Master of Illusion

by Nupur Tustin

  “Built by Rupert Revere, landscape designer.” Julia’s words earned a smile from their hosts. She’d taken the trouble to read up on the inn’s history when she’d booked their rooms.

  “The house was built by Rupert,” Stuart said. “My grandfather—Rupert’s son—decided to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. It was too big for the family. So he figured he’d let the rest of the world enjoy our house and grounds.”

  The Reveres seemed like a pleasant, chatty couple. But God help anyone who tried to get a word in edgewise, Celine thought. Not that she was complaining. She was quite content to just listen.

  Ann signed them into the inn ledger and produced a couple of keys. “You’re in the Rose Room,” she informed Celine. “You, Julia, get the Lilac Room.”

  She handed Julia a key and gestured toward the corridor. “Both rooms are down that way. The only other room there is the Garden Room. That’s occupied as well, so you’ll have some company.”

  Celine murmured her thanks and was about to pick up her bag when Stuart stopped her with a smile. “Allow me,” he said. He grabbed her bag and Julia’s. “I’m afraid we’re short-staffed this week. No bellhop. Just Ann, me, the cook, a new cleaning woman, Rosa, and the other cleaning staff. But we’ll do our best to make you comfortable.”

  “There’s a fresh pot of coffee and refreshments in the dining room when you’re ready,” Ann added. “Do help yourselves.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  In the Revere Garden Inn’s dining room, Celine had just selected a pot of apricot preserves to go with her blueberry bread when Julia entered the room.

  The former fed picked up a plate and surveyed the spread. “What do you make of it all?”

  The question clearly wasn’t about the food. It was about the bombshell Penny Hoskins had lobbied at them. Celine pulled a chair out for herself and waited until Julia had helped herself to a muffin and joined her at the oval dinner table.

  “Dirck must have known he was risking his life calling in that tip. Why else would he have gone to such trouble to conceal his identity and his location?” Mailand had told them Dirck had been using a burner app on his phone to contact the FBI.

  Julia buttered her muffin, but her eyes, as she took her first bite, remained on Celine.

  “I’m convinced Dirck knew exactly where The Concert is. He wasn’t lying to the FBI. And he must have realized that calling in that tip would be like drawing blood in shark-infested waters.”

  “Meaning . . . ?” Julia frowned.

  “Meaning that whoever Duarte and Bramer double-crossed has been on the lookout for the art. This individual doesn’t have the Vermeer. Dirck does—or did. And he didn’t reveal its location”—what in the name of heaven had her employer meant that it was hiding in plain sight?—“Whoever called Penny is just trying to palm off a forgery.”

  “That’s a possibility.” Julia took another bite of her muffin and chewed thoughtfully. “Or maybe it was Grayson trying to capitalize on what he has.”

  “You think he’d risk his life to do that? He’s running scared.” Celine had no proof of this other than her own strong feeling that this was the case. “And I doubt he has the Vermeer.” Nothing anybody said would make her doubt that.

  Celine wasn’t sure if the Vermeer was in Paso Robles. She strongly suspected that it was. But she wasn’t sure. She was absolutely certain, though, that Grayson didn’t have it.

  “I still think Penny’s tip is worth pursuing,” Julia said. “It could lead somewhere.”

  “It might,” Celine agreed. She ate the last bite of her blueberry bread and helped herself to another slice. The bread was delicious, and she was unusually ravenous this afternoon. Her hand hovered over the pot of apricot preserves, then moved on to the jar of strawberry preserves.

  “But I don’t think it’ll lead to Grayson.” She spread the strawberry jam on her slice of bread and licked the spoon.

  Julia’s only response was a sigh of resignation.

  “We do need to find him, though,” she said a few minutes later. “Find Grayson, and we’ll be one step closer to finding Dirck’s killers. And, if you’re right, nabbing his killers will bring us one step closer to identifying the mastermind behind the Gardner Museum heist.”

  The word “General” fluttered across Celine’s mind. It was accompanied by an image of the finial. The name “Napoleon” followed it. Napoleon had risen to the rank of general, she thought—only to realize her mind was wandering.

