“Mia Schneider told us that Lavinia refused to allow any change in Lucy’s room,” Mike said. “That she expected the child to come home, and wanted things to be exactly as they were when she was taken.”
“That’s true, Mr. Chapman. And I’m not permitted to show it to you, if that’s where you’re going with your statement.”
Jillian Sorenson was either rigidly professional, or the events of forty years ago had filled her veins with ice.
“Why is that?” Mike asked.
“That’s as Lavinia wishes it to be.”
“In case you didn’t notice, Lavinia’s not too sure what day it is.”
“There are some things, despite your rudeness, Mr. Chapman, that she still feels very strongly about. I don’t intend to satisfy your curiosity with a peek at the nursery.”
There were only three doors left on each side before we would reach the south end of the floor. Jill Sorenson stopped in front of the second, on the courtyard side, and opened the door.
“These are the police officers Mia told me about,” she said to a woman standing inside the room, back against the window and hands clasped in front of her, who had clearly been waiting for us. “Bernice, this is Ms. Cooper and Mr. Chapman.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, with the vaguest hint of a Scottish brogue in her voice. “Bernice Wicks, at your service.”
The woman, dressed in the same formal maid’s outfit as her junior counterpart who had admitted us to the apartment, seemed to be just a few years younger than Lavinia Dalton. I wanted to tell her to sit down and relax, not stand ready to cater to us.
Jillian turned on the overhead lights and the Dalton silver shined like it was reflecting off a room of mirrors.
“May I help you to something to eat or drink?” Bernice asked.
“No, thank you,” I said.
The room was practically the size of the living room, and although there was not much sun streaming through the western-facing windows today, there was so much silver, one needed almost to blink from the glare.
Directly beneath our feet, for half the length of the room, was the fabulous reproduction of Dalton’s Northern Atlantic railroad cars. The tracks were laid out in a complicated array of figure eights and long straightaways. There was a handsome model of Grand Central Station, which anchored the set, and then every kind of train car, from a fancy locomotive to passenger cars, coal car, tankers, milk trains, and finally a caboose.
Around the room, in display cases and mounted on shelves, were other pieces-undoubtedly designed for Archer Dalton by Gorham and Frost. There were wine buckets and punch bowls, trophies and loving cups, and in one enormous glass-fronted cabinet a silver dinner service for twenty-four people.
“I asked Bernice to meet us in here because she has looked over this collection since she started with Lavinia. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right, Miss Jillian.” The woman exuded a warmth entirely lacking in Sorenson.
“No need to stand here on our account,” Mike said as I looked beyond the train set to the extraordinary copy of Central Park that was laid out on the far side of the room.
“I’m happy to do my bit.”
“Don’t you want to get off your feet?” Mike asked, pointing to a fine old leather couch against the wall.
“Thank you, sir. But I’m heartier than I look.”
“How long have you worked for Miss Dalton?”
Jillian Sorenson knew exactly what direction Mike was headed. “Bernice came to work for Lavinia, as one of two housemaids, in 1968. She’s been extremely dedicated to us and refuses to accept retirement. Isn’t that right, Bernice?”
“Retire to what, Miss Jillian?” she said with a hearty laugh.
“So you were here in ’71?” Mike asked.
“We’re the only two from that time still in the household,” Jill said. “Lavinia respected each of us and took our part while we were being investigated and our reputations cut to shreds. We’ll always be here for her, Mr. Chapman.”
“Did you live here at the time of the kidnapping, Bernice?”
“Not full-time,” Bernice said. “I had to take a job because my husband had just passed-not even forty years old. My daughter was nineteen at the time and able to look after my son, who was only fourteen when I started here.”
“Bernice stayed in one of the little rooms upstairs when we required her to sleep over, once or twice a week, if there were big dinners or affairs.”
“And my Eddie was allowed to sleep over, too, if need be. How he loved Mr. Archer’s train set, and it certainly made Miss Lavinia happy to have a boy to play with them.”
Bernice was as determined as Jillian to keep our attention on what we had come to see.
I guided myself around the train tracks, toward the mock-up of the Park. Jillian walked along the wall and turned on the lights overhead.
The entire layout was a dazzling re-creation of the landmark park, every prominent feature instantly recognizable as I knelt down to study the Maine Monument at the southeast entrance.
“We’ve only seen two of the pieces before today, Ms. Sorenson,” I said. “They’re quite impressive, but this really takes your breath away.”
Her grim expression gave way, at last, to a smile. “They do exactly that, Ms. Cooper. Archer Dalton paid a king’s ransom for these back in the day. The value now is so many millions of dollars that it’s rather shocking.”
“This collection belongs in a museum,” Mike said, pinching the nape of my neck as he walked around me.
“And someday it will be in one,” Jillian said. “But for now, they’re exactly where Lavinia wants them to be. Is there something particular you’re interested in?”
Mike squatted on the east side of the Park setting and was looking methodically at each of the pieces.
“We thought you might be missing a few pieces,” I said, “and that you might help us figure when and how they became separated.”
“That’s ridiculous. Another kidnapping is what you think? Silver treasures this time? Bernice is in and out of this room every day, Ms. Cooper. She dusts and polishes all the pieces. Bernice?”
“All accounted for, Miss Jillian. No mystery here.”
“Are you pointing fingers again, Mr. Chapman?”
At that very moment, my eyes stopped on the statue of the Obelisk. It was standing behind the miniature of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, exactly where it was supposed to be.
“Mike,” I said, “the Obelisk-”
“Check. And the castle is here, too,” he said to me. “So how many of these sets were created, Miss Sorenson?”
“Only one. The trains for Archer, and the Park for Lavinia,” Jill said. “One of each.”
“Do you mind if I pick this up?”
“Not at all, Detective.”
He turned the obelisk over to examine its base. “No markings here, Coop. No Gorham and Frost hallmark. Nothing engraved.”
“I don’t understand how this can be,” I said.
“Miss Jillian, don’t you want to tell them about the originals?” Bernice Wicks asked.
Jillian Sorenson looked at her as though she was shooting daggers with her glance.
“What do you mean, Bernice?” Mike asked. “I thought there’s only one set.”
“What she means, Detective-and I hope you don’t need to repeat this to anyone-is that these collections-the train and the Park-are the maquettes for the originals.”
“Maquettes?” Mike asked.
“Scale models,” I said. “Prototypes. Artists use them all the time when they’re creating sculptures and things.”
“Damn,” he said. “I really do need to work on my French, Coop.”
“What’s the big deal?” I asked Jillian Sorenson.
She seemed rather chagrined by Bernice’s revelation. “When the collection is photographed for antique journals, we’ve not had to tell them about the originals. It’s only when museums or galleries-or an appraiser-sends a scholar to study the pieces. It’s not public knowledge that they’re just models.”