The Exhibit: A Story of Crime and Suspense

By Dianne Neral Ell

It started as a game. Four people, four players. Fifty gold artifacts. Then on that night in April, it stopped being a game. And five priceless objects were stolen from the exhibit. From that moment, lives changed, friends became enemies, then the killings began.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483543819

Book preview

fatally.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 11

Warm and secure in her black mink, Claudia Betancourt swept through the frosted glass doors etched near their top with the single word Sirocco. She was carried along by a current of snowladen air that rushed ahead of her, then disappeared into the crowded restaurant while the gentle warmth of the room that greeted her began to soothe the sting in her cheeks.

The front doors opened to a well appointed reception area where customers waited for tables in the dining room. Claudia stood a moment, unbuttoned her coat and flipped her dark hair from the collar. The dining area was to the right. The bar and lounge to the left.

She stepped inside the lounge’s entrance where smoke from Asian incense burners rose toward the ceiling and the din of voices crowded the room. Mixed in with the sound of voices, in a corner, surrounded by small parquet cocktail tables, a pianist played to half interested listeners who were engrossed in their friendly Friday-after-work conversations.

Unable to see her companions, she remained motionless, looking over the heads of the people milling about. Holding onto a large brown envelope, she tucked it more tightly under her arm as tiny drops of water falling from the surface of her fur left dark stains on the carpet around her black boots.

After a minute, she began making her way across the room. Seemingly unaware of the heads that turned as she passed., she walked by the bar where customers were lined up shoulder to shoulder, then skirted the tables with comfortable lounge chairs until she came to a booth along the far wall. A flicker of recognition crossed her face. Finally, when she reached the booth, her look of concentration gave way to a smile.

Treacherous out there, she said. She nodded to the three occupants of the booth. Sorry I’m late.

I slipped on the ice coming down the street, Sharon Hiller said. I know what you mean. A young, curly-haired woman, she sat close to Peter Mandel, a man in his late-thirties. Across from them, alone on the other side was Charles Green, a heavyset, well-dressed man who started to get up but was stopped by a gesture from Claudia. Instead, he squirmed back into the corner, making room for her on the outside of the seat.

Claudia placed the envelope on the table and took off her gloves. She draped her damp coat over the back of the booth and pushed it along towards Charles Green as she slipped into the seat.

Charles saluted the arrival of the coat by lifting his glass. Cheers, he said in a voice that was surprisingly high coming from his stocky body and thick neck.

She acknowledged his gesture with a nod as she moved the envelope in front of her.

How are things at the museum? Peter Mandel asked, not taking his eyes from the envelope.

Hectic— Her reply was interrupted by a waiter who had come up to the table to take her drink order. She hesitated only for a moment. Extra dry, Tanqueray Gibson, please.

The waiter left with the angry eyes of Charles Green on his back. He must think you’re alone, he complained.

Still snowing? Sharon Hiller asked.

Yes. Snowing, blowing and typically New York in February. If not for the exhibit and your program. I’d be drinking Daiquiris and listening to the surf right now in Barbados, Claudia answered.

Is that all that’s keeping you busy at the museum? Peter asked.

Isn’t that enough? I’ve got to help you and Sharon with the broadcast, answer Charles’ questions about security, work on the invitation list for the opening, put together the catalogue and stay as far away as possible from the curator, she concluded as the waiter arrived with her drink.

He put the glass down in front of Claudia, taking care not to touch the envelope. Next to it he placed a small glass full of cocktail onions. He beamed proudly as he stood erect, waiting for Claudia’s reaction to his little surprise. Her smile of appreciation was sufficient praise. He bowed and left.

I don’t understand it, Charles said. If I ask for two olives in my Martini, I get a lecture about the lack of rain in Italy.

Don’t be bitter, Charlie, Peter laughed. He probably remembers your quarter tip.

Sharon Hiller joined in the laughter and reached across the table for one of the small onions. Still holding it gently in her fingers, she rested her hand on the envelope in front of Claudia. Curiosity is killing me, she said. Is this what I think it is?

