Bound For Eternity Read online

  Sipping my Sam Adams, I said, "I thought thermoluminescence wasn't that precise. I mean to give you a specific century."

  "The technique's improving. But you're right, it's most useful for just telling you whether it's recent, or that it's many centuries old."

  "How did you analyze the decoration?"

  Sheila leaned back in her chair. She was a tall, skinny woman who wore casual Land's End-type clothes that looked frumpy on me and terrific on her. Around us in the hotel bar was the steady buzz of archaeologists getting sozzled and capping each other's tall tales.

  "First, I looked at the glaze under ultraviolet light. Our conservator has a portable lamp, so you can take it anywhere. The way it fluoresced showed that the palmette border was original, but the Scythian archers had been added using a different glaze or paint." We were discussing a Greek vase in Sheila's St. Louis museum.

  "Did you test the paint's composition?" I asked. I jumped slightly as the portly man behind me shoved his chair into mine as he lumbered to a standing position.

  "Yeah," replied Sheila. "Jane took a couple of flecks of paint and did X-ray diffraction and SEM/EDS..."

  "SEM/EDS?"

  "Sorry. Scanning electron microscopy with a fancy attachment that gives you the major elements. Anyhow, we got the composition of nineteenth century paint instead of ancient Greek glaze." Sheila raked her dark brown curls with one graceful hand.

  I pondered this information. "How common do you think this is?"

  "Doctored artifacts in museum collections? Probably much more common than we know. After all, how many artifacts have you examined closely with the idea that they might be altered in some way?"

  Ruefully, I said, "Not many. I think I assume I'm looking at originals unless someone points out an anomaly. I'm not normally suspicious!"

  Sheila took a long swig of her second Michelob. "Maybe that should be a requirement for would-be curators-a naturally suspicious mind. The other problem is that sometimes things are altered not so you'll be taken in by a fake, but so that you'll think it's a better original. I remember my first Etruscan pottery project. I discovered that all the bucchero had been 'enhanced' with black boot polish to make it look better!" She and I shared a keen interest in ancient pottery, but we had different geographical specialties.

  "Isn't that partly the difference in conservation philosophy before World War II? I mean, then it was considered O.K. to improve the appearance of a vase-or fill in a little of the missing decoration-before it was sold. Now, it's not." I put my empty bottle on the table and signaled to the waiter, who didn't see me. "Sheila, shouldn't we get something to eat? I'm starving."

  "Sure-do they have anything besides peanuts and pretzels here?"

  "I think I saw a sandwich menu."

  "Fine." Sheila beckoned to the waiter who was finally looking our way. "Seriously, though, one of the toughest parts of our jobs is sorting out complete fakes-intentional frauds-from enhanced but legit objects. And how do you tell the work of real scoundrels from well-intentioned-but-misinformed restorers?"

  The waiter finally approached, looking harassed. I smiled at him, thinking he was in for a long night, and chose a Reuben sandwich and fries (never mind watching my diet-I was at a conference) and another beer. My mind was still grappling with what Sheila had just said. It added a new wrinkle to my problem. Were the cartonnage and the mummy portrait touched-up originals, or true forgeries? If they were intentional fakes, were they part of a current operation, or leftovers from an earlier one? How on earth could I find out without endangering myself?

  I leaned closer to Sheila, having made up my mind. "Sheila, I think something fishy is going on in my museum, but I don't know how to tackle it..."

  We lingered long after the meal and I told Sheila everything.

  ? ? ? ?

  "...Flight number 1423 to Boston has been canceled. Please see the agent for rebooking."

  The announcement came as no surprise to me, jaded traveler that I was. It was already after nine at night. Wearily, I gathered my bag and laptop and joined the long line. I noticed a couple of experienced business travelers whipping out their cell phones while standing in line. Rebook before you get up to the desk? What a good idea. I pulled out my phone and listened to the busy signal. To keep my mind off the unlikelihood of my getting home tonight, I reviewed my conversation with Sheila Tresler from the night before.

  Sheila had listened to the whole story of the attack on Marion, the fake mummy mask, and the apparent moving around of objects and then said abruptly, "Tell the police everything, right away. You're getting in over your head, and if one of your colleagues is involved in forgeries or black market activities, you could be the next victim."

  I had argued that everything was just too nebulous-everything except the mummy mask had a legitimate explanation as well as a sinister one. I had tried to explain the mass confusion engendered by the revamping of the database, but Sheila wouldn't buy it.

  "It's the job of the police to sort through all the possibilities. And they can only do that if they have all the information. Remember, someone-and it sure sounds like an inside job-murdered your preparator. Why? Until you figure that out, you're in danger."

  I couldn't disagree with that. Sheila had a way of plain speaking that put things in perspective. And, unlike James, she had no over-protective impulses generated by being in love. She was intensely practical, and her good sense made me see things more clearly. There was definitely some advantage to going away- maybe even in missing a flight-if it led to a solution.

