Garden of Thorns

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  “I can get something from the vending machines in the break room.” She closed her eyes for a moment but could still see the gleam of gold.

  “There’s a little restaurant at the end of the temporary displays gallery. They have a soup and salad buffet that’s quite good, if they aren’t trying to recycle the coleslaw, and they make a hot fudge sundae to die for. Come on, my treat.”

  “Thank you. But shouldn’t I put these things up?”

  June came through the door of the lab and took up her position before the easel. Nathan called, “Ride shotgun on the sacraments here, would you?”

  “Sure,” June returned. She reached for a cotton swab, moistened it from a tiny bottle, and brought her face to within three inches of the canvas before applying it.

  Hilary collected her purse and stretched. “The sacraments? So the artifacts are a set; I tried putting the photos in order, and I saw the connection. The Bible cover with John and Jesus for baptism, the boxwood doorway for confirmation, the Last Supper for Communion, the reliquary for penance—boy, would those demons ever scare me into penance.” As they walked out of the door and down the hall she thought, What a shame Ben isn’t religious. You can’t suffer damnation if you don’t believe in it.

  “The ivory bishop for holy orders and the brooch for marriage,” said Nathan. “Very good, Hilary. Vasarian and I agree that what Arthur got was a prearranged set, a thematic grouping. Missing one item, though, the seventh sacrament, to make it complete.”

  “Extreme unction, the deathbed prayer. A cross would work beautifully.”

  Nathan bowed her out into the atrium. The vast space was brilliant with sunshine, and the voices of a flock of children being dosed with culture burst like fireworks in Hilary’s ears. She fell back into the twentieth century. Gamboling through the pleasant green meadows of medieval myth, she’d conveniently forgotten the squalor, the disease, the tortures, and the old women burned as witches that had been part of the daily life of the people who had made the artifacts.

  “The Eleanor Cross?” Nathan asked.

  “Was it really the last piece of the set?”

  “It was listed as such in the 1923 inventory that Vasarian used to authenticate the artifacts. The Regensfelders weren’t about to go to the trouble and expense of suing if the artifacts weren’t genuine.”

  “Dolores let him look at them? I mean, I assume they were here at the museum by the time he arrived on the scene, but they were still hers.”

  “Vasarian turned on the charm, and Dolores scented money and prestige—she has Arthur’s reputation to uphold in the art world. And I think she learned long ago she could catch a lot more flies with honey, as the saying goes.” Nathan glanced at Arthur’s portrait as he passed. “Anyway, Dolores hired Vasarian to search for the Cross. But it’s been a long time since 1923. And a long time since 1946, when Arthur brought the artifacts here.”

  “The Cross is probably rotting in an attic in Moscow.”

  “Much more likely that a Russian—or at least a Communist—soldier would have destroyed it. Religious symbol, after all.”

  Hilary winced but still managed several appreciative looks at Arthur’s more mundane collections. The African or Amerindian artifacts carried more metaphysical weight for their believers than any number of Bible covers or reliquaries.

  Maybe her aesthetic appetite had been admirably served this morning, but she hadn’t realized how hungry she was for temporal sustenance until she smelled the beef barley soup and saw the array of salad fixings. She filled her bowl, loaded her plate, buttered a couple of rolls, and chewed several healthy bites before she asked Nathan, “So if Vasarian finds the Cross for Dolores, she’ll include it in the Regensfeld deal?”

  “The contract ups the price considerably in that case, the whole being greater than the sum of its parts.” Nathan chased a crouton across his plate, captured it, and crunched.

  The small terrace restaurant bridged the ends of two galleries. A glass wall overlooked a lawn sloping down to York Boulevard. Osborne House was in that direction, but Hilary couldn’t see it.

  What she could see was a familiar figure mincing along the sidewalk from the parking lot. With one hand Sharon held a red and purple scarf around her blond curls, and with the other she clutched the collar of her leather coat to her throat. Her tall cavalry boots had ridiculously high heels. Storm warning, Hilary said to herself. She scooped the last of the broth from her bowl and asked Nathan, “Does Vasarian have any leads on the Cross?”

  “If he does, he’s not telling me. And I love detective stories as much as I love art.”

