Chapter Seventeen
Annie
“He turned to the right,” said Annie, following Charlotte down the main basement hallway.
Annie knew she shouldn’t be running away from the mayhem she’d just unleashed, but the distraught look in Charlotte’s expression overrode Annie’s sense of duty to Mrs. Vreeland. Something terrible had happened, and she preferred to jump into action rather than face what was sure to be the wrath of everyone who had worked so hard to make the exhibition a success. Her chest heaved with effort as they sprinted down the long hall. The man could have gone anywhere.
“There must be more guards down here,” said Charlotte. “We’ll round up some help and see if we can track this guy down. What did he look like?”
“Dark suit, tall,” answered Annie, panting hard. “I didn’t see his face, but I noticed the bowling-ball bag because my dad used to have one just like it. He stood out because he didn’t seem upset by the moths the way everyone else was, it was like he expected them.”
Charlotte nodded, like she wasn’t surprised by that fact. “What exactly happened in there?”
Annie’s insides twisted. She’d been so stupid—why hadn’t she checked the box before she set them all free? “Mrs. Vreeland wanted butterflies released for the VIP tour. But something got mixed up and instead the box was filled with moths.”
“Which are attracted to fabrics. Genius, really.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Who gave you the box?”
“I picked it up from the Museum of Natural History before I arrived.”
Charlotte gave Annie a quick sideways glance. “Is that right?”
“You don’t think I was part of this, do you?” Annie’s face burned. “I swear, I was just doing what I was told.” She grabbed Charlotte’s arm. “Is the broad collar safe?”
“It is. I checked on it.”
“Thank goodness. Do you think that the moths and the theft are related? Like I said, the guy didn’t seem overwhelmed by the pandemonium. Not in the way everyone else was.”
“Maybe.”
They ventured farther down the bright hallway, the only sound their footsteps and the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.
“This is crazy,” said Charlotte. “Everyone’s upstairs. We shouldn’t be doing this alone.”
“But we can’t let the man escape,” countered Annie. A rush of cool air made her stop in her tracks. “What is that?” She pointed to what looked like an old-fashioned tunnel with an arched brick ceiling that branched off to the left. Padlocked metal cages lined the sides, bursting with a mishmash of antiquities, including marble sculptures, fluted columns, and coats of armor. The handle of a dagger poked through the gap between one of the cage doors.
“It’s an obsolete storm drain for the park’s reservoir, built back in the mid-1800s. It runs diagonally north to south the entire length of the building.”
“And they use it for storage?”
“There are over two million pieces of art in the museum’s collection; we can only exhibit a fraction at any one time. We need all the storage space we can get.”
A wave of sadness ran through Annie at the thought of so much art tucked away in a cold, dark hole in the ground, pieces that were deemed extraneous and locked away in an art jailhouse because they didn’t make the cut anymore, or never had.
“I can’t believe it,” said Charlotte, swearing under her breath. “I was right there when he took it.”
“You saw him steal the Cerulean Queen?”
“Not exactly. But I came upon him right after and followed him down the stairs to the Costume Institute exhibition. If only I’d been a few seconds earlier, I might have caught him in the act and stopped him.”
“That’s terrible. But it’s not your fault.”
“It’s someone’s.” Charlotte didn’t meet Annie’s eyes.
Annie shrank back, stung. Did Charlotte mean it was her fault? Maybe it was. If the moths were some kind of diversion for the theft—and it was too much of a coincidence to think they weren’t—then she was definitely at fault. She’d probably be put in jail, or at the very least fired for her actions.
Charlotte turned to walk back from where they came from, but Annie stayed put, staring hard into the darkness of the tunnel. “Wait, I think I heard something.”
“It’s probably a rat scurrying around. The man is long gone by now.”
Annie ventured forward a couple of steps. “I’ll wait here, you go get the guards.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone, Annie. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Annie stared into the darkness, her eyes refusing to adjust. “I swear—”
Suddenly, a figure emerged like a rocket out of the pitch black. A man. He swung a bowling-ball bag at Annie’s head, but she ducked in time, falling back against one of the cages. With his other hand, he shoved Charlotte hard and sent her sprawling to the ground, face-first.
