Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1925

M oney couldn't buy happiness. But the display of it guaranteed status, and for people like Victoria and Miles Vandermeer, Joe figured that was even more important.

Luckily for Joe, Lauren had been invited to a Christmas party at their Long Island mansion, and she'd brought him as her guest. Victoria must have known the Morettis were holding their own party the same evening, on the same island. Only a social rival could bring out this level of extravagance.

Of course, the house itself had been built to impress long before the arrival of any new-money neighbors. The carved crown molding signaled hours of back-breaking work to dust it. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the sparkling lights inside. In this hall was a marble fireplace Lauren had said was modeled after the Vanderbilts'.

"How's my bow tie?" Joe asked Lauren.

She smiled up at him. Soft amber light from the chandeliers turned her skin to gold and burnished the finger waves in her hair. "Almost right."

Joe didn't want to be almost anything. He tugged at the ends, trying to straighten it. "Better?"

"Worse." Pivoting so her back was toward the wall, and he a shield before her, she deftly reached up and did something—he couldn't see what—that ended with a pat to his chest and a sparkling smile. "There you go."

She was in a better mood tonight than she'd been Wednesday evening when they'd visited another Met patron's house to look for forgeries. To the patron's great relief, Lauren didn't find any. To Joe's relief, she shared with him afterward why she hadn't seemed herself. What she'd learned from her aunt and father would be enough to sober anyone. But Joe was proud of her for asking Lawrence directly about it, and he'd told her so. Confrontation was not her style, but sometimes it was the only way to get at the truth. By the time they'd arrived here tonight, the weight she'd carried on Wednesday seemed to be lifting. He would take it all on himself if he could.

Lauren smiled at a passing guest, exchanging the polite greetings expected at these sorts of events. Not many of them stopped to actually have a conversation with her, even though she was easily the most interesting and smartest person in the room. And the most beautiful, without question.

"Something wrong, Joe?" she asked him. "You look like something's on your mind."

He wondered how she was warm enough, the way her dress bared her shoulders like that, and with her hair piled on top of her head, exposing the slender column of her neck.

"When do you think we'll see the Vandermeers?" he asked.

"Not for a little while yet, I expect. Typically, the hosts will make their grand entrance on that curving staircase after all the guests have had time to arrive. Trust me, we won't miss it."

In that case, he led her closer to the popping fire to warm her, and noticed her shoulders relax in its glow. "Do you see any colleagues here?"

"Mr. Robinson, the director of the Met, received an invitation, I'm sure, but he's out of town this weekend."

"No one else?"

"Not that I'm aware of. The Egyptian department really is Victoria's favorite, so I doubt other curators would be on the guest list."

"What about the Egyptian department's underground? Elliot Henry, Peter Braun? The other conservators?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "They deserve to be invited, but I don't think the Vandermeers would have done that. They don't care about people who remain behind the scenes, and for the most part, the restoration and carpentry staff don't care about being visible."

"Based on my interview with Peter Braun, he cares a great deal. It bothers him that he doesn't receive credit, or enough of it, for the restoration work he does."

Shadows passed over her face. "Ah, Peter. He's a prickly one, isn't he?"

"Not just prickly." Joe shared his suspicions about him, which had only grown.

Pink stole over Lauren's cheeks. "I can't deny he has the skills and supplies to create fakes, but I hate to think he'd stoop so low," she murmured.

"There's something else," Joe added. "He mentioned during my interview that his education was complete before he took the job. He hadn't needed to be apprenticed after he'd been hired. But he didn't tell me where he'd studied. Do you remember our encounter when I asked you to consult with me?"

She blinked up at him. "Of course."

"You told me all of your qualifications right away," he reminded her. "Where you studied, what you know."

"Habit," she said. "I'm used to spelling out my credentials so people—men, especially—will take me seriously."

"You wanted credit where credit was due. I don't blame you. So then why would Peter Braun, who considers himself chronically undervalued, not take the opportunity to share his résumé with me? If he was proud of his education, why didn't he tell me about it?"

"You want to know where he went to school?" Lauren asked.

"Among other things, yes. I called the human resources director to get a copy of his résumé and application for the job, but I haven't heard back yet."

"Berlin," she said. "He studied Egyptian art and textiles in Berlin. Can you blame him for not volunteering the information?"

