The Stolen Chalicel

by Kitty Pilgrim

  Her little excuse was feeble, defensive. Even to her own ears it sounded as if she were overexplaining. Sinclair smiled enigmatically.

  “I know I need not introduce you two,” Ted interjected. “But, Holly, may I present Jim Gardiner?”

  A heavyset man in a wheelchair maneuvered over.

  “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Graham,” he said, shaking Holly’s hand from his chair. “I didn’t think we would be so lucky as to have your schedule accommodate our meeting.”

  “Nice to meet you also, Mr. Gardiner. It turns out the timing was perfect.”

  “Excellent,” said Jim Gardiner, wheeling himself briskly to the head of the conference table. “Shall we begin?”

  The Khamsin Motoryacht, North Atlantic, N 44°38', W 43°56'

  LADY XANDRA SOMMERSET stood in the wheelhouse of The Khamsin looking out at the stormy sea. The yacht was pitching steeply in eight-foot swells coming from west to east, and the captain looked like he was doing the polka as he gripped the wheel.

  The method for measuring storms at sea—the Beaufort scale—was at a Force 6, which meant strong winds of twenty knots or more. The weather didn’t bother Xandra; she never suffered from mal de mer, and had actually come to love the constant motion of the waves.

  Xandra checked the GPS. They were 1,785 nautical miles from Southampton, England, about 500 miles off the coast of Newfoundland. It would be a long trip—nine days if the storm subsided.

  The Khamsin was built for transatlantic crossings. This time of year the seas weren’t really rough. Iceberg season began in March in this part of the world, so there was almost no chance of hitting ice.

  Xandra walked into the salon, threw her black anorak on an upholstered chair, removed a tortoiseshell clip, and shook out her long hair. A steward came in and poured her some Egyptian chamomile tea. She sank onto the couch and sipped it, looking around the room.

  The salon was very stark tonight, stripped of anything that could fly around, all the “hatches battened down,” all movable objects stowed. The Sardonyx Cup was safe in her stateroom.

  Xandra glanced over at her other precious cargo. Artemidorus was strapped to the banquette with padded bungee cords. Bound up like that, he looked as if he were being kidnapped.

  Meadow Lane,

  Southampton, Long Island

  TED VERPLANCK’S BEACH house was empty except for one exhausted security guard, who was trying to stay awake. The property was a large waterfront estate on Meadow Lane owned by generations of “old money” VerPlancks—in contrast to “new money” Wall Street hedge-fund houses built in the 1980s.

  Old money, new money, the guard didn’t care just as long as Mr. VerPlanck continued to tip him four or five Benjamins at the end of the season. It was a great gig. They paid him twenty-five dollars an hour, and half the time he was asleep on the living room couch.

  The Hamptons summer season was over. Almost everyone was gone. The housekeeper had already put white sheets on the furniture, and the insurance people were coming tomorrow to take the paintings back to the city.

  The guard lifted the protective cover off the couch and lay down, carefully kicking off his shoes. The Cézanne was visible from this position.

  A couple of mil. That’s what it was worth. A lot of coin for a few dabs of paint. But any fool could see this canvas was primo. It was a bunch of apples and pears and other stuff on a table. A “still life,” they called it.

  The yellows and oranges on the fruit were really cool on the nights he was stoned. Once, he and his friends drank a bottle of red wine and played their guitars right here on the carpet. Who else could say they partied in the same room with a genuine masterpiece?

  Tonight was going to be tough. Last night, his band had played the late set at the Captain’s Table in Bridgehampton. Now he could feel his eyelids burning and slowly shutting. He’d take a quick nap. If anyone tried to steal the painting, they’d have to lean right over him.

  He drifted off the second his head hit the couch. In what seemed like a minute later, a pounding noise startled him awake. What time was it, anyway? Two a.m.! He checked the painting. It was fine.

  The guard leaped up so fast his head spun. Struggling to jam his feet into his shoes, he hobbled out to the kitchen. Two large policemen were standing outside, pounding on the door. A flashlight shone through the glass, blinding him.

