by Nupur Tustin
And among them, perched upright upon the uncompromisingly hard seat of a plain, spindle-backed wooden chair sat the Lady.
Dressed as always in a low-necked black gown, tailor-made to encase her figure. Her smile muted, her pose graceful. Exuding an aura of wealth and confidence so unmistakable, a child could’ve picked up on it.
Although even as a child, Celine had never mistaken her for a flesh-and-blood person.
Unable to withdraw her gaze, Celine stared, fingers clutched around the bottle of lemon-scented furniture polish her employer, Dirck Thins, insisted she use. Her heart muscles contracted painfully. A sure sign.
Someone was going to die. Yet again.
Who? Celine asked.
The Lady sat still, unresponsive—like a painted figure. In all the time Celine had known her, she had never spoken a word. She remained silent now.
But the coils of tension in Celine’s chest constricted painfully.
She closed her eyes, lips clenching against the slowly intensifying pain. It had been seven years since she’d last seen the Lady. Seven blissfully ordinary years, free from visions of murder Celine could do nothing to prevent.
It’s time, Celine.
She heard Sister Mary Catherine’s voice in her head. It was the nun—in life a student counselor at the private Catholic school Celine had attended in Los Angeles—who had insisted Celine’s visions had a purpose.
“You can’t prevent an unjust death, Celine,” she had said. “But you can fight for justice. Let the memory of what you couldn’t do for your parents spur you on.”
Sister Mary Catherine had passed on. But death hadn’t prevented her from staying close to Celine.
It’s time, the nun said again. Are you ready, Celine?
Ready for what?
Celine opened her eyes. The Lady sat—immovable, unrelenting, her blue eyes fixed on Celine’s face.
Ordinarily, she lingered close to the person Death had fingered—her proximity a sure sign of what was to come. This time she sat apart, simply staring at Celine
Is it my turn? Celine silently asked.
The question went unanswered. Instead, the Lady’s gaze bore relentlessly into Celine’s brow—penetrating her skull with the intensity of a bullet.
It is my turn now, isn’t it?
The pain in Celine’s chest sharpened; a fine mist of furniture polish spurted out as her fingers jammed down the nozzle.
“Hey!” A customer’s wine-sodden voice protested.
“Sorry,” Celine mumbled, noticing the middle-aged man seated at the bend of the horseshoe-shaped counter. He looked like an aging, drunken Liam Neeson.
A Liam Neeson gone to seed, she thought, apologizing to him again.
She pushed the rag in her right hand into the grain of the countertop’s wood surface, determined not to be unsettled by the news she’d just received. What good would it do to let it rattle her?
At least she had advance warning of what was to come. What would it be—a knife or a bullet—that would snuff the life out of her?
Her hand trembled. She held herself still—unwilling to admit she was shaken.
She’d learned a long time ago that you couldn’t change the future.
You might see what was to come—in a hazy, obscure fashion. But you could never change it. There was no point trying.
Not that Celine hadn’t tried; all those years ago when the Lady had issued her first warning. Her parents had smiled, shaken their heads, and dismissed her vague fears.
That was when Celine had realized humans have no real agency. If they did, her parents would still be alive. Not mangled in a car crash.
She’d only been twelve when she’d woken up to that fact.
She thought she heard Sister Mary Catherine’s voice again, but she drowned it out.
No. Don’t tell me how I can fight for justice from beyond the grave!
“Wassa matter? You seen a ghost?” The same wine-sodden voice broke into her thoughts.
Celine stopped scrubbing and looked up, his words as provocative as a red flag to a bull.
“No, actually, I haven’t.”
Forgetting he was her customer, she glared at him. Why were people so ready to assume she saw ghosts?
The man raised his hand unsteadily, palm facing out.
“No need ter bite my head off,” he slurred out the words. His wrist sagged, palm dropping drunkenly down.
“Everything all right?” Dirck’s quiet voice sounded behind her. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder.
