.

With two such tightly scheduled meetings, Cordelia and Holly were sure to run into each other! And if they met in the hallway he’d never get out of there alive!

There was no other way to fix this mess except to tell a whopping lie and pray Cordelia believed him. Sinclair tied the sash of his Charvet dressing gown tighter, took a deep breath, and turned back into the room.

“What time is our meeting at the British Museum tomorrow?”

He was not a great dissembler but managed to keep his tone offhand.

“Ten o’clock,” Cordelia said, concentrating on tying the bow of a white satin bed jacket. Luckily, she didn’t look up.

“Oh, I was hoping it was in the afternoon,” he said casually.

Her head snapped up. Now he had her attention.

“Why? Do you have a conflict?”

“Actually, I do,” he said, and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“John, this is important! We’re meeting for the Alexandria Harbor project.”

“I know, Cordelia. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. Can you reschedule it for another day?”

She propped herself up on the pillows to watch him, suddenly suspicious.

“We’ve been talking about this for weeks! How could you
forget
?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late to change the appointment now,” Cordelia complained. “It would be rude. Can’t you reschedule your other meeting?”

“Well, I promised to meet with Ted VerPlanck tomorrow morning,” Sinclair insisted. “And he’s been going through a lot. I hate to disappoint him.”

Cordelia sighed. “Ted VerPlanck has all the time in the world. I’m sure he could move his meeting for you.”

“He can’t, Cordelia. He may have to go back to the States at any moment.”

Sinclair nearly bit his tongue. Don’t give too much information. That was the hallmark of a bad fibber.

Cordelia glared at him and slumped back against the pillows in a fit of pique. He started gathering up her discarded skirt and blouse from the floor.

“Why are you fussing with my clothes?”

He walked over.

“I’m sorry. I
would
come to the meeting if I could.”

“Well, I’ll go to the museum alone,” Cordelia replied, playing with the silk tassel on the belt of his robe. “I’ll just tell you about it later.”

“Delia, I don’t know why you can’t just change the appointment. It seems pretty simple.”

An agitated note slipped into his voice. Cordelia eyed him and then stretched luxuriously and settled back against the pillows.

“Don’t be silly, John. I can certainly handle a meeting
without
you.”

Ritz Hotel

H
OLLY
G
RAHAM WAS
reclining on the canopied bed in her room. The coverlet was silk brocade and the canopy hangings were richly tasseled, in a pale blue color that soothed the eye. All around her was luxury: from the silk moiré wallpaper and the damask settee flanked by two bergère chairs to the white marble mantelpiece adorned with Sèvres porcelain vases.

Feeling utterly decadent after the sumptuous dinner at Wiltons, she had helped herself to the drinks cabinet and was enjoying a Rémy Martin accompanied by a few squares of dark chocolate from Fortnum & Mason. Could life get any better?

Dinner with Ted VerPlanck had been civilized and tranquil. There was a lot to be said for a grown-up dinner with a slightly depressed billionaire. Not as bad as it sounded at first.

All through the meal Ted had been genuinely impressed by her work and career. He asked informed questions and gave thoughtful answers. By the time they were finished, Holly found herself liking him very much. When they had reached the hotel they were both in a wonderful mood, and his old-world courtesy was in full force as he said his good-bye for the evening. The arrangements were made to meet tomorrow for another consultation at Jim Gardiner’s office.

Holly, now wrapped in the thick cream-colored terry hotel robe, was relaxed, bathed, and perfumed. She was reviewing some insurance
documents regarding Artemidorus for her meeting at the British Museum tomorrow.

This certainly was a fine mess. There were no contingencies for theft! It seemed that no one thought a twelve-foot cartouche weighing two hundred pounds could disappear from a museum gallery.

Her phone rang. It was after nine p.m. Who would be calling her this late? Holly picked up the receiver and then nearly dropped it in surprise at the sound of Sinclair’s voice.

“Hi, Holly, sorry to call you so late.”

“No problem, John. I just came in from dinner.”

“Listen, I hate to ask you, but could you reschedule your appointment tomorrow at the British Museum? It’s important.”