Tom Dolby - The Trust

“Step away from the case, ladies and gentlemen,” one of them said.

A roll of police tape was unfurled in a twenty-foot perimeter around the case.

“No one touches anything. No one moves anything,” a detective instructed. “We’re sorry to do this, but it’s necessary if we want to find the necklace.”

Letty Chilton came up to them. “Officer, you can’t possibly detain our guests like this. For some of them, this has been a huge shock…”

He brushed her off as if swatting away a fly. “Ma’am, I need you to step aside.”

There was shouting from the north side of the temple. “This girl is wearing the necklace!”

Another officer spoke up. “This one, too!”

“No, no, you must understand!” Mrs. Chilton cried. “Those are reproductions! They’re not the real thing!”

There were gasps, and then nervous laughter from the crowd.

“How close do they look to the real thing?” the detective asked.

“Lauren?” Mrs. Chilton looked around as Lauren stood up. There was silence in the room. Phoebe admired how composed Lauren was, given the situation.

“Well, Mrs. Chilton, you asked me to make them look as real as possible.”

The crowd laughed again, and Phoebe thought she saw Mrs. Chilton blushing underneath all her makeup.

The detective spoke into a bullhorn. “I’m going to need anyone wearing a reproduction of the Scarab of Isis necklace to surrender them to my officers. Line up over there.” He pointed to an officer who had commandeered one of the tables. “They will be tagged and returned to you in due time.”

“Shouldn’t you be looking for the real one?” Mrs. Chilton asked.

“Ma’am, we have no proof that one of these ladies isn’t wearing the real one,” the officer said. “Would be pretty handy, wouldn’t it? How many are there?”

“Fourteen,” Lauren said.

By this time, at least three dozen more officers had entered and started taking statements. A bag check was set up at the exit to the museum, and after each guest had been questioned and their purses and pockets had been checked, they were free to leave.

There was an interminable wait, and the bartenders had been instructed to close down the bars. They, too, were to be questioned before the evening’s end.

Phoebe and her friends sat and nursed their glasses of champagne, now joined by Patch. Bradley Winston came by with a flask, but most of the table declined.

A little after one A.M., Phoebe finally got into a cab. As it sped down Fifth Avenue, she felt herself nodding off, drifting into dreams, wondering who could have pulled off the theft of the Scarab of Isis necklace.

Lauren decided that she would walk home from the ball, as it was only a few blocks, and she loved the snow that had started falling. She glanced behind her at the Temple of Dendur, lit brightly behind the glass wall of the Sackler Wing that faced Fifth Avenue. A sense of nostalgia hit her suddenly. It had been such a beautiful night, even with the drama, and she longed to share it with someone. But perhaps she was better off alone with her thoughts.

She heard some footsteps and turned to see Thad running down the steps toward her. Behind him was a handsome guy with olive skin and dark, piercing eyes.

“You’re not going to believe what happened,” Thad whispered. “I think I met someone.”

Did everyone in the world have a date? It had started to seem that way.

“This is Kurt,” Thad said, introducing the cute guy. “His parents are professors at Princeton. He’s just in the city for the night. We’re going to grab a nightcap somewhere. You want to join us?”

Lauren shook her head. “I think I’d better be getting home.”

“Let us walk you home,” Thad said.

“I’m fine,” Lauren said. “I think I just want to enjoy the evening. Being out in the snow reminds me of when I was a little kid.”

Thad nodded. “You sure?”

“You go ahead.”

As Lauren bundled her coat and scarf around her, Claire walked by her. “Lauren, you can’t possibly be going home alone.”

Lauren looked up. “Yes, Claire, I am. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Oh, no,” Claire said as she surreptitiously plucked a cigarette from the pocket of her coat while nervously watching the steps, probably to make sure her parents couldn’t see her. “I just always imagine you surrounded by tons of boys. Like last semester.”

Lauren paused. Claire was so annoying, and so rude, and it stung, hurt like a fall on the icy sidewalk. She knew it shouldn’t affect her, as Claire was everything she didn’t want to be. Lauren composed herself after a moment, cinching the belt on her overcoat and facing in the direction of Park Avenue. She knew she shouldn’t say what she was about to say, but she had taken enough from Claire, and she didn’t care if her mother was their decorator.

“That’s funny, Claire,” she said over her shoulder. “Because I always imagine you rotting and alone.”

The next morning was Valentine’s Day, and Patch woke up early. Unlike the others, he hadn’t been drinking champagne the night before, since he was working, at least until the necklace debacle. He had been excited about the DJ gig, and even though Claire had been a complete pill, he was disappointed he hadn’t been given the chance to finish off his set list. He’d also wanted to impress Lia with his taste and skill.

Patch padded into the kitchen, and as usual, Genie was already up, doing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle.

“I hear you had quite a night,” she said.

“How do you know that?”

She held up a copy of the Daily News. “Freddy downstairs gave me his,” she said, referring to the doorman on the early Sunday morning shift.

The headline on the cover read: “Oh, Goddess! Ancient Jewels Heisted at Socialite Ball.” Inside, the story recounted all the facts that Patch already knew from having been there himself. There hadn’t been much time for actual analysis; that would come online and in the later editions of the paper.

In the Daily News spread, there was a close-up of the original necklace, a file photo provided by the museum.

“I think you should see this,” Genie said. She held up an old, yellowed news clipping from W magazine, one Patch hadn’t seen before. It was similar to the photo that had been in the Times nearly twenty years ago, of his mother at the last Dendur Ball, but this one was a close-up.

His mother was wearing a necklace that looked like the Scarab of Isis. The caption noted that she was wearing a rare replica of the necklace. The original had been on loan to the museum and was being shown in New York for the very first time.

“They made replicas for everyone twenty years ago as well?” Patch asked.

“No, no, that wasn’t it,” Genie said. “Far be it from Esme to do something that wasn’t unique. She’s wearing something that someone gave to me. Well, I suppose you can know. She’s wearing something that Palmer gave to me.”

“Palmer Bell?”

“Yes, while we were engaged. He had been on a trip to Cairo, and he was very taken with the necklace when he viewed it at the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. He had a copy made, based on photographs. He gave it to me on the night of our engagement. It may have been a copy, but it was one of a kind.”

“And you gave it to my mom?”

“Yes. I had no attachment to it anymore.”

Patch wanted to learn more, but he knew better than to pry. Genie would sometimes clam up completely if she thought he was getting too nosy about the past.

“Where is the copy now?” Patch didn’t even know why he was asking this, but somehow it seemed important to know about something that belonged, ever so briefly, to his mother.