Claudia smiled warmly. Yes. They arrived today. She bent the metal clasp upward and peeled back the flap. Several copies of a magazine-sized booklet slid out of the envelope and onto the table. Here they are, she announced. Two weeks late, but worth the wait.

The cover of the booklet was a thick paper coated with a glossy film of plastic. In the center of the cover, on an all-black background, was the picture of a golden statue. The dark eyes and plaited hair identified the statue immediately as being Egyptian. Above the head of the statue in gold script were the words Golden Age of Egypt—3500 to 1000 B.C. Below it, in the same gold script, smaller words read, New York Metropolitan Museum of Art—April five through June thirty.

For a long moment, all four stared at the booklets. Claudia ran her finger over a cover in a gentle, caressing movement. The photography is beautiful, she said. I hope your television cameras will do as well? She looked across at Peter Mandel.

Well… he hesitated. Perhaps not exactly. These were done in a studio under perfect conditions. We’ll be shooting in the museum and the lighting may not be as perfect. But it’s going to be fine, don’t worry.

Claudia took the top copy and turned it to face her. She opened it and turned to the first color photographs. Each picture filled half the page, and under each there was descriptive copy. She turned several more pages, passing pictures of statues, urns, weapons and jewelry. Each item had the same yellow color. The text described the pieces as either being fashioned of solid gold or covered with a gold leaf.

The name certainly doesn’t lie, Charles said and whistled softly. The Golden Age is right. There’s enough of that bright stuff to fill every tooth in Puerto Rico.

Peter looked ground quickly to see if any of the waiters were nearby. He was relieved to see none.

Taking the copy she had been leafing through, Claudia slid it across the table towards the curly-haired young woman. Sharon, there are about fifty pieces in here, she said. It’s up to you and Peter to decide which ones you want to concentrate on during the program. Those are the ones you’ll have to write about in your script.

It’s going to be a bitch deciding, Sharon said. They’re all beautiful. Is there anything special about any one of them, some mystery, or a legend—even a curse? Can’t we tie this together in some way with the King Tut treasure they had here a few years ago? Anything that I could use to put a little drama in the script. That knife, for instance. Sharon pointed to a jewel-encrusted dagger. It would be interesting if it was used by someone called Ra the Ripper to carve up a few ancient prostitutes.

Wouldn’t it be poetic justice if he used to do away with female television scriptwriters? Charles said.

Sharon continued to turn the pages, paying no attention to what Charles had said. Suddenly, Claudia reached across the table and placed her hand on the book, not allowing Sharon to turn the page. Some of these pieces do come from the time of Tut, and I suppose there are superstitious people who think anything connected with ancient Egypt is cursed, but this exhibition is much bigger, there are articles from many kingdoms. Here, for instance, look at this.

She was pointing to a small rectangular box on four small ball feet. The top and sides of the box were covered with hundreds of tiny gold granules arranged in intricate patterns. Sharon read the text and looked up at Claudia. It says here that this is one of a pair of boxes. It is beautiful. The other one is supposed to be an exact duplicate and is in the private collection of… She paused and bent further over the page only to look up again and beam across the table at Claudia. … In the private collection of Mr. and Mrs. Maurice Betancourt of New York City. That’s you! she laughed. That is you, isn’t it?

Yes, Claudia said quietly. That box is one of the most important pieces in my collection. I’ve always felt badly about not having the set. They should be together.

Then why not donate yours to the museum? Peter asked.

Claudia’s head snapped around to face Peter. Her eyes narrowed as she searched for an answer to a question that, to her, was absurd. Finally, when she could think of no simple explanation, she said, It would be just as easy for them to sell theirs to me.

Peter seemed taken aback as if sensing he had stumbled onto a delicate subject.

In the awkward silence they became aware again of the piano. Sharon tapped the rim of her glass in time to the beat of the time, while Charles raised his empty glass in the direction of a passing waiter and signaled with a circular motion of his hand for another round.

Same for everyone? he asked.