  Hilary was going to say, I was involved in a murder mystery last summer, and it wasn’t at all entertaining, then decided that wasn’t tactful. She ventured, “I love religious art, for the emotion, you know?” Nathan nodded, his hazel eyes bright. She went on, “Funny, because when I was a kid we only went to church for Christmas and Easter. I don’t even remember the denomination, except it wasn’t Catholic. I picked up the Latin liturgy and symbolism in my art classes.”

  “You miss both the best and worst parts of Western civilization if you don’t know something about Christianity and/or art,” said Nathan. “Me, I didn’t go to church either. Used to have a very good attendance record at temple, though.”

  “You’re Jewish?” Hilary asked.

  “I’m like a kid looking through the window of a toy store at some of these artifacts. Well—no—that would imply that I wanted and envied the items inside. Let’s just say that I find my dogma-free perspective to be rather valuable at times.”

  “I imagine so.” They smiled at each other, in perfect accord.

  A nasal voice said behind Hilary’s back, “Nathan, here you are. I looked in your office, but Wes said you were out with the new girl.”

  I’m maybe two years younger than you are, girl, Hilary thought, but she didn’t turn around. She took a long drink of her iced tea. The cracked ice slid forward in a miniature avalanche, and she barely kept it from cascading down her blouse.

  “Hilary was ready to work right through lunch until I intervened,” Nathan returned equably, rising to join Sharon. And to Hilary herself, “Sorry to desert you.”

  “I can find my way back to the lab, thanks…. Oh! Mark wanted me to ask you what you wanted him to do for you.”

  “God,” said Nathan, “my mind’s like a steel sieve! I need an introduction to Lucia Hernandez, as a source for Arthur’s biography.”

  “She was only a servant,” protested Sharon.

  Hilary said, “Sure. Mark’s known Lucia for years.”

  “I’m going to be at Osborne on Friday, we’ll arrange something then. See you later—keep up the good work.”

  Hilary slowly counted to five before she looked around. Sharon’s heels clicked like the keys of an adding machine down the gallery. The heels, and the height of her gravity-defying hairdo made her taller than Nathan. He smiled up at her as she spoke, her gloves and scarf flying as she gesticulated. Hilary could almost hear him saying, Yes dear, yes dear, although he was certainly saying something more like I see, Mrs. Ward. What bee did she have in her bonnet today?

  Nathan had already paid for lunch. Virtuously, Hilary passed on the ice cream and went down the opposite gallery to reach the atrium.

  Interesting, someone had placed a Fragonard painting teeming with fat little nymphs and pastel draperies right next to a sleek metal Brancusi sculpture; the juxtaposition said more about style than any textbook essay. She doubted Bradshaw had the imagination to create such an arresting combination. Nathan’s charmingly off-center insight must be at work here.

  Hilary ducked into the restroom just inside the office hallway and a few minutes later paused at the security post. “Don’t they let you out for lunch?”

  “I always brown bag it.” Leslie lifted an empty yogurt container from the wastebasket. “I get off at three, plenty of time to fix dinner. And believe me, I need it. Preston’s a better cook than I am.”

&n
bsp; “He asked me for drawing lessons,” Hilary told her. “Maybe I can trade him for cooking lessons. Where did you meet him?”

  “I was working at the Historical Society. Here was this gorgeous dude spending hours with musty old books of deeds and wills and old photos. Hey, I figured this was one guy who needed loosening up. Turned out he was plenty limber, he just figured that anyone he attracted with the scholar routine was his kind of woman.” Leslie made a face of comic resignation.

  Hilary laughed, then noticed a movement in one of the video monitors behind Leslie’s back. The break-room door was half closed, but not closed far enough. Just inside, Sharon held Nathan in a close embrace, like a Venus fly trap consuming an unwary beetle. Don’t offend the Coburgs, she repeated to herself. Brown-nose them for all you’re worth. No wonder Nathan was so completely unintimidated by the local Medicis…. No, that wasn’t fair. He had his integrity.

