Lost and Found (6 page)

He saw to it that the furniture moved quickly once it arrived at the gallery. None of the items could be allowed to stand around long on the showroom floor, where it might attract unwanted attention. For that same reason, none of the pieces was designed to appear so unique or so magnificent as to warrant excessive interest.

He had definitely moved into the big time with this latest venture. It certainly beat the phony investment schemes he had marketed for so many years. He was moving in much higher, much wealthier social circles, too. The money was rolling in quite nicely. He would have to look into the possibility of opening one of those off-shore accounts that the real pros used.

V
esta Briggs stood alone in the two-story chamber and absorbed the soothing ambience of the past. If it were not for the heavy steel door with its computerized lock and the total absence of windows, one would never know that the richly paneled walls and the gleaming granite floor of this room covered what was, in fact, an elegant vault.

The display cases extended from floor to ceiling. The shelves held her collection of precious antique boxes, hundreds of them, perhaps over a thousand now. She had begun collecting them years ago when she had finally accepted that, for her, there would be nothing to live for except Chatelaine’s.

She turned slowly, breathing deeply of the atmosphere of the chamber. There was comfort to be found in the immutable past: a realm that remained frozen and locked in time, a world that could be visited again and again in memory and in dreams. She savored the cold fire of the glittering, polished works of art arrayed before her. Beautiful damascene chests from the sixteenth century; elegant seventeenth-century jewelry cases; gilded toilet sets
that had once decorated the boudoirs of eighteenth-century ladies and courtesans; exquisitely carved writing cabinets from the early eighteen hundreds. Each had been crafted to hold secrets and precious objects. All were fitted with locks.

She walked slowly across the room and stopped at the little spiral staircase. It led to a narrow balcony that encircled the chamber at the midway point. She put her hand on the polished rail and thought about the quarrel with Sylvia. It had not been pleasant. Perhaps she should have explained her decision to postpone the merger vote to her niece. Sylvia was the CEO of Gallery Chatelaine, after all.

But she wanted to be certain, Vesta thought. There was so much at stake. And in the end, the simple fact was that she did not have to explain anything. Not yet. Sylvia had assumed the day-to-day operations of Chatelaine’s, but they both knew that even though she had been forced to retreat into semiretirement, the founder of Chatelaine’s still controlled the shares that determined the fate of the gallery.

She knew what the rest of the family was saying behind her back. The business with the psychic had been the last straw for Sylvia. Vesta smiled grimly. Long ago she had been labeled eccentric. Now they would wonder if dementia had set in.

The expression on her niece’s face when she had confronted her about her appointments with Jonathan Arden had been almost amusing. The rest of the family would soon be buzzing with the news that Great-aunt Vesta had finally lost it completely. But they would keep quiet about it, she thought. Oh, yes, they would go to great lengths to conceal the information. None of them would want to risk having the news leaked to the art world. That sort of gossip would not only be professionally embarrassing, it would be bad for business.

She gazed at a beautiful ornamental gold box on a
nearby shelf and wondered what Cady would say when they told her about the visits to the psychic.

Cady was not like the others. Cady understood her. That was because they were so much alike in so many ways. Cady wouldn’t leap to the conclusion that she had lost her grip on reality. Cady would ask questions first. Cady would look beneath the surface. It was her nature.

Vesta put a hand to her waist and removed the magnificent piece of ancient jewelry known as the Nun’s Chatelaine. She had worn it to the Carnival Night committee meeting earlier that evening. Eleanor Middleton’s boundless enthusiasm for her duties as chair of the annual Phantom Point community event was admirable but tiresome. Still, it was important for Gallery Chatelaine to be represented on the committee. And given her
semiretirement
status, Vesta thought, she had no excuse for sticking someone else in the family with the task of volunteering for the committee work. She had never shirked her responsibility to Chatelaine’s.