They nodded.

These things are all very valuable, aren’t they? Sharon asked, pointing at the book.

The question was not directed at anyone in particular, but Claudia chose to answer.

Priceless, is more like it, she said. For confirmation, she looked at Charles. How much is the museum insuring them for? she asked.

Three hundred thousand dollars for each piece is the price we agreed to with the museum, Charles said, stating the numbers matter-of-factly. The whole collection comes to fifteen million dollars.

Peter whistled softly. You mean if the plane bringing these things from Egypt goes down in the Atlantic, you pay the Met fifteen million?

If it happened that way, we’d end up in court arguing about who had possession. No, Charles went on, our insurance is written on the exhibition once it goes on display here.

I can see why you keep asking Claudia about security arrangements during the broadcast, Sharon said.

When the museum agreed to let them televise the opening night ceremonies, there was an added risk and a higher premium. He smiled at the last thought as the waiter arrived with the tray of drinks. There was no extra glass of onions.

See what happens when you order, Peter said. At least I didn’t get my lecture on Roman drought, Charles said seriously.

Why is there an extra risk because of the television show? Sharon asked. The place will be a mob scene for months anyway.

   Charles lifted his Scotch and peered at Sharon through the gold-colored liquid. With Peter’s goon squad running all over the place with their cameras and lights and cables, who knows what might turn up missing?

What happens then? Sharon asked.

When? Charles replied.

Oh, hell, Charlie, any time! she said.

You mean once the stuff has been put out for show at the museum?

Claudia winced visibly at the reference to the exhibit as the stuff.

It’s treated the same as any robbery. The police investigate, we investigate and eventually, we pay the museum.

Oh. Sharon sounded disappointed.

What did you expect? Peter asked.

Something more dramatic. These are priceless antiquities and Charlie makes it sound like someone broke in and swiped a TV set.

It’s all the same, Charles said. If someone steals a TV set or the Mona Lisa, someone collects, if they’re insured.

Sharon shrugged. I can see a TV set being ripped off. You can sell it or use it, but what do you do with a statue or a gold box? She gestured at the pictures in front of her.

You can sell it, ransom it, or… Charles started to answer.

Or keep it, Claudia finished.

Wait a minute. Sharon edged forward. Sell it to whom?

Lots of people buy stolen art, Charles said.

Sharon looked at Claudia for a moment, hoping Charles’ remark had not offended her.

He’s right, Claudia said. Many do. I’ve been approached often and I’ve been tempted, but it’s a risk Maurice and I don’t choose to take.

All right, Sharon brightened, but what about ransom? I can’t see someone getting a note made of newspaper clippings that says ‘pay me or I’ll kill your television set’.

Charles laughed. A lot of people would pay to have their TV sets killed, especially after watching one of Peter’s programs. He glanced in Peter’s direction but saw no reaction on his face. The stakes are so high with artwork, he continued seriously, that any price demanded below the insured value would be considered by the insurance company.

Why all these questions about a robbery? Peter asked Sharon.

Plot. It’s all plot material.

Plot for what? We’re doing a documentary, not a whodunit.

My book isn’t going to be a documentary, Sharon said.

What book?

The book I’m turning into a screenplay.

Peter stared at the young woman sitting next to him. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide.

You know, she continued, the screenplay I’m adapting from my Broadway play.

Peter slapped his forehead. Oh, God, am I a fish. You really had me going. Look, when you’re all through, just make sure you adapt your play, movie, and book into a television documentary. O.K.?

Sharon raised her glass to Peter. Yes, master. She smiled at him over the rim.

They sipped their drinks in silence, the melody from the piano drifting towards their table through the waves of conversation nearby. Claudia’s head was bent, her dark hair falling forward as she stared at the booklet on the table. She seemed fascinated by the picture of the statue on the cover.

Exquisite, isn’t it? she asked.

There was no answer.