As the adrenaline surged through Annie’s body, it was as if time slowed down. She scanned him from head to toe: His shirt collar was open, and a silver pendant around his neck blinked in the light. His eyes were dark brown and almost lashless; his hair dark, curly, and short. He gave off a musky, animal scent, and the look on his face was one of fury and violence.
He stared at Annie, breathing heavily. She was trapped and he was twice her size. But then Annie’s hand fell upon the handle of the dagger that poked out of the cage. As he began moving toward her, she yanked it hard, and to her surprise, the blade slid out easily.
The man registered the weapon with wide eyes, taken off guard. Annie did the only thing she could think of.
The scream came from deep in her belly, a terrifying, massive sound that she’d never made before in her life. It sounded like something a cornered animal made, ungodly in its pitch, echoing against the tunnel walls and hurting her own ears.
The man took a step back, turned away, and disappeared into the darkness.
Charlotte was shuttled off to be seen by the museum’s medical staff after Annie scared off the attacker, insisting to the guards who led her away that she was fine, just bruised. Annie, meanwhile, was marched upstairs to the mezzanine level and planted in a chair in the security office under the watchful eye of a man who introduced himself as Mr. Fantoni, the Met’s chief security officer.
“The fence barrier deep inside the tunnel had been clipped,” reported one of the guards to Mr. Fantoni. “It appears that’s how the thief escaped.”
“We need to check the entire tunnel system under the building and make sure it is fully secure,” said Mr. Fantoni. “There’s no excuse for this, absolutely none. We’ll also need to perform a search of the entire museum. It’s going to take all night, so let’s get all hands on deck. It’s possible the thief left the statue in a public area and plans on returning later for retrieval, so keep your eyes peeled. First and foremost, make sure that fencing is secured.”
Billy stood in one of the far corners of the room, his face ashen. It was awful that they were going after him, too, that Annie had dragged him into this nightmare. He’d only been trying to help when he let her go through security with the box. And now his job was probably on the line, just for being a nice guy. When she caught his eye, Annie mouthed, “I’m so sorry.” He gave her a wan smile in return.
“In the meantime,” continued Mr. Fantoni, “no one is allowed to leave the building without a thorough search of their belongings. What are the approximate dimensions of the statue?”
The guards looked at each other, unsure.
“The Cerulean Queen is around five inches in width, height, and depth,” answered Annie. “About the size of a large grapefruit.”
“Don’t you work for the Costume Institute?” asked Mr. Fantoni, checking his notes.
“I do, but I visit the Egyptian Art collection all the time. The Cerulean Queen is one of my favorites.”
Mr. Fantoni looked up at his staff. “It may be that the two events of this evening—the stolen statue and the moth incident—are related. That one was a diversion for the other.”
“Charlotte and I had the same thought,” said Annie. “About the events being related.” Maybe if she was as helpful as possible, she wouldn’t get in trouble for her part in releasing the moths. “That the moths pulled the guards away from the gallery with the statue so the thief could steal it.”
“Where is Miss Cross now?”
“Getting examined by the medics.”
Mr. Fantoni studied Annie closely, like he was trying to decide something. Maybe being helpful wasn’t the best idea. “How long have you worked here at the museum, Miss Jenkins?”
“I started last week.”
“I see. A recent hire. And how did you get the moths in the building in the first place?”
Billy stepped forward. “It was me. I’m sorry, sir. I let Annie take the box in. I was told they were butterflies. But she’d never do anything like this on purpose.”
“Billy, I’m disappointed in you,” said Mr. Fantoni. “Did you inspect the box? Or even question why it would be a good idea to bring a flock of butterflies into a museum?”
“A kaleidoscope.”
The tall figure of Mrs. Vreeland breezed into the room. Annie turned around in her chair and offered up a hopeful smile. At the very least, now Annie had someone who could attest to the fact that Annie had been just doing her job.
“Sorry?” said Mr. Fantoni.
“That’s what a collective of butterflies is called,” Mrs. Vreeland declared. “A kaleidoscope .”
“Thank you, Mrs. Vreeland, for that.”
