Even without her roommate’s influence, Lauren could find no reason good enough to keep her from this opportunity. “Pick me up in thirty minutes. I’ll be ready.”
She would have to be.
———
The St. John estate on Staten Island sprawled over the land with spires and turrets fit for a medieval fortress. The Westlakes had always had enough money to be comfortable, but they’d been paupers compared to the millions represented by this mansion alone, not to mention all of the original masterpieces within. Separate galleries held different types of art: oil paintings, sculptures, and antiquities, which was where Lauren and her father would spend the day.
“Have you come across anything suspicious so far?” she askedhim as soon as the butler left them alone. “Anything that could lead you to believe it was forged?”
He smiled at her. “That’s why you’re here, my dear. You are the expert. If it was my opinion the police wanted, they would have asked for it.”
She turned away from the warmth in his eyes before she could mistake it for fatherly pride. She was far too old to care about that.
And yet, how could her spirit not respond when the one thing she’d wanted for years seemed to dangle so near her grasp?
Lauren was being ridiculous. She was here not as someone’s daughter, but as Dr. Westlake, assistant curator of Egyptian art and special counsel to the NYPD. It was in that capacity that she carried on her work. Joe had asked her to do a job, and she would do it well.
That afternoon, Lauren mused aloud, “None of this was intended to see the light of day ever again. Yet here we are, handling these treasures half a world from where they came.”
Lawrence looked up from his notebook. “Are you saying it’s wrong? That we should forgo discovery altogether?”
She shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Ancient Egyptians didn’t want to be forgotten, and these discoveries help us learn and remember who they were, what they gave to us. So many firsts can be traced back to them.”
“I agree. We are not tomb raiders, wishing only to steal and sell for personal gain. We are learning and preserving the culture. At least, that’s how I see it. That’s the mission of the Napoleon Society.”
“But that’s what the Met and Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts are already doing,” she said. “Why go to the trouble of starting a brand-new institution when you could be partnering with one that’s already established?”
“What a question!” Lawrence chuffed a laugh. “There will never be too many museums in the world. Besides, mine will be accessible to people who may not want to navigate a cacophonous metropolis. Boston and New York are intimidating, loud-mouthed bullies to most folks. But Newport is a hospitable cousin near the shore.Dedicated solely to Egyptian artifacts and culture, the Napoleon House will appeal to the true enthusiast. Come look at this.”
She crossed the hardwood floor, polished to the shine of citron. From outside, she could hear Mr. St. John’s beagles barking. “What did you find?”
He held up a gold necklace, turning it slowly so all angles caught the light. “Such fine workmanship. Feel how heavy it is.” He laid the collar across her open palms.
“I can’t imagine wearing it for any length of time,” she murmured.
“But you can imagine the woman who did, can’t you?” Lawrence smiled, and then he was off, spinning a story about a noblewoman in Luxor, based on the piece and its provenance, and filling in the blanks with his own vibrant mind. His stature had diminished over the years, but clearly his mental acuity remained needle sharp.
His breath smelled of black licorice, as it had since she was a child. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the years peeling away until she was a little girl, spellbound by her father’s stories. When he drew her inside the wonder of ancient Egypt, she felt his warmth pour over her. There was no other place she’d wanted to be in those moments. She belonged.
But was it love for her she’d felt, or simply his love for ancient cultures?
Lauren’s eyes popped open. Even if Egypt was their only connection, she ought not cut that single thread. Ivy was right. As painful as the realization was, it was better than nothing.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1925
Joe rolled his sleeves to his elbows and punched a mound of bread dough on the floured table.
“You don’t have something better to do at four in the morning?” Greta Caravello propped one fist on her aproned hip while flipping bacon in the cast-iron pan.
“Better than helping the best cook in the best boardinghouse in Manhattan? Forget about it.” He winked at his mother. Besides, kneading dough proved better than a punching bag for working out stress—and it smelled a whole lot better, too. He jerked his chin toward the sizzling bacon. “Who could sleep with such a tease, anyway?”
“The rest of the house, apparently. Except for Doreen, who’s in the dining room.”
Joe nodded, but his thoughts had already veered elsewhere. He pounded the dough again. More than a week had passed since he’d asked Lauren to help track down forgeries, and so far he’d had no progress to report to his boss, other than being able to identify that the oyster shell in play the night of Wade Martin’s murder had been a fake. That was something, but not enough. Still, how could he push Lauren to cover more ground, and faster, when she wasn’t being compensated and had little time to work with? He couldn’t. Neither could he get far without her. So while he waited for movement on the forgery front, he continued to work on various other cases, from robberies to missing persons.
“Your father will be down any minute.” Mama pulled the bacon strips out of the pan and onto a sheet of brown paper. “Mornings aren’t easy. He’s not getting younger, if you haven’t noticed.”
Neither was Mama. Age lined her face, bowed her shoulders, and frosted her brown hair. Finished with the dough, Joe set it back in a greased bowl for a final rise.
