Chapter Sixteen
Charlotte
After an endless dinner in the Dorotheum, Charlotte was finally able to slip away. She had a blister on one heel from the ridiculous shoes she was wearing and needed a break from the cacophony, so she cut through the Great Hall to seek refuge—and a Band-Aid—at her desk. Frederick hadn’t been pleased at Mark’s empty seat at their table, but Charlotte had asked the waiters to clear it away and then made a point of smiling and chatting with the donors on either side of her, even though she was still seething at Mark for staying home.
She’d gone straight to the museum from home, having canceled on drinks with Helen and Brian, knowing she wouldn’t be very good company. When she’d first arrived, she’d spotted a tall girl in a long, shimmering dress watching the proceedings. Charlotte’s first thought was that she resembled an Egyptian queen, but then she realized it was Annie Jenkins. Quite the transformation from the girl in the red coat with curved shoulders and a hangdog look on her face who she’d seen wandering the galleries of the Egyptian Art collection not long ago. The job agreed with her.
Even though her heel was aching, Charlotte took a moment to soak in the grandeur: the security guards in their uniforms, the staff dressed to the nines, and the guests swanning about in the latest fashions. For once, the inhabitants of the hall matched the formality of the architecture, as opposed to regular visiting hours when shaggy-haired kids in jeans and sneakers wandered about. Tonight, Charlotte could almost imagine what the museum had been like when it opened its doors in 1880, back when women wore bustles and men sported frock coats.
The staff offices were empty, as to be expected. A pink interoffice envelope lay on her chair, and she picked it up and placed it on the top of her black metal inbox. Sitting down, she rifled through her drawer for a Band-Aid. After she stuck the plaster on her heel and slipped her shoe back on, she absent-mindedly picked up the interoffice envelope and unwound the string closure. She figured it was yet another random missive from accounting, but instead it was a blank piece of paper.
Strange.
Until she turned it over. This wasn’t an interoffice memorandum. A message had been scribbled in thick block letters with a black Magic Marker:
If you want your research back,
you better mind your own business.
Charlotte dropped the paper like it was on fire and immediately patted the top of her desk. Her colleagues always joked about how neat Charlotte’s desk was—she preferred to keep what she was working on front and center, with everything else tucked away in the drawers. Front and center was exactly where she’d left her Hathorkare file. But it wasn’t there. She yanked open the bottom drawer of her desk and leafed through the tabs: “Tut Exhibition,” “Budget,” “Staff,” “Inquiries.” Everything was accounted for except for the one file she was looking for. The thick, worn manila folder that contained the photos, her notes, the geographical surveys, everything to do with her findings. All the work she’d done the past three years.
She glanced around, her hands shaking, throat dry. She checked the trash bin under her desk, thinking maybe the cleaning staff had tossed it out. But that was empty. She looked around her colleagues’ desks on the off chance someone had picked it up by mistake, not that any of them would ever do such a thing.
Still nothing.
Three years of work.
Gone.
Shaking, she checked the desk drawers again, the trash can, the floor around her desk. Who would take her research? And why?
Mind your own business. It must have something to do with the fact that she was questioning the provenance of the loaned broad collar.
Whoever had taken the file knew how important it was to her. No doubt someone didn’t like her inquiring about the collar, wanted her to keep quiet, not cause a fuss. Which meant her hunch about the shady provenance was correct. In her head, Charlotte ran through a list of who had known about her research project. She’d kept mum about it on purpose, knowing that her theory might be wrong, and also because she didn’t want anyone else to steal the idea and publish it before she had a chance to. Frederick knew, of course, and Mark and Helen. She’d enlisted the help of one of the museum’s librarians several times, but she hadn’t gone into detail as to why she was requesting the particular materials. Her head spun with the possibilities.
If only Mark were with her now, to help her think it through.
The bass notes of the music pounded away, making it hard to concentrate. But then her ears picked up another sound, something shrill, not in tempo with the beat.
Like people were screaming.
Something was wrong.
Forgetting the lost file for a moment, Charlotte ventured back out into the galleries, cocking her head. The noise wasn’t coming from the Temple of Dendur, where the crowd was. It was coming from below, rising from the basement level, where the exhibition hall was located.
“Guards! Is anyone up here?” she shouted. There was no answer. Whatever was going on, she had to see if she could help.
But as she turned to go, something caught her eye. Just to her right was the gallery where she’d hidden from the gossiping technicians, where her favorite statue was located.
And where an empty pedestal now stood.
The Cerulean Queen was gone.
Charlotte approached the empty pedestal. Maybe it had been taken away for cleaning, or for research purposes, although surely she would have been informed of that. Then again, she’d been so busy and distracted lately. As she grew closer, she gave a silent prayer that a small card reading “Object temporarily removed” would be sitting in place of the statue, which would mean it was somewhere safe in the basement, being studied or polished. But there was no card.
