Scandal. Julie Kistler
a shady outfit. One not likely to convince museum officials that she was a trustworthy academic type.
She briefly considered going home and changing into something more businesslike—at least throw a jacket over the cami and change into a longer skirt—but she was too impatient. This might be the arch. Her arch. It might be a breakthrough. Finally!
Jordan had never believed in karma or fate or anything crazy like that. Never. But maybe this was the time to start.
“It can’t just be a coincidence that something so close to my arch showed up in that brochure. It was meant for me,” she said with determination. “It’s the message I’ve been waiting for.”
Hefting her bag over her shoulder, she took two steps toward the door. But at the last minute, she turned back and scooped up her lucky Columbian Exhibition half-dollar out of the cup, sticking it in her pocket. And then she leaned over far enough to edge open the drawer, grab the two photographs of Nick Tempest in their plastic sleeves, and carefully slide them into the bag next to the “Sex Through the Ages” brochure. It didn’t make any sense to take Nick with her, but she didn’t care. She wanted him along for the ride.
Jordan stewed all the way to the Art Institute on the “L”, wishing the train would move faster, pulling out Nick’s pictures to make sure she hadn’t lost them, rubbing her coin for luck, and then checking the “Sex” flyer one more time to be sure she’d really seen what she thought she’d seen.
“It sure looks like my arch,” she whispered.
But what would she do if it was? Actually locating Isabella’s arch would change everything. How far back into the dissertation would she have to go if it was the right arch and it had a paper trail? What if it wasn’t as magnificent as she thought from the sketches and not a masterpiece at all? What if Isabella was just a mediocre artist with a smutty arch that didn’t mean anything to anybody?
What if it did provide the answer and she could now write the ending and that was it? Over? Done? No more Nick haunting her dreams?
Jordan closed her eyes and tried to stop herself from coming up with more questions and driving herself even crazier. “If it changes everything, maybe it’ll be in a good way,” she said out loud, getting a strange look from the person across from her on the train.
Finally, she hit her stop and practically ran over to Michigan Avenue, hustling down the sidewalks and then huffing and puffing up the stone steps of the Art Institute. Luckily she was a member of the Institute, so she didn’t have to wait to pay. Still, she stopped at the information desk.
“‘Sex Through the Ages,’” she said impatiently to the woman behind the desk. “Which way?”
“Well, it will be in the Beckwith Gallery, southeast side of the second floor,” the clerk responded, “but that exhibit isn’t open yet.”
“Yes, I know. Thank you!” Jordan called back, already dashing for the stairs.
If she’d been anxious before, she was practically humming with impatience by the time she ran up one flight of stairs, down two long halls and into an elevator, until she was finally standing in front of the tall, imposing doors to the Beckwith Gallery. Unfortunately, the doors were closed, with a chain fastened between the handles, and a sign placed in front of them that said No Admittance During Installation Of New Exhibit.
She stopped for a minute, testing the chain, noting that it wasn’t tied or secured, just dangling there. She bent closer to the crack between the doors, squinting. There wasn’t much to see. It was dark and quiet on the other side.
Quickly, she made up her mind. Jordan wasn’t exactly the breaking-and-entering type, but she could at least try to get in there. After sending a quick glance around, seeing no one, hearing no one, she drew back carefully on the chain.
It jangled loudly, surprising her, making her drop the end, which caused even more of a racket when it banged against the brass handle. She jumped away, all ready to act innocent if a guard came running.
But no one came. Thank goodness. After waiting for one long minute and then two, Jordan gathered her courage and sidled up to the door again. This time she pulled the chain all the way through to one side, with a fast yank, ignoring the noise. And then she grabbed the handle, tugging, expecting the doors to be bolted, wondering how she was going to jimmy the lock.
But…Her eyes widened and her hand trembled around the knob. She couldn’t believe it. There, under her fingers, the handle was turning. It wasn’t locked .
The massive wooden door creaked as she dragged it open enough to sneak through, and the sudden sound almost gave her another panic attack. She figured at this point she should be immune. She would have plenty of time later to reflect on just when she’d decided to break and enter and become a criminal. It wasn’t like her at all. The usual her, anyway. So she was acting like somebody else, somebody wilder and more reckless. Too bad. For now, she was going to get into that gallery and find the arch come hell or high water.
Once the doors closed behind her, the air felt hot and stuffy. Or maybe it was fear making her overheat. It was also shadowy and dim, but she didn’t dare search for light switches. She crept along, as quiet and careful as she could manage. The only thing she heard was her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears.
Jordan sneaked farther into the gallery, peering into corners, her eyes adjusting to the dim surroundings as she tried to figure out if there was any rhyme or reason to what was where. There were no guards, no museum staff puttering around, just paintings and pottery here and there, some unopened crates and boxes, and quite a few placards already in place on brass stands, detailing the exhibits to come. She saw parts of “The History of the Condom” in one room, and a display of phallic-shaped household items recovered from the ancient city of Pompeii in another.
“Who knew Pompeii’s patron god didn’t wear pants?” she asked out loud. Every piece of art devoted to him was all about his huge, erect penis, right out there in the open. It seemed the citizens of his town celebrated his amazingly large asset with all sorts of things shaped in its image. There were spoons, cups, vases, jewelry and more penis-shaped wind chimes strung up than seemed reasonable. They tinkled when she walked by, as if they were happy to see her.
Jordan backed away from the Pompeii exhibit, only to find herself up close and personal with a series of gorgeous Japanese woodcuts depicting women having sex with sea monsters.
“I guess I’m in the right place,” she murmured uneasily. This was definitely all about sex. Everywhere she looked. Sex, sex, sex. It was making her a little dizzy.
Under other circumstances, it might’ve been a fascinating exhibit and she might’ve been able to switch gears into Jordan Albright, Academic, so she could look at it objectively, without all the funny feelings. Hot, lightheaded, starting to perspire…
“They really need some air conditioning in here,” she muttered. Sure, blame it on the lack of AC.
She raised a hand to swipe at the moisture on her forehead, reminding herself fiercely that she was on a mission, a professional mission, and she needed to block out all the salacious etchings and naughty bits of pottery if she was going to find the elusive arch before anybody noticed she was there.
As she turned into a larger room, she noticed tall statuary shrouded in white drapes. It created an eerie mood, with giant, looming figures casting deep shadows into the rest of the space. She reached out to test the edge of a drop cloth.
And a hand touched her elbow.
Jordan jumped about a foot, shrieking something indecipherable, as she spun around to face the intruder. She raised two fists in the air, prepared to act menacing.
But all she saw was a small, older man in a uniform, with wisps of silver-gray hair escaping from under a smart military cap. He sort of looked like Captain Kangaroo in that uniform. He was even smiling kindly. Nobody scary. She set her hand over her pounding heart.
“So sorry to frighten you,” he declared. “I’m the curator of this exhibit.