  These words and images obviously meant nothing. Celine pushed them to the back of her mind and forced herself to concentrate on Grayson.

  “He’s in Boston, that much is clear.” Special Agent Markham had confirmed that. “Holed up in a church, I’m pretty sure.” A word surfaced in her consciousness.

  Celine repeated it. “Sanctuary.”

  Julia set her mug down. “You mean the sort of church that provides sanctuary to illegal aliens? There are at least two that I know of. The Old South Church on Boylston Street and Bethel AME Church.”

  She helped herself to a hard-boiled egg. “But there’s got to be others.”

  Not that kind of church, Celine thought. Not that kind of sanctuary. But before she could unravel the ideas her intuition was throwing up, a bright voice interrupted them.

  “Churches? Did I hear you mention churches?”

  A slim woman about Celine’s age stood at the doorway, an inquisitive expression on her face.

  Celine took in the woman’s sensual figure leaning against the doorway, lips parted in a slight smile, head thrown back. How long had she been standing there?

  Celine turned to see Julia’s startled eyes on her. The same question must have crossed her friend’s mind.

  “A passenger on our flight was telling us about a church.” Julia glanced over her shoulder at the woman. “A must-see place, according to her. But we can’t for the life of us remember the name.”

  “There are plenty of churches here that are rich in history and worth visiting.”

  The newcomer sashayed in, walked past a display of tourist brochures, and pulled out a map.

  She handed it to Julia.

  “There’s the Old South Church that your friend was mentioning.” She pulled out a chair next to Celine’s. “I’m Lillian, by the way.” She smiled; her eyes, strangely wide, unblinking, roving over Celine’s features as though taking their measure. “In the Garden Room.”

  “That makes us neighbors, then.” Celine forced herself to smile. There was nothing overtly suspicious about Lillian. She seemed friendly enough. But something was putting Celine on edge.

  It was probably just social awkwardness and her usual inability to warm up to strangers, she told herself. Celine had never been as vivacious as her mother. But what little social ability she’d possessed had vanished when her parents had died. Celine had withdrawn into herself, and never quite recovered.

  “What other churches would you recommend, Lillian?” She forced the words out of her mouth.

  “Depends on what you’re looking for.” Lillian’s gaze shifted toward Julia. But the former fed was too busy buttering up another muffin to respond.

  In the silence that followed, Celine perused her mind. What kind of church were they looking for?

  The kind that Grayson would be comfortable in. A church ready to extend a hand to anyone genuinely in need. Not to make a political statement, but because it was the Christian thing to do.

  Where kindness ruled and traditional values mattered.

  She had no intention of revealing any of this to Lillian.

  So the silence dragged on, heavy with the weight of Lillian’s disregarded remark—a casual, barely voiced question that nevertheless demanded an answer.

  “Trinity Church has architecture worth seeing,” Lillian finally offered. “Old North Church and Leonard have gardens, if that’s more your style.”

  An old church, Celine thought.

  She must have spoken aloud, for Lillian immediately s
aid, “Well, First Church on Marlborough Street is ancient. It was founded in 1630.”

  “Old North Church would be worth a visit, too.” Ann Revere had poked her head in. “It was founded in 1722. Paul Revere was a bell-ringer there.”

  She smiled at her guests. “I’m glad to see you’re getting to know each other. Lillian’s been here a few days, so she might be able to help you plan your stay.” She glanced across at Lillian. “You know, they might like King’s Chapel on Tremont Street.”

  Ann turned back to Julia. “Then there’s Park Street Church.”

  Julia smiled, nodded, then looked at Celine. “Do any of these sound familiar?”

  Her question reminded Celine of the fiction they’d concocted for Lillian’s benefit. But Julia was also asking whether any of the churches named had struck a psychic chord within her.

  Unfortunately, they had not. But potentially, they all fit the bill.

  “They all sound interesting,” she said.

  Close to Belle, Sister Mary Catherine’s voice rustled in her ear.