"You studied in Berlin. You said the Germans had made the best dictionary of Egyptian hieroglyphs. Why wouldn't he—"

Lauren stepped closer to him and lifted her chin as she whispered, "He's German, Joe. Born and raised there. Came to America before the war, but he must have ties over there. Have you read the news about the German economy?"

Joe assured her he had.

"It's tragic, if you ask me, even if they did lose the war. A wheelbarrow of paper currency to buy a loaf of bread. The whole country suffers."

"So much that Peter would want to send his family whatever he could to help." That made sense. During the past week, he'd found nothing to indicate that Peter's lifestyle was beyond the means of a typical conservator.

"Careful, Joe." Lauren laid a hand on his arm. "Innocent until proven guilty, remember?"

He covered her hand with his. "I'm just thinking out loud here."

"Well, don't think quite so loud, would you? I'd hate for anyone to overhear and misconstrue the situation."

"Another scandal for the Met, you mean?"

She gave his arm a little shake. "Knock it off. We've already been hard on German Egyptologists. I don't want to heap shame on a colleague without proof of wrongdoing."

"What do you mean, we've been hard on the Germans? Wilson's armistice terms at the end of the war?"

"More than that. During the war, the British army destroyed the German House at Thebes in an act of retribution. Ever since the war ended, German archaeologists and scientists have been banished from digging in the Nile valley. Meanwhile, the Metropolitan Museum of Art team resumed excavations at Deir el-Bahri in the winter of 1919. This has nothing to do with my politics or patriotism, but my professional opinion—one widely held among Egyptologists—is that our field of study is the worse for the loss of German contributions."

Joe stared at her, taking this in. The more she talked, the more motive she revealed for Peter to be the forger. "How interesting."

In the next moment, she seemed to realize the picture she had painted. The defiance in her expression yielded to doubt. "Oh dear." She dropped her hand to her side, and his arm felt cold where her fingers left it.

Joe could understand why she didn't want Peter to be the culprit, but for his part, the pieces were finally fitting together. "I'll keep looking and see what I find."

Nodding, she broke from his gaze and swept the room beyond him. Her eyes widened.

The host and hostess descended the spiral staircase. As he had been at the gala, Miles Vandermeer was completely outshined by the woman on his arm. Or rather, by the necklace she wore.

"That looks familiar," Lauren said.

Joe placed her hand in his elbow and maneuvered them both through chiffon dresses and coattails, until they were standing close enough for a better look.

Just as he thought. It was the Middle Kingdom necklace with the finely inlaid pectoral he'd seen under glass at the gala, the one worn by a royal woman. The lapis lazuli scarab bracelet encircled her wrist. The Vandermeers must have won the auctions for both, which meant that these pieces, at least, were genuine.

"Mrs. Vandermeer," Lauren greeted her warmly upon reaching her. "Thank you so much for the invitation. You remember Joseph Caravello from the gala?"

"Ah yes, nice to see you again."

Joe wondered if she knew he'd been hounding her secretary for weeks. He was about to ask when Lauren shot him a cautioning look.

"We'd like to pay you a visit in a few days," she told her hosts, "once you've had time to recover from tonight's event. If that's all right with you."

As if by magic, Miles Vandermeer assured her it was and gave them a time to call. "Now please," he added, "enjoy yourselves." He motioned toward the ballroom.

Joe turned to Lauren, returning her smile. "Shall we?" Only when he held out his hand did he realize how much he hoped she'd say yes.

———

Joe didn't have to do that. Now that they'd secured the appointment with Miles, they could easily blend into the crowd and then slip out to the Morettis'. But he had always been like this, Lauren realized, ever since they'd met. Surrounded by turned backs, Joe was an outstretched hand, an invitation to companionship. When they'd lost touch these past several years, the drifting away had been her doing, not his. But here he was again, offering closeness when she'd been the one to create distance.

She placed her hand in his, relishing the strength that wrapped her fingers.

They waltzed, and the chill she'd felt earlier melted away. His eyes arrested hers, sending a wave of heat right through her.

"I haven't told you what else I found this week." She hoped the change of subject would stem the tide of a rising blush.

"Tell me."

"Remember the box of letters my aunt gave me for my birthday?"

Joe winced. "You didn't tell me that was for your birthday! I completely forgot. I'm sorry."

He shouldn't be. Lauren hadn't expected him to remember it after all these years. "And is it police policy to celebrate the birthdays of their unpaid consultants?" she teased.

"Lauren," he said, his voice low, "you know that's not all you are to me. Don't you?"

