Brooklyn Graves (13 page)

It took a minute to see that Dr. Flint was not angry. He wasn't quite smiling, but he had a kind of gleam in his eye.

“Well, Nancy? What made you think you could play me off?” As if he had come up with the answer instead of me.

Her poise, already cracking, had crumbled away completely. She sat down in her desk chair with an inelegant thud, and covered her face with her hand. Then she looked up with a facing-the-firing-squad expression. “So you know. Lucky guess. We have been doing our best to keep this hidden, thinking we would eventually hear from the thief. We originally thought it would be a blackmail situation. Now, we're not so sure, but we are still doing our best to keep a lid on it.”

I wasn't following her reasoning, but Flint must have been.

“How many other Tiffany windows do you have here?”

She smiled at that, though sadly. “You know perfectly well.”

“And a few LaFarges too?”

She nodded.

“And plenty of statues?”

She sighed, nodded again.

“Well of course you are keeping it quiet. You're worried about someone else getting ideas.”

“Of course we are. What do you think? Those old incidents…?” She gestured to me. “Way before my time, but our board has not forgotten. There was some copycatting then.”

“Yes, there was.” I jumped in. “Someone stole a window from a chapel at Woodlawn and then other…”

Flint gave me a look that said “shut up.” So I did.

“So now we know that big secret that got in the way of my work. How long are you planning to keep this hidden? I believe it has to be reported before you can claim insurance.”

“Insurance is the least of it.” He looked at her skeptically. “I mean we're sort of underfunded, as much as any cultural organization, but the family has died out, the memorial is neglected, in short…”

“There is no one to sue you. So you could wait a little on reporting.”

She nodded.

“You're worried about a scandal? Criticism? Report it anyway. You can't hide it forever. I mean, my God, every employee must know by now and that's already a substantial number. Make it public. That's my advice, and you should take it. After all, I was once your official advisor.” He looked pleased by his small quip. Dr. Reade managed a ghostly smile. “If it would help, I'll talk to anyone you want. Buck up, woman. It's a terrible thing, a crime in a sacred place like this, but you have to deal with it.”

“Thank you, Thomas. You are saying just what I've been thinking.” She sighed. “Expect to see us on the morning news tomorrow, but for crying out loud, no one tells that nasty little toad from that website!”

Chapter Eleven

We barely spoke to each other on the ride back. Flint never got off his phone and Ryan and I just tried to stay out of his way.

When we were back at the museum, Flint looked at his watch and said, “I have a lunch date with Kip. You look puzzled.” His sympathetic expression was mocking. “Kip to me is the museum director to you. Go nourish yourselves, children, and we will reconvene at 1:30 sharp. We have much to discuss. Come ready to work.”

We scattered. I had my lunch with me and gratefully sank into my office chair, wishing my cubicle had a door so I could close out the world. It had been a full day already and it was only lunchtime.

Rummaging in my bag for my sandwich, I also pulled out the articles from Leary. They were important enough for him to wake me up with a call. Unless, of course, he just did that to be irritating.

I'd only glanced at them earlier. Now, I tore into my peanut butter and jelly, and began reading.

Was the man telepathic, along with his other mysterious skills? The articles described a long-ago series of art thefts from cemeteries and neglected old churches. Decidedly wrong and decidedly spooky, but it's true that they would be prime targets. Old cemeteries have the Tiffany glass of Flint's obsessions, and other valuable stained glass by other famous artists. They have sculptures. They have bas-relief plaques in both stone and bronze. In those days they built them beautiful on purpose and spared no expense. I myself know where there are two lovely LaFarge windows, and I am not even knowledgeable in this field.

I found a highlighter on my desk and began the process of marking the papers while I ate.

Quite a long time ago—let's see, I was in fourth grade then—over a period of several years, items were stolen from Green-Wood and other historic cemeteries, and also from a few once-wealthy but now almost forgotten churches. So much for building for eternity.

Well, that explained a lot. Dr. Nancy Reade was terrified to have the news get out; that was obvious before we even knew what the news was. If it had happened in the past, perhaps they should then have put better security in place. True, the old churches, with their large and wealthy congregations had now shrunk to a handful of parishioners and were struggling to keep their buildings standing, but Green-Wood is different. At least that's what people would say. And then it dawned on me that publicity might give another thief an idea, too.

I read on, silently thanking Leary for his precise reporting. It turned out that the actual thief was a former employee. That made sense, too, in a warped way. Of course it had to be an inside job. And then I read that he was working with one of the foremost experts in the field of Victorian stained glass. Good lord. One of his scholarly works was right there in the stack I had borrowed from the museum library. His name was not Thomas Flint though. Flint would have been maybe still in college at that time. It certainly would be interesting to see how he reacted if I mentioned the name, though.