  The gray figures in the monitor parted with every appearance of affection. With a slightly strained smile at Leslie, Hilary walked on down to the lab. No accounting for tastes, she thought. Art and money make strange bedfellows…. Well no, that was leaping to conclusions. Nathan’s private life was none of Hilary’s business. At least she hoped it was private. Travis might not take kindly to any incursions into his territory. Hilary laughed under her breath—what a contrast, Travis and Nathan. Sharon had the wide-ranging tastes of her father.

  Hilary nodded to June, who’d cleaned approximately one square inch of her painting in her absence, and sat down at her own table. Back to the green meadows of myth, she told herself. Now that the flames had died down and the blood dried, it was much more peaceful there than here.

  Chapter Seven

  By quitting time, clouds sketched in shades of gray were piling up in the west, and the breeze was scented less with diesel fuel than with damp earth and grass.

  Preston made a triumphant gesture with his trowel. “All right! We made it through an entire week with the Duke. No criticism implied.”

  “None taken by me, but she might not appreciate the comparison.” Mark glanced over his shoulder.

  Jenny stood in the garden trench, one boot propped on the side, her pointing finger ramrod straight. “Monday we’ll have those fence rails up, and plot the post holes. Amy, leave that arrowhead on a pedestal—I want to see if it’s an intrusion or a sign of a hunter-gatherer encampment.”

  “Hunter-gatherer?” Amy asked.

  “In this context, American Indian. Any other questions? No? Come along, then.” She led her troops across the control zone between the excavated areas. Small crisp olive-drab leaves drifted like confetti across the dig and around the shed, crunching underfoot. “Why are these trees only now losing their leaves?” Jenny asked as she passed Mark and Preston and the pile of tools they were cleaning.

  “They hang onto their leaves all winter,” answered Mark, “and only dump them when the new ones are about to pop. That’s why they’re called live oaks. Better than anal-retentive oaks, I guess.”

  Jenny shot him a look of amused exasperation and craned her neck to see the tiny new leaves knotted in the branches. A laugh moved along the line of students. Amy glanced at Mark more indignantly than flirtatiously; she must have glimpsed Hilary’s kiss of greeting yesterday afternoon.

  “Pollen analysis,” announced Jenny, “shows that this area was once a rose garden. If those bricks over there continue in a straight line, we’ll have a proper building. Since our reference material goes rather sketchy about it, we’ll also have an exercise in extrapolation. Have a care for the burned fragments, they’re extremely friable.”

  “You and Hilary got plans for this weekend?” Preston asked Mark.

  “She said she’d cook dinner for me—using me as a guinea pig, I think, but I’m not much of a cook myself.”

  “It’s the thought that counts, man. The cake Leslie made Tuesday was burned outside and raw inside, but there’s more to a relationship than food.”

  Or sex, Mark added silently. He set down a carpenter’s level, its edge restored to rust-specked cleanliness, and reached for a roll of plastic sheeting and a bundle of wooden stakes. Together he and Preston spread the plastic over the garden trench. A navy-blue Lexus pulled up in the driveway.

  Jenny dismissed the students, and they went away jostling each other like puppies—the invigorating influence of Friday, no doubt. Amy swished her ponytail at Kenneth Coburg as they passed. He made a 360-degree turn, eyeing her until she and another girl were ensconced in Hong’s pickup. Sharon and Travis, a few wobbling steps behind Kenneth, exchanged an annoyed look.

  Good God—Sharon had gone red-headed since Tuesday night; her frizz was now traffic-light scarlet. She had on so much perfume that Mark’s eyes watered. Her hair, leather miniskirt, and high heels conveyed only one message: Look at me! Mark wondered if she was prepared to deal with the kind of looks that outfit would get.

  “Hi!” Kenneth called to Jenny. “How’s it going? Found anything?”

  “The usual. Wood, metal, an arrowhead. No diamonds, no gold.”

  “Awww, you haven’t turned up Jean Lafitte’s treasure? I’m crushed.”

  Jenny’s grimace was an expression that Mark had learned to interpret as “Give me strength”.

  He reached for his Swiss Army knife. It wasn’t in his pocket. He remembered putting it on his dresser last night but didn’t recall picking it up this morning. Hell. He considered the stake he held—sharp enough for a vampire, perhaps, but not for the corner of the plastic sheet.