  “Open up, we have an emergency,” a voice said.

  “What is going on?” he asked as he punched in the security code.

  “Disturbance on the grounds. We think someone broke into the house. We need to get in, now.”

  He disabled the alarm and pulled the door wide.

  “I didn’t hear anything. I’ve been here all night.”

  “We saw someone go through an upstairs window. Anybody else home?”

  “It’s just me. The family is gone for the winter.”

  They smiled at him. He suddenly realized they didn’t look like any cops he knew. Certainly not the out-of-shape patrol officers from Southampton. These guys looked like they were on steroids.

  “I’ve never seen you before.”

  There was no point in mentioning that he knew the local constabulary from a teenage DUI conviction.

  “We’re new. Backup.”

  “Backup for what?”

  “Special detail for this weekend.”

  “What’s going on this weekend? Oh, yeah. Is it that rap star Rob Dinero?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is the living room?” one of the officers asked.

  “Right in here. I’m supposed to be watching this painting. The insurance guys are coming to get it tomorrow.”

  The three of them walked into the living room. Even in the semidarkness, the orange and yellow glowed. It was beautiful.

  “That’s it, there?” asked one of the policemen, standing in front of the painting.

  “Yup. It’s worth 1.4 million smackeroos.”

  Suddenly, he felt his arms being wrenched behind him and the cold steel of handcuffs snapped around his wrists.

  “What are you . . . ?”

  “Shut up, kid,” said the cop.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  They didn’t answer.

  “What is going on? Am I under arrest?”

  “You’re not under arrest. We need the painting.”

  “You can’t steal that, I’m guarding it.”

  “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have let us in.”

  The two men lifted the Cézanne off the wall, set it down, and knocked the canvas out of its wooden frame. One of them rolled up the canvas while the other leaned the wooden slats against an upholstered chair.

  “We won’t hurt you if you tell the police you didn’t see us clearly,” one thief said.

  “I didn’t see you. They don’t pay me enough to get hurt.”

  Flight UA 6534,

  Denver to Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  TIPPER VERPLANCK FELT the stress drop away as the United Airbus A320 headed west. It was actually a relief to fly commercial. Ted had taken the family jet to England, but it felt good to set off on her own just like a normal person. The anonymity of boarding the connecting flight in Denver with 124 other passengers was refreshing.

  Just as she was landing in Jackson Hole, her cell phone rang. She checked the number. It was Charlie Hannifin. The only reason to take the call was that he had promised her a $100,000 commission for stealing the Cézanne.

  “Hello, Charlie.”

  “Hi, Tipper. How is your trip to Wyoming?”

  “I just landed. I’m staying at Jane and Arthur Monroe’s ranch.”

  “Give them my best,” Charlie said. “I just got back from the Hamptons.”

  “Nobody’s out there this time of year.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Did you have a nice time?”

  “Yes. The weather was picture perfect.”

  Tipper rolled her eyes. He probably thought he was being clever.

&nbs
p; “Well, it’s great talking to you, Charlie, but I have to go.”

  “Take care, Tipper. Thanks. You’re a real friend.”

  Tipper shuddered as she hung up the phone. Charlie Hannifin was not her friend.

  She looked out the plane window as they taxied to the terminal. It was a beautiful clear day. The ragged peaks were already frosted with the first high-altitude snowfall of the season.

  Jackson Hole was located in a small valley tucked into the Grand Teton Mountains. This was where the superwealthy went to pretend they were simple folk. Jane and Arthur Monroe owned one of the most lavish ranches around.

  They were old friends. Jane was the kind of woman who would sit up all night and gossip. Arthur’s main interests were a cold beer and whatever sport was in season. Over the years, Tipper habitually found refuge with them whenever she was feeling low. Jane understood the demons of addiction; she herself had become hooked on painkillers after her face-lift a few years ago.

  Grateful for their friendship, Tipper lavished presents on them—invitations to New York or the ski house in Klosters. Last year for Christmas she had given them carbon offsets for their jet. This holiday season, she was planning to invite them to her Oscar party; Conrad was certain to be nominated.

