The Divinity School was hosting an afternoon of sacred music. Mozart’s Requiem, Bach’s Mass in B minor, Schubert. I was playing Schubert’s Piano Sonata, and you were on the edge of the crowd, listening. Really listening. I can still see the look on your face. As if you saw God. You always did love Schubert. And Bach.
You came up to me after the program was over, asked me to coffee. I was so late for an appointment, but there was just something about you. Like a medieval prince, I thought, with the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. I never made it to that appointment, did I? And I was never sorry.
That was the beginning of our friendship. I think you were the best friend I ever had, my dear one.
And then, in 1980, we met Victor Orsini and all our lives changed forever.
It was Yale’s reunion weekend, remember? Yale again, always the thread entangling all of us together. It was your Fifth Reunion, our Twelfth, I think. You and Finn were members of Skull and Bones—of course I knew, how could I not?—and they hosted a very private cocktail party in an art gallery on Chapel Street for their current and past members and spouses. It was there that we met Victor Orsini. Such a scholar, such a lover of religious art. But a man without a soul. He took quite the shine to you, didn’t he? To all of us, I think. Maybe he knew, in some deep part of his heart, that he would need us one day. And that we all would have our price.
That proved to be the case. Victor found a fortune in looted art from World War II hidden in his mother’s villa in Italy. He called Finn, one of the Yale friends he trusted the most, for help. He needed to find new, safe places to hide the art, far away from Florence. Finn refused, of course. But I, well, I will confess that I overheard Finn’s conversation with Victor. Late that night, after Finn was sleeping, I called Victor back, told him that Finn and I would help him. I told him that I knew a place, a wonderful safe place, to hide his art. Finn never knew what I’d done.
And then I called you. You found a hiding place for him in southern France, an abandoned chapel, through your contacts. I loved Gigi’s Matisse, the Dark Rhapsody, so much. And so I told Victor that my price was three of the paintings from his collection. I know you are keeping them safe for me.
It is very late. I do not know if I will mail this letter, or leave it hidden here, in the music room. I do not know if Finn will ever
That was all. Her mother’s letter stopped in mid-sentence. Maggie searched the album once more for one last forgotten sheet of paper, but it was empty.
Finn put a hand on her shoulder, locked his eyes on hers.
“I never knew, Maggie. Never knew that your mother called Victor Orsini and told him we would hide that damned art. My God …” He ran his fingers through his hair, shocked, trying to absorb his wife’s words. “But it finally explains why Victor was threatening me after Lily died.”
“What do you mean?”
“In Salzburg, I told you that you weren’t safe, that someone was after me. When your mother died, Victor contacted me, demanding back the art he’d given her. When I told him I had no idea where any art was hidden, he didn’t believe me. Then the threats began. Against my colleagues, my friends—my life. I didn’t believe he actually would hurt me, but then—”
“Then he appeared behind me at the theater, and you knew his threats were real. That I was in danger.”
“Yes. All I knew was that I had to protect you. I needed time to figure everything out. It’s why I disappeared. But, sprite, if I wasn’t the one who helped your mother hide the art, then who did? Who was supposed to receive this letter?”
Maggie sat back on her heels and closed her eyes. The answers were in her mother’s words. She let the words spin into her head.
They are my favorite composers—Schubert and Bach. Who had said that to her?
I am at home in this simple place. It suits me.
And there it was. Maggie stood up, folded her mother’s letter carefully, lovingly, and handed it to her father.
“I know who has the answers,” she said into the silence of the room. “And I think he will have Matisse’s Dark Rhapsody as well.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
THE HAMPTONS DAWN,
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30
HANNAH WOKE WITH a start. Where was she?
She reached out. “Jac?” she whispered. “Jac?”
Silence. She knew, suddenly, that she was alone. On a strange, narrow bed. Fear for her greyhound skittered down her spine, clutched her heart.
Oh, God, where was Jac? Where was she? What had happened to her? She couldn’t remember. Her braille watch told her it was four o’clock. But a.m. or p.m.? She had no sense if it was day or night, no way to tell in the blackness of her world.