  Celine’s eyes widened. Now that was a clue. “I think the church Whatsername mentioned might be close to the Gardner Museum.”

  Lillian smiled widely. “That narrows it down quite a bit.” Her eyes met Ann’s. “An old church near the Gardner Museum. We should be able to help with that.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “You must be Celine.” Annabelle Curtis’s fingers lightly touched Celine’s cheek. “Special Agent Markham”—Annabelle’s gaze flickered toward the federal agent—“said you needed to talk with me. It’s about Simon Underwood, isn’t it?”

  Celine nodded. In the face of Annabelle’s manner—warm, compassionate, maternal—the hard rock of grief Celine had been holding onto dissolved. Her lips trembled; she felt her eyes moisten.

  Annabelle enfolded Celine in her arms. “You poor child! You’re too young to be dealing with death.”

  In the living room, while Celine clung to Annabelle, unable to restrain her tears, Julia quietly introduced herself. “How did you know?” the former fed wanted to know. As far as they knew, Blake Markham hadn’t yet broken the news of Underwood’s death to their host.

  “I’ve been worried about him,” Annabelle said. “I haven’t heard from him in some time.” She exhaled heavily. “Then when Special Agent Markham called to let me know Celine was in town, I knew something was wrong. Simon would have let me know she was here.”

  “He spoke of her?” Julia asked.

  Celine felt Annabelle nod. The older woman held her even closer. “My younger brother—also a Simon—always wanted a daughter. Had he lived to have one, she’d have been about Celine’s age.

  “Celine was such a quick study at the winery, interested in art, Simon Underwood was truly impressed. ‘Duarte would’ve liked her,’ he told me. ‘He’d have enjoyed taking her to the Gardner.’ Belle’s museum, my brother used to call it. Or sometimes just the old girl.”

  “The old girl?” Celine wiped her tears.

  Annabelle smiled. “The boys liked to think the museum was their girlfriend. It was just a joke. The Gardner Museum was the woman they lived for.

  “That’s how I know”—her face hardened—“that Simon and Earl Bramer and all of those boys who worked there would never have stolen any of the museum’s treasures.”

  Tell her I’m sorry. The voice in her ear belonged to Dirck.

  Sorry for what? Celine wondered. Luring Simon Duarte into a crime he’d otherwise never have committed?

  Another thought surfaced. The finial couldn’t have been stolen for Annabelle. Blake Markham had already filled her in on Annabelle’s theory—that any involvement Simon Duarte and Earl Bramer might have had in the heist would have been to protect the art, not to steal it.

  Had the pair taken the finial to prevent its theft?

  Was the woman the finial needed to go back to the Gardner Museum? Not Annabelle, but Belle’s museum—the museum both men had loved.

  Celine cleared her throat, her eyes sought Julia’s. Don’t show her the photograph of the finial, she wanted to say. But before the words could come out, Julia had pulled the photograph out from her purse and was handing it to Annabelle.

  “Did your brother ever show you this bronze eagle? Did he ever bring it by to your house?”

  Annabelle looked at the photograph, then up at Julia.

  “No he did not,” she replied evenly. “It’s an insult to Simon’s memory to even suggest such a thing.”

  Tell her I’m sorry. Dirck’s voice was insistent.

  “The finial was found among Dirck’s things, Annabelle,” Celine said. “And we know that Simon Underwood and Dirck and your brother all knew each from taking Frank van Mieris’s course at BU.”

  Annabelle drew back. “My Simon never knew a Dirck Thins, my dear.”

  “Your brother never mentioned Dirck Thins?” Celine was having a hard time believing this.

  “If he had, I’m sure he would’ve mentioned it. I first heard of Dirck when Simon Underwood went west. And by that time”—a shadow of pain passed across her features—“Simon and Earl were already gone.”

  Celine’s gaze flew toward Julia’s. Her friend looked as stunned as she felt. Was Annabelle so furious with Dirck she refused to acknowledge his existence?

  Somehow that didn’t make sense. And Celine hated to believe the older woman was lying.

  The only person who didn’t seem at all surprised was Special Agent Blake Markham.