Like any good citizen, or good historian, I was horrified as I read the details of this elaborate scheme. Does it make me a bad person if I also laughed at the audacity of the whole thing? Their defense pointed out that they carefully chose only monuments that were neglected, where there was no family left to feel violated. And the thief testified that he meant no harm; he loved the neglected art and wanted to rescue it. The famous expert denied everything right up until he went to jail.

Of course in the end they had been caught, so they weren't actually very good at it after all. A lot of the stolen material was found in a shed on the thief's property. One Tiffany window had been sold to an overseas collector for a lot of money. A huge lot of money. I kind of gasped. That was two decades ago. What would the missing Konick window be worth now?

***

Ryan and I were in a museum meeting room, files in front of us, looking at each other anxiously. Professor Flint's voice was moving down the hall, giving his very definitive opinion on something to someone. We could not hear the details but there was no mistaking the attitude.

We heard a final burst of laughter and the voice of Dr. Rhodes, our museum director. Then Flint blew into the room, his tailored suit and perfect silver hair only making the shabby workroom seem shabbier.

“Now. Lunch is over. Time to get to work. Start.”

“Dr. Flint, before we get involved, I thought you might want these.” He threw me an impatient look.

“There were other robberies at Green-Wood, decades ago, stained glass and other artwork.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So there were. And to think I had forgotten.” He held out a demanding hand. “I will deal with these items, and this whole issue from now on. You don't need to do anything else. It's not even related to your work responsibilities.”

He must have forgotten I only had to print more copies if I wanted to. I didn't remind him.

“It seems there was a famous art historian involved.” I kept my voice as neutral as possible. “He knew just what would be valuable and nobody questioned his roaming around the old cemeteries and churches.”

“I do know that, Ms. Donato. Actually…” He paused. “Actually, he was one of my thesis advisors, a great historian who somehow lost his mind. Yes, I see you are shocked. So were we, at the time. You can be sure of that. Now, enough frivolity. Let's get to work. Report your findings.”

Ryan looked white with nervousness, so I plunged in, fearlessly.

Okay, I was not actually fearless, but I was senior to Ryan so it was up to me. And why should Flint scare me anyway? Maybe the playground bullies I grew up with were not so suave—okay, they were definitely not suave—but I knew a bully when I saw one. And besides that, however much of an expert he was, I now knew some things he did not. So I began.

“The carton of material that dropped into our laps appears to be quite a find. They are letters, with some other material such as sketchbooks, all written by one of the female designers in the Tiffany studio from 1900 and a few years after. This is similar to the Clara Driscoll letters that created such a stir a few years ago, but at a slightly later date.”

Flint was nodding, not smiling, his eyes locked on to me.

“Ryan and I have done basic archival cataloguing, and noted where some physical preservation is needed. Ryan created the template for the catalogue and everything is properly saved to both your computer and here in the museum.”

“I took it for granted young Ryan would take care of all these mundane details. Go on to the important news. Was he correct about what he sent me?”

I took a deep breath. And had to smile. Even Ryan looked less scared and almost happy. “Oh, yes. That first part was just the housekeeping.” Another deep breath. “We found a few letters that seemed to us to be a true find but we are looking to your expertise to confirm that. Here are the originals, in these folders, with working copies to minimize the need for handling.”

I passed the folders to him, and then we had to wait, as he looked them over. I had the pleasure of seeing the color in his face change, and his hands start to shake a little. Ha. When he looked up at last, those cold blue eyes were lit up like street lights.

“Extraordinary. This is everything Ryan suggested and more. It's hard to believe…a young woman hitherto unknown to history, even to me.” I grinned, wickedly but invisibly. How much fun it was, to see him hit with the fact that he does not, actually, know everything.

“It's almost shocking that she could have designed some windows on her own and yet remained unknown. There may actually be some undiscovered Tiffany windows out there. I admit I am stunned. Extraordinary, if true.” He paused, tapped his fingers on the desk. “We don't know yet if it exists but at least she does discuss her design going into production. A good beginning.” He looked at us, sternly.

“You must go over every letter again. Extract every mention, every clue…No! I will do that. You might miss something.” He leaned forward, fixing us both with an intense gaze. “Please tell me you had the good sense not to gossip about this all over the city?”

Ryan looked horrified, turned red, and shook his head vehemently. “No, no, we were just working away and waiting for you to come back. And we don't know anyone to tell, anyway. At least,” he whispered, “I don't.”

I wanted to shake some backbone into him. Or maybe just give him a hug.

