The Stolen Chalicel (6 page)

Tipper’s father had been a brilliant businessman and the center of her universe. He was the one who came up with her nickname—Tipper.

When she was a toddler, her father used to sing “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” over and over as they drove the snowy roads to their ski house in New Hampshire or to Lake Winnipesaukee in the summer.

“Sing Tipper again,” she would lisp as soon as he finished. He’d keep it up until she fell asleep. Then, at the end of the journey, he’d bundle her up in his arms and say, “Come on, Tipper, we’re here.”

The nickname stuck. He was still calling her that as he packed the little blue Alfa Romeo she drove to college.

“Bye, Tipper,” he had said, standing there, gaunt and riddled with cancer. She could still see him in her mind, waving as she drove away to Massachusetts. The memory still brought tears to her eyes.

That’s when she started drinking. It helped with the loneliness and pain, and had become a habit. Now, thirty years later, it was such a
problem, the tabloids had rechristened her Tipsy. The ups and downs of Ted and Tipsy VerPlanck were fodder for the masses. Tipper sighed. They were always ready to dump on the billionaires in this town.

But tonight she’d show them. As her father said, she wasn’t going to take guff from anybody. And she was definitely staying off the booze.

Metropolitan Museum of Art

M
ET
B
OARD OF
Directors member Charlie Hannifin was waiting by the circular information desk, dwarfed by a gigantic red flower arrangement. He made an unimposing figure—tuxedo jacket drooping off his shoulders, pant legs puddling into his shoes.

He saw Security Director Tom McCarthy walking through the lobby at a fast clip with his assistant, Yanni, trailing along after him. They bolted up the main staircase in the direction of the American Painting Gallery. The strobe light diversion was going as planned.

All around the entrance hall, large noisy groups of people were making their way to the Greek and Roman Gallery for predinner cocktails. Charlie stayed at the main desk—the perfect position for viewing incoming guests as they stopped to pick up their entrance cards.

Long tables had been set up for check-in; a gaggle of committee ladies were in charge. There was nothing better than a flock of sharp-eyed New York doyennes to screen the guests. You couldn’t
buy
that kind of security.

The museum had set up a ticketing system that was simple and effective. At check-in, each guest was quickly photographed and given a gold-and-red security card with a bar code. There were checkpoints all over the museum where the card had to be re-scanned. Without a card there was no way to enter the cocktail reception or the dinner. This system was as close to foolproof as they could get. Almost.

Hannifin’s operatives had already slipped through the employee entrance. Two ersatz police officers were making their way to the Egyptian Gallery to steal a king’s ransom of artifacts.

Charlie caught sight of the man he had been trying to intercept—Ted VerPlanck—arriving late. But where was his wife, Tipper? That was the person he
really
wanted to talk to.

“Charlie, nice to see you,” VerPlanck called out with a quick wave.

Charlie fell into step beside him.

“Ted, how have you been? It’s been ages.”

“Long time. Can’t even remember.”

“I think it was last summer at the Vineyard?” suggested Charlie.

“Oh yes, that reading at the Chilmark Book Festival,” Ted said and kept moving.

“Is Tipper doing well?” asked Charlie.

“Sure, never better. She’s back at the apartment, still dressing. You know these gals. It takes forever.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing her,” Charlie said heartily and disappeared into the crowd.

Cordelia sipped her champagne and looked around the Greek and Roman Gallery. New York society women were greeting one another with air kisses. Everyone seemed to know each other!

There was a waiter standing just over Sinclair’s left shoulder. He hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes as he held his tray aloft, entirely in another world. His eyes were strange, with a glassy thousand-yard stare.

The waiter turned and caught Cordelia observing him. His eyes flashed with animosity. She removed her gaze quickly. When she glanced back, he was still boring a hole through her, eyes narrowed. Cordelia looked over at Sinclair, but he hadn’t noticed. He was studying the architecture.

“Quite an event,”
Sinclair said as he flagged a passing waiter. He speared an hors d’oeuvre with a toothpick and ate it whole. The fancy caterer had got it right—the rice blended nicely with the slightly bitter grape leaves. These
dolmades
could have been straight from Greece.

“They’re good, Delia, try one,” Sinclair urged.

“OK,” she said, taking a toothpick. “Do you see anyone you know?”

“No, thank goodness. But I fully expect some moldering old geezer to come up any moment and tell me how wonderful my father was.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t be all that bad.”

“Yes, it can. Sinclair père was quite a piece of work. I’m glad you never had the torture of meeting him.”