I guess, as a collector, I see it differently. She fell deeper into her thoughts, and when she continued speaking it seemed as if she was explaining something to herself in a place far removed from this setting. I suppose that’s why I chose to work in the exhibition department of the museum and put up with their bickering and politics. It’s just to be close to such things. She traced the outline of the statue with her fingers and then suddenly pulled her hand away from the book. We got together tonight for two reasons, she said in a businesslike tone. First, I wanted you all to have a copy of this, she pointed to the books. And second, I wanted to find out from Peter what the next steps were.

Peter clasped his hands on the table around his drink, assuming his professional role of television producer. Sharon and I will go over the catalogue, pick the best pieces and rough out a talking script. Then we should get a floor plan from you, Claudia, to block out a shooting script.

And then you can give me an idea of the number of men in your goon squad, Charles added.

Anything you want, Charlie, Peter said.

And an affidavit from you stating that none of your crew will steal anything. Charles laughed.

I still find it hard to imagine one of these things disappearing from the museum, Sharon said. Even with all the confusion of a TV show and the thousands of people who are going to come and go after it opens. There’s so many guards and precautions, it sounds impossible.

Just difficult, not impossible, Charles said.

Tell me again what would happen if one of these things did walk out of the museum? Sharon asked.

A three-ring circus the likes of which you’ve never seen before, Charles said. City police, investigators from the museum, the insurance company, the feds and probably the Egyptians. These are the crown jewels of the Arabs we’re dealing with, not chopped liver.

I guess this is one time the exhibit is safe, Sharon sighed. Who wants to get involved with all of that?

Claudia looked at them all and smiled.

You find this all so amusing? Charles asked.

No, not at all…it’s just something Sharon said that reminded me of an incident at one of the local museums. I think it was during the exhibition of some rare gem collection.

What was that? Sharon asked.

There was a robbery that caused absolutely no fuss. No police, no investigators, no commotion at all.

I find that hard to believe, Charles said.

Claudia fiddled with the edge of the catalog. You remember the old question about the tree, don’t you? she paused. If a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it, does it make a sound?

What’s that got to do with anything? Sharon asked.

It’s the same thing with a crime. A crime isn’t a crime unless someone can prove that it happened. If something did walk out of the museum, as Sharon puts it, who would know about it if nothing was missing? Her voice trailed off. As if reacting to an unseen command, the three people at the table leaned back, away from Claudia, and concentrated on their drinks.

This sounds like a riddle game we used to play, Peter said. I wasn’t very good at it then, and I’m not going to try this one.

I love it, Sharon said.

Charles said nothing. Now he was trying to look at Claudia through his nearly empty glass.

Claudia realized that she had caught them all up in her daydreaming. I’m sorry, she sighed. I’ve had so many things going on that I just let my mind wander, and look what I’ve done.

She could see they were all caught up in their own thoughts.

Let’s get back to work. Everyone take their copy. Peter, you and Sharon work on the scripts, and I’ll get a floor plan for you. They took the offered books and let them sit on the table in front of each of them.

We should get together again soon, Claudia continued. I’ll call you all towards the end of next week to set up another meeting. Is that all right?

Sure, Peter said. Catching a waiter’s eye, he made a writing gesture in midair to signal for a check. Although no one objected to his calling for the check, he volunteered, Don’t worry, this all comes out of the production budget.

In a few minutes the check had been paid and they moved in a group across the room, toward the steps that led to the frosted front door. Charles walked close to Claudia, hoping that some of the eyes would include him in their jealous stares. Once outside they separated. Charles went in search of a taxi to take him to Grand Central Station, while Sharon and Peter moved off in the opposite direction, not wishing to advertise the fact that the taxi they sought would take them to Peter’s apartment.

Only Claudia remained outside the frosted doors of Sirocco. She pulled the tall collar of her coat up against the cold wind. Perhaps, she thought, a walk would help clear her mind.

She turned east towards Park Avenue and began walking, slowly at first, then at a faster pace as the cold began to reach her. The faster she walked, the more her thoughts came in rapid succession. The booklet and its golden pictures flashed through her mind, followed by her memory of the gem robbery of over a year ago. If Sharon could make the same connection, it would give her all the plot she needed.

