My feet were killing me. When I reached the first empty gallery, I slipped off my patent-leather party shoes, too high and teetery in the heel and too pointy in the toe for comfort. The marble floors felt cool under my stockinged soles as I walked from room to room, dangling the shoes from my hand. Not a single person crossed my path.
I reached the first of three rooms of boring late-Roman artifacts. From the innermost room, I could hear the gurgle of the fountain. Or was it laughter? I crept forward until I could see into the last gallery.
I saw Joel half-reclining on the bench. He wasn’t alone. I couldn’t see his companion’s face, but I knew her hair, her back, her low-cut glittering silver sequined gown. It was Ash. She straddled him, not only her arms but her long, slim legs wrapped around him and her lips glued to his. I stood watching long enough for them to run out of air. I kept telling myself to go, but my feet wouldn’t obey. My nose tickled. I pinched my nostrils closed, but it did no good. My breath exploded in a monumental sneeze. They had both heard my sneeze before. Joel sat up, pushing Ash off him. Our eyes met for a split second. Then I turned and fled.
I spent a miserable night tossing and turning in my bed at Uncle Solly’s. How could he! I didn’t exactly not blame Ash. But poaching and betrayal were in character for her. Her behavior didn’t shock me the way Joel’s did. I hadn’t known him as well as I thought I did. How could I face either of them? I thought of calling in sick, but for any Met employee not to appear at work the morning after a major party was Not Done. I wasn’t ready to leave my job — yet. Maybe Daoud’s prince could use a highly trained art restorer. An Arab emirate might be almost far enough from New York.
I cut over to Fifth Avenue and trotted uptown on the park side. I resisted the temptation to turn on my cell phone. I didn’t want to listen to Joel making excuses — or know for sure he hadn’t bothered to call. How could he? Was he that desperate to get into Yale? Or had I somehow failed to meet his standards? I couldn’t compete with Ash on any level. Except, as Uncle Solly had said, our hearts. At the moment, I didn’t know whether a connoisseur would value a bad heart higher or lower than a broken one.
Lost in my thoughts, I paid no attention to the sound of wailing sirens and excited voices — New York’s everyday music — until I stopped for the light at 79th Street. Then I saw police cars up ahead, red lights whirling. Barriers bracketed the museum, blocking Fifth Avenue from 79th to 84th. The cops had shooed everyone off the steps, though a crowd of onlookers lingered, milling around on the broad sidewalk by the fountains. I could see the flutter of yellow crime-scene tape.
I pushed my way forward through the crowd. The buzz of people asking what had happened gave way to a few authoritative voices claiming that they knew. The grim thought crossed my mind that if someone had murdered Ash, I’d be the prime suspect. But the word I kept hearing was not “killed,” but “stolen.”
The sidewalk vendors seemed to be packing up. One of them, a regular whose photographs of the city’s best-known monuments were popular with tourists, caught my eye. I threaded my way over to him.
“Someone stole that new Vermeer last night,” he said, “after the big bash. Biggest art theft ever in New York.” His voice rang with what sounded like civic pride. “Cops told us all to pack up and go. Dunno why, even if the museum stays closed all day.” He pursed his lips and surveyed the rubberneckers with regret. “It’d be a great day for sales.”
“But how? Who?” As if he would know.
“Cut the painting right outa the frame. Izznat what they do? They’re questioning all the guards.”
My insides felt as if a giant foot had tromped on my abdomen.
“Why the guards? There were a lot of people there last night.”
“That’s what I say.” The vendor zipped up his giant portfolio and kicked at the legs of his folding table so he could snap it shut. “Blame the proletariat.”
“I work there.” My voice came out cracked and wispy.
“You look upset.” He eyed me with a certain sympathy. “Why doncha call your boss? Bet he’ll tell you to go home. Enjoy the day.”
“Thanks,” I croaked. He waved and walked away as I fumbled in my purse. He was right. I’d better call Ash. As soon as I flipped the cell phone on, it started beeping. Seven messages. I didn’t want to hear them, but I couldn’t afford not to.
“Janny, I know you’re mad at me, but it’s not what you think. Please call me and let me explain.”
“Janny, I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. Please, please don’t walk away without hearing my side of it.”
“Janny, I don’t know what Ashley told you, but it’s not true. I wasn’t coming on to her. She grabbed me. Who are you going to believe, her or me?”
“Janny, you probably have your cell phone off. I don’t blame you. But please call me back. We’ve got to talk.”
“Janny, call me, all hell is breaking loose around here. You probably never want to see me again, but — oops, gotta go. Please put on your cell phone and call back when you get this.”
“Janny, don’t hang up when you hear my voice. I’m in big trouble. I need you. Even if you hate me, call me right away.”
The last call was from Ash.
“Janny, I hate to tell you this,” she cooed, her voice thick with cream and canary feathers, “but you may be in serious trouble. I’m sure you already know the Vermeer is gone. You may not have heard the police have got your boyfriend. You’d better encourage him to tell them where he hid it. I told them you’re my cousin and I didn’t believe for a second you were in it with him. But your best chance is for your boyfriend to come clean as soon as possible.”
My hands shook with anger as I stabbed at the button to return her call. I expected to get her voice mail. Anticipating having to leave a message riled me even more. But she picked up on the second ring.
“Oh, Janny, you poor thing. Have you talked to the police? Did they let you see your boyfriend? I’m afraid it looks bad for him, because Security says he’s the only guard whose time last night isn’t completely accounted for. The detective in charge told me they can’t see how he got the painting out, unless he had an accomplice. But maybe he hid it somewhere in the museum. Believe me, they’ll search the whole place, no matter how long it takes, so he’d better tell them where it is before they decide they won’t accept a plea bargain.”
“What the hell are you talking about!” It came out in a screech. Yelling at Ash never did any good. It simply bolstered her conviction that you were irrational. I lowered my voice. “Who says his time isn’t accounted for? You know damn well where he was when he wasn’t on duty.”
“Janny, darling, I know you’re upset, or you wouldn’t be making things up like this. I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
After I hung up on Ash, I stood irresolute, my thoughts racing. Had Joel been arrested? Had he called because he loved me and trusted me to help? Or did he just need bail? I pounded my fist against my palm, earning wary glances from the passersby. He knew I was the family have-not. For money, he should have gone to Ash. Unless he couldn’t go to Ash because they weren’t on intimate terms. Could I have misinterpreted what I’d seen? Maybe she’d pounced like a black-widow spider as he waited for me. If so, I’d walked in at just the wrong moment. Knowing Ash, I could believe she’d counted on that.
What did I know for sure? One, Joel hadn’t taken the Vermeer. I couldn’t be that mistaken about his character. Two, Ash had lied to me. She had been with Joel at least part of the time he’d been “missing.” I’d seen them with my own eyes. Who knew what lies she’d told the police. She’d managed to bring my name into it along with Joel’s. They’d had to talk to her because she knew all about the logistics for the party. But she’d had nothing to do with security for the Vermeer. She could pass as just another partygoer who hadn’t seen a thing. But wouldn’t Joel tell them he’d been with her? He might hesitate for fear that it would finish him with me. And if he dragged her into it, he could forget that recommendation to Yale. But his alibi was more important than a fellowship or what I thought. If he didn’t know that, I’d better call and tell him so.