The Mask of Atreus by A. J. Hartley
Authors: A. J. Hartley
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, Antiquities, greece, Theft from museums, Museum curators
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said Keene, looking suddenly baffled and impressed.
"For the whole pot, maybe," said Deborah. "If it's real, it's Mycenaean."
"Mycenaean?"
"From Bronze Age Mycenae in ancient Greece."
"How old is Bronze Age?" said Cerniga.
"Three thousand to about twelve hundred bc," said Deborah. "Or thereabouts."
For a second the two detectives stared at the fragment in Keene's hand with something like reverence, and Deborah, ever the curator, smiled in spite of herself.
"So . . . the rest of this stuff?" said Cerniga, sweeping a hand over the display cases. "It's all Bronze Age? It's all Mycen . . . ?"
"Mycenaean. It looks like it, but . . ."
"But what?" said Keene, as if he thought she was being professionally pedantic, splitting hairs instead of cutting straight to it.
"I don't see how they can be real," said Deborah. "People would know about it. People would have seen it before. You don't just stumble on collections like this."
"But if it is real," said Cerniga, "what would it be worth?"
"Millions. Billions," she said. "I couldn't begin to put a price on a collection this important."
A long silence descended on the room as the two detectives turned from her and considered the gold, bronze, and ceramic artifacts gleaming dully in the soft lights. It was a moment of reverence, like sitting alone in temple between services as she had done once years after her father had died, 47
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
a moment overwritten with memory and bafflement and sadness. Could it all just be about money? Is that why Richard died?
"What about this word?" said Cerniga, snapping her back to the present as he held up the pad of paper--now bagged in polyethylene--from Richard's nightstand. "Atreus. Does that mean anything to you? Anything personal or business-related connected to Mr. Dixon?"
Deborah shook her head.
"Only legends," she said.
CHAPTER 11
They sent her home at five forty-five in the morning, telling her they'd need to speak to her again after she had gotten some sleep. She gave them her home number and said she'd be in the museum all afternoon. For the second time that night she went out into the parking lot to get her car. Nothing about the two moments felt remotely similar.
Richard. God, she just didn't know what she would do when the reality of his death really wormed its way into her mind. At the moment there was only a sudden blankness in her heart, like some part of herself had been taken, torn away so fast that she didn't know what to feel. It would come, searing, burning, scarring, but right now there was only a hole, a void, albeit one which would eventually overflow with feeling.
And after that?
How would she deal with the business of life, of running the museum, of carrying on as if everything was normal?
That would almost be worse. Right now she never wanted to get to that point, a moment when she could think through her job without thinking of the man who had given it to her. To get past her grief would require some forgetting, and that seemed disloyal, unforgivable.
It was still dark when she pulled into the condo development off Juniper. She parked by the old white dogwood and walked down to her front door, barely aware of the chirping crickets and the heavy, wet air. Her apartment was through a narrow passage with a wrought-iron gate, unroofed except for the twining wisteria. She registered a fragrance in the air as she opened her porch gate but was in the dim, brick-lined 49
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
hallway standing at her apartment door with her keys suspended inches away from the lock before she began to process it. Not floral: spice like some exotic liqueur or cologne, and something else behind it: a dull but sweet tang of pipe tobacco that reminded her forcefully of her father. Wait.
Deborah stood quite still. She inhaled again, cautiously, as if the scent itself might be poisonous, and caught it all again, sharper and clearer this time. Deborah didn't smoke and could count on the
"For the whole pot, maybe," said Deborah. "If it's real, it's Mycenaean."
"Mycenaean?"
"From Bronze Age Mycenae in ancient Greece."
"How old is Bronze Age?" said Cerniga.
"Three thousand to about twelve hundred bc," said Deborah. "Or thereabouts."
For a second the two detectives stared at the fragment in Keene's hand with something like reverence, and Deborah, ever the curator, smiled in spite of herself.
"So . . . the rest of this stuff?" said Cerniga, sweeping a hand over the display cases. "It's all Bronze Age? It's all Mycen . . . ?"
"Mycenaean. It looks like it, but . . ."
"But what?" said Keene, as if he thought she was being professionally pedantic, splitting hairs instead of cutting straight to it.
"I don't see how they can be real," said Deborah. "People would know about it. People would have seen it before. You don't just stumble on collections like this."
"But if it is real," said Cerniga, "what would it be worth?"
"Millions. Billions," she said. "I couldn't begin to put a price on a collection this important."
A long silence descended on the room as the two detectives turned from her and considered the gold, bronze, and ceramic artifacts gleaming dully in the soft lights. It was a moment of reverence, like sitting alone in temple between services as she had done once years after her father had died, 47
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
a moment overwritten with memory and bafflement and sadness. Could it all just be about money? Is that why Richard died?
"What about this word?" said Cerniga, snapping her back to the present as he held up the pad of paper--now bagged in polyethylene--from Richard's nightstand. "Atreus. Does that mean anything to you? Anything personal or business-related connected to Mr. Dixon?"
Deborah shook her head.
"Only legends," she said.
CHAPTER 11
They sent her home at five forty-five in the morning, telling her they'd need to speak to her again after she had gotten some sleep. She gave them her home number and said she'd be in the museum all afternoon. For the second time that night she went out into the parking lot to get her car. Nothing about the two moments felt remotely similar.
Richard. God, she just didn't know what she would do when the reality of his death really wormed its way into her mind. At the moment there was only a sudden blankness in her heart, like some part of herself had been taken, torn away so fast that she didn't know what to feel. It would come, searing, burning, scarring, but right now there was only a hole, a void, albeit one which would eventually overflow with feeling.
And after that?
How would she deal with the business of life, of running the museum, of carrying on as if everything was normal?
That would almost be worse. Right now she never wanted to get to that point, a moment when she could think through her job without thinking of the man who had given it to her. To get past her grief would require some forgetting, and that seemed disloyal, unforgivable.
It was still dark when she pulled into the condo development off Juniper. She parked by the old white dogwood and walked down to her front door, barely aware of the chirping crickets and the heavy, wet air. Her apartment was through a narrow passage with a wrought-iron gate, unroofed except for the twining wisteria. She registered a fragrance in the air as she opened her porch gate but was in the dim, brick-lined 49
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
hallway standing at her apartment door with her keys suspended inches away from the lock before she began to process it. Not floral: spice like some exotic liqueur or cologne, and something else behind it: a dull but sweet tang of pipe tobacco that reminded her forcefully of her father. Wait.
Deborah stood quite still. She inhaled again, cautiously, as if the scent itself might be poisonous, and caught it all again, sharper and clearer this time. Deborah didn't smoke and could count on the
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