At the edge of her vision, Lauren spotted none other than Ray and Christina Moretti. With a pang of alarm, she remembered that Mr. Robinson had tasked her with smoothing things over with the couple. She’d completely forgotten. She wouldn’t be surprised if they’d cut off all ties with the museum by now, but if she could do anything to salvage the relationship, she would. Holding up one finger, she signaled that she would soon return.
———
Forcing himself to listen to Mrs. Vandermeer, Joe angled himself so he could keep Lauren in view. She was talking to a man in his fifties with silver-threaded dark hair. The woman on his arm looked at least twenty years younger. Strands of diamonds in her ears stretched long enough to reach past her blond hair and brush her shoulders.
“What is so interesting over there?” Victoria Vandermeer turned around, then faced her husband with a knowing look before whispering to Joe, “No wonder you can’t look away.” She waved a fan as if something smelled. “New money. If you ask me, those people and their kind only play the fool when they pretend to prestige. How did they get an invitation, anyway?”
Joe managed a response of some kind while making a mentalnote that the Vandermeers didn’t like that the Morettis made their money instead of inheriting it.
By the time Lauren returned to their little cluster and the Vandermeers moved on to mingle elsewhere, he’d never gotten around to talking about forgeries with the Vandermeers at all.
“Who were you speaking to?” he asked Lauren.
She led him farther away for a modicum of privacy. “Ray and Christina Moretti. They have a huge collection of Egyptian artwork. But you don’t need to waste your time talking to them.”
“And why’s that?”
“I’ve seen his collection before. Most of it he inherited from his father, although he did send a buyer directly to Cairo to bring back a few more pieces.”
“So you don’t think he would have acquired anything stateside in the last three years?”
She shook her head. “No. I also don’t want to insult him further by suggesting he’s been fooled. He’s been one of the biggest supporters of the Met for the last several years, but I’m afraid that’s about to change, if it hasn’t already.”
“Why? Did the Met not want donations of ‘new money’?” He shrugged at her incredulous expression. “Mrs. Vandermeer’s words, not mine.”
She glanced over her shoulder, likely reassuring herself they weren’t within earshot. “Mr. Moretti recently offered to give the Met a portion of his collection to put on display with the caveat that the room in which it is housed be named for him.”
Joe caught himself before whistling. “That’s quite a caveat.”
“Mr. Robinson, our director, declined the offer as respectfully as he could, but we’re concerned that Mr. Moretti may choose to withdraw his financial support, as well. So the last thing I want to do is ask to dig around in his private property, looking for forgeries.”
“You’re sure about this?”
She touched his arm. “I’m not letting him off the hook because I’m afraid of how he’d react. I really don’t see the need for it. Trust me.”
A short laugh puffed through his nose.
“Oh, that’s right.” Her eyes narrowed, but a smile curved her lips. “You don’t trust anybody anymore. Well, trust me or not, but I’m telling the truth. Let’s connect you with other collectors instead.”
Lauren introduced him to several more patrons of the Met, the women sparkling with jewels, the men dripping with self-importance. After engaging in the socially expected amount of small talk, he told them he had reason to believe forgers had been taking advantage of the King Tut craze. “If you’ve acquired any Egyptian artifacts within the last three years, Dr. Westlake would be happy to take a look to affirm their authenticity.”
It didn’t prove to be a popular idea.
“Think of it this way,” Lauren added. “If your art is genuine, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing for certain. If not, the police will have more evidence and clues to catch the forgers.”
Her gentle prodding persuaded several couples to agree, as long as all would be done with the utmost discretion. No one wanted anyone else to know their investments were being questioned.
During the meal, Joe took cues from Lauren to follow proper dining etiquette. While the waitstaff served chocolate soufflé and refilled coffee cups, Lawrence Westlake took the podium and waxed eloquent about the date. Three years ago, he explained, King Tut’s tomb was opened, reigniting a passion for Egyptology.
“And as we gather here in a great hall decorated for Louis XV,” he went on, “may we not forget that one hundred twenty-six years ago this year, a French soldier discovered the Rosetta Stone during Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign, the first step in unlocking the ancient Egyptian language of hieroglyphs.”
Though he much preferred listening to the man’s daughter, Joe took notes as Lawrence recited the mission of the Napoleon Society; named the board members, who stood in turn; and argued for the need of another educational society and museum.
Frankly, Joe wasn’t convinced, but he was intrigued. The more he learned about this world and the people who inhabited it, the closerhe would come to finding forgers and solving the significance of that oyster shell Connor had allegedly plunked into Wade Martin’s drink minutes before the raid.
The lights dimmed, and on a screen at the front of the room, lantern slides projected the images of artifacts already acquired for the Napoleon House. Lawrence and another board member took turns narrating these, while a third member followed with descriptions of the items available in the silent auction.
Joe leaned toward Lauren, catching the fragrance of apple blossoms from her hair. “You should have been up there,” he whispered. “You’d do a much better job.”