But Peter Mandel was key to what lay ahead. UBS senior producer of documentaries. Savvy. With the understanding of the ins and outs of the network and what it took to pull together the type of program needed for the Golden Age of Egypt Exhibit. Sharon was the way to hype his enthusiasm. Reel her in. The rest was easy. The only problem was Charles Green. Perhaps it wasn’t fair. Maybe it just stemmed from her general dislike of insurance people.

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 16

The small crystals hanging from the lighted chandelier moved almost imperceptibly, creating a pattern of iridescent shapes that floated atop the dinner table. Claudia leaned forward in her chair, appearing to be absorbed in this play of light, but her thoughts were actually focused on the man sitting across from her. He appeared to be devoting his full attention to the last slender slice of veal on his dish. Tonight’s dinner was as so many others had been, with silences far outnumbering the bursts of conversation. Her husband wasn’t distant—he just wasn’t there. Claudia watched him, debating what to say next. Maurice had a way of avoiding a conversation if he wasn’t interested. Lately, he seemed to be doing more and more of that.

She ran her fingers up and down the stem of her wine glass, thinking…looking for an opening. Claudia looked across at Maurice’s plate. It was empty. Suddenly, as if she had been watching from one of the darkened recesses of the room, the housekeeper appeared and carried away the dinner dishes.

Dessert? the woman asked. We have a kirsch torte. She spoke with an English accent.

Maurice looked at her and then tilted his head back until he was looking up at the ceiling. Mrs. Britton, you are a devil. You could tempt a saint.

One very small piece for me, and an even smaller piece for the doctor, Claudia snapped out the order.

The woman returned quickly carrying the dessert. Would you like some coffee? she asked.

No, thank you, Mrs. Britton, Claudia answered. I’m going to have brandy. She looked in Maurice’s direction and he nodded. We both will, and I’ll get it myself. Why don’t you go ahead and leave…it’s late.

Claudia placed her hands on the arms of her chair and started to get up.

Stay, please, Maurice said as he rose and walked to the mirrored cabinet above the buffet to pour two glasses of Hennessy.

I’m glad we were able to have dinner tonight, Claudia said. We haven’t been able to do much of that lately. I guess…it’s our work. We really devote too much time to it.

Maurice’s round face with its thick brows melted into a frown as he set her brandy glass on the table. What would you like to do, leave the museum? And me, what should I do, give up my practice?

We could, you know. We don’t need the money. She saw the instant darkening of his eyes and quickly busied herself with a cigarette.

I’m afraid I’m not ready to settle down to a life of travel, carrying your suitcase around the world.

That’s not what I meant. She saw that explanations would only bring on an argument. The same argument that was beginning to plague their lives. Even if the words were not said aloud, the feelings were there. After ten years of marriage, she was sure that Maurice had begun to resent her money and everything it did for them, especially their travel and collecting. Rather than argue, he would leave and go to his study to work late until she was asleep. Tonight she wanted to be with him. I’m sorry, Maurice… She tried to change the subject. By the way, I marked the evening of April fifth on your calendar. It’s the opening night reception at the museum.

How is the exhibit coming? he asked. His tone was still cold.

No one knows exactly what will happen when the pieces for the exhibit arrive, and the guest list for the reception is a shambles. However, I’m sure no one is panicking—yet. Not with Miriam Gottfried in charge.

At the name of the curator, Maurice grimaced. The old dragon probably had everyone too scared to notice any problems, he said.

They’re also complicating her life on opening night with a television broadcast from the museum.

With the way she feels about anyone interfering with her collection, I wouldn’t want to be a part of that television show.

I’m afraid I have to be, Claudia said matter-of-factly.

Oh, really? Tell me about it, he asked. But before she could answer, he got up. First, let me freshen your drink, then we can go into the library.

They left the dining room together and walked down the hall to the double doors of the library. Maurice took a key from his pocket and opened the doors. Once inside, he turned on the lights.