“Y-yes.” Celine swung her head back, the movement causing her waist-length, red-gold hair to flutter about her face.
The Lady, she saw at once, had vanished. Thank heaven for that!
She forced herself to smile. “I’m just a bit tired and on edge.”
Dirck nodded, his eyes sliding over to the cause of the problem, who sat alone at the bar counter, noisily slurping down the last of his wine. The customer slapped his glass down and tapped the rim.
Dirck glanced back at Celine.
“I can finish up here,” he offered, making Celine feel guilty about the white lie she’d told. He looked tired himself—his cheeks shrunken and gray; a web of tight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
“No, it’s okay. I’m not that beat.” She reached for the man’s wine glass and poured him some more of their finest Syrah—a Mechelen Vineyard product priced at about eighty-five dollars a bottle.
Personally, she thought the wine was wasted on the guy. He looked more like a beer-drinker.
Dirck nodded again and resumed his position behind the cash register. A couple of customers came up to settle their bills and headed out.
“Say, wha’s t’ word with those paintings?” the man said as she set the glass down in front of him. He pulled a few bills from his wallet and pushed them over to her.
Celine turned toward the paintings that covered the wall behind the counter.
“They’re mostly by local artists. Those are for sale.” She pointed to the obligatory seascapes for the Paso Robles tourist crowd.
“The others were painted by Dirck Thins, the owner of the bar, and his friend John Mechelen, the guy whose winery produced your Syrah.” She twisted around and smiled. “They aren’t for sale. They have sentimental value. They document Dirck and John’s early days on the Paso Robles wine scene.”
The man managed an energetic nod as he took a large gulp of his wine. He peered over the counter, his eyes narrowing as if to appraise the value of the Delft’s art. It seemed like a pose to Celine. He didn’t look any more like an art connoisseur than he did a wine aficionado.
But he’d taken her mind off the Lady and her own imminent death. There was something to be said about that.
“That a Rem-bran’?” the man asked. “A self-pawtrait?”
“That’s actually John Mechelen,” Celine said. “Dirck painted that. They thought it would be fun to dress up like Rembrandt.” There was another just like it in Dirck’s office. That one was a portrait of Dirck painted by John Mechelen.
An odd thing to do, now that she thought about it. And the man, inebriated though he was, seemed to think so as well. He stared at her.
Celine shrugged. “I guess it was an homage to their Dutch ancestry . . . I don’t know.”
“Dirck Thins?” the man asked. He jerked his chin at the owner of the Delft. “That t’ guy?”
“Yes.”
“Dutch, you say?”
“Well, his grandparents or great-grandparents were, I guess. He’s from Boston.”
“B-aw-ston?”
The man smiled, a broad, beaming smile as wide and smarmy as the Cheshire cat’s grin.
“I’m from B-aw-ston. On vacation, would ya believe it?” He stretched his hand out. “Greg,” he introduced himself.
That drew a sharp glance and a flicker of a smile from Dirck. Although in all the years Celine had known him, she’d never seen her employer go out of his way to reach out to patrons fro
m back East.
And God knew, the Delft received several from the area—tourists anxious to sample the best the wine capital of the country had to offer, but more prone to eventually settle for the familiar lattes and café mochas the bar kept on hand.
Few of the Bostonians who came into the bar would have identified Dirck as a fellow Bostonian. The heavy nasal twang that marked Greg’s speech had all but faded from Dirck’s. His years on the west coast had taken their hold on him.
When the last customer had paid up and departed, Dirck drifted over to where B-aw-ston Greg sat, his elbows propped on the counter, fingers entwined around a half-empty glass of wine. His sunken blue eyes were fixed on the portrait of John Mechelen dressed as Rembrandt.
Celine twisted around to look at it. She had never seen anyone quite so taken with it. It was a nice enough piece of work, but nothing special. In her estimation, at any rate. Not that she knew anything about it. It was years since she’d stayed current with the art world.
