The Stolen Chalicel

by Kitty Pilgrim

  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.”

  Grosvenor Street, London

  JOHN SINCLAIR TOSSED the two suitcases into the entrance hall of Cordelia’s town house and fended off the slobbering advances of his dog with both hands. Kyrie was a Norwegian elkhound, a former stray. Years ago, during an excavation in Turkey, the puppy had attached itself to Sinclair. He had been skinny and near starvation, and Sinclair had nursed him back to health. They were now inseparable.

  “Kyrie, down.”

  He had named the puppy Kyrie—short for the Valkyries in Wagner’s opera. Sinclair had been listening to the CD the night he brought the animal home with him.

  “Come here,” Cordelia said gently.

  Kyrie dropped down on all fours and padded over to her.

  “Look at that! You have everyone in the whole household trained.”

  “Hardly,” she said with a laugh. “This place is filled with wild creatures.”

  “Wild creatures?” he said, pulling her into his arms. “Is that what you think I am? We’ll see about that!”

  Teterboro Airport, New Jersey

  TED VERPLANCK’S JET was at quarter throttle and began to taxi onto the runway. Holly was sitting knee to knee with him, looking out at the tarmac. She’d never fly again without thinking of this private jet. Or she’d never take a yellow cab to the airport without thinking of the Bentley. His treatment of her had been positively royal!

  She never even saw her luggage; the bag was loaded immediately from the trunk of the car into the Gulfstream G650. The crew greeted her by name and served her a glass of wine and a platter of water biscuits, fruit, and cheese. And there was no waiting—the moment she buckled in, they prepared to take off.

  “We’re first in line, sir,” said a steward. “It should be only a few more minutes until we are cleared.”

  Just then Ted’s cell phone rang with a discreet chime. He took the phone out of his inside jacket pocket and answered. Holly could hear someone talking rapidly on the other end. Ted cut in.

  “Yes, Tipper. I told you earlier. I’ll be out of town for a few days. London.”

  He listened with a resigned expression on his face and looked out the window.

  “Sure, why not. Jackson Hole sounds like a good idea. Give my best to Jane and Arthur. OK. Good-bye.”

  Ted hung up the phone without looking at Holly. The aircraft lifted off smoothly, and they climbed until the lights of the buildings turned into yellow pinpricks and then faded entirely. Clouds drifted over the wing in a mist. Finally, total whiteness engulfed the plane and there was nothing more to see.

  Holly turned her attention to her host. He looked very withdrawn as he gazed out the window. After they reached cruising altitude, the hostess came into the cabin.

  “Dr. Graham, Mr. VerPlanck. May I offer you some dinner?”

  “What do we have tonight, Angela?”

  “There’s lobster bisque to start, lamb chops with wild rice and steamed snow peas. Raspberry trifle for dessert.”

  “Does that sound OK? We preorder everything from a very good restaurant in New York.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Holly said.

  Holly awoke to the gentle tap on the partition of her berth and realized she was still on Ted VerPlanck’s Gulfstream G650. She had slept soundly, almost as if she had been in her own bed.

  “Dr. Graham, we’ll be landing in forty-five minutes,” the stewardess announced. “I’ll have breakfast for you when you are ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ah, what luxury! She stretched languorously underneath the covers and then reached over and slid up the window flap. There were big, fluffy clouds outside.

  As tempting as it was to just lie there, Holly got up and went to the adjacent lavatory to change. Last night, the stewardess had given her a set of Egyptian cotton pajamas and told her that her clothes for today would be steam-pressed as she slept.

  She was also informed that ventilation would be boosted inside her berth during the night. In the Gulfstream, the interior air was not recycled, as it was on commercial flights. In VerPlanck’s plane, new air was pumped through every ninety seconds, diminishing the ill effects of jet lag.

  This morning, in the harsh light of the vanity, Holly noticed her complexion was as fresh as if she had woken up at home. She rubbed on cleanser, splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth, and applied tinted moisturizer and lipstick. As promised, her newly pressed blue suit hung on the door. Finally, dressed and ready, she walked out into the main cabin.

  It was empty. There was no sign of activity from VerPlanck’s sleeping berth in the forward part of the
plane. All she could hear was the soft whir of the air jets on the ceiling and the tantalizing scent of fresh-brewed coffee.

