Chapter Thirteen
Charlotte
New York City, 1978
The office of the art theft investigator was located above a hair salon, up a set of creaky, narrow stairs that rose between walls of peeling yellow paint. The sign on the second-floor door read “Tenny Woods, Art Recovery Expert.”
Charlotte turned the doorknob and entered a small antechamber with a secretary’s desk that had a towering stack of files on top and an empty wooden chair behind it. More files were scattered on the floor by a narrow bookshelf, and what looked like several days of mail were piled on a chair in the corner. In contrast to the mess, the walls were bare other than a couple of framed prints by Jacob Lawrence and Charles White. Intrigued, she stepped closer, only to realize that they were originals, not prints.
“Finally!”
She spun around. A man who looked to be in his sixties stood in the adjoining room, rifling through the top drawer of a file cabinet. Tenny Woods, she presumed.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve been waiting. I need you to go through the files out there and find me all that mention Benin or Nigeria.” Mr. Woods’s voice was low and growly.
“I’m sorry?”
He shifted his weight impatiently, hands resting on the drawer. “You’re from the temp agency, right?”
“No. I’m an associate curator at the Met Museum, Charlotte Cross.” She walked into his office. “I was hoping I could have a minute of your time.”
Mr. Woods’s office was filled with thick art books, like Mr. Lavigne’s, but instead of being carefully lined up on antique bookshelves, Mr. Woods’s were stacked on chairs, lying on the floor, many splayed open, others riddled with bookmarks.
The man slowly made his way behind his desk. “Sorry about that. My mistake.” He was tall and skinny with graying temples and large hands. He wore a navy blue jacket with a handkerchief neatly arranged in the breast pocket and gestured for her to take a seat. “So, what is it you’re here for, then, Miss Cross?”
Where to begin? “There is an antiquity on loan at the museum that I believe is stolen, and I want to find out who owns it.”
“Isn’t this something you should take up with Mr. Lavigne?”
“I tried. But he won’t tell me who it is. Apparently, they prefer to remain anonymous.”
“That’s their right, of course.”
“I realize that. But it’s important I find out the answer.”
“I see. Let me ask you, why would the owner lend something out in the first place if it’s stolen? Seems rather risky.”
He had a point.
“It was so long ago that the theft occurred, maybe they think enough time has passed.”
“Usually it takes about a decade before a stolen antiquity hits the market. How long has it been in this case?”
“Forty-one years.”
He let out a long whistle. “I see.”
“Are those originals in your foyer?” she asked.
“They are. My parents lived in Harlem during the Renaissance and became patrons for several artists. Lucky for me, they had a good eye and passed on not only their collection, but also their interest in art.”
“How did you become an investigator of art?”
“My thesis in grad school was on repatriation of stolen African art, and eventually I began to wonder why I was writing about it instead of doing something about it.” He checked his watch. “Tell me more about your particular case.”
She took a deep breath and steeled herself. If she wanted Tenny Woods to look into her case, she’d have to fill him in on the details. It helped that he was a stranger, and she reminded herself that this was just another story to add to his files. Whatever pity or judgment she saw behind his eyes was not anything she had to fix. It was all business. “Back in 1936, when I was working in Egypt at the Valley of the Kings, we uncovered a tomb and found two mummies and a broad collar. The broad collar was destined for the Egyptian Museum at that time. This week, the broad collar showed up at the Met as the anonymous donation I told you about.” After Charlotte had realized it was the same one, she’d stopped by the Met library and looked through the Egyptian Museum’s most recent catalog. “It’s listed in the index in the Egyptian Museum’s catalog, still, to this day, even though it’s clearly not in the museum’s possession.”
“Interesting. But then why are you here, instead of a representative from the Egyptian Museum? It wasn’t stolen from you.”
“I don’t think it ever made it into the Egyptian Museum in the first place. The two men who I believe took the broad collar happened to oversee the museum’s documentation at that time. They could have made a false entry to cover their tracks.”
Mr. Woods eyed her warily. “The antiquity you describe isn’t the only one of its kind out there. Are you sure it’s the exact same item you found?”
“Yes, because the markings on it were unique. It had the cartouche of Hathorkare on the clasp and was missing one of its amulets.”
He rubbed his chin with one hand. “Well, I suggest you contact the Egyptian Museum first. If you’re right, it’s their theft to follow up with. Not yours.”
“We both know the Egyptian Museum is having trouble just keeping the lights on these days. I’m not sure what kind of resources they have on hand to start this kind of inquiry.”
He didn’t disagree. “So you’re going to lead the charge? Why?”
