Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(78)
“You should find her, you know,” Gunther would mumble during his bouts of lucidity. “She always loved you.”
Each word was like a dagger in Jeff’s heart. He changed the subject as often as he could. Gunther still loved hearing about his capers and exploits. He was delighted by Jeff’s tales of New York, and stealing the Russian oligarch’s priceless coin collection while the Winter Ball was in full swing.
“Do tell me more about bedding the vile Svetlana. How long did it take her to fall for Randy Bruckmeyer’s charms? You know I’ve always been keen on the Texan. One of your better characters, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Through Gunther’s eyes, everything seemed like fun, like a great game that they were all caught up in. Jeff thought, It used to be like that for me. Not anymore.
He decided not to tell Gunther about his encounter with Elizabeth Kennedy. It would only get the old man back onto Tracy again, and Jeff couldn’t stand that.
Bizarrely, Elizabeth had discovered Jeff was in town and had come to see him at his hotel, supposedly to bury the hatchet after all these years. In fact she had some splashy jewel theft planned that she wanted to cut him in on. It was odd meeting her again. Jeff had expected to feel all his old anger toward her, but in fact there was nothing, no feelings at all. Elizabeth was flirtatious, coquettish even, but Jeff felt nothing toward her. It was a disappointment and a relief at the same time, which made no sense, but there it was. They’d parted on cordial terms. Only after he left New York did Jeff learn of Elizabeth’s arrest for her failed con on Bianca Berkeley. Thank God I didn’t take her up on her offer to get involved.
Jeff felt guilty admitting it, but it was a relief to leave Gunther and get away to Spain.
Professor Domingo Mu?oz was Jeff’s client. It was he who’d commissioned the theft of the Byzantine coins. But he was also a friend and fellow lover of the ancient world. Domingo had extended an open invitation for Jeff to stay at his “casa,” an idyllic, sprawling farmhouse nestled in La Campina, the fertile valley surrounding the Rio Guadalquivir in the south of Spain. About twenty miles outside Seville, the farm boasted stunning views of the Sierra Morena countryside, with its gently rolling hills thickly clad with oak trees and its patchwork fields of wheat and olive groves. The combination of Domingo’s hospitality, the idyllic surroundings and so much history and art and architecture on one’s doorstep was too much for Jeff to resist.
A maid brought another enormous platter of paella to the table. They were dining outside, beneath a pergola overgrown with laurel, watching the bloodred sun bleed into the horizon.
Jeff said, “I have to get out of here soon. Leave you in peace.”
“Nonsense. Stay as long as you like. Spain is good for the soul.”
“Less good for the waistline, though.” Jeff patted his groaning stomach. “A few more suppers like this and I’m gonna have to take up a new profession. Maybe opera singing. No one wants to hire a fat cat burglar.”
“You’re hardly a cat burglar,” Domingo corrected him, refilling his glass. “You’re an artist.”
“And a thief.”
“A gentleman thief. As you said, the coins are where they’re supposed to be. You could hardly leave them in the hands of that grasping, philistine young woman, could you?”
Jeff agreed that he could not.
“So what’s next?” Domingo asked him, his bony fingers coiling around the stem of his wineglass like a snake choking its prey. “Not that I’m trying to get rid of you.”
“I have no idea.” Jeff sat back in his chair. “This is actually the first time in forever that I haven’t had jobs lined up back to back. I might take a vacation. Travel through Europe, revisit some of my favorite museums.”
“You’ve seen the Shroud in Seville, I assume?”
The Holy Shroud of Turin was on display in Seville’s Antiquarium, a museum housed beneath the city in an ancient Roman crypt, for twelve weeks. It was the first time the relic had been allowed out of Italy in a generation, so the exhibition had attracted worldwide interest. Believed by many Catholics to be that actual cloth in which Jesus’ body had been wrapped after crucifixion—and by most historians to be an elaborately worked medieval fake—the Holy Shroud was almost certainly the most celebrated and revered religious artifact in the world. For many, including Jeff Stevens, the beauty and serenity of the man’s face so perfectly captured on the faded cloth meant more than all the wild conspiracy theories regarding its origin. Whether or not it was Jesus’ face didn’t matter to Jeff. The Shroud was a thing of sublime beauty, of magic, an image of human suffering and goodness that transcended religion and science and even time. The thought of going to see it, in the flesh, made his hair stand on end with excitement, like a small child about to enter Santa’s workshop for the first time.
“Not yet,” he told Domingo. “I’ve been saving it for last.”
“Well, don’t wait too long.” The professor finished his rioja and poured himself another glass. “Rumor has it there’s a sting in the offing. Someone’s going to try and steal it.”
Jeff laughed loudly. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Why?”
“Because it’s impossible. And pointless. Trust me, I should know. Why would anybody want to steal the Shroud of Turin? It’s not like you can sell it. It has to be the most recognizable artifact in the known world. It’d be like trying to fence the Mona Lisa!”