  Tipper drove to Buffalo Ranch in her rented SUV. As she approached, the beauty of the place struck her, as it always did. The Grand Teton Mountains provided a backdrop for the sprawling wood-framed house. It had been constructed to resemble a rustic log cabin, except its size was enormous—twenty thousand square feet! Flanking the ranch house on either side were traditional Wyoming jack fences, which set off acres of meadows where horses grazed.

  Jane must have been watching from the window, because as Tipper pulled up she came out to the car, wearing a fuzzy green mohair shawl.

  “Oh, sweetie, it’s so good to see you!”

  She pulled Tipper into a big warm hug.

  “I missed you too,” Tipper said, a lump forming in her throat. “I don’t know why I didn’t come sooner.”

  “Well, all that counts is you are here now.”

  She looped an arm around Tipper and started back toward the house. Jane looked fabulous—her hair was shorter and blond, her skin clear and healthy.

  “What’s this I’m hearing about you and a new amour?” she asked.

  “Oh, you mean Conrad. I’m so glad we can talk about him. I can’t breathe a word in New York because of Ted.”

  “Well, nobody’s here to spoil our fun except Arthur. And he won’t mind, so long as you are happy.”

  As if on cue, a portly man stepped out onto the veranda.

  “Jane, get the hell on in here and stop yammering out in the yard!”

  Tipper broke into her first genuine smile in weeks. It really was good to be here!

  Inside, Tipper looked around the house with admiration. Decorated in “western deluxe style,” with leather furniture, fur throws, and Native American rugs, the great room had a cathedral ceiling and a stone fireplace large enough to stand in. A broad glass window looked out across the valley. How many evenings had she spent here sitting around the fire, drinking wine and laughing?

  For Tipper, the serene beauty of Jackson Hole had always been restorative. Her father had been one of the early investors in the area, and she had spent her summers here when she was young.

  The western lifestyle suited her—active days of riding and hiking, followed by a full night’s rest in a downy bed. The food was hearty. At the ranch there were huge breakfasts of sourdough pancakes with butter and syrup, and elk, bison, and buffalo for dinner. The livestock was grass-fed and pesticide-free—a much healthier diet than she had in New York, where she fueled herself on arugula and caffeine.

  “You know,” she said impulsively, turning to Jane, “I’ve just decided. I’m coming back to Jackson to live after my divorce from Ted.”

  “You are?” she asked, delighted.

  “Yes, I’m leaving New York. To hell with them all!”

  Bristol and Overton Solicitors, Manchester Street, London

  TED VERPLANCK SAT at the head of a conference table surrounded by three people who were willing to scour the criminal underworld to find the Sardonyx Cup. It was a small cabal—Jim Gardiner, John Sinclair, and Holly Graham.

  Ted was filling them in about the provenance of the object, projected on a laptop. Even in a two-dimensional format, the cup was magnificent.

  “What is the estimated worth?” Gardiner asked.

  “That would be nearly impossible to determine,” VerPlanck answered. “It’s one of the most valuable pieces of art to survive the Middle Ages.”

  “Middle Ages? I thought it was ancient Egyptian?” Gardiner interjected.

  Ted indicated the bowl of the chalice.

  “The cup itself is originally from Alexandria, Egypt. Ptolemaic period in the second to first century BC. Hand-carved sardonyx.”

  “What is sardonyx, exactly?” Gardiner asked

  “The stone belongs to a class of semiprecious minerals—like onyx, carnelian, turquoise, malachite, or lapis lazuli,” VerPlanck explained.

  “What’s the difference between onyx and sardonyx?”

  “Onyx has bands of black and white. As you can see, this cup alternates white with a russet color, which was known as sard.”

  “Oh, I understand—sard-onyx,” Gardiner exclaimed.

  “Exactly. The original bowl was brought to France by itinerant peddlers from the Middle East and purchased by the French Benedictine monk Abbot Suger.”

  “That’s where the gold base was added?” Sinclair asked.