She did. Of course she did, but just now she couldn't seem to speak. Not with him looking at her so intently, as if his question was of the utmost importance.

When she didn't reply, he drew her nearer. The change was fractional, and yet enough for her to imagine being held even closer. The idea fell like warm water down her back. Like relief and quickening all at once.

The corner of his lips curved upward, and she realized her gaze had slipped to rest there too long, giving her away. She marveled that her feet still moved in time with his, considering she had to remind herself to breathe.

"Okay, tell me what else you found," he said, releasing the tension between them. "Some other useful insight from the letter, I take it?"

Lauren nodded. "Remember Theodore Clarke?"

"Of course. He's the Newport millionaire who gifted Mr. St. John a forged ointment jar."

"My father worked with him in Egypt. According to the letters, it was my father who told Clarke where to dig."

Under the chandeliers, Joe's hair gleamed almost blue. "I don't remember seeing Lawrence Westlake mentioned in any news or publications I read about Clarke."

"Exactly," Lauren said. "Apparently there had been some kind of falling out between them, and my father didn't receive the credit he felt was his due. That matches up with something Dr. Breasted wrote in a letter I received on Monday."

"Your graduate school professor?"

"Right. I'd asked him what he knew about the Napoleon Society. He doesn't know much, but he did say that years ago, he was working in the same location in Egypt as my father and Theodore Clarke. From what Dr. Breasted observed, he said my father is ‘best suited to entrepreneurial pursuits where he can be in a leadership position of his own.'"

"That sounds like a nice way of saying that Lawrence wants more control," Joe said. "Or maybe he just didn't play well with the others."

Lauren agreed. Whatever happened—or didn't happen—between him and Clarke must have been significant.

Joe fell quiet, and Lauren was content to follow his lead as they danced. "Interesting that he's building the Napoleon House in the same town where his rival—or former rival—lives. Is he the type of person to bear a grudge, even for years?"

"I hate to admit it," she confessed, "but I'm the type of person to quietly bear a grudge for years. Perhaps I get it from him. The irony."

It was a relief that she didn't need to explain. Dad wasn't there for her when Mother died, but Joe was. His shoulder had absorbed her tears, and his chest her fists.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, by the way," she added.

His dark eyebrows lifted as if in question.

"After Mother died, and after Dad came back so late and left me again. I didn't hold back when I took my anger out on you."

Joe's face relaxed. "Oh, that." He chuckled. "I could take it."

"But still, you didn't deserve that. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess."

He looked down at her, growing serious again. "I was exactly where I wanted to be. Still am."

The music slowed to a halt, and so did their feet. When they stepped away from each other, Lauren held on to his hand a few beats longer. She didn't want to let him go.

Joe gripped the steering wheel tighter, peering through the falling snow. If this kept up, it might obscure the narrow roads on Long Island's north shore. He needed to focus on driving instead of the dance he'd shared with Lauren and The Tales of Hoffmann opera it had set off in his head. Yes, he'd gotten over her pummeling when they were teens. But he hadn't gotten over her.

Focus , he told himself again. Getting into a wreck was not how he wanted to end the evening.

"Where is this place we're going to next?" he muttered. Twelve hundred mansions crowned the Gold Coast, as the north shore of Long Island was called. So far, he hadn't had occasion to call at many of them. "And why aren't these streets marked?"

"I know, it's confusing," Lauren agreed. "These estates have names, not addresses. Old Westbury, Winfield Hall, Mill Neck Manor, Eagle's Nest ... the Moretti estate is called Chateau Marie."

"As in Marie-Antoinette?" he joked.

"Very likely. Mrs. Moretti is a bit of a Francophile, especially fond of the doomed queen's style."

"And Mr. Moretti loves all things Egyptian."

"Napoleon ties the two together since his invasion of Egypt opened the door to further discoveries. So for the Morettis, a French and Egyptian theme works."

"And how do the neighbors feel about it?" he asked.

Lauren sighed. "As a rule, they don't approve of new money at all. Christina seems lonely out here. She prefers to stay in the city most of the time."

She knew a lot about these people. "How close are you to the Morettis?"

"I only know them professionally. The fact that Christina has confided in me at all shows you how lonely she is. Mr. Moretti doesn't seem to mind being snubbed, but his wife feels every cut. Slow down, there's the drive."

