The Book of Illumination (35 page)

“Right in the kisser,” I said.

“You got that right, baby,” said Sam. And for the first time in almost two weeks, Sylvia laughed.

There were two messages on my machine when I checked it after dinner. Henry was in his room, working on his homework, copying the numbers zero through nine, ten times each. The numbers were printed on the left side of the worksheet. Henry’s task was to keep his pencil from going outside the lines on the page.

The first message was from Julian, whom I kept forgetting to call, and the second was from Declan. I decided to call Julian first. I could call Declan’s cell phone any time; apparently he was working until midnight.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number I had copied down. Just as I thought the call was going to his machine, he answered.

“Julian? It’s Anza.”

“Anza!” he said. “Nice to hear your voice.”

“The flowers are gorgeous. Thank you so much.”

“Oh, good.”

“Some of them haven’t even opened yet. They get prettier every day.”

“I’m glad,” he said. “I’m so glad.” There was an awkward pause, which, as usual, I jumped in to fill.

“You really didn’t have to. Honestly, there—”

“Oh, no. I did. I absolutely did. I’m so sorry. I didn’t handle that well at all.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

“Well, it’s just that it really caught me off guard.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have said anything. I mean, you were the one who planned the whole trip out there, and here I am, in the middle of the day—”

“No, no,” he said. “It was fine, really.”

There was another awkward lull. I suppose he was waiting for a cue from me; would I suggest that we get together again? Would I pretend that what had happened was like someone’s spilling a glass of wine on me, a clumsy, accidental lapse that had nothing to do with who he really was?

I felt tongue-tied. He was trying, he really was. But I felt confused. He was nice, and thoughtful, and funny, but he had also been condescending and rude. I knew I could prove to him that
ghosts really did exist, that was the easiest thing in the world to do, but why would I? To prove I was right? I didn’t care about being right. I cared about being myself. It was as though I had told him I was a Catholic, or a Jew, or a Republican, or a Democrat, and he had said,
Oh! In that case, never mind
.

“You know,” he began. “I really would like to know more.”

Now I was the one who was caught off guard.

“More about what?” I asked.

“About you. About your … your … what it is you … experience.”

“But I thought you didn’t …” Now I was
really
confused.

“I was startled, I’ll admit. It’s just that I’ve never seen a ghost myself and I’ve never known anyone who did.”

“Or who admitted it.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

I let out a sigh. He’d apologized. He’d sent flowers, for which I, rudely, had not even called to thank him. Maybe, just maybe, I should give it one more try.

“Look,” I said, “the next few days are kind of crazy. But maybe we can we have a drink sometime—soon.”

“I’d really like that,” said Julian.

“I
T’S ON,”
D
ECLAN
said. “The meeting. The handoff on Nantucket.”

I let out a little shriek, and he said, “Okay, okay, hold your horses there, girl.”

“Tell me! Tell me!” A moment ago, I’d been sitting in my living room pondering the truly boring question of whether I should have a touch of brandy before bed or a cup of chamomile tea. And now, suddenly, excitement!

“Scully got confirmation a couple of hours ago.”

“Do you have an address?”

“Working on it.”

“And a time?”

“That, too.”

“Can I come?” I pleaded. “I
really
want to come.”

Ignoring me, he said, “We got damn lucky in one respect.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Interpol had Van Vleck in its sights. They think he’s been trafficking in what they call ‘cultural property’—statues stolen from a museum in Kabul.”

“Looted?”

“Exactly.”

“So why is that lucky for us?”

“Well, they want him, and we found him. Two lads are on a plane right now, guys who work out of Europol, in The Hague. They have all the paperwork they need.”

Maybe I should have had the brandy. My synapses weren’t firing.

“I’m not following,” I said.

“They can enter the premises legally, Anza,” Dec went on. “They can arrest him. We couldn’t do either one, since your girlfriend there wouldn’t agree to sign a friggin’ piece of paper.”

“Oh my God! Dec! That’s fantastic!”

Amazing. So it would probably happen this weekend. So I could go! Henry would be with Dec and Kelly—no, wait. Dec would be … on Nantucket.

With me!

No, I told myself sternly, most definitely
not
with me! I couldn’t let myself go down that road again.

But an
island
.

I had to stop this
right now
.

“But we will get the book back, right?” I asked. After all, that was the whole point—to carry out Finny’s wishes and send the miserable ghosts on their way. I was all for rounding up international art thieves, but not if it meant that our precious manuscript had to disappear down the black hole of an evidence locker in The Hague.

“You should, if all goes well. Interpol’s only interested in the Afghani statuary, and in apprehending Van Vleck. After they make the arrest, I’ll simply relieve the unlucky bastard of our book. He’ll hardly be in a position to protest.”

“And what about the person he’s meeting—the person he stole it for? Can you arrest him? Or her?”

“Nope.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You can’t have it both ways, darlin.’ No official report, no arrest.”