Mrs. Vreeland turned to Annie. “What on earth were you thinking? I simply don’t understand how this could have happened. An absolute travesty, that’s what it is, an absolute travesty.”
Annie squirmed in her chair. “I did what you told me to do. Not moths, of course. But butterflies. For the VIP tour.”
“I never told you anything of the sort.”
Annie’s heart turned to lead and she struggled to speak. How could Mrs. Vreeland deny it? Had she forgotten their conversation in her apartment? Or was she trying to dodge being blamed? But Mrs. Vreeland was forthright to a fault and known for her trap-like memory. “You did,” said Annie. “You said, ‘There simply must be butterflies! Hundreds of them, a dizzying kaleidoscope of shape, pattern, and color.’ You wanted the room to feel like it was taking off, flying, like the dancers on the stage.” Annie had memorized the wording scribbled in her notebook.
“For God’s sake, that doesn’t mean literal butterflies, Annie. I meant for the lighting effects to mimic butterflies.” Mrs. Vreeland looked around the room, her small dark eyes scrutinizing the faces of those assembled. “Does anyone here think I meant literal butterflies?”
The security officers shrugged their shoulders in response.
“But that’s what you said…” Annie’s voice trailed off. Nothing was going right.
Mr. Fantoni came around from behind his desk and sat on the edge of it, staring down at Annie. “Even if you did misinterpret what was asked of you, you brought moths instead.”
“I didn’t know, I swear,” replied Annie. “The box said butterflies. There must’ve been a mix-up.”
Mrs. Vreeland threw up her hands. “But I didn’t want real butterflies, just the illusion .”
“Yes, we get that,” said Mr. Fantoni. “Please, let me finish with my questions.”
Mrs. Vreeland crossed her skinny arms over her chest. “Fine.”
“Now, Annie, where exactly did you get these insects from?” asked Mr. Fantoni.
“The Museum of Natural History. The curator’s name is Jonathan Scarborough.”
“I know Jonathan, let’s get him on the phone right now!” demanded Mrs. Vreeland. “Call the operator, ring him at home.” One of the security officers disappeared into the other room.
Annie glanced over at Billy, who looked like he was about to be sick. Her dream job had turned into a nightmare, and she was dragging Billy down with her.
Mr. Fantoni was quickly connected to Jonathan Scarborough. They spoke briefly before Mr. Fantoni hung up the phone. “It turns out someone called Mr. Scarborough this afternoon and asked for moths instead of butterflies. They had already rounded up the butterflies, so they switched them out and put the moths into the same box. He said it was a woman who called.” He paused. “She identified herself as Annie Jenkins.”
Annie blanched. “But it wasn’t me! It was someone pretending to be me. I wasn’t any part of the theft, not on purpose, at least. If I was, why would I stick around long enough to get caught?”
What little fortitude she had left began to ebb. They were going to charge her with being part of a crime, and she had no way to prove the truth, that she wasn’t involved.
The attacker’s menacing expression loomed in her mind’s eye. Even though Annie lived in New York, where muggings were commonplace, she had never been assaulted before. It was probably because she was tall and broad-shouldered, making her a less compelling victim. Tonight, for the first time in her life, Annie had been physically threatened, certain that she and Charlotte were about to be killed, but no one cared at all. She remembered the horrible look on the man’s face as he lunged at her, and tried not to cry.
“Enough!”
Charlotte sailed into the room, followed by Frederick. “Why are your harassing this poor girl?” she said.
“We aren’t harassing anyone,” said Mr. Fantoni. “We’re trying to find out the facts.”
“The facts are that you ought to be scouring the streets of New York for a man carrying a bowling-ball bag with a valuable antiquity inside. Not making some poor kid cry.”
She was standing up for Annie, which no one ever did. She believed in her.
“I have to explore all of the possibilities, Miss Cross,” protested Mr. Fantoni.
“I was there. I saw him right after he stole it and followed him all the way to the storm drain. That’s the man you want.”
“Of course, and we’re in the process of doing exactly that. But Miss Jenkins here sure made it easy for him to escape.” He paused, looking at Annie again, as if by staring at her long enough, she’d break and admit to whatever it was he suspected her of. “And I want to know why.”