  Again, she was struck by the elegance of it all—the cream leather chairs, the flowers on the burled-walnut table, fresh croissants, muffins, and fruit laid out on the counter with an assortment of English jams. A hostess appeared from the back with a cup of coffee on a tray.

  “Dr. Graham, we will be landing in about twenty minutes. If you would like to take a seat, I can get you your breakfast.”

  “Oh, thank you very much.”

  Holly accepted the coffee and added cream and sugar. She helped herself to a bran muffin, butter, and jam and turned to look out the small window at the outskirts of London.

  Just then Ted VerPlanck stepped into the cabin. He was transformed into an English gentleman by a tailored, chalk-stripe suit. His shirt collar had a distinctive British width, and the rep tie was maroon and hunter green. Even his shoes were proper English wing tips.

  “Good morning. I hope you slept well.”

  “Yes. Wonderfully, thank you.”

  She finished her coffee and replaced the cup on the tray held by the hostess. Ted waved off breakfast and the stewardess disappeared. VerPlanck seemed in a much better mood this morning.

  “I really love London. I would base my company here if I could.”

  “I have to admit, I don’t come here often,” Holly told him. “And when I do, I’m always in the basement of the British Museum.”

  VerPlanck checked overnight e-mails as they landed while she watched him surreptitiously. Today he seemed so distinguished and solid, not as emotionally fragile. There was a new confidence about him. As they touched down, he turned to her and smiled.

  “Welcome to London. Shall we go?”

  They collected their coats and went to the aft door, where the flight crew was lowering the automatic steps. Ted put on his raincoat, ducking under the frame of the cabin. He carried an umbrella for her and led the way across the tarmac. After a perfunctory customs check, they found the car waiting for them at the security gate.

  “Here we are, Dr. Graham,” Ted said, gesturing for her to step in first.

  Holly realized that VerPlanck had made that same gesture twelve hours before. At that time, she was accepting a ride home. And now they were standing on another continent!

  London

  TRAFFIC WAS MOVING at a glacial pace. Holly marveled at a world where these kinds of delays were inconsequential. Ted VerPlanck never needed to rush—planes took off when he was ready, meals were served when he was hungry, and meetings started when he arrived.

  They drove past the verdant swath of Regent’s Park, and the limo pulled up to the solid-looking brick offices of Bristol and Overton. VerPlanck reached for the door handle but turned back to Holly.

  “I forgot to tell you. I just got an e-mail from Jim Gardiner. We’re in luck. Sinclair is back home in London and will be at this meeting. He flew in last night.”

  “Really?” said Holly, feeling the flush creep into her face.

  “Actually, it’s quite a coincidence that Sinclair knows my lawyer, Jim Gardiner. They were introduced through Cordelia Stapleton.”

  “I met Cordelia briefly the night of the gala in New York,” Holly said.

  “Yes, I met her that evening also. And we all had lunch yesterday at my apartment,” VerPlanck said as he stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk.

  “So she lives in New York?”

  “No. Apparently Sinclair and Cordelia have been living here in London for the past few months.”

  “Oh, I had no idea they were together.”

  Holly managed to sound casual, but her mind was in turmoil. Sinclair was taken! She had entirely misread his intentions. If he and Cordelia were living together, Sinclair couldn’t have any romantic designs on her.

  That changed everything! The only reason she had agreed to help VerPlanck was to reconnect with Sinclair. Now all she wanted to do was climb back into the car and get as far away from this meeting as possible. What a disaster! How could she bail out of this without hurting VerPlanck’s feelings?

  Holly flashed a look of concern at Ted VerPlanck. Poor man. He was walking ahead, dodging puddles, and swinging his British umbrella jauntily. He finally looked cheerful now that he thought he was going to get his Sardonyx Cup back. How could she tell him she wanted out?

  Manchester Street, London

  JIM GARDINER SAT in the wood-paneled office of Bristol and Overton with John Sinclair, waiting for the others to arrive. This project made him nervous. Contacting people in the netherworld of stolen art was not legal. They’d have to bargain with all kinds of international criminals.

  Having Sinclair here was a great comfort—the man had such calm assurance. And he was the only person who would even know how to begin. His previous successes in recovering stolen artifacts were legendary in archaeological circles.

  Sinclair looked unconcerned as he lounged in the high-backed leather chair. He was more focused on Gardiner’s health.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how are you feeling?”