  Sheila had also given good advice on the subject of Ellen. When we'd strayed onto more personal topics, I had related how I'd fallen for James, and how guilty I felt about ignoring Ellen's feelings for him. Sheila had told me to give Ellen time. "I know Ellen. If she really values your friendship-and she does-she'll get over it. In the meantime, give her some breathing space, and then find ways to show her you still care about her."

  To my surprise, the line moved and I reached the live agent before getting through to the airline on my cell phone. Either way, it was bad news. I was informed that I'd have to stay overnight and catch the first plane to Boston in the morning.

  Cursing myself for allowing my travel agent to book me on the last flight out in the first place, I called James's answering machine to make sure Emma was covered, and then found the shuttle to my airport hotel. It was a particularly unattractive Day's Inn, with elderly, puke-green shag carpet, a horrible still life of waxy-looking fruit, and cardboard for walls. Apparently, I had a TV-at-maxi-mum-volume type next door. And no cat. Why didn't places like this have rent-a-cats? A nice, warm, furry companion for the evening would be just the ticket. If Oreo were here, I'd even let him piss on the bedspread-one of those rough, industrial-grade spreads whose texture had the same effect on me as chalk screeching on a blackboard.

  I took my bad mood into the bathroom and discovered that the hotel did have unlimited hot water.

  Ahhh. A tubful restored my spirits, and I decided to treat myself to the Mexican restaurant next door.

  CHAPTER 28

  ISIS AND OSIRIS

  "Dad? Can we have a sleepover? Pu...lees!"

  "Well..." said James, stalling as he exchanged rueful glances with me.

  "Please, please, please!" said both children together, as if they'd planned it that way. Emma started jumping up and down, her short blond pigtails flying.

  James pulled me out of earshot of the kids. "It's okay by me. What do you think?"

  I was torn. We'd had such a lovely afternoon, hiding from the cold rain outside by staying in James' cozy apartment. We had talked while the children watched "The Little Mermaid." I hadn't done any of the work I'd planned to do this weekend-James and I had so much to talk about, going over the Chicago meeting, my discussion with Sheila, and the latest shenanigans at the hospital.

  I didn't want to leave James' apartment and go home. My own apartment suddenly seemed cold and unfriendly. In my head, a little voic
e urged me to stay: "Don't you deserve a bit of time off? Some R and R?" All weekend, my mood had seesawed between depression over the museum mystery and sudden lifts of spirit because of James.

  Emma and Sam were circling us like Indians in an old Western. "Say yes! Say yes!"

  "Okay."

  James gave me a huge grin. The children, having beaten down their parents, shrieked their approval and vanished into Sam's room. "You might as well stay for dinner," he said. "After all, I'm a great cook!" He waggled his bushy eyebrows at me.

  I laughed since I'd already sampled several of his dubious casseroles made from a few canned goods and whatever was in his vegetable bin. "Tuna Delight?" I teased. "Refrigerator-cleaner Pizza?"

  "Nope. Macaroni and Cheese, straight out of the box. But I was planning on jazzing it up a bit."

  I followed him into the kitchen. "Do you have any onions, or celery? How about capers?" I opened his pantry door.

  Instead of answering, James crept up behind me and wrapped his arms around my middle. "Couldn't you stay for a sleepover too?" he whispered, his beard tickling my ear. I turned in his arms and his fiery kiss warmed me all the way down to my toes.

  "Wow," I breathed, putting my hands between us. James leaned his forehead against mine and we rested there, listening to more shrieks coming from Sam's bedroom.

  "Wow, indeed," he said quietly, not rushing me.

  "Maybe wait and see if the kids actually go to sleep?"

  "Okay." He cupped my chin with one large, gentle hand and kissed me again softly. It wasn't a teasing kiss, but a promise. "C'mon. Let's get cooking."

  ? ? ? ?

  James and I sat close together on the blue futon couch, sipping wine and listening to Chopin waltzes on the CD player. Sam and Emma had been tucked in two hours ago, but that was only a signal for the fun to begin. There was a pillow fight, two requests for more juice, another trip to the bathroom, some joke telling...

  Finally, it was quiet.

  James stroked my hair. "Well?" he asked, his big hand cupping the back of my head.

  "Yes," I said, quivering a little. "But..."

  "What?"

  "I just want you to know...there's been no one since Tom's death." I was suddenly unsure of my ability to respond to James, or anyone.

  "Don't worry, we'll take it slowly. We have all the time in the world." He pulled me gently to my feet and led me down the hall.

  CHAPTER 29

  FALSE PROPHETS

  Two days later, I woke up smiling. I had actually slept for more than six hours straight, with no nightmares-the first time in months. The only dream had been about James, right before I woke up...the kind of dream I wished would continue. I lay there, luxuriating, and drowsily watching the sun creating zigzag patterns on my down quilt. Then Emma ran in and jumped on my stomach. My day started with giggles, shrieks, and a tickling match.

  ? ? ? ?

  A mere three hours later, my good mood had crashed and burned. Emma had been so glad to have me all to herself again, but she'd turned whiny about going to school. She had had a great time with James and Sam, and usually loved school, but all that was forgotten now.