The Cerulean Queen had been plucked right off its stand.
The Queen was one of the most well-known and loved pieces in their collection, and to have it go missing was a nightmare, for the museum and for anyone who loved ancient art. The statue was delicate and, in the wrong hands, could be irreparably damaged. Even more damaged than it already was.
In the dim light, a sudden movement caught her eye. A shadowy figure slipped out of one of the galleries to her left, a man in a dark suit.
Thinking it was a security guard, Charlotte yelled for help. He stopped for a moment, without turning around. The way his body stiffened at the sound of her voice was not normal. And he held some kind of bag in his right hand.
This was no guard. It was the thief.
Charlotte flew at him, not thinking, yelling as loudly as she could. He took off, running north before taking a sharp right turn, down the stairs to the exhibition hall, Charlotte following as fast as she could. On the landing she spied him weaving through the crush of people who were making their way up to the main floor, yelling and tripping over each other to get away from whatever terrible thing was going on down there.
Every instinct told her not to follow the man into the crush of bodies, but she couldn’t let him escape.
Charlotte took a deep breath and dove straight into the advancing crowd.
When Charlotte entered the exhibition hall of the Costume Institute, her first thought was that maybe a bomb had gone off, as the air was filled with bits of debris. Only when she looked up at the spotlights did she comprehend that whatever was in the air wasn’t falling; it was flying. The room was filled with insects of some sort.
It brought to mind the locust plague she’d experienced in Egypt, when they’d been inundated by millions of them for days on end. But these weren’t locusts. They were small and dark, attracted by the spotlights. The creatures cast erratic shadows around the entire room, making it feel like it was vibrating.
Annie Jenkins was helping an older woman with a cane toward the stairs while the remaining staff members scurried around helplessly swatting the air. A security guard tried to kill one of the insects after it landed on a costume, but the strength of his smack ended up knocking the mannequin over, which, in turn, fell into the mannequin next to it, creating a domino effect and causing even more screeches. Diana Vreeland stood with her hands on her cheeks, shaking her head. No one knew what to do.
Over in one corner was a large open box with the words “Live Butterflies—Handle with Care” printed on one side. God knew what was going on down here, but whatever it was, it had turned into a total disaster. What utter insanity, to bring live insects into a museum. No doubt it was one of Diana Vreeland’s crazy notions, like the infused perfume that tickled Charlotte’s nose and made her want to sneeze.
She scanned the room for the man from the Egyptian wing, but the layout of the hall made it difficult to find him. He could be hiding behind any of the velvet curtains that draped the displays, or maybe he had squeezed back into the crush of people waiting to get up the stairs. It was utter chaos. Luckily, a clutch of guards had just arrived at the back entrance of the room, reinforcements for the ones who were already there and were doing their best to assist the attendees.
Their focus, rightly so, was on getting the crowd upstairs safely. Which left all the costumes and other artwork unattended.
Including the broad collar.
In the craziness of the moment, she’d forgotten it was down here. She spun around and located the mannequin, which stood intact, including the broad collar. It was safe, at least.
Charlotte sprinted over to the guards at the back. “There’s been a theft. The Cerulean Queen is missing from the Egyptian Art collection. I followed the thief—he ran down here. Did you pass a man in a dark suit?”
One of the security guards shook his head. “I can’t hear you.”
“The Cerulean Queen has been stolen,” she shouted.
Now she had his full attention. “You said the Cerulean Queen is missing?” he yelled back, his eyes wide.
“Yes. And I think the thief may be in this room somewhere.”
It occurred to Charlotte that this moth debacle made the perfect distraction for a thief, drawing the security guards from the Egyptian galleries down to the basement and away from their posts. But it was impossible to communicate that clearly with all the noise. She pointed to one of the guards. “You, find out where they control the music and shut it off.” She pointed to another. “Turn on all of the overhead lights and close the door to the stairway once everyone’s out.” She recognized one of the guards as the young kid who had been cleaning up in the head of security’s office when she’d stopped by. “Have every exit to the museum closed until we find the thief.” The kid took off running.
Soon, the overhead lights blinked on and the music faded. Charlotte continued issuing orders. “Get some netting from the conservators’ workshop and use it to block one doorway. Then turn off the lights in the room but keep the light in the hallway on. The moths will be attracted by the light and fly into the netting.” Even as she spoke, she knew they were wasting valuable time.
“Did anyone see a man holding some kind of a bag come through here?” But her question fell on empty ears as the guards scrambled into action to corral the moths.
Annie Jenkins was suddenly by Charlotte’s side. “You mean a bowling-ball bag?”
“What?”
“I saw a man with a bowling-ball bag run past me a little while ago.”
“In a dark suit?”
“Yes.”
“What way did he go?”
She pointed to the door to the back hallway. “Through there. Why are you after him?”
A pulse pounded in Charlotte’s temple as she answered. “He’s stolen the Cerulean Queen.”