Master of Illusion

by Nupur Tustin

  Annabelle’s head jerked up. “Why would he tell you that? Appleway Farm was my parents’ farm. Simon and I grew up there. Earl’s parents owned a farm not too far from ours. That’s how we knew each other.”

  She frowned. “You’re saying . . .” Annabelle paused. She lowered her gaze to the photographs in her hand. “You can’t be saying . . .”

  Julia sat back. “Frankly, at this point, I’m not sure what we’re saying. Dirck’s identity checks out. He was born in the United States, his family left for Canada when he was a young boy—”

  “But Dirck never spoke about living in Canada,” Celine burst out. “He did mention growing up on a farm. Even I knew that. Not the name of the farm, of course—not until Simon Underwood gave us the whole story—but—”

  “And he returned to the United States as a young man,” Julia finished. Her head swiveled toward Blake. “You can corroborate this.”

  “No.” Blake looked down at his hands. “Look, after I spoke with Annabelle, I began to suspect . . .” He drew in a prolonged breath. “I couldn’t get over the similarities in background. Duarte and Bramer had been art students, too. But they wanted to return to their roots—to farming.”

  Just like Dirck—and John, Celine thought. Interested in art, but not good enough, or so they thought, to make a living at it. She was beginning to feel sick.

  “Annabelle said hearing about Dirck and John Mechelen reminded her of her brothers. Two Boston boys making it in the West. Just like her brother and Earl had wanted to.”

  “But Dirck’s identity,” Julia protested.

  “Doesn’t check out,” Blake interjected. “I did a little digging, too. Dirck Thins did not return to the United States. He never left Canada. The man who was Dirck Thins died a few years ago in Canada. Of natural causes,” he hastened to explain as a collective gasp greeted the news he provided.

  “So, then. . .” Julia began.

  “Simon survived.” Annabelle’s face was white. “But he let me believe . . . he was gone all these years?”

  “That’s what he’s sorry for.” Celine finally understood. “He didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “A church connected to the Gardner?” Penny Hoskins’ voice crackled over the speakerphone as she repeated Celine’s question. “The museum isn’t associated with any church. Never has been. Why do you ask?”

  Celine exchanged a glance with Julia. They were seated on the queen-sized bed in the Lilac room where they’d spent a sleepless night mulling over what they’d learned from Annabelle and Blake.

  Celine was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that Dirck Thins—the father-like figure she’d come to know seven years ago—was actually Simon Duarte, the man who’d absconded with the Gardner’s eagle finial and its Vermeer.

  Dirck—Celine couldn’t bring herself to think of him as Simon Duarte—had, by his own admission, been in possession of The Concert. The finial as well—which he’d told her, the day he was murdered, had to be returned. But Celine was reluctant to believe he’d taken anything else.

  “Then what do you think he and Bramer sold to fund their getaway?” Blake had demanded.

  Not a question Celine had been able to answer, and she’d put it aside for the moment. But she was beginning to come around to Julia’s view that Grayson Pike—the last person aside from Dirck’s killers to have seen her employer—might have some inkling of the Concert’s whereabouts.

  Might even, she had to concede, be the person calling the Gardner with his offer to return it.

  “Celine? Julia?” Celine’s iPhone crackled to life. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, we are, Penny.” It was Julia who responded. “We’ve been able to confirm that the tip about the Vermeer came from Dirck Thins, Celine’s employer in Paso Robles. He was murdered last week before he could divulge any more information to the FBI—”

  “Oh, my God, that’s awful! I had no idea. I am so sorry.”

  “Penny, the last person to see him alive,” Julia went on, “was Grayson Pike—”

  “And you think he might have the Vermeer now?” Penny sounded breathless and uncertain.

  “It’s a possibility,” Julia said. “We believe he’s back in Boston.”

  “Well, then, that would dovetail with the tip we received. I’m glad I trusted my instincts on that.”

  That elicited an amused smile from Julia.