Think, think.
Use all your senses. You know how to do this, how to take care of yourself. Focus. Listen. Smell. Touch. Feel …
Her mouth was dry, she felt heavy, exhausted, dizzy, nauseated. Headache. She’d been drugged. She tried to remember the last thing she did, the last thing she knew. She had been sitting in her bedroom at Ocean House, preparing for the concert. She was ready, dressed in the new, cobalt blue sheathe. She’d bought it because the saleswoman said it matched the silk scarf Simon had given her.
Her hand flew to her neck. Bare. No scarf. Okay. No time for tears, no time to feel sorry for herself. At least she was dressed, could feel the clothing against her body. Her hand smoothed down her chest, over the narrow belt, over her hip. Yes, the silk felt the same. She was still wearing the new dress. Had to be a good sign, right?
Her feet were bare, spiked heels God knew where. Too bad, they would have been excellent weapons. But bare feet would be soundless, she thought. And better for running.
She moved her arms, her legs. No pain, nothing broken. Another good sign. Best of all, she wasn’t tied up. Whoever had taken her had overestimated the strength of the drug. And underestimated her. She felt a split second of pride before the fear returned, full force.
Don’t give in to it.
Keep going. What did she remember?
Being alone … The housekeeper had taken Jac to the kitchen for some supper. She’d known the way downstairs to the ballroom, had been gathering her music. And then—
A sound. A presence, behind her! A man’s scent.
A strong arm, grabbing her around the neck. A sharp sting.
Oh God. She closed her eyes, sickened. Jac, my beautiful Jac, where are you? Where are you, Simon? I need you both.
She took a deep, steadying breath. You can do this. They are looking for you. Help them out.
Phone? No, she would never bring her cell to the performance. So it had to be still in her room at Ocean House. What, then?
Figure out where you are.
She sat up with great care, using her hands and feet to feel her way. She was on some kind of hard bed, or cot. A bunk? She felt dizzy, her body rocking back and forth.
She took another deep breath. Became aware of the scents around her. Salt water, oil, that unmistakable scent of shells at low tide. And then she heard the shriek of the gulls.
Gulls. She raised her head to listen. The clang of a distant buoy, the rhythmic clink of metal on masts, the high cry of the gulls. Somewhere, a foghorn. She was by the water.
She forced herself to be still, became aware of a faint rocking beneath her. Not her body, then. A boat. She was on a boat!
No throbbing sound of engines, thank God. And no voices. Was she still in the Hamptons? The harbor?
She stood, gingerly. When she felt steady, she slid her foot forward. Holding out her hands in front of her, and using the bunk bed as her guide, she began to pace out her space. Count her footsteps. To the left, to the right, straight ahead. Bow to stern. Okay, a small bathroom, a narrow galley, steps!
“Ouch! Damn!” Her hand hit something hard, and she barely managed to keep her voice low. She froze, listening. No one.
Okay, start over. Just don’t hurt your fingers!
Should she scream? No, if there was a g
uard outside … Don’t think about that.
What did Audrey Hepburn do, in that movie Wait Until Dark? She’d played a blind woman in danger. Did she have a weapon? Damn, damn, why can’t I remember? Something about a doll—no help there. Light bulbs! Audrey broke the light bulbs.
But I don’t know where all the lights are.
What else? A weapon was a good idea. Back to the tiny kitchen, then. Her hands felt over the countertop. Two bottles. Wine? She reached under the sink, felt a small can of—she sniffed. Lysol. Perfect. She slipped it into the pocket of her sheathe. Careful not to make a sound, she began to open and search the drawers. I need a knife, I need a knife. Empty. She remembered the bottle of wine, kept searching. Yes! She gripped the corkscrew in her hand. Touched its tip. Sharp. Could she use it? Yes. For Jac.
She tucked the wine opener through her belt and turned toward the steps.
Stopped.