He paused and then, probably anticipating what I was going to come back to next, said, “You really don’t want be getting involved in this, love.”

“But I do! You have to let me, Dec! Come on! If I hadn’t come to you with this, you never would have leaned on Scully, and you never would have learned about Van Vleck. You’re cracking a case for Interpol! Think of it!”

“We haven’t cracked anything yet, Sherlock! There’s every chance in the world he’ll get wind of this somehow and slip right though our sweaty little hands.”

I hadn’t thought of that.

“Let’s talk tomorrow morning,” Dec said. “I’ll have more info.”

“When’s the meeting supposed to happen?”

“Saturday night. We think.”

“I’m coming, Dec.”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“We can talk about it tomorrow, but I’m coming.”

He laughed.

He said, “I ought to have my head examined.” What he didn’t say was no.

I was fixing scrambled eggs for Henry when the phone rang. I glanced at the clock as my heart began to thump. It was
7:05.
It had to be Dad or Nona. I took a deep breath and reached for the receiver.

“Anza!” said Sylvia. “You won’t believe it!”

I sighed with relief. “Won’t believe what?”

“You know that guy Dollfus?”

“The art dealer? The one from Vienna?”

“He’s flying up on the shuttle.”

“What?”

“I know!”

I dropped a pat of butter into the pan and watched it sizzle across the hot surface. I picked up the pan and swirled it around, but before the surface was evenly coated, the butter had disappeared. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Sam heard back from his friend at The Cloisters,” Sylvia explained. “That Florio person. Florio went to see Dollfus last night. They know each other from working on that exhibit. Dollfus wasn’t anxious to get involved in this,
until—
”

Sylvia hung on that word. I had a hunch where this was going. I poured the eggs into the pan, and as they sizzled and popped, I said, “
Until
—let me guess: he found out that we thought we had the Book of Kildare.”

“Right,” answered Sylvia. “See? That’s what I was saying about the art world: everybody wants to be the one to break a story. It can make your career, to turn up a painting or a drawing that no one knew existed or that was somehow
lost.”

“At this point,” I responded, “the only thing that matters is getting the book back. Who cares who gets the credit?”

“I know I don’t,” she said.

“So what happened?” I put some bread in the toaster as Henry padded over to his place at the table. Balancing the phone on my shoulder, I poured him a glass of juice and set it down.

“Dollfus agreed to call the guy back,” Sylvia explained. “The seller had given his name as Windsor Atlas.”

“Windsor Atlas?
Give me a break. That can’t be real.”

“Real or not, that’s what he called himself. Dollfus told him
that he’d given it some more thought and decided that he’d like to see the plates after all. Atlas offered to bring them right down to New York, but Dollfus told him he that he wasn’t going to
be
in New York until the end of next week. He said he had to come up to Boston for some meetings. He didn’t, really, but they took a chance, figuring that if Amanda was involved, then maybe—”

“Don’t tell me: the guy lives here.”

“Chestnut Hill,” Sylvia replied.

Chestnut Hill was a bucolic and exclusive section of Brookline. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, wealthy Bostonians had built their summer homes in its green, rolling pastures. Nowadays, these homes belonged to players for the Celtics and the Red Sox, and CEOs and hedge-fund managers who summered somewhere else.

My heart beat rapidly as I buttered Henry’s toast, spooned the scrambled eggs on top, and cut everything into strips and squares, the way Dad had always done. I set the plate down as Sylvia continued.

“The meeting’s on for six o’clock tonight.”

“Where?”

“The Charles Hotel. Can you call Declan?”

“He’s probably not up yet,” I said. “He worked until midnight. Anyway, what’s Declan going to do?”

“I don’t know, arrest them?”

Acting on the information Declan had given me last night, I said, “He can’t arrest anybody. No one’s reported a theft. No one’s pressed charges.”

I had a sip of my coffee and watched Henry play with his toast and eggs. He wasn’t a big breakfast eater, but then again, neither was I. While I would urge him on at lunch and dinner, I wasn’t about to hector him first thing in the morning. I considered my
responsibility fulfilled when I put something vaguely healthy down in front of him.

“Look,” I finally said. “The point is to recover the plates, right? So we can put them back in the book.”

“Right. But Sam would like to put Amanda out of business.”

“That’s fine. I’ll call Declan and see if he or one of the guys can meet you at the hotel.”

“Me? What about you?”

I hesitated. She wasn’t going to like this, but there was nothing I could do.

“I can’t come,” I informed her.

“Why not?” There was a petulant tone in her voice. I felt like saying,
Excuse me, but I do have a life!
I decided to let it go.

“I … I’ve got something I can’t … get out of.” Once again, I debated bringing her in on the truth: tonight was the night I was meeting Tad and his sisters. Tad had confirmed earlier in the week that Esther was coming in from the Berkshires. After I dropped Henry off with Kelly, I was driving into Boston. At seven thirty, we were all coming together at the house on Commonwealth Avenue.