  The second cup of coffee hadn't even made a dent. I knew I should call McEwan and tell him about my suspicion that the mummy portraits had been recently switched, but I wanted to clarify things in my own mind first. I shoved my pile of exhibit plans over and leaned my chin on my folded arms. I missed Marion. Marion had been such a trouper-her absence left such a hole in the museum scheme of things. Outside, the museum parking lot was dark gray and dreary with rain. A dip in temperature was forecast, with maybe sleet tonight.

  I still hadn't figured out any motive for harming Marion. She must have known or done something that the attacker found threatening, probably without realizing it. In fact, it was the classic gothic novel situation: Marion knew something, but didn't know she knew it. Rather like me; I had the feeling of some vital piece of knowledge locked in my subconscious, just out of reach.

  Who knew where everything was? Although Ginny was registrar, it was Marion who had had the best grasp of where stuff was at any given time. As collections manager and exhibits preparator, she had to keep up with this kind of information in order to set up exhibits and locate new storage for new acquisitions and temporary loans. Ginny was the computer guru-she could find anything in the database or in cyberspace. Carl and I, as relatively new curators, knew only the whereabouts of our own collections-our specialties, plus the stuff we were currently researching. Victor presumably knew the locations of key European items, but would have no interest in Egyptian or Greek objects. Susie? She had no need to know, and had far too much administrative work to bother with hunting down artifacts. Ellen certainly kept track of the items needing conservation, but usually the others brought things to her-she only used the database to check on materials and previous conservation treatments (if recorded at all on the ancient index cards that had predated the computerized system).

  I decided to go to Ellen's office to ask her about the conservation system, hoping to force a little interaction between us. I took the long way to clear my head, passing through the Asian and European galleries to the back stairs. I passed a small crew reinstalling the armor exhibit, with chain mail suits and parade helmets scattered like corpses in a semicircle around the case.

  As I descended, I thought about Ellen. Ellen, my slightly wacky best friend who poked fun at everyone but was a super listener. How I missed her. Ellen had been normally friendly at work, but she hardly ever called to chat. We hadn't had lunch together in weeks.

  Once on the third floor, I strode past the Sociology offices. From the open doorway came the smell of someone's micro waved lunch. Pasta, with cheese and garlic, said my ever-active nose. Yum.

  Ellen's door was almost closed, but the light was on. I tapped on it perfunctorily and entered.

  "Anybody home?"

  Ellen, wearing a new sky-blue sweater over a crisp white shirt and looking unapproachable, was seated at her terminal. Quickly she hit her escape button (a trick I recognized, since I did it myself when I didn't want people reading over my shoulder). She swiveled her tatty orange-covered chair around.

  "Where else would I be?" Ellen's greeting was a little testy.

  Was she still feeling awkward with me, or was she hiding something on her computer? I couldn't seriously believe my best friend had anything to do with Marion's death or the missing artifacts.

  "So, you survived your conference?" Ellen asked, motioning me to the other chair, this time a reject number in scratched, brown pseudo-leather.

  "Yes, but the trip home was awful."

  "Modern travel is great, isn't it? Look, I've found another Hellenistic ceramic piece I'm not happy about." Ellen picked up a small terracotta antefix-the red and brown face of a Medusa face, or Gorgon-from the adjoining table and held it out to me. "It's supposed to be South Italian Greek, but the surface texture looks all wrong to me."

  We peered at it together, heads almost touching.

  I wondered if it was like the vase Sheila had described-original clay, but fake slipped decoration. "Can we get it dated?"

  "You mean thermoluminescence?"

  "Yes. That would at least tell you the approximate time of its last firing."

  "I thought TL wasn't very precise."

  "It isn't. But Sheila Tresler told me you could get a ballpark figure for the clay body-enough to say if it's likely to be fourth century B.C. instead of twentieth century A.D. I think the New Jersey TL lab has the best reputation around here, though Oxford would be better if we can afford it."

  Ellen was still dubious. "Do you think Victor will approve the expense?"

  I sighed. "Maybe if you stress the importance of having an up-to-date, accurate database before we move. And that we need a complete list of how many doctored or fake objects we have instead of real ones."

  "Okay, I'll give it a whirl. We should probably have a materials testing item in the budget to cover this
sort of thing-especially for artifacts we are considering purchasing."

  "Separate from conservation treatment, of course." I smiled.

  "Of course." Ellen didn't smile back.

  I was suddenly curious to know whether Ellen felt the same way about modified artifacts as Sheila had. "Hey, Ellen-I had this really interesting discussion about forgeries in Chicago with Sheila..."

  "I remember her." Now Ellen did smile. The three of us had gotten fairly crocked together one night on peculiar concoctions like Black Russians-layered black and white time bombs.

  "So, where do you draw the line between a little restoration on an original artifact and outright forgery?"

  Ellen stared at me. "Ancient artifact versus totally fabricated modern forgery? Or do you mean, the difference between doctoring an authentic piece to make it look better for the market as opposed to adding something that was never there?"