For a moment she studied the old chatelaine in the light of a nearby lamp. The heavily carved medallion in the center glowed with the rich luster of very old gold. The stones that encircled it still shimmered with ancient radiance. The five gold-link chains spilled through her fingers. Small gold keys set with gemstones were attached to four of the chains. No key dangled from the fifth chain.

She had discovered the Nun’s Chatelaine shortly before she had opened the gallery. It had turned up in a heap of costume jewelry in an estate sale she had attended; a masterpiece concealed by a mound of worthless plastic, glass stones and cheap metal. She had known at once that it would become the symbol of her new business venture.

The Gallery Chatelaine logo was based on the design of the antique device. An image of the chatelaine appeared on everything from business cards to the engraved
announcements sent out whenever a special collection went up for sale. A large, sculpted reproduction of the beautiful object hung over the front door of the main gallery in San Francisco and also above the door of the small art boutique here in Phantom Point.

She studied the heavy chatelaine, aware of the warmth of the metal against her skin. It was only a key ring, but what a fabulous key ring, she thought. Her fingers tightened around it. She could feel the history trapped inside. She knew the details because she had spent years researching the object’s origins.

In the beginning it had been fashioned for a twelfth-century bride. An extravagant gift from her husband on her wedding day, it had been a symbol of his faith and trust in her. The keys that had dangled at the ends of the chains had been emblems of the power she wielded in her new role as the lady of the castle.

Those first keys had been forged of iron. They had unlocked the chambers that contained the lord’s treasures: expensive spices from the East; precious manuscripts containing magic and mystery that had been carried all the way from Spain; jewelry and fine woolen robes that were donned for special occasions.

Many years and several children later, the lady had been widowed. Following the fashion of the day, she had retired to a convent where her talent for organization had assured her a rapid rise through the ranks of the nuns.

Within a short time she had found herself supervising the convent’s business and financial affairs. Once again the keys that hung from her chatelaine unlocked doors that protected secrets and mysteries: the illuminated manuscripts in the library; the chapel with its rare and expensive wall tiles detailing the lives of the saints; the boxes in which the property charters and account rolls were stored.

The Nun’s Chatelaine had floated down through the
centuries, sometimes disappearing for years at a time before reappearing in the hands of a collector or a woman who was simply attracted to its unique beauty. Sometime during the eighteenth century, when decorative chatelaines had been all the fashion rage, the iron keys had been replaced with new ones fashioned of gold and set with gems. But the spectacular medallion had been left untouched. Perhaps the jeweler who had replaced the keys for his client had recognized that such fine craftsmanship should not be altered for the sake of fashion.

With the chatelaine in her hand, she climbed the spiral staircase to the narrow balcony. She went to a display case and took down one of the exquisite boxes, a very fine eighteenth-century creation decorated with beautifully painted enamels and gleaming gilt. A plain metal duplicate of the fifth key, the one that she had removed earlier from the Nun’s Chatelaine, was in the lock.

She braced herself for the torrent of emotions that poured through her whenever she opened the box. When she was ready, she raised the lid and carefully placed the Nun’s Chatelaine inside, beneath the other secrets she kept there. For a moment she stood remembering the past.

After a while she closed and locked the box and pocketed the plain duplicate key. She set the gilded and enameled treasure chest back on the shelf and shut the glass door. Just one more beautiful little chest among hundreds.

She descended the ladder, left the vault where the past was safely confined and locked the heavy door.

The all-too-familiar jittery sensation was plaguing her again tonight. The twinges of anxiety had grown increasingly bothersome during the past few weeks. A glass of whiskey was no longer enough to quell them. She might have to resort to one of the pills the doctor had given her. She dreaded using the tablets. They worked, but they left her with an unpleasant hangover. It would be a full twenty-four hours before she felt in control again. Much
better to beat back the panic attack before it took hold, if possible.

She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, changed into a swimsuit and a terry-cloth robe and went back down to the first floor of the hillside villa.

