The Stolen Chalicel (19 page)

“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

T
ED
V
ER
P
LANCK 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

I
T 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.

Even in London, he’d get on his motorcycle whenever he had to work out a problem. A couple of fast miles usually got the cobwebs out and focused his mind. Sometimes he’d come to a solution of what was bothering him. Tonight his chief preoccupation was a five-foot-five-inch blonde—Holly Graham.

Sinclair turned on the ignition and pressed the start button, and the headlight shot a beam into the dark street. He depressed the clutch lever, put it into first gear with the foot pedal, let out the clutch, and shot forward.

The engine reverberated down the row of town houses. He lapped Grosvenor Square like a racetrack and headed out onto Park Lane, taking random turns, searching for straightaways where he could open it up.

The night was cool. The joy of flying through the dark was intoxicating; he rode mindlessly, the beautiful machine responding to his every whim. After a while he allowed himself to think about her.

Holly was haunting him a lot these days. Was this new obsession a bruised ego or something more? Whatever was causing it, the whole thing was inappropriate. His life was happy, settled. And Cordelia was the beautiful, brilliant partner he had always been looking for.

In figuring this out, he decided to focus on the positive—list all the things he liked about Cordelia. She was smart enough to keep him interested, strong enough to handle his past, and a real soul mate. Their relationship was still young, but already it was solid.

Why did Holly have to appear right now? He should tell her plainly that he was not interested. But the look in her eyes was clear. Holly wanted something more, and he didn’t.

But if it was
that
simple, why was he out here riding in the dark?

Cordelia Stapleton woke up after a few hours of deep sleep, rolled over, and glanced at her alarm clock. It was three a.m. She reached for Sinclair, but the bed was empty, the sheets cold. He must be on one of his nocturnal rambles in the kitchen or the library, or out on that motorcycle. The man needed so little sleep!

She threw off the duvet and slipped on her satin robe. In the hallway she could see a light farther down the staircase, and music was floating up from the floor below. Cordelia tiptoed down the spiral steps and peeped into the book-lined room. Sinclair was fully dressed, seated at his map table, writing.

“John?” she said.

He looked up, startled.

“Delia, sorry if I woke you,” he said, standing up and moving toward her.

“What on earth are you doing in the middle of the night?”

“Working up a list of potential dealers in stolen art. I am determined to get that cup back for VerPlanck.”

“Oh.”

Was it her imagination or was he trying to hide something?

“We also have to get back something for the Brooklyn Museum,” he added.

“What?”

“A mummy. It was stolen the night of the gala. I am helping to recover it.”

“The
Brooklyn
Museum?” Cordelia asked.

“Yes.”

“Where your friend Holly is?”

“Yes.”

“Are you also working with her on recovering the mummy?”

“No. Not
directly.
” Sinclair folded up his notes and yawned copiously. “Let’s get back to bed.”

“We’d better. I have a morning meeting at the Royal Geographical Society.”

Cairo, Egypt

M
OUSTAFFA SENT AN
e-mail from the Bodega Café:

Xandra. Charlie Hannifin tells me that Mrs. VerPlanck is at Buffalo Ranch in Jackson Hole Wyoming with Jane and Arthur Monroe. Have our men collect her for ransom and await further instructions. M.

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

I
T WAS A
crisp fall afternoon as Tipper stood and watched the ranch hands saddle up a handsome pinto. The brown-and-white horse was prancing in anticipation of freedom.

The open range, where she could ride hundreds of miles without encountering a single human being, was also calling to her. Just what she needed to get her mind off everything.

Neither Jane nor Arthur ever had any interest in riding with her. Arthur spent his time bouncing through the sagebrush in a beat-up pickup truck, western music blasting on the radio. Jane preferred reading trashy novels and knitting.

Today, Jane and Arthur were driving into town to do a little shopping and have an early dinner at the Snake River Grill. Tipper had decided to stay here, saying she wanted some time alone to think. They totally understood.

As the ranch hands cinched the western saddle, Tipper held the lead and stroked the horse’s nose. Sweet hay-scented breath blew out of its nostrils.

She heard the chime of her cell phone, switched the reins to the other hand, and fished the phone out of her jeans. The area code was 212—New York. She took the call.

“Mrs. VerPlanck, this is Global Industries Insurance Company. We cover your art collection.”

Tipper’s heart began to beat faster.

“Yes?”

“We are calling about the Cézanne painting in Southampton. Our agents went out there to pick it up, but they found the house closed for the season.”

Tipper searched for something credible to say.

“Oh, I don’t really handle the art collection. My husband must have made other arrangements.”

She kept her tone brisk and businesslike.

“Mr. VerPlanck hasn’t notified us, and we haven’t been able to reach him,” the insurance agent replied.

“He had to fly to London unexpectedly.”

“I see. Well, all this is very unorthodox.”