The Tavernier Stones (48 page)

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Authors: Stephen Parrish

BOOK: The Tavernier Stones
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On the other side of the Marktplatz, Zimmerman scanned the crowd. He saw the old hag dangling from a lamppost. Best not to interfere with that. He saw Obersteiners streaming in from all parts of town to gawk at her. The mob had grown to the point that few of its members had witnessed any of the night’s events, and most who had were still in their pajamas. He saw children running about, as though they were at a fair rather than a lynching.
He was about to give up when he happened to look across the crowd and spy David Freeman, Sarah Sainte-James, and another person on the far side, walking out of the Marktplatz and heading up the Hauptstrasse. He might have missed them except they seemed so happy.
Happy
. A witch was hanging from a lamppost. A man lay dead in the church. The flow of people was
into
the Marktplatz, not out. And these three kids just happened to be leaving. Happy. Moving briskly, shoulder-to-shoulder, almost skipping, as if in celebration.
He opened the handkerchief again, the one he’d found tied to the manhole ladder, and pressed his fingers to the flat polygonal facets of the Ahmadabad diamond. He read the accompanying note:
Zim: The rest are going to a good home. As is Sarah. Deal?
From the opposite side of the Marktplatz, David turned around to look and saw Zimmerman. He stopped and made a shrugging gesture.
Deal
, Zimmerman mouthed.
As the three strode away, Sarah and David wrapped their arms around each other’s waists. Then Sarah reached for the other man and hooked her free arm around his waist as well. They tightened together, united as one, and faded into the night.
THIRTY-SEVEN
 
The lost Tavernier stones captured front page headlines one last time: wide speculation that pagan chambers beneath the Felsenkirche in Idar-Oberstein served as a storage vault for the world’s most famous rocks was dispelled once and for all.
The chambers did, in fact, exist; that surprised everyone. But the stones themselves turned out to be mere legend.
And the big hoopla that took place in Idar-Oberstein on the evening of the summer solstice was only the work of vandals. Persistent reports that residents of Oberstein had caught and lynched one of the vandals were adamantly denied by the town’s mayor.
The paintings on the tiles in the main chamber beneath the church generated quite a lot of interest in the art world, receiving as much attention as newly discovered prehistoric cave art in France or Spain. Unfortunately, one of the tiles was broken, but restorers were confident it could be mended.
In addition to the art find was a major archeological find: the Romans had built an aqueduct that passed through the mountain to the river and had linked it to secondary pipes that ran down from the castle ruins above the church. The purpose of the aqueduct was still under debate. In the centuries since the Roman occupation, the water passage had collapsed north of the church, but it was still passable on the south side toward the river, where it connected with the city sewer system. Early construction workers had apparently mistaken it as an already-existing branch of the sewer network.
The find not only proved Romans had occupied the rock peak earlier than previously thought, it also proved Roman engineering skill was far superior to that generally ascribed to them. The textbooks would have to be rewritten.
The story of the lost Tavernier stones was over. Only crackpots continued searching, and the newspapers paid them no mind.
 
Barclay Zimmerman remodeled the Ahmadabad Theater in the Kensington neighborhood of Philadelphia. He sand-blasted its red brick façade until it shined in multispectral hues. He applied fresh paint to the old supporting beams. And he ripped out the marquee whose letters had to be changed manually and replaced it with a flashy digital one.
He even paid to make the rotating candy cane on the barber-shop next door rotate once more.
The interior of the Ahmadabad received even more attention. Exquisitely embroidered curtains were imported from Würzburg. All four walls were surfaced with antique tiles bought in Munich. And the wooden balcony railing—or “balustrade,” as Zimmerman now called it—was carved by hand in Idar-Oberstein.
A theater without elegance was just a room with a projector.
The first movie Zimmerman showed after the remodeling was complete, an afternoon matinee, was a Disney feature. The theater filled to capacity with boisterous children and their frazzled parents.
 