Outside on the terrace she switched off the household lights and stood looking across the night-darkened bay to where the city of San Francisco glittered and sparkled in the distance. She removed her robe, dropped it on a lounger and walked across the tile to the pool steps.

She did not turn on the underwater lights. The dark water greeted her with the quietly exhilarating embrace of an old, familiar lover, one who knew the past and shared the memories.

She swam three laps before she sensed that something was wrong. She paused, treading water, and peered into the shadows of the garden that surrounded the pool.

“Is anyone there?”

No response.

It was the anxiety, she thought. She would not allow it to win tonight. She would do battle with it and defeat the panic attack before it took hold.

With grim determination she struck out for the opposite end of the pool. She would not give in to the nameless fear.

“
S
he’s trying to screw us.” Mack did not take his eyes off the computer screen as he spoke into the phone. “My fault. I’m the one who picked her as a consultant.”

Why was he so surprised? he wondered. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d made a mistake of this magnitude. There was always some risk involved in using a freelancer who was well connected in the business. The temptations were great.

Still, he had been so sure of Cady Briggs. She really had caught him off guard with this maneuver. Hell, off guard didn’t cover it. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut.

It occurred to him that for some reason he was taking this bit of treachery a little too personally. This is business, he thought. Act like a businessman. Cady Briggs was just another consultant gone bad. It happened. No point sitting here staring at the evidence. Get over it and do something businesslike about the situation.

“You okay, Mack?” Dewey asked uneasily on the other end of the line. “You sound like you just ate something that don’t agree with you.”

“What’s wrong?” Notch demanded from the extension he was using in the office of Military World. “We got a problem?”

Mack roused himself from his morose contemplation of the data on the glowing computer screen.

“Yeah, we’ve got a problem. Cady Briggs just bought a ticket to San Jose.” He studied the data arrayed before him. “She’s made arrangements to pick up a car there. When I talked to her assistant a few minutes ago, I was told that Miss Briggs would be out of town for a couple of days. She’s on her way to see a client who lives in the Santa Cruz Mountains.”

“Who?” Notch sounded bewildered.

“Ambrose Vandyke. Retired computer mogul. Made his fortune designing software that sends robotic programs out onto the internet to retrieve data.”

“Well, shit,” Dewey muttered. “You mean she’s workin’ on another job when she’s supposed to be tryin’ to find our helmet?”

“I don’t think this is an unrelated job,” Mack said. “I believe the lady has located your missing armor.”

“Hey,” Dewey said, sounding far more cheerful. “You really think so?”

Mack stared at the screen. “Almost positive.”

“All right,”
Notch chortled. “You hear that, Dew? She found the damned thing. We’re gonna be rich.”

“In that case,” Dewey said, “why the hell does Mack sound like he’s getting ready to attend a funeral?”

“If I sound somewhat less than enthusiastic,” Mack said, “it’s because I think Miss Briggs has plans of her own for your helmet. Plans that don’t include either of you.”

“Huh?” Notch asked. “What’s he talkin’ about, Dew?”

“Don’t know yet but it don’t sound good,” Dewey growled. “Fill us in here, Mack. This ain’t no time to get secretive on us. We’re your clients, remember?”

“The problem,” Mack said, “is that, contrary to standard Lost and Found procedure, Cady Briggs did not notify me that she had a lead on the helmet.”

“So what? Maybe she just wants to check out her information first,” Dewey offered. “You know, make sure of things before she tells you she’s onto somethin’.”

“There was no need to go this far out of her way just to verify some piece of information. She could have done that on the phone. That’s what I pay her to do. I made it clear to her that if she picked up anything solid in the way of a lead, she was to notify me immediately. I handle all recovery work.”

A heavy silence greeted that information. Dewey and Notch breathed for a while.

Notch finally cleared his throat. “You think maybe she’s found the helmet and she’s goin’ after it herself?”

“That’s the logical conclusion here,” Mack said.

“But why would she do that?” Dewey asked. “Why wouldn’t she call you first?”