This story follows the first in Jenn’s Rediscovered series, Last Assault on Oak Island.
It took over ten hours and a few train changes with only modest layovers to reach the Westbahnhof in Vienna late the next afternoon. Carlos and Lauren waded through customs and salvaged what remained of their collective patience and headed into the crowds on the streets. The museum had agreed with Carlos' sense of expediency and given the green light to their further travel. They walked quickly, Carlos mumbling curses about acquisitions and tourist seasons as a whole. Finally they spotted their hotel wedged between a coffee house and a small art dealer's shop.
He looked to Lauren before they went into the hotel. "Dust off your German."
She smiled. French might present a challenge, but she was fluent in German, thanks to her Aunt Helen and Professor Kellogg.
Within moments they'd taken the last few hotel vacancies, found their rooms, and were lugging their bags inside. The small accommodations were clean and modern, and even smelled pleasant, to their relief. It was far from her room at the chateau, Lauren thought as she unpacked, recalling the orchid room fondly, but it was better than she expected for a last minute occupancy.
She didn't want to sit in the room, not after the long train ride, and since Carlos was of the same mind, they again braved the streets buzzing with early evening traffic in search of supper.
"What did Mrs. Breach say about the item in question?" she asked Carlos as he finished ordering a decidedly delicate meat at the restaurant he'd chosen. The heavy food on the ride was still sitting staunchly immobile in her stomach and she was eager for the lighter meal the waitress brought.
His eyes lit up at the widow's name. "She was shocked." He chuckled, sharing her smile. "One does not often surprise Agnes, I tell you. She thought we were following rumors. Ghosts of a past era. Once we convinced her," he said with a wave of his hand, "Stends and Cooper were nothing. Agnes is very persuasive."
"I've noticed." She tasted the small toasts topped with goat cheese the waitress had brought, detecting thyme and sea salt. Her attention turned to the simple salad of greens and croutons. "Dr. Sheldon . . ."
"No need for formalities here, Lauren."
She nodded, scowling. "Carlos, Reuben said something the other day that I keep thinking about."
His fork posed midway to his mouth, then the bite of noodles lowered.
She didn't directly hold his study of her, instead letting her fork toy with a crouton. "He said you were not unlike him, or vice versa, at one time."
He completed the bite. "In what way?"
She shrugged, tasting the crusty toast, feeling residual memories of falling in the vault shaft catch her back. "I'm not sure. He said that everyone has to start somewhere in this business."
"His business is not necessarily our business," he pointed out. "We work for an institution. He procures to sell; for a profit only. His gain is just that. His." He considered her study of the cheese toasts. "That does not mean he hasn't added to the historical community, perhaps brought to light an important artifact or lost memory for a legitimate museum or collector."
"But it was for profit."
"Most likely."
For a few long moments they ate in relative silence compared to the louder tables. The waitress soon set their table with the rest of their dinner and a mild red wine.
"You have never been of that mold?" Lauren inquired, almost fearing the answer. This was not at all her business. Carlos Sheldon was respected in several fields. He had worked for the Early English Text Society and with the Israel Antiquities Authority before seeking a curatorship with the museum. Questioning his ambition and direction could prove hazardous to her future with the department. She added, "If you care to answer."
He cut the tender veal and dipped it in the accompanying shallot and cognac sauce. "There was a time," he began, the dread of the moment this conversation would arise clear in his face, "when I valued money over the beauty of history."
"Not recently?"
"No, no. Not for many years." He smiled at her discomfort. "Lauren, it was not the cloak and dagger encounters you're imagining. They were not entirely up to museum policy," he admitted, "but not all of our acquisitions are."
She studied her plate and instead went for the wine. "You were never dangerous?"
"To myself or others?"
She hadn't considered that detail. "Does it matter? Either. Both."
"Others, no. Myself," he said with a kindly nod, "yes. I think most people—good, bad, the clueless—put themselves at risk at least once in their life. But I outgrew it." He resolved to slicing the meat again. "Most people who find their way into our field do. It may take a decade or longer, but they settle."
"Reuben hasn't yet?"
"Not in my opinion."
She sighed unconsciously, eating the veal, but tasting little. "Have I?"
"No."
The answer came automatically, but it was the reply she had expected. "I'm not acquiring for my own gain," she reminded without hurt or insult in her tone.
"I know, dear. It can also be a frame of mind rather than monetary gain. You have to almost forget the value of the acquisition, which is hard to do with competitors and the board breathing down your back. You must see only the beauty of the piece." He studied her with rare thoroughness. "I have high hopes for you. Beth," he made a half shrug, "well, yes. But you possess drive and temperance. It's a cautious combination, but the first without the last is too volatile."
For a moment she could only stare at him, speechless, her mind tempted to add to or connect the dots he'd so easily tossed out.
He suddenly realized he had said too much and looked back down at his plate. "I have high hopes for you, Ms. Gates."
She cleared her throat, feeling an unusual blush on her cheeks. "Thank you, Dr. Sheldon."
"Don't mention it," he said, attention still on his plate. "And I do mean that."
The man Lauren learned only as Gudhoff received them at a small tavern just inside the city limits the next day as he'd promised in his phone call from Carlos. He was a short, slight man, and between this and Carlos' modest stature, she felt nearly a giantess.
Gudhoff's English was thick with German and Slovenian accents, but what he lacked in clarity he made for in speed. Lauren's comprehension was taxed at first, until she anticipated his slant of dialect and from then on she followed easily. After the typical pleasantries and round of local white wine, the small man placed a large envelope on the table.
"Your sample, Herr Doctor," he said, eyes going from Carlos to Lauren and back again. "I have not found a buyer with interest in it for two years, since in my possession; a difficult item to advertise until recently, and this week three parties have come forward."
Carlos took the envelope. "You are unable to divulge the names of the others?"
Gudhoff smiled. "I am unable. But I may say they also have samples."
Carlos nodded and gave the envelope to Lauren, who put it in her handbag. "We'll need a few days for laboratory tests."
"I must insist on your final bid by Saturday."
"I understand. As to the quantity," Carlos began lowly, "of the four walls, what percentage do you have?"
Gudhoff frowned momentarily. "I would estimate three-quarters of a short wall. It originally came in three crates. It has been repackaged with tremendous care," he added. "The crates were in poor shape to contain such a beautiful collection."
Carlos nodded.
Lauren noted a hint of smile behind his bespectacled eyes.
"A matter you would undertake yourself," he said, "no doubt."
"Actually, no." Gudhoff signaled for the barmaid for another bottle of wine. When she'd brought it and left their table, he leaned to the curator. "I am not a young man and it was a precise task. I was ill. Pneumonia. My former assistant repackaged the material. He heads his own shop now in Salzburg."
Carlos nodded, smiling. "I see."
Lauren thought it odd that Carlos had expressed such oblique interest in the repackaging of the crated amber at the moment. But, as the afternoon wore on and they took a bus deeper into the city to have the sample tested at the Vienna Museum's laboratory, she rethought the earlier conversation.
Gudhoff had admitted it was his assistant's idea to move the panel pieces into better accommodations and he had insisted in overseeing the operation. He had even encouraged Gudhoff to recuperate leisurely at home. Gudhoff had made excuses for his assistant's departure to strike out on his own. Antiques and art were a very subjective business. What one dealer valued another may only give scant attention. And the Wall's demolition had opened—and closed—many doors of opportunity, Gudhoff reminded, and the markets were still being tested.
The conversation clearly left an odd afterthought to the meeting.
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