Mr. Braun picked up his needle again and bowed his head over the shroud. “His legacy haunts us.”
Sleet ticked against the enormous arched windows of the New York Public Library’s Main Reading Room. Beneath a ceiling mural that billowed with cloud and sky, Joe placed his pencil beside the book he’d been reading and studied the notes he’d taken. He was on to something.
Cesnola, first director of the Met, he’d scrawled at the top of the page. What kind of haunting legacy had the conservator been referring to?
It had taken Joe the better part of the day going through old books and newspaper accounts, but he’d finally pieced the story together.
The legacy, at least as perceived by Peter Braun, had been scandal. Forgeries, to be exact.
Luigi Cesnola had been accused of displaying forgeries in the Met, and even though the board of directors had given him a vote of confidence, the stain had never quite left the public’s mind. Later, there were more accusations that the Met’s restoration efforts under Cesnola’s direction had altered the artifacts so substantially as to be classified as forgeries. Cesnola denied guilt once again but, to silence the critics, ordered the plaster noses that had been formed on broken statues be dissolved.
No doubt the current director wished to avoid attention that might lead to similar controversy.
No wonder Peter Braun felt unappreciated, though his expertise proved invaluable to the Met. The chip on his shoulder was large enough to park a Buick.
Joe turned the page in his notebook and wrote Braun’s name at the top of his list of suspects as a forger.
CHAPTER
14
NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 5, 1925
we’re here.” Lauren nudged Elsa awake as the train pulled into the station in Newport, Rhode Island. It was only a slight detour on their way home from Boston, and Lauren hadn’t been able to resist.
Elsa blinked, then pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “What is the plan, again? Are we just going to show up?”
Energy building, Lauren leaned forward to look through the window. “No, no. My father is meeting us here at the station and will escort us to the museum. Or rather, to the old house that’s being renovated into one. He’s here this weekend, anyway, and when I told him we’d be in Boston, he insisted on showing us the place.”
Elsa covered a yawn. “Is he fully recovered from his run-in with the tracks, then?”
“Apparently.” Lauren stood and pulled her valise down from the shelf above the seats in their compartment. “You’re a sport for coming with me.”
“What else would I do? Miss a chance to see Boston? Newport is a bonus.”
Lauren smiled. They’d paid homage to Revolutionary War sites and relaxed at a fine bed and breakfast, but the primary purposeof the trip had been Lauren’s meeting at the Museum of Fine Arts yesterday. She’d needed to meet with the Egyptian art team and confirm the loan of a couple of their pieces for her spring exhibit.
“I can still taste the Boston cream pie from last night. That alone was worth the trip.” Elsa grinned sideways at Lauren.
The train chugged to a stop, and the doors opened. Bags in hand, Lauren and Elsa climbed down the metal stairs and crossed the platform to the station. After passing through the ladies’ waiting room, they emerged onto the street.
Lauren’s father waved from the front seat of a taxi. When he started to get out of the vehicle, Lauren picked up her pace. “Don’t bother,” she called, “we’ll be right there.”
She had half expected him to be late if he came at all, based on his history of breaking promises. The same distrustful side of her had also harbored doubts about the Napoleon House and the fire her father had claimed had stolen him away over Thanksgiving. Until she saw it for herself, it felt mythical, somehow, like another one of her father’s stories, embellished for maximum effect.
Wrinkles webbed from the corners of Lawrence’s eyes as he welcomed them into the vehicle. For the rest of the car ride through town, he spoke of repairs and renovations, barely pausing for Lauren or Elsa to say a word. Her father could make a zoning battle with the city aldermen sound dramatic. But add in a raging fire, its smoldering aftermath, and the resulting disapproval from the surrounding community, and the tale was fit for the stage. He reached its climactic conclusion right as the car pulled into the circle drive of a Gilded Age mansion.
For once, his timing was flawless.
Elsa stepped out of the car while Lauren exited the other side and gave her father a hand to support him. “Are your knees bothering you?”
He told the driver where he could warm up while he waited, then waved away Lauren’s concern. “No more than any other man my age, I imagine.” He pointed to the house with his walking cane. “There she is, the poor old dame.”
“Oh ...” Words trailed away as Lauren took in the ragged edge where the attic had once been. A tower climbed the outside corner of the first three levels, but its turret had burned away. The silhouette looked nothing like the photograph in the brochure. Instead of a roof, only a makeshift affair of tarps and unfinished wood covered the attic floor.
“I’ve made a name for myself in Newport now, but not at all the name I wanted. The old families who’ve been here since the Gilded Age blame me for the fire. Never mind that the faulty wiring connection would have resulted in fire whether I’d bought the place or not. I’m in charge of renovations, so it must be my fault.”