“Reminds me of someone,” Greg said, gesturing toward the painting with his chin. “Damned if I can remember who.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dirck stood motionless against the counter, fingers gripping the edge.
Greg nodded. “It’ll”—his voice barely pronounced the “t”—“come to me.” He lifted his right forefinger and scratched his chin. A few minutes later, he lifted it again and gave his chin a few more strokes.
“You r’ember tha’ big museum heist?” He raised his head and turned it slowly toward Dirck. “T’ papers were all over it. St. Patrick’s Day, 1990. Lotsa paintings stolen.”
“We’d already left Boston by then,” Dirck said. He stood stiff and awkward. Celine had never seen her employer act so embarrassed. Not that there was anything to be embarrassed about. Few people would have taken the trouble to keep up with news from a place they’d left.
On the other hand, Dirck had always prided himself on his knowledge of the art world. It was the reason why the Delft offered wall space to local artists. Her boss had always had a good eye for what was likely to sell.
But there was no shame in not knowing every last detail about an art heist, no matter how big. Even back East, the story of the Gardner heist had all but faded from public memory. It had merited no more than a single mention in her art history class. In the context of a lost Vermeer and a few stolen Rembrandts.
The theft had reared its head again during an unfortunate incident at the Montague Museum. It had cost Celine her job. But for that, it might have completely escaped her memory.
“Paso Robles is a small town,” Celine explained for Greg’s benefit. “It’s unlikely any of that big-city news made it out here. Or that it would have been relevant to anyone in the wine business.”
Dirck and John Mechelen had been trying to break into the business at the time. Celine doubted they’d had time to consider anything other than the weather and its effect on the grapes and any news that might affect the price of the wines they’d ultimately be selling.
“Well, issa strange thing.” Greg’s voice slurred. “But that pi’ture of your friend there.” He pointed to it again. “You wouldn’ believe it, but it looks the spitting image of Earl Bramer.”
“Earl Bramer?” Dirck’s voice barely rose, his curiosity so mild, it was clear the name meant nothing to him.
“Was that the man responsible for the heist?” Celine poured the last of the Syrah into Greg’s glass. The bottle was almost empty; and Greg was so drunk, an ounce or two more could hardly make any difference.
Greg took a large gulp of his wine.
“Tha’s wha’ the feds think. Not tha’ the heist was solved. Never will be, if you ask me.”
“Why not?” Dirck asked, staring at the man.
Greg wiped his mouth. “Word is, Earl an’ a frien’ were charged with transpaw’ing the loot. A few days after the Gah’ner was broken into, Earl and his friend Duarte died. Biggest cah crash you ever saw. Cah went up in flames as did the aht.”
“That’s terrible!” Celine said. “But how could the police be so sure the works were in the car?” Any canvas in the car would have been reduced to ashes.
“They mus’ve been.” Greg shrugged. “They stopped looking for them.” He took another gulp of his wine. “Unofficially. Officially, they’re still on the case.”
“Seems a pity to give up so easily on finding them.” Celine frowned as she moved over to the bar sink stacked with wine glasses and coffee cups. Although, from what she’d seen, it seemed par for the course.
Close a case as quickly as possible, that was the motto of most detectives charged with solving a crime. She’d only met one who was different.
“Why bother looking for the art if it was all burned to a crisp?” Dirck quietly said, still watching Greg closely.
“To know what really happened, of course.” Celine wondered why he’d even needed to ask.
To this day, she didn’t know how her parents had died. Not officially.
Unofficially, she knew exactly what had happened.
The police had been long on theories—her parents may have been driving under the influence; driving too fast—short on any facts that could confirm what she knew. Len and Viv Skye had been murdered.
“Those works of art may still be intact,” she said with more conviction than was warranted given her complete lack of knowledge of the case. “Perhaps they flew out of the car during the crash. Maybe those men faked their deaths . . .”