  “What makes you so sure Duarte and Bramer knew your employer, Celine?” Blake leaned forward to ask. “Is that what Simon Underwood told you?”

  Tell her I’m sorry. The voice was driving her crazy.

  Celine forced herself to calm down. What had Simon Underwood said?

  “Underwood claimed never to have known or heard of Simon Duarte and Earl Bramer,” Julia explained dryly. “He was so convincing I believed him—until I did some digging.”

  “That’s when you found out about Frank van Mieris, I presume,” Blake said.

  Celine shook her head.

  “No, Simon told us about him. He talked about having met Dirck and John through Frank van Mieris. They were trying to discover how Vermeer created his paintings.”

  Annabelle nodded. “Simon and Earl were fascinated by what they learned in that course. They could never stop talking about it.”

  “It was Dirck and John,” Celine continued, “who, apparently, discovered that a tracing on oil paper impressed upon canvas could produce a tonal image of a composition—an image without lines.”

  “That wasn’t Dirck!” Annabelle’s objection sounded like an explosion in Celine’s ears. “Simon and Earl had that insight. The revelation made them heady! They couldn’t believe they’d finally cracked Vermeer’s secret.” She smiled sadly. “I can still remember them talking about it.”

  Tell her I’m sorry, Celine.

  “If Simon Underwood was lying about the one thing,” Blake interjected. “Not knowing Duarte and Bramer, that’s to say, couldn’t he have been lying about the other? What’s to say he didn’t concoct some fiction about how Dirck Thins and Mechelen and he met?”

  Celine shook her head. Simon Underwood hadn’t been lying.

  Not about everything. There’d been a kernel of truth somewhere.

  “He sounded pretty convincing,” Julia insisted. “They all knew each other from their Boston days.”

  Dirck’s voice buzzed in Celine’s ear again. And again.

  Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her, Celine. Tell her.

  Celine clapped her palms to her ears, willing Dirck to stop. Make him stop, Sister Mary Catherine, she pleaded with her guardian angel.

  Convey his message, Celine, the nun advised her.

  “Annabelle.” Celine gazed into the older woman’s eyes. “Are you sure your brother never mentioned Dirck Thins?”

  She waited. But Annabelle continued to look blank—and mildly puzzled, as the silence grew.

  “
Because Dirck keeps saying he’s sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” Annabelle stared.

  Celine subsided. She didn’t know. Somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind, it occurred to Celine that it was fortunate Annabelle hadn’t asked her how she knew.

  Talk to me, Dirck. Why are you sorry?

  But the voice in her head had faded. And Sister Mary Catherine’s explanation was too vague to mean anything. She repeated it, nonetheless.

  “He feels responsible.” If only she could be more specific than that. “Dirck feels responsible for what happened to your brother.”

  “How could he be?” Unless she was an excellent actress, Annabelle’s astonishment was authentic. “He didn’t know my Simon.”

  “Are you sure?” Julia’s voice broke the silence.

  They were beginning to sound like a couple of broken records, Celine thought. But Julia wasn’t just questioning the veracity of Annabelle’s memory, she was handing her proof—the bundle of photographs they’d discovered in Dirck’s safe at the Delft.

  “They were taken on the farm Dirck grew up on in the Boston area.” Julia tapped the bundle. “And there’s a photograph of you.”

  “So there is.” Annabelle stared at the image of her younger self. “Wonder where he got these from?”

  “From your brother, perhaps.” Julia’s voice was soft.

  She sat—still as a statue—as Annabelle looked up, blue eyes blazing.

  “We believe your brother might still be alive.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  Annabelle turned toward Blake, but he ignored the question in her eyes.

  “Does anything else about those photographs seem familiar?” he asked instead.

  Annabelle sifted through the photographs. “Mom and Dad.” Her voice caught. Her eyes remained glued to the picture. “This went missing from my album about the time Simon died. I remember looking through its pages after Underwood broke the news to me.”

  She held up another photograph. “Appleway Farm.”

  “That’s where Dirck grew up,” Julia informed her. “According to Simon Underwood.”