With an eye to the multihandled alabaster vases in the first shop, she held her head high and walked into the shop, Donovan at her heels.
You’re successful and assertive, she reminded herself, trying to feel the part. And rich. Most of these items are common reproductions, not what your status-conscious husband wants in his home. Gliding past rows of vases, pots, and candleholders, she looked but kept her hands folded, a sign of curiosity with no intent to buy. It took only seconds for the owner to approach them.
His gaze touched on her, apparently confused by a Western woman in an abaya, then settled on Donovan. “May I help you find something?” he asked.
“You may help me,” she said. Her words elicited a quick, apologetic bow. “I am in the market for a unique gift for my husband.”
“You have come to the right place. We have many unique items.”
“You have many items,” she agreed pleasantly. “I do not see anything unique.”
“Perhaps if I knew what the gentleman likes? His interests or hobbies?”
“My husband is too busy to have hobbies,” she improvised, hating the implied arrogance of her fictitious spouse, but feeling that it fit with the story. Donovan hadn’t said it had to be a happy marriage. “However, he has always been fond of the culture of ancient Egypt and might be termed a collector. Perhaps you have something special for the more discriminating buyer?”
“Of course! Come this way.” He led the way to a locked glass case and stood aside to give her a better view. “These items are quite special, all solid twenty-four-karat gold. Made for a man such as your husband, knowledgeable and selective.”
“That’s him, exactly,” she said, amused by the definition. She leaned forward to admire the collection of heavy rings and necklaces. The rings were topped by cartouches, the hieroglyphic symbols that stood for a name. In this case, the names of various gods. They were familiar, items she’d seen in illustrations in her father’s textbooks. “These are replicas of items from the tomb of Tutankhamun, are they not?”
“You are correct,” he said, obviously impressed. “Your husband would like these, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.” She had to admit they stirred her interest for the simple fact that the two missing students had been working in King Tut’s tomb. But she wasn’t sure how that was significant in finding them now. More importantly, these weren’t vases.
“Tutankhamun is the most popular pharaoh among our buyers,” the salesman said. Perhaps belatedly realizing that might not be a good thing when it came to uniqueness, he added, “Most people cannot afford these, though. Many look, but few can buy.”
“Really? What do they cost in U.S. currency?”
“This one in front, twenty thousand dollars.”
The price would be negotiable, of course, probably half of that. She hadn’t discussed with Donovan just how wealthy this husband of hers was, but decided to give his bank account a boost. Black-market items would be far pricier, she was sure. “Perhaps you have something more special?”
The man’s grin was pure delight, brilliant against his dark complexion. “Of course! For the most discriminating buyer,” he said, and gestured like a spokesmodel to the top shelf.
She stood on tiptoe. Under two tiny spotlights, a perfect replica of the burial mask of Tutankhamun gleamed in golden splendor.
“Solid gold,” he said proudly. “Fifty-five thousand. For you, fifty.”
“It’s…” Gorgeous. Impressive. Breathtaking. “Small,” she finished.
“Six inches. Not life-size, of course. That would be prohibitively expensive. For most people. But it would be a magnificent, original item for the true collector of Egyptian art. If the lady is interested, I could arrange for a life-size copy to be made. For a small deposit, of course. It would take only a few weeks, and would be well worth the wait.”
An exact replica of the burial mask of Tutankhamun in twenty-four-karat gold. It was an amazing thought, a museum-worthy piece. She couldn’t believe anyone had ever bought one. But she couldn’t see how it related to the missing students. “It’s beautiful, but I just recalled my husband mentioning a vase,” she said, trying a heavy-handed hint. “I believe it was rare and valuable. Do you have anything like that?”
“A vase? I, uh, no, not exactly. That is, nothing that special. I have some fine alabaster, but it is worth much less than this.”
“Perhaps something older,” she prompted.
“Older? Ancient?” He stiffened, looking suddenly suspicious. “Antiquities are protected. You will not find anyone selling Egyptian antiquities. This is not possible.”