Even in London, he’d get on his motorcycle whenever he had to work out a problem. A couple of fast miles usually got the cobwebs out and focused his mind. Sometimes he’d come to a solution of what was bothering him. Tonight his chief preoccupation was a five-foot-five-inch blonde—Holly Graham.
Sinclair turned on the ignition and pressed the start button, and the headlight shot a beam into the dark street. He depressed the clutch lever, put it into first gear with the foot pedal, let out the clutch, and shot forward.
The engine reverberated down the row of town houses. He lapped Grosvenor Square like a racetrack and headed out onto Park Lane, taking random turns, searching for straightaways where he could open it up.
The night was cool. The joy of flying through the dark was intoxicating; he rode mindlessly, the beautiful machine responding to his every whim. After a while he allowed himself to think about her.
Holly was haunting him a lot these days. Was this new obsession a bruised ego or something more? Whatever was causing it, the whole thing was inappropriate. His life was happy, settled. And Cordelia was the beautiful, brilliant partner he had always been looking for.
In figuring this out, he decided to focus on the positive—list all the things he liked about Cordelia. She was smart enough to keep him interested, strong enough to handle his past, and a real soul mate. Their relationship was still young, but already it was solid.
Why did Holly have to appear right now? He should tell her plainly that he was not interested. But the look in her eyes was clear. Holly wanted something more, and he didn’t.
But if it was that simple, why was he out here riding in the dark?
Cordelia Stapleton woke up after a few hours of deep sleep, rolled over, and glanced at her alarm clock. It was three a.m. She reached for Sinclair, but the bed was empty, the sheets cold. He must be on one of his nocturnal rambles in the kitchen or the library, or out on that motorcycle. The man needed so little sleep!
She threw off the duvet and slipped on her satin robe. In the hallway she could see a light farther down the staircase, and music was floating up from the floor below. Cordelia tiptoed down the spiral steps and peeped into the book-lined room. Sinclair was fully dressed, seated at his map table, writing.
“John?” she said.
He looked up, startled.
“Delia, sorry if I woke you,” he said, standing up and moving toward her.
“What on earth are you doing in the middle of the night?”
“Working up a list of potential dealers in stolen art. I am determined to get that cup back for VerPlanck.”
“Oh.”
Was it her imagination or was he trying to hide something?
“We also have to get back something for the Brooklyn Museum,” he added.
“What?”
“A mummy. It was stolen the night of the gala. I am helping to recover it.”
“The Brooklyn Museum?” Cordelia asked.
“Yes.”
“Where your friend Holly is?”
“Yes.”
“Are you also working with her on recovering the mummy?”
“No. Not directly.” Sinclair folded up his notes and yawned copiously. “Let’s get back to bed.”
“We’d better. I have a morning meeting at the Royal Geographical Society.”
Cairo, Egypt
MOUSTAFFA SENT AN e-mail from the Bodega Café:
Xandra. Charlie Hannifin tells me that Mrs. VerPlanck is at Buffalo Ranch in Jackson Hole Wyoming with Jane and Arthur Monroe. Have our men collect her for ransom and await further instructions. M.
Jackson Hole, Wyoming
IT WAS A crisp fall afternoon as Tipper stood and watched the ranch hands saddle up a handsome pinto. The brown-and-white horse was prancing in anticipation of freedom.
The open range, where she could ride hundreds of miles without encountering a single human being, was also calling to her. Just what she needed to get her mind off everything.
Neither Jane nor Arthur ever had any interest in riding with her. Arthur spent his time bouncing through the sagebrush in a beat-up pickup truck, western music blasting on the radio. Jane preferred reading trashy novels and knitting.
Today, Jane and Arthur were driving into town to do a little shopping and have an early dinner at the Snake River Grill. Tipper had decided to stay here, saying she wanted some time alone to think. They totally understood.
As the ranch hands cinched the western saddle, Tipper held the lead and stroked the horse’s nose. Sweet hay-scented breath blew out of its nostrils.
She heard the chime of her cell phone, switched the reins to the other hand, and fished the phone out of her jeans. The area code was 212—New York. She took the call.
“Mrs. VerPlanck, this is Global Industries Insurance Company. We cover your art collection.”
Tipper’s heart began to beat faster.
“Yes?”
“We are calling about the Cézanne painting in Southampton. Our agents went out there to pick it up, but they found the house closed for the season.”
Tipper searched for something credible to say.
“Oh, I don’t really handle the art collection. My husband must have made other arrangements.”
She kept her tone brisk and businesslike.
“Mr. VerPlanck hasn’t notified us, and we haven’t been able to reach him,” the insurance agent replied.
“He had to fly to London unexpectedly.”
“I see. Well, all this is very unorthodox.”
“I realize that. My husband’s assistant will be in touch.”
“When would that be?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m in Wyoming.”
The horse whinnied, as if backing up her story. Tipper ended the call as politely as possible without raising any suspicion. If Ted asked her about the painting, she would deny all knowledge. How could she know anything about a theft if she was almost two thousand miles away?