  “We have information Grayson might be hiding in a church somewhere.”

  “Oh I see! But what makes you think it would have to be a church associated with the museum?”

  Julia hesitated. “When you said yesterday that Grayson and Duarte had been employed at about the same time, we surmised the two might have been close. So Celine and I paid Duarte’s sister a visit.” She paused.

  Anyone else would have assumed the Gardner connection had come from Annabelle. But not Penny.

  “And . . . ?” Penny’s voice rose a little in anticipation.

  “We wanted to find out more about Grayson,” Celine spoke up. “Churches that he frequented, that kind of thing. But Annabelle said that neither Simon nor his friends were particularly religious. She did mention that they were fascinated by an old church somehow connected with the Gardner.”

  Other than the last five words, nothing Celine had said was an outright lie. Duarte and his friends had been fascinated by an old church.

  “She couldn’t recall the name,” Julia added. “We figured you might know.”

  A rush of air sounded through the iPhone’s speaker. “I wish I could help you, but I have absolutely no idea what church that could be. Of course, there are several in the vicinity. That doesn’t narrow it down very much, does it?”

  “No,” Julia agreed with a rueful smile, “but it’s a place to start.”

  “I could have one of our staff look through the archives. There might be something in Mrs. Gardner’s letters and documents . . .” Penny’s voice trailed off.

  “Whatever you can do,” Julia said. “Meanwhile, we’ll do some legwork of our own and see what we can come up with.”

  “Well, it’s got to be a church close by. In fact, that would make perfect sense, given—” Penny interrupted herself. “I’m sorry I shouldn’t be revealing any more details. It could jeopardize, you know. . .”

  “Understood,” Celine said. “And thanks for your help.”

  But Penny didn’t seem ready to end the call.

  “No, thank you. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have our finial back. And it looks like our luck is finally changing.” Penny paused. “Would you two like to be here tomorrow when . . . ?” Another pause.

  Celine looked at Julia—was Penny trying to tell them something? Julia nodded and mouthed, yes.

  “Absolutely,” Celine spoke into the mouthpiece. “At what time?”

  “Early morning,” Penny said. “If you can make it.”

  Julia was out of the bed and on her feet by the time Celine disconnected.

  “I don’t want to jeopardize anything, but I think you’d better call Blake.”

  Blake scanned the Excel sheet on his laptop as Ella rattled off the information she’d dug up in the last half-hour.

  “There are only three churches that fit in the Fens area.” She tapped the laptop screen. “But if we extended our search to the Back Bay area, we’d have five more to look into.”

  Blake’s gaze scrolled down, obediently following her finger. Ella had typed in tidbits of information next to the relevant churches. Saint Cecilia Roman Catholic Church had been built for Irish maids and coachmen. The Holy Trinity Orthodox Church had been founded in 1910 by immigrants from Russia and the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

  The phone rang just as they reached the end of the Excel worksheet. Blake was about to pick up the receiver when he heard the muted scuff of Ella’s chair scraping against the carpet.

  “It’s Celine,” he told his assistant, indicating with two raised fingers that he wanted he
r to remain in the room. “Blake Markham,” he announced himself into the receiver as Ella subsided into her chair.

  “It’s going down tomorrow,” Celine informed him. “We thought you’d want to know.”

  Blake knew instantly what she was referring to, and to say he was thrilled by the news would be putting it mildly.

  “Absolutely!” he agreed fervently. His men were getting tired of staking out the Round House, and in a few days, if nothing went down, he’d have to call off the surveillance. “Are you sure, though?”

  It almost seemed too good to be true.

  “You’ve interpreted your psychic feel . . .” he stopped himself. He wasn’t quite sure what the terminology was, but even he realized referring to Celine’s intuitions as “feelings” wouldn’t be kosher.

  Celine laughed. “I have it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “You mean, Penny?” Blake was incredulous. Even his assistant, resourceful as she was, wouldn’t have been able to pull that off. His eyes met Ella’s. Tomorrow, he mouthed to her.

