Page 54 of The Stolen Queen

“For God’s sake, that doesn’t meanliteralbutterflies, Annie. I meant for the lighting effects tomimicbutterflies.” Mrs. Vreeland looked around the room, her small dark eyes scrutinizing the faces of those assembled. “Does anyone here think I meant literal butterflies?”

The security officers shrugged their shoulders in response.

“But that’s what you said…” Annie’s voice trailed off. Nothing was going right.

Mr. Fantoni came around from behind his desk and sat on the edge of it, staring down at Annie. “Even if you did misinterpret what was asked of you, you brought moths instead.”

“I didn’t know, I swear,” replied Annie. “The box said butterflies. There must’ve been a mix-up.”

Mrs. Vreeland threw up her hands. “But I didn’t want real butterflies, just theillusion.”

“Yes, we get that,” said Mr. Fantoni. “Please, let me finish with my questions.”

Mrs. Vreeland crossed her skinny arms over her chest. “Fine.”

“Now, Annie, where exactly did you get these insects from?” asked Mr. Fantoni.

“The Museum of Natural History. The curator’s name is Jonathan Scarborough.”

“I know Jonathan, let’s get him on the phone right now!” demanded Mrs. Vreeland. “Call the operator, ring him at home.” One of the security officers disappeared into the other room.

Annie glanced over at Billy, who looked like he was about to be sick. Her dream job had turned into a nightmare, and she was dragging Billy down with her.

Mr. Fantoni was quickly connected to Jonathan Scarborough. They spoke briefly before Mr. Fantoni hung up the phone. “It turns out someone called Mr. Scarborough this afternoon and asked for moths instead of butterflies. They had already rounded up the butterflies, so they switched them out and put the moths into the same box. He said it was a woman who called.” He paused. “She identified herself as Annie Jenkins.”

Annie blanched. “But it wasn’t me! It was someone pretending to be me. I wasn’t any part of the theft, not on purpose, at least. If I was, why would I stick around long enough to get caught?”

What little fortitude she had left began to ebb. They were going to charge her with being part of a crime, and she had no way to prove the truth, that she wasn’t involved.

The attacker’s menacing expression loomed in her mind’s eye. Even though Annie lived in New York, where muggings were commonplace, she had never been assaulted before. It was probably because she was tall and broad-shouldered, making her a less compelling victim. Tonight, for the first time in her life, Annie had been physically threatened, certain that she and Charlotte were about to be killed, but no one cared at all. She remembered the horrible look on the man’s face as he lunged at her, and tried not to cry.

“Enough!”

Charlotte sailed into the room, followed by Frederick. “Why are your harassing this poor girl?” she said.

“We aren’t harassing anyone,” said Mr. Fantoni. “We’re trying to find out the facts.”

“The facts are that you ought to be scouring the streets of New York for a man carrying a bowling-ball bag with a valuable antiquity inside. Not making some poor kid cry.”

She was standing up for Annie, which no one ever did. She believed in her.

“I have to explore all of the possibilities, Miss Cross,” protested Mr. Fantoni.

“I was there. I saw him right after he stole it and followed him all the way to the storm drain. That’s the man you want.”

“Of course, and we’re in the process of doing exactly that. But Miss Jenkins here sure made it easy for him to escape.” He paused, looking at Annie again, as if by staring at her long enough, she’d break and admit to whatever it was he suspected her of. “And I want to know why.”

Chapter Eighteen

Charlotte

The security department of the Met reeked of perfume, aftershave, and cigarettes. The perfume came from the wiry figure of Mrs. Vreeland, and the other odors from the dozen or so security officers squeezed into Mr. Fantoni’s office. Annie was crouched in a wooden chair surrounded by interrogators, her pretty dress wrinkled and dirty and her face blotchy and tearstained.

Charlotte glared at the assembled crew. “I was there, I saw how she reacted. We were in fear for our lives. She somehow got her hands on a seventeenth-century Indian dagger from the storage bin—you might want to check and make sure the other caged artifacts aren’t as easy to gain access to while you’re at it—and scared him away. If it wasn’t for her bravery, I don’t know what might have happened.”

“Are you all right, Charlotte?” asked Mr. Fantoni. “You weren’t hurt?”

“I’m fine.” Her palms still stung from landing face-down, but that was the only lingering effect. She’d told the medical staff that she was slightly bruised from the fall. They’d shone lights in her eyes and checked her pulse before letting her go. She’d come upon Frederickin the Great Hall, where lines of exiting partygoers snaked all the way around the information desk as security guards painstakingly inspected each guest and their belongings on their way out.

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