“I'm gratified that you showed such good sense. Yes, I think it's the real thing, but of course—of course!—I must study all of this in detail before I make any kind of announcement. If it's what we think….” He shook his head as if to clear it, then said briskly, “If it is, that announcement will be a moment to remember. Reputations will be on the line, not least my own. We must be very, very sure.”

He stood up suddenly. “Pack it up. It goes home with me right now. I need to compare the information to items in my collection at home.”

Ryan immediately got to work, but I was not so quick to jump.

“You can't do that!” The words just popped out. “We have copies for you, and can make extras, but I'm sure the originals are never supposed to leave here. There are policies. I certainly don't have the authority to give special permission. I mean, what if something happened to them?”

I knew I was right. I didn't falter until he turned his steel gaze on me.

“Are you saying you are worried that I might spill coffee on them? Laughable.” However, he was not laughing. “Copies? No, indeed. There is information for me just in handling the originals. Furthermore, all you need to know,” Flint said, “is that I went to Yale with Dr. Rhodes, your director. He's been Kip to me our entire adult life. I was in his wedding.” He raised an eyebrow. “I applaud your exaggerated sense of responsibility, but I do rather think that covers the issue.”

This wasn't a Brooklyn playground and I was being outmaneuvered. Short of a football tackle—appealing but not practical—I didn't see how I, one step up from an intern, could stop him. While I was defiantly trying to call my boss, they just walked out, taking the large cartons with them.

Maybe they'd stop him cold at security. I was momentarily comforted by that picture. I hoped handcuffs would be involved.

My boss did not respond but I left him a message. By the time I reached the security desk at the door, it was too late. They were gone.

I collected the folders of copies and returned to my office, not at all sure what to do next. Hiding out for a few minutes seemed like a comforting idea and hiding out by strolling the information superhighway seemed like an even better idea.

I wanted to see what I could find about the Green-Wood Cemetery event.

I found precisely nothing. And maybe I despised that annoying young reporter—self-styled reporter—but now I was disappointed that he had not learned any more about the events at the cemetery and put it up for all of us to see. The irony was obvious even to me. I could contact him directly—he'd be happy to hear from me—but no way was I going to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I punched in Leary's phone number.

I was pleased that he sounded groggy. “Did I wake you from a nap? Consider it payback for last night.”

He chuckled. “Did I disturb your beauty sleep? Just thought you'd want to know about that right away.”

“Well, I want to know more and I can't find anything at all. Not a word.”

“So you're turning to the pro?”

I thought of telling him about Dima and Natalya and Alex, but I didn't think that would increase his interest. He does have a soft spot—really, he does—but it is buried deep and he seldom admits to it. Flattery, on the other hand, is often quite effective.

“Why, yes I am, you old newshound. Evidently that creepy kid I told you about could not get anything more, but I bet you can.”

“Bet you're right. And you can cut out the flattery crap. I do know a couple of people who might know someone. What's it worth to you?”

“What is worth to you?”

“Homemade manicotti,” he said immediately. “Garlic bread. Chianti. Cheesecake. I'm sick of these damn healthy meals they bring me, those social services do-gooders. And don't even think of telling me why I shouldn't drink.”

“I wouldn't waste my breath, and yes, manicotti I can do. I learned some useful things from my Italian mother-in-law. When you deliver the goods, okay?”

“Start grocery shopping.” He hung up.

Before I could figure that out, a message flashed on my screen. “In my office. Now.” It was from my boss.

Deep breaths, I told myself.

Eliot looked as disturbed as a normally good-natured guy can look. Bern Dixon, the head of museum security was sitting there, too, and he looked even more disturbed, and way less good-natured. In fact, he looked just like what he was, a very large, very unhappy ex-cop.

He launched right in. “You have no authority whatever to allow museum property off the premises.”

“I know that! I would never…”

“I just had a very disturbing report about a Professor Flint, who was carrying out material without any authorization and then had the nerve to give my man on the desk a hard time. And he said you knew all about it.”

“I did know all about it, but I did not say it was okay!” The injustice of that made my voice squeak. Another deep breath and an attempt to moderate my voice to office appropriate levels. “I told him…” I turned to my boss. “Really, I did tell him. I said he shouldn't do it and I couldn't okay it and there would be some problem at security. He said, ‘I went to Yale with Dr. Rhodes. I was in his wedding, I call him Kip. I applaud your exaggerated sense of responsibility, but I do rather think that covers the issue.' Kip, for crying out loud!”

My boss gasped and then he started to laugh. “He didn't! Did he? He didn't say that!”

Dixon did not see the humor. “I was out of the building. Apparently he handed my desk man a note from the director asking all staff to give him every consideration.”