“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
MET BOARD 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.
None of these people had any idea that soon their blood would be on the floor. This evening would end in a massacre. Vojtech stood there planning everything. No one noticed him. The guests laughed and drank their champagne.
The two policemen ambled along the corridor checking the passageway. This was where the guests would walk to go in to dinner, through the Egyptian wing, past the various galleries—the Old Kingdom, Middle Kingdom, Ptolemaic period—right up to the archaeological splendor of the Temple of Dendur.
A velvet rope blocked a closed gallery.
“What’s in there?” asked the cop.
“It’s the Tut exhibit on the New Kingdom, Eighteenth Dynasty,” a museum security guard replied.
“Anybody in there?”
“No need. Everyone is supposed to walk straight through.”
“Undo the rope. I want one last sweep before they start coming this way.”
The guard unhooked the cordon without hesitation.
Cordelia walked down the corridor of the Egyptian wing with Sinclair.
“This is all very romantic, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, looking down at her.
“Absolutely.”
She had an intense flashback to when she met him almost a year ago. It had been an evening like this in Monaco. He had cut an impressive figure, every inch the handsome explorer. Their whirlwind romance had been filled with danger and adventure, and a lot of heartache too.
Because of their rocky start, they had spent time apart and then tried a long-distance romance, but in the end they had decided they couldn’t be without each other. Sinclair had moved to London five months ago to be with Cordelia. And then they had left to go on expedition in Egypt. His excitement about ancient culture was contagious.
“I can’t believe how great Dendur looks!” Sinclair said, pausing at the threshold of the gallery.
Cordelia came up to stand next to him. It was an unbelievable sight—an ancient Egyptian temple in the middle of Manhattan! The enormous glass wing of the museum was still fairly empty, the lights dimmed. The massive limestone edifice was elevated above a shallow reflecting pool designed to mimic the Nile River.
“Ohhh, it’s beautiful!” Cordelia gasped.
“Stunning is the word.”
“How old is it?” she asked, knowing Sinclair would have the facts at his command.
“Commissioned in 15 BC by the Roman emperor Augustus for Egypt. The Met moved it here in the 1960s, or it would have been flooded when the Aswan Dam was built.”
“I’m glad we have it to ourselves for a moment.”
Fifty empty tables were placed around the temple, draped with red tablecloths, set with crystal and china. Small candles glowed—shimmering points of light, like a votive rack in a dim cathedral.
Sinclair walked through the dining area, found their places, and held out her chair. As she sat down, several other people arrived, still carrying their champagne flutes. This was going to be a gorgeous evening!
Tipper VerPlanck swept into the museum, her stiletto heels echoing in the empty lobby, the train of her satin dress dusting the marble floor. A young woman with a clipboard came rushing up and handed her a plastic card.
“Mrs. VerPlanck, delighted you could make it. I’ll escort you to the table.”
“What’s this?” Tipper asked, confused about the plastic security chit.
“Your entrance card. If you would please follow me.”
Tipper tucked it into her purse and glided after the young woman. The museum guards eyed her as she walked through the Egyptian Gallery. Standing in the entrance to the atrium, she could see the dinner had started. Waiters were threading their way through the tables, trays held high.
The murmur of conversation filled the large space. The Egyptian temple stood floodlit and exotic, flanked by soaring columns of red and white flowers. The grandeur of the setting was impressive—New York at its very best.
“You are at table two,” the young woman said.
Tipper paused on the verge of entering. It was going to take a lot of nerve to appear in front of this crowd again. She had endured such a string of public humiliations lately, albeit self-inflicted.
She steeled herself for the plunge, then swooped into the room, head held high. As she approached table 2, she saw Ted engrossed in conversation with the curator of the Greco-Roman collection.
Tipper’s chair was empty, and the wineglass was turned over as a signal to the waiter not to serve the place setting. But, inexplicably, next to her empty seat was that little wretch of a man, Charlie Hannifin! Why on earth was she sitting next to him?
Ted stood up as he saw her approaching, a smile stitched into place.
“Delighted you made it,” he said.
His tone was disapproving. But something in his eyes asked for reassurance.
“Traffic was horrific. You have no idea.”
“I’m sure it was. The police lines have been set up outside the museum for hours.”
“Is she here?” Tipper asked, looking around the hall.
“Who?”
“The First Lady.”
“Yes. She’s here.”
Tipper looked around.
“Why isn’t she at our table?”
Ted pressed his lips together in resolute silence, clearly not wanting to discuss it publicly. He stepped over and held her chair with great formality before taking his place again. Tipper sat down, fussing with the arrangement of her skirts.
“So, where is she?” she finally asked sotto voce.
Ted moved his eyes toward the next table. The First Lady was directly across from them, her back turned.
Tipper’s spirits plunged. A wave of disappointment washed over her. Ted was co-chairman of the gala! As his wife, she had the right to sit at the head table.
She took a deep breath and felt the hate rise in her heart. Ted was a dunce. A dull, plodding dummy. He had trad
ed away the best social card of all!
“We should be there,” Tipper hissed. “You’re the co-chairman of the gala.”
“The committee was concerned about putting us at the table.”
“Why!”
“You were in the clinic at the time, and I didn’t know if you would be able to attend.”
“I can’t believe you let them do this to me!”
Ted’s eyes filled with pity. And that’s when she really lost her temper. How dare he look at her like that! She was not some pathetic creature! She was Tipper VerPlanck, one of the most important women in this entire city!
She straightened her spine. She wasn’t going to take guff from anyone. Including her husband.
“Why, Ted?” she said, her voice pure ice.
“I’m sorry, Tipper, this is your first event since you were away. I thought it was for the best.”
“You thought wrong.”
“I wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed.”
Tipper clamped her mouth shut in a firm line. She hated this horrible dinner.
“Embarrassed? I’ll show you embarrassed!”
“Tipper, what . . . ?”
She shot him a scathing look, picked up her inverted wineglass, and held it high.
“Waiter!” she called, and wiggled the glass.
The waiter nodded and came over with a wine bottle. He started to pour. Tipper watched the liquid fill the goblet.
“Leave it,” Tipper told him, looking Ted in the eye. “Leave the bottle.”
Two cops walked along the hallway, intent on following their instructions. The plan was to steal seven objects from case number 98—funerary statues, about six inches high. Small, yet incredibly rare and valuable.
The thieves had exactly six minutes until the security camera would flash an image of the gallery back to the control room. But there was little chance of discovery if all went according to schedule. Charlie Hannifin had set up five diversionary strobes to confuse and distract the Met chief of security. It was causing havoc. Museum guards and federal security teams had been rushing about all evening.
The Stolen Chalicel Page 4