“Now that’s a theory.” Greg looked at her with interest. “Faked their deaths, eh? No one’s thawht of that. Wonder why?” His head swiveled toward Dirck. He slurped down the last of his wine and slapped his glass down on the counter.
“Nice painting,” he said, pointing toward Mechelen’s portrait. “Nicely done.” He extended his arm across the counter. “Wouldn’t min’ seein’ more of your stuff.”
“Sure,” Dirck said to Celine’s surprise. He’d never before shown any interest in showing his art to anyone or in trying to sell it. “Any time.”
He reached across to grip Greg’s palm.
Chapter Two
“Go on home, Celine,” Dirck said after Greg finally left the bar. “I know you’re tired. I can finish up here.”
On any other night, Celine would have appreciated the offer. But tonight, after what she’d learned, she hated to be alone.
“No, it’s all right,” she started to say.
“You can go home now, Celine.” Dirck’s smile was tight. His face weary. He held himself against the countertop as taut as a guitar string. “I have things to do.”
Then why send me home? she wanted to ask. If I clean up, it frees you up to do whatever else it is you need to do.
But she sensed she’d get nothing meaningful in response to that out of her boss. Ever since his friend John Mechelen had passed six months ago, Dirck had seemed depressed, weary, a decade older than his fifty-four years.
She gripped the countertop, reluctant to leave. “Are you really going to sell that man your paintings?” she asked instead.
“Do you think I shouldn’t?” he countered. He looked down at her, his smile more relaxed, the nervous tension easing out of his body.
Celine’s cheeks flamed. The paintings weren’t hers. Nothing in the bar was.
“It’s part of our history,” she said. The words felt strange. She hadn’t realized until now how closely she identified herself with the Delft and the Mechelen vineyard. “I just didn’t think you and John would want to let that go. And now with John gone . . .”
“I don’t think John would mind, Celine.” Dirck clasped his hands together, fingers closely intertwined. “I really don’t.”
Celine nodded, accepting the explanation without comment, and turned her attention to the wine glasses that stood drying on a black tea towel.
But Dirck stopped her. “No, Celine. I mean it. Go home. I can handle things here.”
Celine bit her lip. Out of the corner of her eye, she could se
e the Lady was back. She didn’t want to leave. Not just yet, anyway. Not without saying goodbye.
From the time she’d fled the art world and Dirck Thins and John Mechelen had taken her in, Dirck had become the closest thing to a father she’d had since losing her parents.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked. “One last thing before I go?”
Dirck’s face brightened. “Actually, yes, there is. Thanks for reminding me. There are bags and bags of empty wine bottles that need to be driven back to the Mechelen.”
“Of course.”
For the longest time, Dirck and John had been sterilizing and reusing wine bottles from the Delft. And for a couple of years now, customers had started bringing their empty bottles back to the bar as well for a small discount against their next wine purchase.
“I’ll help you load the bags into your trunk,” Dirck said, heading toward the wooden wall that faced the countertop.
He pressed a button concealed in the wood paneling. The wall slid aside, revealing a spacious, parlor-like interior.
“And there’s one other thing here I need you to take charge of as well.”
It was a few minutes past eleven o’clock in Chelsea, Massachusetts when the ringing of the phone jolted Special Agent Blake Markham out of the light doze into which he’d fallen in front of his computer.
Instantly alert, he sat up. The screen on his laptop was grayed out, but a touch of the start button brought it awake. A secure website with a map of a small town in San Luis Obispo County, California and a large yellow circle marked Grayson Pike showed up on the screen.
Pike had made contact with the target hours ago, and Blake had been monitoring him from the time he returned to his apartment. The agent stared at the screen, his eyes dry and blurry.
A gray button flashed insistently on the sidebar letting the agent know Pike was initiating a call from the tracking device he’d worn since he’d left the Boston FBI office a week ago.
They’d decided to start monitoring Pike even before he’d departed for his mission. And now he was checking in with them, as instructed.