  Ella frowned. “You sure about this?” She kept her voice low.

  Yup, Blake mouthed back, pressing the receiver closer to his ear.

  “She wants us there,” Celine was saying. “And from what she revealed, we’re right about the hand-off being where it is—not far from the museum. In fact, that’s why she’s certain Grayson must be hiding in a church nearby.”

  “You talked about that?” What he really wanted to know was whether Penny had divulged anything useful about Grayson’s whereabouts. He put Celine on speakerphone. He wanted Ella to hear the conversation verbatim.

  “Yes, but she couldn’t be very much more specific than that.” Celine sounded disconsolate. Blake was about to tell her about Ella’s research when Celine went on: “Penny couldn’t think of any church associated with the Gardner.”

  “Wait, you’re looking for a church connected to the Gardner?” Blake pulled his laptop closer and peered down the rows of the Excel worksheet. “You didn’t mention that yesterday.”

  “I didn’t realize that’s what my guardian angel was trying to convey to me. I thought we were looking for a church near the museum. But I think now it must be connected to Belle Gardner—or more likely her museum—in some way.”

  “A church connected to the Gardner?” Ella was smiling. “That’s a no-brainer.”

  Blake’s head jerked up. “What do you mean?” He leaned into the mouthpiece. “Celine, Ella might be able to help. Go on, Ella.” He directed the mouthpiece at his assistant.

  “The church you’re looking for is Old South Church. The “new” building—if you can call it that—was designed by Willard Sears, the architect Isabella Gardner hired to design the Gardner Museum.”

  “That sounds like it, Celine. Old South Church is in the Back Bay area, less than two miles from the Gardner. And if they were designed by the same man, there’s the Gardner connection you were looking for.”

  “But . . .” Celine didn’t seem convinced.

  “It fits on all counts, Celine.” Blake glanced at his watch. “Look I’ve gotta run. Does Julia have her laptop? Yes? Great, I’ll email you the list of churches Ella narrowed down for us”—he pulled up Outlook and attached the workbook—“in Fenway and the Back Bay area. But I think you’ll find Old South Church is the one. If your information is correct, that’s probably where Grayson is.”

  By the time the call was over, Blake had sent Julia and Celine the information. He glanced at his watch again. There was work to be done if they wanted to get the bastards trying to cash in on the Gardner’s desperation.

  At two hundred and fifty million dollars, it was the most outrageous con Blake would have the satisfaction of putting the kibosh on. And there was absolutely no doubt in Blake’s mind that it was a con.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The bus dropped them off at Copley Square. Celine and Julia would have to trace their steps back on Boylston Street to get to Old South Church. But directly in front of them, rose the ancient spires of Trinity Church.

  It was apparently designed in the shape of a Greek cross, but to Celine’s untrained eyes, the structure bore a greater resemblance to a small European-style castle or fortress. The façade was a brown square topped with a tower in the center and two smaller ones at the sides. A couple of slender turrets hugged the center tower.

  She glanced down at the Revere Inn notepaper clutched in her right fist. Trinity was on the list of churches Blake Markham’s assistant had gathered for them.

  “We’re here,” Julia said. “Want to drop in and see what we can find out?”

  “Yes, thanks.” As they headed down a path toward the three arches of the façade, Celine tried to identify the presence she was sensing. It didn’t seem to belong to Grayson. Yet it had directed her attention to the church.

  Had Grayson come here, and been turned away? Had he sought shelter here for a brief time, and then moved on?

  More importantly, would anyone respond to their questions? The knot in her stomach intensified.

  A figure sweeping the section of yard up front glanced up as they approached. “Visiting?” He greeted them with a pleasant smile. “You’ll want to go around to the Clarendon Street entrance.”

  The friendly, informal greeting eased Celine’s tension. She returned his smile as she and Julia followed the path his arm indicated.

  “Let me handle this,” Julia whispered as they sprinted up the steps, walked past a series of columns that evoked classical Grecian architecture, and approached a smiling greeter with straw-colored hair and rounded shoulders.