  “Yes, in 1137 AD the cup was made into a chalice studded with pearls and cabochon-cut gems.”

  “The design is absolutely amazing,” Holly said.

  “Just think,” VerPlanck said. “A pagan Egyptian drinking vessel being used at High Mass in the royal court of France.”

  “It was used by a king?” Gardiner asked, impressed.

  “Eleanor of Aquitaine and Louis VII drank Communion wine from it at their marriage ceremony.”

  “I can’t believe you own it!” Holly gasped.

  “Owned it,” said VerPlanck ruefully. “But let me continue. . . . During the French Revolution, it was hidden in an underground vault in Paris.”

  “How did it get to the United States?” Sinclair asked.

  “The cup was stolen from Paris in 1804 and surfaced with a London collector, Charles Towneley, who then sold it to someone else. It changed hands a few more times until it ended up with Joseph Widener, the scion of a major American industrial family in Philadelphia.”

  “How did you get it?” asked Gardiner.

  “My father bought it in 1942 and promptly locked it up in his vault in New York.”

  “Why would he do that?” Sinclair asked.

  “For safekeeping. Legend has it the cup brings its owner long life and prosperity.”

  “And does it?” Gardiner asked, fascinated.

  “Apparently so. My father lived to the age of ninety-eight and made a fortune in the stock market.”

  “And you?” Gardiner asked VerPlanck. “Do you believe it’s a good luck charm?”

  “The cup has certain powers,” VerPlanck said quietly.

  A thoughtful silence settled over the room as everyone looked at the screen.

  “Any idea on how to recover it?” Jim Gardiner asked Sinclair.

  “I’m sure Holly will agree that time is often the enemy of art recovery.”

  “John is right. The trail goes cold quickly. If we have any chance of getting this back, we have to do it now, while the cup is on the move.”

  Jim Gardiner leaned forward. “Ted, I have to caution you—these are master criminals, not small-time operators.”

  “I always assumed they were professional.”

  “International art theft runs some six billion dollars a year. These days, when criminal gangs can’t make deals with drugs and weapons they often try to fence stolen art.”
/>   “So you are saying it’s too risky to contact whoever stole it?”

  “It’s a consideration.”

  “I’ll pose as a buyer,” Holly said, jumping in. “I can put out feelers for the cup and my missing mummy.”

  “No, Holly!” Sinclair burst out. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Jim Gardiner held up his hand like a crossing guard.

  “Dr. Graham, I would advise against it. You could be prosecuted.”

  “As long as money doesn’t change hands, it wouldn’t be a criminal act, would it?” she asked.

  “That’s beside the point! You have your job at the museum to consider,” argued Sinclair.

  “I wouldn’t have to tell them.”

  “You can’t risk your career,” Sinclair insisted. “I’ll do it.”

  “I really don’t understand why you are being so protective! It’s my decision,” she said testily.

  “First things first,” Jim Gardiner said, cutting off the discussion. “Before we decide on a plan of action, we should each go home, draw up our lists of contacts.”

  “Agreed,” said Ted VerPlanck. “Shall we meet here again at the same time tomorrow?”

  “That’s fine,” Sinclair agreed.

  “What about you, Dr. Graham?” Gardiner asked. “Does that suit your schedule?”

  Holly looked over at Sinclair.

  “Yes,” she said. “I can make it.”

  Grosvenor Street, London

  IT WAS ONE o’clock in the morning when John Sinclair picked up his distressed leather jacket and motorcycle boots and walked quietly down the carpeted stairs, past the living room, and through the empty kitchen. The garage lights blinked on harshly. There, in the large space, were two vehicles: his Aston Martin DBS and a Triumph Speed Triple. He wheeled the motorcycle out onto the street before starting it up. No use waking Cordelia.

  Night riding was Sinclair’s secret vice. He’d done it often while working in Turkey. The winding roads were deserted after midnight, and he would take his BMW R 1200 GS Adventure out to roam the vast countryside. Ever since then, the habit had stayed with him.