  Sharon stopped beside Kenneth. Travis slipped his leash and ambled toward Mark. “How about them Mavericks? And everybody said they couldn’t beat the Lakers. Of course I know diddly squat about basketball.”

  “You don’t happen to have a penknife?” Mark asked him.

  “Will this help?” Travis pulled out a six inch long clasp knife.

  It was razor-sharp, and peeled transparent shavings from the stake. “Thanks. Get it right back to you.”

  “I suppose the old log stuff is mostly rotten anyway,” Sharon said to Jenny, “but what about all the concrete beneath the garage? That’ll have to come up before we can start on Victoria Square.”

  “This ground is clay—gumbo, we call it—and shifts real easy,” explained Kenneth. “New foundations can settle unevenly over old ones. Do I need to schedule a bunch of spics with jackhammers?”

  Jenny either ignored his ethnic slur or didn’t recognize it as one. “When we get the foundations uncovered, then I’ll know what their extent is, and what kind of condition they’re in, and whether they should come up.”

  Mark and Preston picked up another sheet of plastic and headed toward the garage trench. “Jesus,” whispered Preston. “It’s an invasion.”

  “Run away, run away!” Mark replied in his best Monty Python voice.

  A silver Cadillac pulled up beside the Lexus. Nicholas Vasarian climbed out of the passenger side and handed Dolores from behind the wheel. She was wearing a pair of chino pants, a blouse and sweater, and running shoes—despite which she hung onto Vasarian’s arm as they advanced over the rubble. He smiled and patted her hand, as abstractedly as though he were phoning in his attentions from the Carpathians.

  Dolores looked nothing like Medusa, but still Kenneth and Sharon stopped lecturing Jenny and stood silent, expressions of mild imbecility petrifying their faces. Travis ducked behind the toolshed.

  “I see you’re making progress,” Dolores said to Jenny.

  “Yes, the excavation is coming along nicely.”

  “No surprises so far, I take it?”

  “None whatsoever.” Jenny glanced toward Vasarian. His gaze was even, appraising, rather amused, as though Jenny were a bottle of wine.

  “Are the students working out all right?” Dolores went on. “Would you like me to hire some temporary workers to help them out?”

  “Oh, no, no—the work here is just an academic exercise.”

  Mark staked the last corner of the plas
tic sheet. Jenny actually sounded rather flustered. Did she think Vasarian was measuring her jugular or that Dolores was plotting a coup? From behind the toolshed came sounds indicating Travis had mistaken it for a port-o-potty.

  Dolores looked at Sharon and emitted a pained sigh. “Darling, that color does nothing for you. And those clothes are in very poor taste.”

  “I paid good money for this look.”

  “Is that why the skirt looks like an open wallet? Really, you can do better. You’re a Coburg.”

  Sharon’s red lips collapsed into a pout, but her eyes glinted.

  Kenneth sidled closer. “Mother, would you and Nicholas like to come to the Caravan of Dreams with me tonight? The jazz is cool and the clientele up scale—your kind of place. Maybe Dr. Galliard will join us….” He turned expectantly toward Jenny.

  “Oh, ah, thank you,” she answered, “I have to work on the records tonight, and Nathan Sikora’s coming here to collect some papers.”

  And Hilary and I have been invited to join the party, Mark added to himself. Beside him Preston smoothed a corner of the plastic, poker-faced into invisibility. Travis emerged from behind the shed, and Mark folded and returned the knife.

  “Nathan doesn’t need a guide through the house,” Kenneth wheedled.

  “No, thank you,” insisted Jenny.

  Dolores smiled patiently. “Kenneth, darling, you know Nicholas and I are going to the opera tonight. Thank you anyway.”

  “Well, some other time then.” Kenneth summoned a brave smile. “Sharon, let me get y’all on home—Travis has that horse thing tonight—has to apply a little eau de manure before he goes, right?”

  No one laughed. Travis shot his brother-in-saw a truculent look. Sharon said, “I’m not going with him. I have nothing planned tonight.”

  Kenneth stared blandly at her. Sharon looked as if she’d like to stick her tongue out at him. She turned and stalked off across the rubble so quickly that she would have turned her ankle if Vasarian’s free hand hadn’t shot out and seized her elbow. Good save, Mark thought.