“Because I knew the two men personally. Quite well.”
“Tell me more.”
Charlotte swallowed hard. “I was in Egypt with my husband, a man named Henry Smith. The last I saw the collar, it had fallen out of a suitcase that Henry was carrying, onto the deck of a ship that was about to sink into the Nile. He stuffed it into one of his pockets. I had no idea it was even in his possession at the time.”
Now she had Mr. Woods’s full attention. “I see. What happened to Henry, if I may ask?”
“He was presumed dead, drowned. I assumed the collar was lost as well.”
“But here it is.”
“You can imagine my surprise.”
“You say ‘presumed dead,’ Miss Cross. Do you think there’s a chance he survived?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know what to think.” But she wasn’t thinking of Henry; she was thinking of Layla. The not knowing was the worst of all. Not knowing where Layla’s tiny body had ended up, what terrifying impressions might have gone through her mind. The fact that their last touch was fraught with fear and panic. She coughed, erasing the dark thoughts under the guise of clearing her throat. “Henry’s body was never found. But I don’t know anything for sure. I was in the hospital for several weeks after, so I don’t know what happened.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Mr. Woods was still and quiet.
“Thank you, it was many years ago. But I have to know why the broad collar resurfaced, and who it belongs to. Do you understand?”
“You think your husband might still be alive, that somehow he escaped with the stolen goods?”
“It’s important I find that out.” No doubt Mr. Woods thought her a distraught widow, which was better than knowing she was a destroyed mother. As long as he looked into it.
“Unfortunately, Henry Smith is a very common name, and as this occurred many decades ago, I don’t think there’s much for me to go on.”
“What about making Mr. Lavigne disclose the name of the current owner? You could work backward from whomever that is, follow the chain of custody.”
“There’s no reason for Mr. Lavigne to tell me that information. It would only lead to a headache for him, and besides, he’s signed a contract.”
“Is it legal if the goods are stolen?”
“Now we’re back to square one.”
He was right.
She paused. “There’s another name, an associate of my husband’s who was on the ship with us. At the time, Henry said it was his suitcase.”
“What’s the name?” Mr. Woods picked up a pen.
“Leon,” she answered. “Leon Pitcairn.”
Charlotte studied her reflection in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. She had chosen to wear a vintage black georgette gown to this year’s Met Gala, one she’d first seen in the window of a Greenwich Village thrift store twenty years ago and that luckily still fit. It wasn’t on trend, by any means, with tulip sleeves and an unfashionable lack of embellishment, but Charlotte had always liked the way it gently draped around her hips, providing a subtle sense of curves to her thin frame.
Mark stepped up behind her and slipped his hands around her waist.
“You look ravishing.”
She turned around and adjusted his bow tie. “You clean up well yourself.”
The plan was to meet Helen and her husband for drinks at an East Side bar an hour before the gala officially began, partly to engage in some pre-gala gossip, as well as provide lubrication for what was sure to be a long night ahead.
The phone rang and Mark grabbed the receiver from the bedside table. Charlotte assumed it was Mark’s ex-wife again. She’d called twice a day since Lori had arrived in New York, although Lori rarely wanted to speak with her. When she did, her answers were short and curt, bordering on rude, which made Charlotte both relieved and annoyed: relieved that Charlotte wasn’t the only person Lori treated that way, and annoyed that Lori was able to get away with it in the first place.
But instead of yelling for Lori, Mark handed the receiver to Charlotte.
“It’s for you.”
She lifted it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Miss Cross, it’s Tenny Woods.”
Charlotte’s heart began to pound. He wouldn’t have rung her at this hour, at home, unless he had something to report. For a second, she regretted going to see him. Did she really want to know the answer to what had gone on all those years ago? Why dig up the past now?
Mark was studying her closely. She couldn’t have this conversation in front of him.
Charlotte told Mr. Woods to hold for a moment. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said to Mark.
He grabbed his cuff links from the bureau, adjusted the baby photo of Lori so it was even with the other framed photos around it, and closed the door behind him.
“Yes, Mr. Woods, I’m here.”
“Please, call me Tenny.”
“Very well, please call me Charlotte. What did you find out?” she said, barely breathing.
“The identity of whoever recently loaned the antiquities to the Met is tightly sealed. The best I could get was that the items are owned by a husband and wife.”
“No names, no nationalities?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She was disappointed but not surprised. Most serious collectors tended to be private, operating on the principle of mutual discretion between buyer and seller, with the goal of owning a rare piece of history. The obnoxious collectors—the ones who splashed their names across multiple galleries—were usually angling for something less refined, like trying to buy goodwill for their progeny or acceptance into the inner circles of a social elite that would never have them.