Braking, he turned the car onto a narrow lane. Cobblestones rumbled beneath the tires. The grounds were enshrouded with darkness, but with the headlamps, he could at least see the Lombardy poplars lining the drive.

A quarter of a mile later, they approached the great house, lit up from within and by exterior lamps. The sprawling marble mansion with mansard roof looked exactly like a chateau. He steered the car into the semicircular drive of the forecourt, and a liveried valet in period dress approached him.

"Is this a costume party?" he asked Lauren.

"They like eighteenth-century uniforms for their staff on formal occasions." Lauren smiled. "I think it makes them feel more like old money, just like the antiques do. Sometimes families that don't have the right roots, according to society, try to make up for it by embodying history in their homes and possessions."

The bewigged valet in pink silk knee breeches rapped on Joe's window.

"Good evening," the man said. "I'll take your car."

Joe held back a laugh at the uncouth phrasing, which made it feel like a mannerly theft in progress. "I'll park it myself if you'll kindly show me where." There was no way he was going to let anyone else drive the police car.

"I'll get out here and wait for you." Lauren slipped from the vehicle while the valet gave directions to the carriage house.

Ten minutes later, Joe had parked in an old building, along with several other vehicles worth more than his annual salary, and walked back to the front entrance. A butler in a powdered wig and ruffled shirt bowed to him and opened the door, where yet another staff member took his coat from him, buckled shoes clicking across the tiled floor.

Joe couldn't believe this place.

Lauren stepped forward and took his arm immediately, eyes shimmering in the candlelight.

Candles. There was a light switch on the wall, and yet the chandelier had been outfitted with both bulbs and tapers. "Which side of the Industrial Revolution are we on here, anyway?" He spun a slow circle, taking in the two-story entryway. "Is that what I think it is?" A replica of the Arc de Triomphe spanned the vestibule.

"That was made with the same marble found in the same place," Lauren whispered. "You'll find a lot of reproductions here."

"You mean fakes?"

She swatted his arm. "We don't call them fakes if everyone knows they aren't originals. Now, be polite. We've arrived late, and I'm still trying to smooth things over with the Morettis on behalf of the Met."

"Right this way." A butler returned and guided them beneath the arch, down a corridor, and through a pair of oversized double doors. The great hall fizzed with champagne and buzzed with red-lipped flappers and their dates, cigarettes dangling from their fingers. But instead of jazz, a full orchestra played Mozart.

Ivory columns wrapped in a floral gold-leaf pattern supported a painted ceiling. Partially nude Greek gods and goddesses looked down at Joe from on high.

"Polite," he reminded himself under his breath. Unlike the Vandermeer mansion, whose dark oak and walnut panels had absorbed light and reflected it back in stately restraint, this hall dazzled with gilded cream walls and upholstery in shades of pink and gold. Even the floor was pink marble.

"That's Christina Moretti." Lauren nodded toward an oil painting hanging above a fireplace of veined blue marble. Draping the mantel were evergreen boughs sparkling with gold and crystal ornaments. On either side of the fireplace were arched niches in the wall, twelve feet high and four wide, Joe guessed. Each held pedestaled statues.

"And is that fellow supposed to be Mr. Moretti?" He gestured subtly to the fig leaf–covered marble male. He knew, of course, that the figure bore no resemblance, but he enjoyed making Lauren smile.

"You know what he looks like," she said. "There he is. Let's say hello." Lauren glided toward their host, and Joe stayed with her, declining an offer of champagne from one of the costumed waitstaff along the way.

"Dr. Westlake." Moretti smiled, hands spread wide. "You came. We are honored to have you."

Lauren returned the greeting and introduced Joe to him as her friend.

Joe shook his hand and found it firm but not bone crushing. "Quite the place you've got here," he said.

"Yeah? Thanks. My wife gave a tour earlier, but I can show you around if you like."

"That'd be fine."

"It looks like you have a great turnout, Mr. Moretti," Lauren added. "Everyone seems to be having a marvelous time."

"But not the neighbors."

"How's that?" Joe asked.

"The neighbors, the neighbors." Moretti swirled his hands in the air on either side of him. "I invited every one of them, but only a few of the other new-money folks have come so far. The old money must be allergic or something. I try to be friendly, and they go the other way. I thought they might come tonight to satisfy curiosity, at least."

Joe regarded the orchestra, which was playing "Serenade No. 13 for Strings." Definitely not a piece to dance to, more was the pity.

