Page 40 of The Stolen Queen

“You take the subway?” said Mona. “Don’t you worry about getting mugged? My husband won’t allow me. He says these days it’s far too dangerous.”

“I keep an eye out for trouble.” And she had, ever since her dad had been killed. If something seemed off in the subway car she was sitting in, she got out.

“It’s so much easier to just jump into a cab.”

And much more expensive. “I suppose.”

“Although I must say, the traffic lights in New York City leave something to be desired. You can hardly go for one block before the next one’s changed to red. Drives me insane every time I get in a taxi. I seriously don’t know how you can stand it.”

Annie shrugged. Having never lived anywhere other than New York, she had nothing to compare it with.

“Annie!”

Billy the guard was loping their way, arms pumping, legs striding. She heard Mona stifle a laugh next to her.

“Billy,” said Annie warmly to make up for Mona’s rudeness. “You on Egyptian duty today?”

“I was. I’m about to take a break and then head to the Greek and Roman wing. You ready for the big night?”

Annie introduced Mona, who gave him a weak nod of the head.

“I suppose we’re ready,” said Annie. “Although there’s still a million things to be done.”

“I bet. You work for Dee-ah-nah, too?” he asked Mona, stressing the middle syllable and throwing a grin Annie’s way.

“I’m a docent trainee,” answered Mona. “And no, I don’t work directly for Mrs. Vreeland. I volunteer for the museum.”

Annie was only realizing now how cliquey the museum was, with its many factions: the director, the curators, the development staff, the art handlers, the conservators, the docents, and the docents in training. And then there was Mrs. Vreeland, floating above the fray as the “special consultant” to the Costume Institute.

“Huh. Okay,” said Billy. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow night. Since you’re both with the Costume Institute, I have to ask, does my outfit meet with your approval?” He held out the bottom of his suit jacket and did an awkward curtsy.

Annie laughed. “You look just fine.”

After he left, Mona turned to Annie with a smug look. “He likes you, you know.”

“Do you think?” The idea made her smile. He was a sweet, boyish kid.

“But you can do much better than a guard,” offered Mona. “They’re a dime a dozen. Don’t settle, whatever you do.”

“I think he’s nice.”

Before Mona could respond, Priscilla appeared, saying they were needed in the workroom. There, the trio unpacked dozens of boxes of perfume, taking care not to break any of the bottles. The butterfly question had been solved only the day before, when Annie had confided to Priscilla that she was panicked about Mrs. Vreeland’s strange request. Priscilla consulted with a friend who was a volunteer at the Museum of Natural History, and after several phone calls, Annie was all set. She’d arranged to pick up a box of butterflies right before the exhibition opened.

For her last project of the day, she addressed the invitations to the private VIP gathering. The list was a who’s who of New York City’s rich and famous, including Lee Radziwill, Betsy Bloomingdale, Mick Jagger, Diana Ross, and Steve Rubell.

Back at the apartment, although Annie’s back hurt and her eyeswere red, she put the finishing touches on the dress she’d be wearing to the Met Gala. Taking Mrs. Vreeland’s advice, she’d decided to accent her more “interesting” features. Annie had chosen a plissé fabric that shimmered in the light and sewn in shoulder pads, hoping they would give her a nice line without making her look like a football player. From there, the gown dropped straight to the floor and swished around her legs—no waistline, just like her own sturdy torso. She’d borrow some of her mother’s chunky rings to wear on her fingers, just as Mrs. Vreeland suggested.

Annie had been lucky enough to secure a ticket for her mother as well. She couldn’t wait for Joyce to watch her thriving at her new job, escorting the VIPs through the Great Hall and acting as Mrs. Vreeland’s favorite helper. Maybe Joyce would meet someone wonderful there to take her mind off Brad. For Joyce’s dress, Annie had taken a simple wine-colored sheath and added a fantastical collar, ruffles trimmed in gold. Her mother would be the center of attention once again.

It was sure to be a magical, perfect night.

Chapter Thirteen

Charlotte

New York City, 1978

The office of the art theft investigator was located above a hair salon, up a set of creaky, narrow stairs that rose between walls of peeling yellow paint. The sign on the second-floor door read “Tenny Woods, Art Recovery Expert.”

---