“Well, thank you for looking into it. Let me know how much I owe you for your time.”
“That’s not all, though.”
Charlotte closed her eyes tight and waited.
“Back in 1937, there were Egyptian warrants out for the arrests of Henry Smith and Leon Pitcairn on charges of smuggling.”
“What? Are you sure?” Even though all the evidence—the secretive talks with Leon, the suitcase filled with antiquities—now added up, she still couldn’t believe Henry would have been capable of such a thing.
“The warrant was dated November of that year.”
The same month they fled.
“Henry Smith was never located, but the other man was. Leon Pitcairn.”
Charlotte’s mouth went dry. “You’re sure? The same Leon Pitcairn?”
“I believe so. The Egyptian authorities caught up with him a few years later, and he spent some time in prison in Cairo.”
“Is he still alive?”
“He is.”
“Where?”
“Luxor, Egypt. He’s a guide in the Valley of the Kings.”
Charlotte’s mind raced as she strapped on her high heels.
Tomorrow, she’d meet with Tenny to discuss next steps. She had to find out how Leon escaped from the sinking boat. Tenny said he had an associate in Egypt who could possibly help. The provenance of the loaned broad collar was her way into the truth of what happened that night, she was certain. The stories were linked, and she had to know more.
Out in the foyer, Mark held Charlotte’s cashmere coat over his arm. “Who was that?”
“Someone from work. A technician needing advice on moving something.”
“At this hour?”
“It’s all hands on deck for Tut the golden boy.”
She hated to lie, but she needed time to process what Tenny had told her. That Leon was still alive, had survived the shipwreck, and was now a guide at Luxor. There were two tiers of guides at the Valley of the Kings: those who were affiliated with well-established companies and made a steady income and those who hovered around the entrance, offering their dubious services to unsuspecting tourists. According to Tenny, Leon was one of the latter, no longer able to work as an archaeologist after being caught selling antiquities on the black market.
He must be in his mid-sixties, she figured. What had happened to him between that night on the ship and now? And if he had survived, what about Henry?
What about—
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Mark. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
As he slipped the coat over her shoulders, a wail rose from Charlotte’s office. Lori stomped out not long after, holding some typed pages in her hand. “I need help.”
“What is it?” asked Mark.
“I can’t remember any of the lines for my audition, it’s like they just fly out of my head.” She looked like she was about to cry.
Earlier that day, Lori’s new agent had called to say that she’d finagled her an audition for one of the popular soap operas. Charlotte had made a point of bringing home cupcakes to celebrate, but Lori had refused to take one, saying she had to watch her weight from now on.
“Can we work on it tomorrow morning, before I teach class?” offered Mark.
“The audition is at eleven in the morning. I won’t be able to learn it that fast. Please, it’s my big chance.”
Never mind the fact that Charlotte and Mark were dressed to the nines, obviously about to go out. Mark looked over at Charlotte. She knew that expression; it meant that he was going to ask her something he knew she wouldn’t like.
She gave a subtle shake of her head. It was bad enough having to watch as the partygoers oohed and aahed over a bunch of clothes, but she was also required to sit at Frederick’s table and help woo the big donors, a talent she’d never quite mastered. She tended to get overwhelmed by the noise and the crowds, shrinking into herself as Frederick regaled and dazzled. Mark somehow always managed to make a personal connection with whoever was seated next to him and then wrangle Charlotte into the conversation with an easy grace.
He nodded and turned back to Lori. “You’ll figure it out, sweetheart. I’ll work with you when I’m back.”
“No! You’ve always said that you only have one chance to make a good first impression. If I take a nosedive on this audition, word will get around that I suck and I’ll never get another chance again.”
The drama of the young, thought Charlotte. Yet not all of them. Annie Jenkins didn’t seem to have any diva-like tendencies. She was innocent and doe-eyed, but possessed a seriousness that came from having been knocked down a few times. Although it really wasn’t fair to compare.
She checked her watch and looked over at Mark. “We should go.”
At which point Lori burst into tears. Mark held out his arms and pulled his daughter to him, giving Charlotte that same look.
He didn’t want to go. Which meant the table would have an empty seat, which would upset Frederick to no end. She rarely asked Mark to work events, only the big openings and the Met Gala, while she went to dress rehearsals, previews, and opening nights for every show he worked on, not to mention those of his Columbia students.
“You might as well stay,” she said curtly, buttoning up her coat. If things went south during the audition, no doubt she’d get the blame, which would make home life even more difficult than it already was.
There was no point in pressing Mark further. Tonight, she was on her own.