The Stolen Chalicel

by Kitty Pilgrim

  John Sinclair pushed his way against the flow of people, to the table where Cordelia had been sitting. She was gone! All around, people were pressing past him.

  “Cordelia!” Sinclair called out.

  “John!”

  He heard his name being shouted and whirled around. It was Holly, standing where he had left her a moment ago, her white dress a beacon in the crowd. Sinclair had told her to wait, but now she was being buffeted by masses of people.

  “Holly, I’ll come get you!” he called and made his way back to her.

  Suddenly the room was filled with the sound of a bullhorn.

  “Move away from the main entrance. Go to the back of the room and exit behind the temple.”

  The announcement seemed to redirect the crowd. People moved quickly, purposefully. Policemen were channeling the guests toward the exits. One officer stepped up to Sinclair and Holly, his radio squawking.

  “Move along, sir,” he said firmly. “Follow instructions to exit the museum.”

  “Officer, my girlfriend is missing,” Sinclair argued.

  The policeman looked at Holly holding on to Sinclair’s arm.

  “Please move on, sir.”

  “She probably left already,” Holly assured him.

  They joined the large phalanx of guests—hundreds in an endless stream—now oddly silent as they hurried through the winding galleries. Finally they reached the main foyer.

  The cavernous space was filled with a huge crowd. Many people were milling about, searching for their friends. Others were standing around speculating about what had happened.

  “I thought I heard five or six gunshots,” a man was saying. “At least, that’s what I thought they sounded like.”

  “No, you must be mistaken. If there had been gunfire, we would know about it.”

  “I think something went wrong with the alarm system. That’s what I heard some guards talking about.”

  “I was sitting near the First Lady,” an elderly woman said. “Her security detail got her out right away.”

  NYPD officers were walking through the main hall, urging people to go home. The gala was over, they explained. The security breach had been detected and stopped. Everyone was safe.

  Sinclair pushed through the crowd. There must be several hundred people in the lobby. Even with his towering height, it was impossible to find Cordelia. Almost every woman in the place was wearing the same color, and the entrance hall had turned into a sea of red gowns!

  He elbowed his way gently, Holly hanging on to him. Finally, he turned to her.

  “I can’t manage this if we stay together. Do you mind if I leave you here?”

  Holly looked down and seemed to realize that she was still holding his arm. She released it hastily.

  “Yes, go ahead. I’ll be OK.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own?”

  “John darling, I’m fine. You should go look for your date.”

  “No need,” a voice said behind him. “His date is here.”

  Sinclair whirled around and stood face-to-face with Cordelia.

  Ted VerPlanck strained through the crowd trying to locate Tipper. There was a slim possibility she had gone outside or had even gone home. As he walked out on the steps, the autumn air was suddenly refreshing. He looked across Fifth Avenue at his apartment, but the oblong windows of the living room were still dark. No one was there.

  Ted VerPlanck lingered a moment to observe the scene on the street. Police cars were parked at angles up on the sidewalk. Fifth Avenue echoed with wailing sirens. Photographers and reporters were running up and down the red-carpeted steps, snapping pictures. The camera crews had turned on their floodlights and were beaming live video back to their studios via satellite trucks.

  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

  LADY XANDRA SOMMERSET 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

  CORDELIA 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.

  “Cordelia, what’s wrong?” Sinclair asked.

  “I don’t like it that you went off with that woman and left me alone!”

  “I didn’t leave you on your own. I was dancing.”

  “Exactly. I leave you for thirty seconds and you run off with some blonde!”

  Sinclair stared at her. She was jealous! It was incredible how irrational she could become.

  “Her name is Hollis Graham. She’s an old friend.”

  “Is that why she called you ‘darling’?”

  “Figure of speech,” said Sinclair, waving the word away in the air. “She’s like that. It means nothing.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “She is one of the top Egyptologists in the country. I’ve known her for years. Why are you so upset?”

  “I was worried! Weren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I was. I was looking for you.”

  Cordelia ignored his reply and picked up her skirts in a huff and flounced down the red carpet. He followed along resignedly.

  Delia was a complicated woman and didn’t always sort out her emotions quickly. Most times she reacted first, and then thought things through later. It didn’t take long for her to calm down. By the time she reached the sidewalk, she was out of steam and turned back to him.

  “Should we walk back to the hotel? The l
imo’s gone,” she said with a certain degree of contrition.

  “I’d carry you in my arms if you’d let me,” he replied, and meant every word.

  “I was so afraid that you were going to get hurt,” she said, her lips trembling. “I thought I heard gunshots, and you weren’t around.”

  So that was it! The horror of her parents’ accident still haunted her. Losing both her mother and father at the age of twelve had been a terrible shock, and even now she had a deep fear of being abandoned.

  “Surely you know that I would never leave you, Cordelia,” he said.

  “John, I hate it when one of your old girlfriends pops up. It happens all the time.”

  “Holly is not one—”

  “She isn’t?”

  “No, she isn’t. You’re the only woman in my life,” he replied and held out his arms to her. Mercifully, she came to him.

  “Delia, how can you even think—”

  “John, I never want to lose you.”

  “You won’t,” Sinclair said, pulling her closer. “You’re trembling!”

  “No, I’m just cold. I left my wrap inside.”

  “Well, too late to look for it now,” he said, peeling off his jacket and putting it around her shoulders. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”

  Madison Avenue and Eighty-Second Street, New York

  CARTER WALLACE WATCHED the yellow cab move away and thread its way through traffic. He wished Holly would turn around and wave. She didn’t. The cab took a right and headed down a side street. Suddenly, his life was empty again.

  The beautiful Holly Graham. After tonight, his crush was worse than ever. The whole time she was with Sinclair on the dance floor, he had been miserable. And then he had made a total ass of himself by acting jealous and hostile.

  But somehow everything had worked in his favor. Upset by the turn of events, she had clung to him. That counted for something, didn’t it?

  He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her body in that brief moment of contact—her hand on his lapel, her hair brushing his face. It took every ounce of self-control not to kiss her on the spot.