Out on the trail it was warm in the sun, but there was enough breeze to make the day comfortable. The thin oxygen of the high altitude was a welcome change after the dense smog of Manhattan. Tipper scanned the three distinct elevations of the Tetons—the jagged snow-frosted peaks above the timberline, lower slopes still glowing with fall foliage, and verdant grasslands down below.
She planned on riding most of the afternoon. Her mount, an Indian paint horse, was surefooted on the narrow track. The animal’s pungent scent wafted up as it climbed the ridgeline.
Tipper reined in and looked out over the high plateau. Beyond stretched the vast wilderness of Grand Teton National Park. This area was a private land reserve, zoned to keep real estate developers from chopping up the valley. By law, all horses and riders had pass-through rights.
Suddenly, her mount spooked. Tipper automatically clamped her legs to its sides and gathered the reins, looking around as she calmed the skittish animal. What was wrong?
Straight ahead, she saw the two men step out of the brush carrying pistols—not the usual rifles used by elk and deer hunters.
For the briefest second, Tipper had the urge to kick her horse and bolt. If she acted fast, she could put a lot of distance between herself and these men. But something in their manner told her they would shoot to kill.
“Get off,” one gunman ordered, leveling the weapon directly at her forehead.
“What do you want? If it’s money, I’m not carrying any.”
“You, lady. We came for you.”
“Me?” Tipper said, incredulous. “What for?”
They didn’t answer. That’s when she knew she was in very serious trouble.
Alone in a small abandoned building at the edge of the woods, Tipper was barefoot, her hands and feet bound with leather rawhide ties. Her ostrich-skin boots were lying in the dust next to her. She looked around her rustic prison, trying to figure out what to do. The building appeared to be an old cowshed, and there was not much in there—a feeding trough in one c
orner, an old tractor tire, and a rusty pitchfork.
She settled back against the wall and looked through the dust-streaked window. The sun was setting. Her captors had left her here without explanation.
She hoped Arthur and Jane would alert the police when they got home. But that might take hours and this place would be hard to find. She and her captors had ridden about ten miles into Grand Teton National Park.
How could anyone know where she was? The men had released her horse to find its way home. Perhaps someone would follow the trail the animal had left.
The physical discomfort was intense. The rawhide bonds bit into her skin, her wrists and ankles were bleeding, and she desperately wanted to pee.
As bad as this was, the situation was about to get a lot worse. It would get very cold tonight. Fall weather in the Tetons sometimes dropped below freezing. But her biggest problem would be one of those withdrawal headaches. Tipper had no little pick-me-up pills to rely on.
She didn’t have any water either, and she was already thirsty. A gin and tonic would do nicely right about now—a tall one, with ice.
Jane and Arthur would call Ted, and he would make sure someone would come and find her. No expense spared, even if it meant hiring a posse of a hundred men. Ted was a decent man. He’d do his best, no matter what his feelings. He could always be counted on in a crisis. And God knows she had created a lot of them.
This abduction was clearly related to the art theft. One of the gunmen had said something about getting a ton of money for her ransom because Ted was rich enough to own a Cézanne. It had been stupid to get mixed up in this—these people were criminals.
Sitting in the little shed, Tipper had a fully sober moment of reflection. When it came right down to it, her husband was the best man she knew. So why on earth had she been suckered into helping steal his art?
And Charlie Hannifin was a sneak and a liar. He had manipulated her into helping him. But she couldn’t blame him entirely. She had also screwed up.
For the first time in years, Tipper realized that she didn’t really hate Ted at all. She hated herself.
The two gunmen rode across the ridge to Coyote Corral and dismounted. The dude ranch was on the outskirts of Grand Teton National Park, a few miles from where they had left Tipper.
The proprietor, a tired-looking man, unhitched their horses from the fence posts.
“Nice ride?” he asked, not really listening to their replies.
“It was great.”
“Real pretty.”
Both men headed back to the guest lodge to clean up for dinner. Just as they reached the porch, a cell phone rang. The taller man pulled it out of his jeans pocket and listened intently.
“So what do you want us to do with her?” he asked.
“OK, fine.”
He hung up and turned to his partner.
“Lady X says we should get outta here as soon as we can.”
“What’s the deal?”
“The Feds found the warehouse in Queens. We have to pull the plug on this whole thing.”
“Oh, shit! Did they get anybody?”
“No. They raided the place earlier today—no one was there. Somebody ID’d the plates on the van the other night.”
“Son of a bitch. What about the VerPlanck woman? I thought we were going to call for ransom.”
“Can’t. Plans changed. Just leave her.”
“Leave her there?”
“Yeah, they’ll find her soon enough. We can’t be anywhere nearby.”
“Can we eat first? That steak we had last night was delicious.”
“I don’t see why not. It would look suspicious if we just took off.”
“I was hoping you would say that. I’m starving.”
The lights of the Mercedes SUV swept across the windows of the house at Buffalo Ranch. A few minutes later, Jane and Arthur Monroe came in, laughing.
“I can’t believe he said that,” Arthur said with a chuckle.
“Oh, that’s not the only thing—” Jane stopped short when she saw the look on the housekeeper’s face.
“What’s wrong?” Jane asked.
