He lowered his chin. “What happened with your father was not your fault. If it hadn’t been for you and Detective Caravello, that forgery ring would still be stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars from people. People have come tonight to see you. Now get ready, Doctor. It’s time.” The curtains swung wide, and before she knew it, Mr. Robinson stood at the podium, receiving a round of applause.
Lauren could barely hear his introduction over the buzzing in her head. Yet, somehow, when he extended his arm toward her, she joined him on the stage.
Then he was gone, and the spotlight fell on her alone, hot and far too bright. She felt completely exposed. The audience could not possibly hear her name and not hear her father’s, too. They couldn’t see her without remembering what he’d done.
She gripped the sides of the podium for support. “Thank you for that kind introduction,” she began. “It would be my privilege to make a couple of my own. This exhibition would not be possible without the help and expertise of several others.” She thanked the representatives present from the lending museums, and they received their own applause.
“Now I’d like you to meet two of our own here at the Met. I could not get along without my assistant, Miss Anita Young.” Anita stood and turned to wave while Lauren listed her finer qualities, from clerical prowess to chocolate and coffee distribution.
When clapping subsided, Lauren spoke again. “Mr. Peter Braun.” She shielded her eyes from the light until she saw him standing. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Braun is our lead conservator. If you’ve enjoyed our galleries even before this night, you’ve already enjoyed the fruit of his labor. Thank you.” He deserved the resounding applause that followed.
She’d talked to him several times since January, so he knew that her gratitude extended far beyond what she’d shared. He had come to her rescue, and she’d never forget it.
On Lauren’s signal, the spotlight dimmed and the projector in the back turned on, showing the first lantern slide on the screen behind her. Without the blinding light, she could see the audience while she spoke. There sat Joe and his parents, Ivy, Elsa, and Aunt Beryl and Uncle Julian. She saw Miles and Victoria Vandermeer, Thomas Sanderson, and Theodore Clarke. When she recognized who sat beside him, she almost lost her place in her notes. Dr. James Breasted, her beloved professor, beamed.
“The ancient Egyptians believed the afterlife was more important than the present life on earth,” she said, moving into her element. Thank God, thank God, she still enjoyed this field, even though it would always remind her of Lawrence. She’d worked in it without him for so many years, it was truly her own passion. But she knew better than to let it become an obsession.
As she advanced through the slides of exhibition highlights, she explained what the Egyptians believed about the multitude of gods they served and their efforts to appease them. She shared about the weighing of the heart, how they used the Book of the Dead, what they hoped amulets and shabti would accomplish for them in the next world. The presentation ended with the ever-popular topic of how royalty furnished their tombs.
When she finished, the house lights went up, and Lauren invited questions.
The first person stood and asked, “How do you know if a piece of art is fake?”
Lauren blinked. She hadn’t spoken a word about forgeries tonight and had no intention of doing so. “Do you have any other questions related to the exhibition?”
Murmurs arose from all corners of the room. They wanted an answer to the question posed.
She glanced at Mr. Robinson, who nodded his assent.
Inhaling deeply, she scrambled to organize her thoughts. “I could tell you about case studies I’ve done and techniques I’ve used. But if we were here all night, I couldn’t cover everything there is to know about what to look for. My best advice would be to study the real thing. Immerse yourself in the art, learn about it from every angle. Not just what it looks like, but the tools used to make it, where the materials come from, the historical context, the language, the people who created the art, and the purpose for it. If you become an expert on the real thing, you’ll know the counterfeit when you see it.”
The truth translated. If she had recognized true selfless love, she would have identified Lawrence as fake.
More questions followed, and she answered them easily. Soon, Lauren closed the lecture so patrons could visit the exhibit. Mr. Robinson joined Lauren at the podium and once again thanked everyone for coming. When he finished, the room exploded with applause. A few people stood, and then more, until no one remained in their seats.
“This is for you, Dr. Westlake,” Mr. Robinson said.
“It’s too much,” she protested.
But the museum director backed away from the podium and clapped.
Gratitude swelled.
When at last the curtain closed again, Lauren left the stage to find Dr. Breasted. “Can it really be my favorite professor?”
“My dear Dr. Westlake.” When he clasped her hand, the man’s eyes sparkled, and his white mustache lifted with a smile. “You were every bit as marvelous as I knew you would be, and then some. Academics like me can be so stuffy, but you’ve combined the art of storytelling with the science of scholarship. A rare talent. You captivated your audience completely.”
His praise humbled her. “I can’t tell you what it means that you’ve come. Thank you.” They’d corresponded several times since her father’s denouement, and there had been power and healing in his letters. Still, seeing him again brought delight.
An impish grin spread. “The timing is serendipitous. I’m here to see your exhibition, of course, but I’ve come about something else, too. Something best discussed in person.”
Joe had been the last one standing during Lauren’s ovation, and he was nearly the last person in the lecture hall now, waiting while she spoke with every patron who waited in line for her. He didn’t mind. He had waited years for Lauren Westlake. An extra forty minutes wouldn’t hurt him.
Much.
In the meantime, he replayed music from Wagner’sDie Walkürein his mind. Last week, Joe and Lauren went with his parents to the opera, redeeming the Christmas gift tickets at last. So much had happened since that holiday, even aside from the fall of the Napoleon Society. Doreen had moved in with her long-lost friend, where she could grow flowers in a garden of her own. She was safe while Connor served a reduced sentence in return for his testimony against Ray and Tony Moretti. The Morettis had been convicted, and though their lawyer appealed the decision, they were locked away, at least for now.
“Good evening, Sergeant.”
