Page 32 of The Stolen Queen

“Well, that’s what we do here. I’m happy to chat with your friend.”

“Right, well, I know you’re so busy with the Tut exhibition, and I hate to distract you. I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like when you’ll have five hundred people stomping through the gallery every half hour.”

“Tell me about it.” He scratched his cheek. “On top of that, can you believe that I have security guards telling me they’ll resign before they do night duty in the exhibition? Afraid of the King Tut curse and all that. But not everyone, thank goodness.” He looked over at a young man who was emptying out the trash cans beside each desk. “Billy, you’re not afraid, are you?”

The kid rose up full height, and Charlotte was certain he was about to salute. “No, sir!”

“Anyway,” she continued, “is there some kind of private agency that devotes itself to hunting down stolen treasures, particularly those that have been smuggled out of the country of origin? I figured if anyone would know, you would.”

Mr. Fantoni pulled a business card from his desk drawer. “I’d recommend Tenny Woods. Tell your friend he’s the guy when it comes to international art theft. He’s over on Lexington, right here in the city.”

Charlotte called the number, but no one picked up. She figuredshe’d show up in person, but before she did, she had one more matter to take care of.

Joseph was waiting by the vitrine in the Egyptian Art collection that held the broad collar, talking with Annie Jenkins, who waved as Charlotte approached. Charlotte unlocked the case and waited as Joseph slid on a pair of gloves before carefully lifting out the broad collar and placing it onto a soft foam form covered by a Tyvek skin. He stuck pins into the form to keep the broad collar from shifting and then placed the form onto a cart for transportation.

Charlotte checked that it was intact, which it was, other than the one missing amulet. The last time she’d seen the broad collar, before it turned up again at the Met, it was in the hands of the man she had loved most in the world, at a time when she’d never been so scared and helpless. He’d touched it, and then he was gone. Without thinking, she reached toward the very edge of it with her bare finger, hoping that maybe she’d receive some sign of him if she ran her finger over the same gleaming strands of gold.

“Charlotte, what are you doing?”

Joseph was looking at her strangely. She pulled her hand away and nodded. “Sorry. Let’s go.”

The three of them took the elevator down to the Costume Institute’s exhibition hall, which was busy. Too busy for Charlotte’s taste. The mannequins were in place, but there were lampers on ladders focusing lights and troops of well-dressed women adjusting sleeves and pulling on hems.

“I know it looks like chaos,” said Annie with an apologetic smile, “but Mrs. Vreeland has things well in hand. It will be safe.”

“Where do you want it?” asked Joseph.

Annie led the way to a mannequin dressed in the strangest outfit Charlotte had ever seen, some kind of dance leotard featuring large pantaloons and studded with pearls. In fact, all the clothes were odd,each one crazier than the next. She’d expected a froth of dainty tulle confections upon hearing that this year’s exhibition featured a ballet impresario, but these were loud, bordering on obnoxious. And captivating. She hated to admit it, but the effect was intriguing.

The overhead lights hid nothing; Charlotte could see where colors had faded, or where a collar that was supposed to be white was, in fact, stained with sweat. It was obvious that the harem skirts and embroidered jackets had been worn by actual dancers, ones who leaped across stages and entertained audiences. She thought of Mark and how these costumes wouldn’t be out of place in some of the avant-garde shows they’d seen downtown; they still came off as fresh and modern.

Annie must have caught the amazed expression on Charlotte’s face. “Incredible, right?”

They watched as Joseph delicately arranged the broad collar around the mannequin’s thin neck and secured it in place. It wasn’t at all what Charlotte would’ve chosen to pair with the costume, but it also wasn’t completely out of place.

“You have to assure me that this will be safe,” said Charlotte to Annie. “This is your responsibility.”

Annie nodded solemnly. “I will, even if I have to give my life in order to do so.”

The statement was so absurd that Joseph burst out laughing. “You two are out of your minds,” he said, walking away, shaking his head, pulling the cart behind him.

Charlotte and Annie exchanged a brief look, and Charlotte shrugged. “He’s probably right.” She wandered over to a flamboyant watercolor of a set design by Léon Bakst, which would feel right at home in a modern-day East Village theater. “My boyfriend is going to love this exhibition.”

“You have a boyfriend?” asked Annie.

“Yes.” Charlotte winced.

“What?”

“I hate that word.”

“What word?”

“ ‘Boyfriend.’ But nothing else is much better. ‘Partner,’ ‘significant other,’ they’re all terrible.”

“Have you considered ‘swain’?”

Charlotte laughed in spite of herself.

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