A ridge formed between Lauren’s brows. “Well, as I don’t happen to know the figure paid for our few Vermeers, then yes, the sum is untold, at least to me.”
“Millions,” Dr. DeVries muttered into his coffee. “Millions.”
Joe schooled his features to remain neutral, despite his growing fascination with the staid-looking surgeon. He wished he could stay here until midnight to catch any other stories that would shed light on who Dr. DeVries was, and more importantly, what he was capable of. But Joe had somewhere else to be.
———
Lauren could tell Joe was getting restless. To be fair, he’d waited from the crab cake appetizers all the way through the cheesecake dessert, all shared at a small round table ideal for four people, not five. She couldn’t put it off any longer. At her signal, Joe lifted the box from the floor and set it on the celadon-green table.
So much for avoiding indigestion.
A hand to her churning middle, she said, “Speaking of art, I need to show both of you something.” Briefly, she explained that Sal Caravello had become a member of the Napoleon Society and had been sent an artifact in accordance with the level that he’d paid.
“And this is your father?” Agnes asked, looking at Joe.
“He is.” He removed the lid, and Lauren lifted out the horse and rider.
“It wasn’t until yesterday that I realized there was a problem. This is dated a few hundred years before horses were introduced into Egypt.” She pointed to the inscription and passed out the provenance as well. “If it hadn’t been for the dating, I never would have guessed this wasn’t genuine,” she added, hoping to soften the blow.Her father’s experience was in exploring and excavation. She didn’t expect him to have memorized every point of Egyptian history. Lauren had a doctorate in this, and still it had escaped her notice at first. Truly, she didn’t blame Dad or Dr. DeVries, whose knowledge of Egyptology was even less.
No one spoke, and the fountain’s murmuring magnified. Her father’s complexion paled.
Dr. DeVries turned pink. “What are you saying, young lady? Are you questioning the integrity of the Napoleon Society?”
The quiet words trumpeted his doubt, jarring Lauren. It was the opposite of the deferential stance he’d taken days ago, when apologizing for his secretary’s mistake with her byline.
She felt Joe tense beside her and placed a hand on his knee to stay his temper.
“With respect,” she said, “I am only calling false the integrity of this one particular piece. We haven’t informed its owner yet because we wanted to give you a chance to determine your response.”
She hazarded a glance at Dad, who seemed at a loss for words and dwarfed by the veined marble columns behind him.
“Are you going to let your daughter make this accusation against the society?” Dr. DeVries asked. “I, for one, won’t take a woman’s word quite so easily.”
Lauren felt as though she’d been struck, though reason told her the man was reacting in shock to the news that they’d been fooled. He was upset at the situation, she guessed, not at her.
“Dr. DeVries,” Dad said, “I trust the assistant curator of Egyptian art implicitly, and so does the New York City Police Department. That is why she’s been their consultant on forgeries for months, and why I commissioned her to write a series of articles for the good of our subscribers. The fact that she happens to be a woman, who happens to be my daughter, plays into it not at all. In fact, knowing how much she supports me and my work, I trust her opinion on this matter all the more. She would not bring this to us if she were not certain. Now, I wish this hadn’t happened,but it has, and we have the opportunity to make it right for Mr. Caravello.”
Lauren bowed her head in gratitude. Beneath the table, Joe covered her hand, apparently understanding how much it meant for her father to defend her.
Joe laced his fingers with hers. “Dr. DeVries, Mr. Westlake, obviously you’re not under arrest. You’re not who we’re after, here.”
“I should say not,” Agnes exclaimed behind the fan she pumped. Fern fronds quivered in the basket hanging behind her.
“But we would like to hear what you have to say on two points,” Joe continued. “The first one is simpler. How do you propose to resolve the fact that one of your members spent a large sum of money on a near-worthless carving?”
Dad looked at Dr. DeVries. “We’re cash poor right now, Daniel, with the ongoing renovations in Newport. I suggest a replacement artifact. One that Dr. Westlake verifies before we offer it. Perhaps we find two, and let our member choose which suits his fancy best.”
Dr. DeVries nodded his assent. “Fine. The other point?”
“We’d like to have that in writing, by the way,” Joe added. “A simple letter to Mr. Caravello informing him of the mistake and how you’ll make it up to him will suffice. Please make a carbon copy for my own records and mail it to me at 240 Centre Street.”
Dad agreed.
Lauren squeezed Joe’s hand, satisfied with their cooperation so far. “The other question we must ask,” she began, “is how you acquired this in the first place. What is your process?”
The narrative that followed revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The Napoleon Society relied heavily on Sayed Mohammed, a dealer in Luxor, and upon artifacts board members had picked up on their own personal excavations from years ago.
“Our members are getting antiquities for an enormous discount,” Dr. DeVries added. “They have no idea how much these items are really going for these days. That’s a benefit of membership that can’t be found anywhere else. It’s what makes the Napoleon Societyinimitable. Member investments in the society are indelible, both for our educational purposes and for their own long-term security.”
