hing no one else possesses. It’s about the one of a kind. The unique.”
Annalisa lay down on the Venetian chaise and yawned. She’d had two glasses of champagne at lunch and was feeling sleepy. “I thought Queen Mary was evil. Didn’t she have her sister killed? Or have I got the story wrong? You’d better be careful, Connie. The cross might bring you bad luck.”
Meanwhile, a few blocks away in the basement offices of the Metropolitan Museum, David Porshie, Billy Litchfield’s old friend, hung up the phone. He had just been informed about the rumor of the existence of the Cross of Bloody Mary, which was said to be in the hands of a couple named Sandy and Connie Brewer. He sat back in his swivel chair, folding his hands under his chin. Could it be true? he wondered.
David was well aware of the mysterious disappearance of the cross in the fifties. Every year it appeared on a list of items missing from the museum. The suspicion had always been that Mrs. Houghton purloined the cross herself, but as she was beyond reproach and, more importantly, donated two million dollars a year to the museum, the matter had never been thoroughly investigated.
But now that Mrs. Houghton was dead, perhaps it was time—especially as the cross had surfaced shortly after her death. Looking up Sandy and Connie Brewer on the Internet, David discovered exactly who they were. Sandy was a hedge-fund manager, of all things—typical that an arriviste should end up with such a rare and precious antiquity—and while he and his wife, Connie, deemed themselves “important collectors,” David suspected they were of the new-money ilk who paid ridiculous prices for what David considered junk. People like the Brewers were not generally of interest to people like himself, a steward of the great Metropolitan Museum, except in how much money one might extract from them at the gala.
He couldn’t, however, simply call up the Brewers and ask if they had the cross. Whoever sold it to them would have been smart enough to warn them of its provenance. Not that a shady past ever stopped a buyer. There was a certain psychology in the purchaser of such an item that wasn’t dissimilar to the buyer of illegal drugs. There was the thrill of breaking the law and the high of getting away with it. Unlike the drug buyer, however, the illegal-antiquities purchaser had the continued elation of owning the piece, along with a feeling of immortality. It was as if mere proximity to such a piece might also convey everlasting life to its owner. And so, David Porshie knew, he was looking for a specific personality type along with the cross. The question was only how to make such a discovery.
David was prepared to be patient in his pursuit—after all, the cross had been missing for nearly sixty years—and what he needed was a mole. Immediately, he thought of Billy Litchfield. They’d been at Harvard together. Billy Litchfield knew quite a bit about art and even more about people.
He found Billy’s cell number on a guest list from the events office and called him up the next morning. Billy was in a taxi, coincidentally on his way to Connie Brewer’s to discuss the Basel art fair. When Billy heard David’s voice on the phone, he felt his whole body redden in fear, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “How are you, David?” he asked.
“I’m well,” David replied. “I was thinking about what you said at the ballet. About potential new patrons. We’re looking for some fresh blood to donate money to a new wing. The names Sandy and Connie Brewer came up. I thought you might know them.”
“I do indeed,” Billy said evenly.
“That’s wonderful,” David said. “Could you arrange a small dinner? Nothing too fancy, maybe at Twenty-One. And Billy?” he added. “If you don’t mind, could you keep the purpose of the dinner quiet? You know how people get if they suspect you’re going to ask them for money.”
“Of course,” Billy said. “It’s just between us.” He hung up the phone in a panic. The taxi felt like a prison cell. He began hyperventilating. “Could you stop the cab, please?” he asked, tapping on the partition.
He stumbled out onto the sidewalk, looking for the nearest coffee shop. Finding one on the corner, he sat down at the counter, trying to catch his breath while ordering a ginger ale. How much did David Porshie know, and how had he found out? Billy swallowed a Xanax, and while he waited for the pill to take effect, tried to think logically. Was it possible David only wanted to meet the Brewers for the reason he’d stated? Billy thought not. The Metropolitan Museum was the last bastion of old money, although recently, they’d had to redefine “old” as meaning twenty years instead of a hundred.
“Connie, what have you done?” Billy asked when he got to the Brewers’ apartment. “Where’s the cross?”
Following her to the inner chamber, he regarded the framed cross with horror. “How many people have seen this?” he asked.
“Oh, Billy, don’t worry,” she said. “Only Sandy. And the maids. And Annalisa Rice.”
“And the framer,” Billy pointed out. “Whom did you take it to?” Connie named the man. “My God,” Billy said, sitting on the edge of the chaise. “He’ll tell everyone.”
“But how does he even know what it is?” Connie asked. “I didn’t tell him.”
“Did you tell him how you came to have it?” Billy asked.
“Of course not,” Connie assured him. “I haven’t told anyone.”
“Listen, Connie. You have to put it away. Take it off your wall and put it in a safe. I told you, if anyone finds out about this, we could all go to jail.”
“People like us don’t go to jail,” Connie countered.
“Yes, we do. It happens all the time these days.” Billy sighed.
Connie took the cross off the wall. “Look,” she said, taking it to her closet, “I’m putting it away.”
“Promise me you’ll put it in a vault. It’s too valuable to be left in a closet.”
“It’s too valuable to be hidden,” Connie objected. “If I can’t look at it, what’s the point?”
“We’ll discuss that later,” Billy said. “After you put it away.” It was possible, Billy thought with a glimmer of hope, that David Porshie didn’t know about the cross—if he did, Billy reasoned, he’d be sending detectives, not arranging dinner parties. Nevertheless, Billy would have to make sure the dinner took place. If he didn’t, it would further raise David’s suspicions. “We’re going to have dinner with David Porshie from the Met,” Billy said. “And you’re not to say a word about the cross—neither you nor Sandy. Even if he asks you point-blank.”
“We’ve never heard of it,” Connie said.
Billy passed his hand over the top of his bald head. Despite all his efforts to stay in New York, he saw his future. As soon as the three million dollars were available, he would have to leave the country. He’d be forced to settle in a place like Buenos Aires, where there were no extradition laws. Billy shuddered. Involuntarily, he said aloud, “I hate palm trees.”
“What?” Connie said, thinking she’d missed a part of the conversation.