They lapsed into silence. After a few moments Sinclair glanced over at Cordelia and noticed she was a little subdued, quietly watching everyone. Time to lighten things up.

There was a marble statue next to him, a Greek goddess, carved to life-size proportions. He pretended to notice it with a quick, comic double take.

“
Hold
on! I think I met this lady in a rooftop tavern in Santorini,” he clowned.

She laughed at him, shaking her head.

“ ‘Aphrodite, Roman Period, first or second century BC,’ ” he said, reading the plaque out loud. “ ‘The goddess wears an ungirt chiton of thin clinging material that reveals the curve of her body.’ ”

Sinclair put his hands up to Cordelia’s eyes as if to shield them.

“My goodness.
That
Aphrodite. I
told
her to girt her chiton, but she never listens.”

Cordelia laughed, and he continued to read the sign.

“ ‘Her pose was developed by Polycleitus in the mid-fifth century, and the figure probably held an apple in her left hand.’ ”

Sinclair leaned over and checked Cordelia’s left hand.

“No apple, that’s a relief.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to chase you. At least not here.”

“You will
never
have to chase me, John.”

“How about chasing
me
? They just rang the gong for dinner, and I’m starving.”

“I don’t see any of the conservation staff,” Carter remarked to Holly as he looked around the Greek and Roman Gallery.

“It looks like the Fifth Avenue crowd to me.”

“Well, since I can’t introduce you to anyone, I guess you’re stuck talking to me.”

“Why don’t I show you one of my favorite sculptures?” she suggested.

“Sure, I’d love that.”

Holly threaded her way through the large atrium, and Carter followed.

“Here we are.”

It was a carved marble bust. Carter circled around, taking in details.

“Quite a guy. Who is it?”

“Hadrian,” Holly answered. “The Roman emperor.”

The marble head was thrown boldly back, the face strong, exuding an aura of power.

“He must have been fairly young when this was done,” observed Carter.

“He was about your age. Do you see he has a beard?”

“Yes.”

“Romans usually shaved when they reached maturity. But Hadrian was the first emperor to keep his beard, and all the generals copied him.”

“Why?” Carter asked.

“He had a great love of Greece, where a beard signified wisdom and maturity.”

“Wisdom and maturity, hmmm . . . maybe I should . . .” Carter said, fingering his chin. “How do you know so much about this?”

“My doctoral thesis was on the period after 30 BC, when the Roman Empire annexed the Ptolemaic kingdom of Egypt.”

Carter wasn’t looking at the marble bust. All he saw was Holly, and the beautiful line of her temple where her blond hair was swept back.

“There’s a personal story about this bust,” she added.

“I’m all ears.”

“When I first came to New York more than twenty years ago, my mother always wanted to know if I had a boyfriend.”

Carter nodded, looking at her over the rim of his champagne glass.

“So finally I just told her I had met someone at the Met named Hadrian.”

“Oh, that’s too much!” Carter laughed.

“I meant it as a joke, but she didn’t understand and would always ask ‘How’s Adrien?’ ”

“Did she ever find out?”

“No, I didn’t have the heart to tell her. You do funny things when you’re young.”

“Yes, you do,” Carter agreed.

Holly paused to listen. A waiter was walking through the gallery, striking chimes with a padded mallet.

“I guess it’s time for dinner,” Carter said. “After all this champagne, I really could use some food.”

“I’m famished,” Holly admitted. “All I had for lunch was an apple.”

“Well, then, let’s go!”

Carter took the empty champagne glass from her and set it down on a passing waiter’s tray.

Vojtech stood immobile in the Greek and Roman Gallery, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He kept his arm steady as people deposited their empty champagne flutes on his tray.

Right in front of him was a statue of a Greek athlete. The marble was sculpted with muscles and sinews—as lifelike as living flesh. It was beautiful, except, over the centuries, the ancient figure had lost a hand.

Vojtech looked around at the other marble statues. They were all broken in some way. Some were missing fingers, others arms. Many were decapitated. The bust of the Roman general in front of him was missing his nose.

Suddenly, it looked like there was blood pouring from the broken nostrils, coursing over the marble lips, and dripping off the chin. Vojtech looked around at the other statues. Rivulets of red spurted from the missing limbs, flowing down the draperies of the stone goddesses.

All around, blood ran off the statuary. The white marble corridor was slippery and covered with red. Tonight, women in their long silken dresses walked right through it, their hems trailing.