Gerd Pfeffer returned to his home in Hamburg and transferred the contents of the amphora via plastic funnel to a conventional wine bottle, which he then resealed with a cork. He placed the bottle in his wine cellar, on the rack that normally contained his most valuable Burgundies.
Of course, he had no demonstrable knowledge the wine was poisoned. And he was, as far as his friends and colleagues were concerned, completely clueless about the affair his wife was having. Certainly he could not be aware that his wife and her lover—Mr. Dick—sampled routinely from the Burgundies before doing unspeakable things to each other in the bedroom.
Knowing that Mr. Dick would not be the only one to fall victim to the Witches of Pauillac in the days ahead, Pfeffer hesitated while pouring the contents of the amphora into the plastic funnel.
He hesitated. Then he continued pouring.
Early that same afternoon, he was back at work, sitting at a large, round conference table with his detectives. Through the conference room window, he could see the 125-meter clock tower of St. Jacobi Church. He kept an eye on his watch. The tower clock was more reliable, if only because thousands of downtown workers and residents would complain if it were too fast or slow. Pfeffer’s watch, on the other hand, would inspire no such rebellion.
His team of homicide detectives, a cluster of eleven men and women with varying levels of experience, waited nervously and impatiently at the conference table for Pfeffer’s attention to return to the meeting. They were usually full of antics and practical jokes, their personalities characterized by a lack of restraint and a disdain for formalities. But today they sensed that something had happened to Pfeffer during his trip out of town. Also, they knew all about his wife and couldn’t bring themselves to break the news to him.
Pfeffer watched as the minute hand of the St. Jacobi clock jumped one notch to twelve, then checked his watch and made a small adjustment.
“Is everything okay, boss?” one of the detectives ventured to ask.
“‘Who can find a virtuous woman?’” Pfeffer answered, quoting a proverb that had been on his mind all morning. “‘For her price is far above rubies.’”
 
When David Freeman showed up at Dr. Cornelius Bancroft’s office in the Smithsonian Institution, he could tell that Bancroft was surprised yet pleased. Despite their past differences, his former mentor was clearly happy to reconcile with the best student he’d ever had.
David introduced the young lady he had brought with him as Sarah Sainte-James, his fiancée. Then he asked Bancroft outright for a job.
“Well, there is a research associateship still available,” Bancroft said. “But it doesn’t pay much. It was established for a graduate student or an advanced upperclassman. If you had any inkling whatsoever to return to school …”
“I have lots of inkling,” David said.
“… then the associateship could be yours. And if you needed any supplemental income, we might be able to scrounge up a part-time job for Sarah too.”
“Actually,” Sarah said, “I’ve opened my own modeling agency.” She handed Bancroft a business card. “I have international experience,” she said brightly. “And, as it turns out, I’m pretty good at helping people present the best of themselves.”
“Did the two of you have lunch plans?” Bancroft rose from his desk and reached for his jacket.
“Plans, yes,” David replied. “But the financial means to realize them, no. At the moment, we’re flat broke.”
“Then it’s on me. Welcome home.”
Before leaving the office, David set a black felt bag gently down on top of Bancroft’s desk. The bag leaned slightly, suggesting it was full of small, heavy objects. He held onto the bag for a few seconds, relishing the last moments of ownership. Then he let go.
“Anything interesting in there?” Bancroft asked.
“Just some specimens for the museum. They can wait. But my stomach can’t. Let’s eat.”
“If you don’t mind, someone else will be joining us at the restaurant, a previously arranged lunch date with another research associate. It’s funny: this guy is also a former university student, he was also in the jewelry industry, and he’s also returning ‘home’ to academia. When it rains, it pours.”
“Oh my God,” David said. “I hope it’s not anyone named Zimmerman.”
Bancroft laughed. “Don’t worry, there’s very little chance you know him. He was in the legitimate jewelry business, and he lost his job due toa… circumstantial misfortune.”
“That’s a relief. There are some people in my past I’d just as soon leave there.”
“You’ll like this guy, and I have a feeling the two of you are going to work together splendidly. His name is Bowling.”
 
The first thing John Graf noticed when he arrived at the farm was the smell of dirt. It was the smell of home.

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