It would be impossible for anyone to enter the Betancourt library for the first time without being affected by the room. The books, the ancient treasures, the dark colors … everything worked together to make one feel that one had stepped across a threshold into a different time and place.

The room was large, fifteen by thirty feet. Three of the walls were lined with display cases and the fourth with bookshelves which continued upward, overhead, past the first story, then expanded covering all four walls of the second story. The bookcases higher up were accessible only by a balcony which ran around the perimeter of the room and connected with the first floor by means of a staircase.

High above the display cases on the west wall, at the juncture of the first and second stories, were three small windows unnoticeable except during the late afternoon hours when the sunlight, filtering through the small stained-glass panels, sent shafts of colored light throughout the room.

The glass-enclosed display cases were framed, as were the bookshelves, in a dark wood, and the indirect lights hidden in the walls and shelves of the cases could be controlled from a wall panel near the door. Each piece on display caught and reflected the lights in a different way. There were gold jewelry, ivory boxes, statues inlaid with lapis and jewel-encrusted weapons. Some objects absorbed the light, others sent it dancing about the room in a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors. As the lights were turned up, the pieces shimmered and glowed as each became a light source of its own.

There was little furniture in the room. A large desk near the center, two identical black leather club chairs near the desk, and a large world globe set in a wooden cradle which stood in front of the desk.

The floor was dark parqueted wood covered with three identical area rugs, which were a deep red color shot through with gold threads in a geometric pattern. The rugs were rare Mamchikes, the Egyptian equivalent of the Turkish or Ottoman designs.

This room was Claudia Betancourt’s favorite. It was her pride. It had taken her most of the ten years of her married life, and much of her fortune, to complete it.

Maurice settled himself into one of the leather chairs next to the desk while Claudia sat at the desk. He began to read over the manuscript of an article he had prepared for the American Journal of Psychiatry. She busied herself slowly turning the pages of the exhibit catalogue she had received several days earlier, and waited for Maurice to pick up on the conversation.

They remained quiet, absorbed in their reading for a long time. When he finished rereading his article, Maurice got up and stood behind his wife watching as she turned the pages. After some time he broke the silence. They’re beautiful pictures, he said. The trouble is they don’t do the real thing justice.

You’re right, Claudia answered, looking up from the book. But can you imagine what one of those pieces would look like in this room—in one of our displays? Or even in here. Claudia got up from the desk and moved over to the bookcases. In a quick movement, she reached behind a book and released a catch. Two rows of books swung away from the wall as lights went on revealing a small opening the size of a medicine cabinet. It was empty save for a black felt-covered pedestal.

I still don’t know why we bothered to have this built, we have nothing that we want to keep hidden, Maurice said.

Not yet, she whispered, pushing the bookshelves back into place and closing the cabinet.

Why do you say that? he asked.

Oh, I was just thinking out loud. What would we do with a very important piece if its provenance were questionable?

She walked back to the desk and reached across the leather desktop to pick up her cigarettes and lighter. She lit one, drew in deeply and blew the smoke up at the expanse of air over her head. The smoke curled, eddied and disappeared somewhere in the second story. Again she picked up the catalogue and started flipping through it slowly, taking her time, looking at each item carefully. Suddenly Maurice reached out and touched her hand, stopping her. On the page in front of them was the gold box covered with granulation work. Claudia was carefully watching the change in his expression.

You never mentioned that this box was going to be part of the exhibit.

I didn’t see any reason to. If anything, I thought my bringing it up would have made you angry.

Why would it make me angry? He frowned and placed the catalogue back on the desk. I only asked why you never mentioned it. You’re the one who’s angry, not me. You’ve never really gotten over our passing up the opportunity to buy that second box, have you?

Claudia’s eyes turned dark. She stared down at the desktop. Don’t use the word ‘we’, she said quickly, without looking up. It was you and your inhibitions.

My inhibitions? Refusing to be part of a crime is not an inhibition, Claudia. You’ve never understood that.

Buying something that has had a questionable past is not participating in a crime.

"I agree. That