The faint scent of cigarette smoke drifted down into the cabin.
* * *
The renovated, 1890s coach house was beautiful. Maggie stood on the quiet, stone-paved drive where horses and carriages had once tread, gazing at the ancient red bricks and the ten-foot-high arched door. It was still not quite light, the air dusky with soft gold. The sharp autumn scent of dahlias and chrysanthemums surrounded her in the cold morning air.
An image of Michael’s face slipped into her mind, and she suddenly felt very alone, wishing he was beside her. But he was still with Simon. Hopefully they had found Hannah by now.
She glanced down at her cell. Still no news.
And so, she had left Ocean House alone, before dawn, arriving in Midtown Manhattan just over two hours later. Found a parking space not far from Madison Avenue and 53rd, and made her way to the imposing three-story mansion facing the avenue. Then down the curving alley to the rear of the mansion grounds, where the coach house was half-hidden in a copse of golden oaks. Surprisingly, no one had stopped her.
With a last glance behind her, Maggie rang the bell. Chimes rang beyond the old stone walls, a light came on in an upper window. Moments passed. Another light, just inside the glassed front door. The sound of a key, turning in a lock. The huge arched door swung open.
A tall figure in a long black cassock, the heavy jeweled cross on the chain around his neck blinking in the new morning light. “Maggs?”
His Eminence, the Cardinal of New York City, stood in the doorway.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
EAST HAMPTON, NY
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30
ONE STEP AT a time. Careful, careful. Feel the step, listen for a tell-tale creak. How many steps? Hannah tried to picture a small boat—had she ever gone below decks? Surely there couldn’t be that many steps.
Cold air on her cheek. She lifted her face to listen, felt the touch of mist on her skin. Gulls, the slap of water against a wooden hull, the faint tap of rope against a mast. A sound above her, to the left. And then, once more, the drift of cigarette smoke. Yes, to the left.
Of course, Dane had left one of his men to stand guard.
Please let it be night. Please let me be invisible.
She took the final step.
A rasp of breath, a large hand gripping her wrist painfully. “What have we here?” The voice unknown, threatening.
She grasped the can of Lysol and aimed in the direction of the voice.
The guard screamed, dropped her wrist.
She wrenched away. “That’s for Jac,” she whispered. And then she began to shout.
Distant barking. Jac? Oh God, too far. Get away! Get off the boat!
She slid her feet forward, hands outstretched. Cracked into a bench, or something hard. She fell to her knees, raised her voice. “Here!” she screamed. “I’m here! I need help!”
Men shouting, running footsteps.
She managed to stand, turned toward the voices, two more steps. Three. Four.
A railing!
She grasped, held, gasped for air. Jump overboard? No, no. Climb to the dock. Were there steps? A rope?
She held on, moving along the railing. Touching, feeling, reaching …
Stairs!
Sobbing, she stepped up.
A hand around her ankle!
She fell backward, hitting the deck hard.
The man knelt on top of her, slapped her.
Hannah felt his fingers on her neck. She wrenched the corkscrew from her belt and plunged it deep into his back.
“And that’s for stealing my scarf!”
The steel fingers tightened. She couldn’t breathe! Be brave, please be brave.
A desperate growl. A whoosh of air as a large animal hit the body still on top of her, sent the man sprawling to the deck. Jac! Another dog, another deep growl, filled with fury.
“Hannah! Christ, Christ—Hannah! She’s here, Mike!”
Simon’s voice. Footsteps. She felt herself gathered against his chest, felt his lips pressed against her hair. Felt herself falling into him. She reached out, touched Jac’s smooth head pushing against her cheek.
“I’ve been waiting for you two,” she whispered. “Is my cello okay?”
And then, nothing at all.
CHAPTER SIXTY
NEW YORK CITY
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30
MAGGIE GAZED AT her friend’s shocked face. Robbie Brennan—her mother’s dear friend, her confidant. Just hours earlier, after reading her mother’s letter, all the small hints and pieces finally had coalesced. It had all been there, in front of her, in his church office at St. Malachy’s. His voice still echoed in her head.