The woman stared at her, speechless.
“What’s going on? Where’s Tipper?” Jane demanded sharply.
“She never came back from her ride. We found her horse, wandering.”
“Did you call anyone?” Jane gasped.
“No, I thought it was better to wait until you got home.”
“How long has it been?” asked Arthur, looking at his watch.
“She went out about one o’clock this afternoon.”
“That’s nine hours!” Arthur said, grabbing the phone. “How on earth are we going to find her now?”
“Oh, my God!” Jane said. “A search party needs to get out there, now!”
Bristol and Overton Solicitors, Manchester Street, London
SINCLAIR WAS READING aloud a list of potential contacts for buying black market art. VerPlanck and Gardiner were listening intently. Only Holly was distracted. Something must be wrong with Sinclair—he hadn’t even glanced in her direction all morning.
“There are at least four dealers I know in London who could quietly look for the Sardonyx Cup,” he was saying.
Just then, a soft electronic melody sounded. VerPlanck began feeling his jacket pocket, found his phone, looked at the number, and sighed.
“Jackson Hole. My wife is there,” he apologized. “I have to take it.”
He punched the button.
“Hello?”
There was a long pause as he listened for a moment. Holly saw his face change. He stared straight ahead, then mumbled a few words and hung up.
“What’s wrong?” asked Sinclair.
“That was my friend Arthur Monroe from Wyoming,” VerPlanck said. “He says my wife is missing. I’m afraid I’ll have to go back to the hotel to make some calls.”
Ritz Hotel, London
TED VERPLANCK SAT anxiously in his suite, staring at the phone. A few moments ago, a waiter had brought in a tea tray and put it on the table in front of the couch. Ted poured himself a half cup of Earl Grey, added milk and sugar, and looked over the plates of scones and shortbreads. He took a cucumber sandwich and nibbled on it as he gazed up at the crystal chandelier, thinking. After he finished, he checked his tie for nonexistent crumbs and took a sip of hot sweet tea.
He was deeply worried. There had been a flurry of conversations with local authorities in Wyoming. The law-enforcement people had pieced together a story about what might have happened.
The horse had returned without a rider, that much they knew. There were several possibilities. She could have fallen off, been kidnapped, or sent the animal back on its own. The local ranchers were organizing a scouting party to start out in the morning. There was not much else they could do in the dark.
A Missing Persons Report could be filed—but only after twenty-four hours. That’s because people had a habit of turning up a few hours after the alarm had been raised.
The law-enforcement people were skeptical about Tipper’s disappearance. The local Jackson Hole sheriff had put in a call to the Feds, but they were holding back on a full search operation, saying they needed more information.
VerPlanck couldn’t really blame the sheriff for not dashing out right away. Jane and Arthur had been obliged to tell him that Tipper had gone missing once or twice before, usually with a virile young man in tow.
Considering the circumstances, it was probably better to wait until morning. It would be embarrassing if they came across Tipper in flagrante delicto in some little cabin in the woods with a local cowboy. Knowing Tipper, she’d probably turn up by tomorrow morning with a smirk on her face and some tall tale about being rescued by a handsome stranger.
Everyone assured Ted they would keep him informed. There was no point in him flying back home if there was nothing for him to do. At the very earliest, he’d head back to the States tomorrow.
Grosvenor Street, London
JOHN SINCLAIR SAT in his favorite leather chair, his feet propped up on an ottoman, working his way down a list of contacts. It was four in the afternoon. As usual, the tea tray was on the map table, laden with a sterling silver teapot and a plate of stem-ginger biscuits. Sinclair was just putting a cup of steaming Lapsang souchong to his lips when he heard Cordelia’s voice in the hallway downstairs.
“Hellooooo!” she called.
“Up here, Delia.”
She sauntered in and dropped her coat and handbag on a chair.
“I’m surprised you’re home,” she said. “Didn’t you have a meeting with Jim Gardiner?”
“We ended early. Something turned up concerning VerPlanck’s wife, so I’ve been working here.”
Cordelia walked over and looked at his notes. As she stood next to his chair, the scent of her new French perfume enveloped him. He looked up.
She was absolutely lovely this afternoon. That outfit was terribly fetching in a ladylike way—the little tweed form-fitting skirt and jacket paired with very high heels. Her legs were encased in shimmery stockings.
“What kind of assignation requires an outfit like that? If I may inquire.”
“Nothing illicit,” she replied. “I’ve been over at Kensington Gore . . . a luncheon for female members of the Royal Geographical Society. I told you about it last night.”
“But why so late? It’s after four.”
“It was a lecture also. A retrospective on Isabelle Bird.”
She sat on the arm of his chair and leaned over his shoulder.
“What are you up to?” she asked.
“Looking for a lead on the Sardonyx Cup,” he replied, checking off a name and turning the page.
“Who are these people?”
“Nobody you know. They’re all pretty shady characters.”
He put his teacup and legal pad on the floor and reached around to pull her into his lap. Her skirt rode up and he could see her stocking tops were fastened with frilly garters. He ran his hand along the silky nylon band and unfastened one of them.
The Stolen Chalicel Page 13