  “Welcome to Trinity? Are you here for a tour?”

  “Actually, we’re looking for a friend,” Julia began. “A recent member of the parish, I believe. Grayson Pike? We were supposed to join him here, but . . .” She looked around helplessly. “You wouldn’t happen to know if he’s already arrived, would you?”

  The man shook his head, apologetically. “I’m sorry, the name’s not familiar.” He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. “Our Verger might be able to help you. Would you like me to take you to his office?”

  Julia’s eyes brightened. She was quite the actress, Celine thought, amused.

  “Yes, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  Outside the Verger’s office, the greeter knocked on the door, poked his head in, and called out a muffled message. He waited a moment, then returned to them.

  “Patrick will be with you in a few minutes,” he informed them, seeming relieved to be able to wash his hands off them.

  A portly Hispanic man, about three inches shorter than Celine, emerged from the office.

  “Are you the visitors Bill was telling me about.” He stretched out a plump hand. “Patrick Reyes, Verger.”

  “We’re hoping you can help us find a friend of ours,” Julia responded. “We were supposed to meet him here”—she glanced at Celine—“we think.”

  Reyes raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

  Julia slumped her shoulders. “Trouble is we don’t remember the name of the church he was so excited to show us. And we can’t get through on his cell phone.”

  Reyes looked amused. “Well, let’s see if we can’t help you. What is your friend’s name?”

  “Grayson Pike.”

  Reyes frowned. “Name sounds familiar.”

  “He’s about medium height, late fifties.” Celine paused. “Looks a bit like Liam Neeson. Not quite as good looking, though.”

  Reyes burst out laughing. “A man like that, I would remember for sure. But, no, we don’t have any members or staff by that name. But—” He glanced over his shoulder. “Give me a minute. That name does sound familiar.”

  He headed back into his office.

  “Good instincts, Celine,” Julia murmured. “Looks like we’re getting somewhere.”

  Reyes emerged from his office again, carrying a sheet of paper.

  “Is this the man you’re looking for?” He held the sheet out to
them.

  “Yes!” Celine gasped. “But where did you get that?” It wasn’t a photograph Reyes had in his hands, but a sketch. The kind used by law enforcement. Not a perfect likeness, but showing enough of a resemblance to trigger recognition.

  The sketch she’d been instrumental in providing, and which Detective Mailand had shared with Blake.

  Reyes shrugged. “Seems your friend is very popular. There was someone else around just this morning, asking for him.”

  “Tall guy in a suit, dark hair, walks like he’s God’s gift to womankind?” Julia was describing Blake. Although it seemed odd he’d leave a composite behind.

  “Nope. Short, dumpy, beefy hands.” Reyes shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll never forget those hands. Raw and red and huge.”

  Celine swallowed. She’d never forget them either. Those were the hands that had taken Dirck’s life.

  “Were you given a number to call in case he came by?” Julia asked.

  If Reyes noticed the change in her manner from flustered tourist to interrogating FBI agent, he didn’t comment on it.

  “On the other side of the sketch.” Reyes turned the paper over.

  Outside Trinity Church, Celine and Julia found a secluded bench on Copley Square. A solitary pigeon fluttered between the bronze Tortoise and Hare dedicated to the Boston Marathon runners. Diagonally across from them, a couple sat on the steps of the Copley Square Fountain.

  While Julia called Blake’s phone and hers to organize a three-way call, Celine glanced down at the phone number scrawled on the back of the composite Dirck’s killer had left behind at the church. The Trinity’s Verger had expressed no hesitation in handing the paper over to them.

  “We’re always glad to help. But we don’t have the resources to keep track of all our visitors and reunite them with their loved ones.”

  That the composite she’d been instrumental in providing had found its way to Dirck’s killers didn’t surprise Celine. The FBI intern responsible for leaking the details of their flight must also have been responsible for this particular leak.