I visited Vienna when I was a divinity student. It had been Yale’s Divinity School.
When I listen to Shubert and Bach, I feel closer to God. Her mother’s words, in her letter.
And then there were the whiskey glasses—engraved with the words Lux et Veritas—in the church office at St. Malachy’s. Light and Truth, Yale’s motto. She’d seen the same motto on a banner above Zander’s desk. Robbie had gone to Yale as well. He was Sugarman’s missing “Yale connection.”
She pictured the framed photograph on his office wall—wild horses by an abandoned, overgrown chapel in a lavender field. Orsini’s final hiding place for art in France—found, too late, by Simon Sugarman. The sale of the ruin arranged via the Vatican by none other than the Archbishop of New York City himself.
I am at home in this simple place. He’d been describing the carriage house behind the Archbishop’s mansion.
“Maggie? What’s wrong? Why are you here so early?”
Robbie’s words scattered her thoughts. “May I come in?”
Robbie stepped aside, held the door open. “Of course.” He was watching her face, raised a concerned silver brow. “I drove home late last night. Has there been news of Hannah Hoffman? How can I help?”
He led her down a shadowed hallway, through more brick archways, into an open sitting room with soaring ceilings, reclaimed hickory floors, and a white, tiled kitchen on one end. A modern steel staircase led to a high, railed loft. The living space was quite bare, the few pieces of furniture very simple, austere. But several large abstract paintings graced the walls and a gorgeous sculpture of a horse was set on a wooden table crowded with books.
“Please, have a seat,” said Robbie. “I’ll get us some coffee and we can—”
“Robbie. I found the letter my mother wrote to you.”
“A letter from Lily?” He shook his head in confusion. “What are you talking about, Maggs?”
She held it out to him. “She never sent it. It was hidden in her music room at Ocean House. But she names herself—and, I think, you—as the two people who helped Victor Orsini hide Felix Hoffman’s art collection.”
He paled. Wordlessly, he opened the envelope, adjusted his glasses, and began to read her mother’s words. For several moments, the only sound was the tick of a grandfather clock in the hallway. Then he folded the letter and set his gaze on Maggie.
“My dear Lily,” he murmured, sinking
into the closest chair. “I’ve truly loved very few people in my life. Your mother was one of them.” His head came up. “As a friend, of course, a very dear one. And you were another. Still are.”
“You and I … we did not meet by chance, then?”
He shook his head. “No. I sought you out, because you were your mother’s daughter. She wanted her relationship with me to stay private. But she asked me to watch out for you. After she died and your father disappeared, I felt an obligation to watch over my dear Lily’s daughter. She never stopped loving your father, you know.”
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
“You are what you allow,” he said as if the words explained everything.
“I saw the photograph of the ruins in your St. Malachy office,” said Maggie. “You found the chapel in France. Arranged for the Vatican to sell the property to Orsini?”
“It was more complicated than that, but … yes.”
“And then my mother—my mother—helped you arrange for several of the Hoffman paintings to be shipped here, to you.”
“Two dozen of them, yes. Shipped out of Genoa, hidden among pieces of art legally owned by the Vatican, on loan to museums and churches.”
“And one of the churches was yours,” said Maggie.
The Archbishop nodded. “It turns out it was easier for me to abandon my principles than I thought it would be. No moral ambiguity for me! I was pastor of St. Malachy’s back then. And there was a very convenient attic in the old rectory.” He gazed at the abstract painting hung on the far wall. “It’s a Lamar Briggs,” he murmured. “I will miss it.” And then, “Is your colonel on his way here to arrest me?”
Maggie shook her head, surprised. “That’s for Simon Sugarman to decide. I’m here because—” She stopped, moved closer to him. “My God. Simon told Michael that the art hidden in southern France disappeared before he got to it. We all thought it was taken by Dane, but—”
Robbie Brennan gave her an innocent, choirboy smile. “My French friends may have gotten there first.”
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