Moretti twisted to follow Joe's line of sight. "Mozart. Classy, right? Did you know Mozart played for Marie-Antoinette when he was a kid, and then afterward went right up to her and kissed her on the cheek?"

Lauren laughed. "I'd heard that, yes."

Moretti smiled. "I don't know if these goons are happy with a little culture, but they get enough jazz every other day of the week. A little classical never hurt anyone."

The accent threw Joe. It was a little bit Brooklyn, but if Moretti had grown up in the city, he must have at least gone to boarding school outside of it.

"What's your pleasure?" Moretti waved over a man with a serving tray of drinks. "Champagne? Gin? Bourbon? Whiskey? Don't worry, this is the good stuff."

"No, thank you."

"Dr. Westlake? How about the fruit cocktail you liked so well at the brownstone?"

Lauren's cheeks flamed cherry red. "Club soda, please, if you have it."

"Two?" he asked, looking at Joe.

"Sure."

Moretti picked up a glass and sent the waiter for the nonalcoholic drinks. "What line of work you in, Joe?"

"Law enforcement," Joe told him. "NYPD detective."

"New York's finest. Well, good for you, and thank you for your service. Salute ." Brazenly, he lifted his tumbler and took a swig.

Joe smiled at his confidence. He hadn't missed a beat, hadn't even glanced at Lauren as if to question why she'd brought a cop to a party with alcohol. "You?"

"Management," Moretti replied. "Real estate, hotels, a couple of pharmacies."

"Big money in pharmacies these days," Joe said. Since the only alcohol legally sold was for communion services or prescribed by doctors, business at pharmacies was booming. "It's truly astounding how many ailments can be cured by liquor."

Moretti laughed deep from his belly. "Isn't that right? Astounding." The man was one hundred percent at ease.

As if on cue, the waiter reappeared, and Joe handed Lauren's club soda to her before picking up his own. He took a sip and tried not to grimace. But he hadn't asked for it because he liked it. He'd asked for it to make sure the club soda they served at the party wasn't spiked. He doubted Lauren would be able to tell.

This definitely wasn't spiked.

"Dr. Westlake!" A human version of the lady in the oil painting materialized, wearing the gown in the portrait. Aside from overdone makeup, she seemed like a pleasant lady.

She kissed Lauren on the cheek and shook Joe's hand while they were introduced. "Thank you for coming," she said. "I can't tell you how much it means to us to have you here."

Her inflection had more Brooklyn in it than her husband's, but what Joe heard even louder was a longing for ... something. Respectability, maybe, or the appearance of it. Maybe belonging. Maybe she really was lonely here and happy to see every friendly face.

"Are you here on behalf of the Met, then?" she asked. "Have they changed their minds about our request?"

Lauren's smile pinched at the corners. "We're not doing business tonight, are we? The others from the Met extend their greetings, of course, but I'm here as a friend. Mr. Moretti mentioned a tour of the mansion. I'm sorry we missed it."

"Would you like to see it?" Christina placed a hand on Lauren's shoulder. "Of course you would. You will appreciate the Egyptian gallery more than anyone else here. Come on, I'll show you. Private tour." She swept Lauren away, leaving Joe sipping a drink with Ray Moretti.

"I can see you don't like that stuff, by the way." Moretti laughed quietly. "Come on, I'll give you a little tour of my own."

Joe kept in step with his host as they climbed a winding staircase, then entered a small, dark room that looked nothing like the rest of the house. "Are we still in the chateau?" Joe asked.

"You don't think old King Louis had his own cigar room?" Moretti laughed while turning to a cabinet. "You don't have to drink that stuff. What's your pleasure, really? I won't tell a soul. You're not on duty right now, are you, Officer?" He stood aside, revealing a row of bottles.

Joe moved closer and read the labels. Most were in French. Figured.

"So you've had these in your cellar since before the amendment passed, I take it," Joe joked.

"Scout's honor." Moretti was joking, too. "Go ahead, Joe. And call me Ray."

"Thank you, Ray. I don't mean to come across as unsociable, but I'm not drinking anything stronger than this tonight."

"Here's a good one you might enjoy." Ignoring Joe's comment, Ray grabbed a bottle by the neck and cradled it for a moment before opening it. With a heavy pour, he filled two goblets and thrust one into Joe's hand.

He set it on a table and drank the terrible club soda instead. Something surfaced in his host's expression, and then it was buried but not gone.

Joe got the feeling Ray didn't hear the word no very often.