  “I’m coming along pretty well,” Gardiner assured him. “A couple more weeks of physical therapy and I’ll be able to walk better.”

  Of course, that was absolute bunk! Gardiner knew he was a physical wreck. It had been almost a year since he had ingested lethal poison in his coffee. The Russian agent had intended to kill him but failed. Even so, the single sip had left him struggling for his life.

  Gardiner turned his wheelchair around to pick up a file. On good days he could walk almost normally, but on bad ones he needed the motorized chair. Today was a bad day.

  “Paul says I will be ‘fit to tango in a fortnight,’ ” he joked.

  Sinclair smiled a rare smile. Gardiner’s domestic partner was his doctor, Paul Oakley. Gardiner and Oakley had met at the London hospital as Gardiner convalesced.

  “How is Paul?”

  “Great. He is up in Edinburgh doing some research on bubonic plague, if you can believe it.”

  “The plague! Why not study the common cold or something simple?”

  “You know Paul. He’s not happy unless he is tracking down an exotic contagion,” Gardiner said with a laugh.

  “Do you mean the Black Plague?”

  “Apparently there were several strains. He just helped sequence the DNA of the original Black Death.”

  “That must have been fun,” Sinclair joked. “What does all that have to do with Edinburgh?”

  “Paul’s been looking at the old bubonic plague sites that are still underground. Apparently a couple hundred years ago, in Edinburgh, they cleared the people out, boarded up the houses, and built a new city right on top of the old one. All the original streets are still down there.”

  “How fascinating!”

  “The only problem is, I can’t reach him most of the time. His cell phone doesn’t work underground.”

  “When you get hold of him, please give him my best.”

  Gardiner’s intercom buzzed, and he picked up the phone.

  “Please show them in,” he said, and turned back to Sinclair. “We’re in luck. VerPlanck has managed to persuade your friend Holly Graham to join our meeting.”

  “Holly is here! I thought she was back in New York.”

  “She just flew in. Is something wrong?”

  “Oh no, nothing. I just wasn’t expecting her to come to London.”

  “Apparently VerPlanck’s brought her on his plane,” Gardiner said. “Personally, I think it’s better if we all talk together.”

  Holly stood in the ladies’ room at Bristol and Overton, applying lipstick in the mirror. She figured a little cosmetic help was probably advisable before meeting John Sinclair. She snapped her purse shut and walked out into the hallway with a flutter of apprehension.

  How could she have misinterpreted Sinclair when he asked her to help find the Sardonyx Cup? He had been perfectly straightforward. The misunderstanding was
her fault! One chance meeting and her common sense had vanished. Did Sinclair really still have that kind of power over her? Apparently so.

  She had always been attracted to him. But it was more than physical. Sinclair’s intellectual detachment had always intrigued her. He lived most of the time inside his own head and seemed quite oblivious of everyone else. Sometimes he was so aloof he seemed almost indifferent to women. But the cerebral manner served only to mask his intense sexuality. When he decided to turn his attention on you, it was like opening the door of a blast furnace.

  Of course, half the archaeological world was in love with him. Every season, countless of her colleagues nursed hopeless crushes. Even she had finally succumbed, despite her best efforts to resist.

  They had become lovers in Jordan all those years ago. At first, she had rationalized their affair by telling herself there would be no lasting emotional attachment. But then, of course, there was.

  Sinclair was impossible to forget—the expression in his eyes, the way he spoke, and the way he conducted himself. But he was a very dangerous liaison. All his other women had been, quite literally, left in the dust.

  For that reason Holly vowed to be smarter than the rest. She would be the first to leave the relationship and not linger with him. And when they broke up it had been her little farewell speech that he had to endure, and not the other way around. So why did she find herself regretting her decision?

  Holly turned the corner and caught sight of Sinclair standing and chatting easily with VerPlanck, looking very elegant in a dark gray suit and crimson paisley tie. Their eyes connected, and he immediately crossed the room to give her a quick kiss on each cheek.

  “Holly. Nice to see you again so soon,” he said quietly.

  As he stepped back she caught a drift of that glorious aftershave he wore. It brought back a flood of memories of those sweltering digs in Jordan with him working beside her. That herbal scent would mingle with the aroma of dust and sweat.

  “I hadn’t planned to come to London, but an emergency meeting turned up at the British Museum.”