Master of Illusion

by Nupur Tustin

  But it had been especially chilling to see the phone number they’d left behind. Did it mean anything? Or had it been left behind as a veiled threat?

  We know where you are. We know what you’re doing.

  Celine shivered.

  Why had Dirck’s killer left behind the phone number of the Revere Garden Inn? The few guests at the Inn didn’t include anyone with hands of the sort Verger Reyes had described.

  A muffled “Hello!” called her attention back. Blake Markham had joined the conference call.

  “We have some disturbing news,” Julia began without preamble. She kept her voice low, her eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. “It looks like Grayson Pike’s gotten himself on a kill list.”

  “This isn’t good,” Blake said when he’d heard Julia out. In the background, the faint sound of a pen repeatedly tapping a hard surface came through. “This is definitely not good.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Julia said, exchanging a glance with Celine, “is how they’re following so closely our logic on this issue. They know we think Grayson’s holed up at a church. They’ve honed in on the same churches, it looks like. We’ll need to confirm that.”

  “And they know where you’re staying,” Blake said. “That’s especially troubling.”

  “That would suggest there’s a plant at the Revere Garden Inn,” Julia said. “But how could anyone have even known—?” She glanced at Celine again, puzzled.

  “The FBI intern.” The answer had come to Celine instantly. “She knew when we were arriving, right? Could she also have known where we were staying?”

  “Damn!” Blake cursed. “I should’ve booked you somewhere else the minute we realized she was the leak.”

  “It’s not too late to do it now,” Julia said. “Is it?” She eyed Celine.

  “No!” Celine’s denial was sharper than she’d intended it to be. She wasn’t going to be scared away by Dirck’s killers. She didn’t care how powerful they were—or thought they were; she’d confront them. “Let’s stay and flush out the leak. I’m willing to bet it’s Lillian.”

  “She overheard you . . . talking . . . ?” Blake sounded perplexed.

  “No, Blake. The Reveres, their staff, and the few guests they have are all aware Celine and I are interested in churches—churches close to the Gardner Museum.”

  “Which would include all the ones you’re looking into,” Blake agreed. In her mind’s eye, Celine could see him slowly nodding his head. “Any particular reason to find this Lillian especially suspicious?”

  “Just a hunch,” Celine said. Or maybe it was that Lillian reminded Celine of every bitchy, underhanded girl she’d encountered growing up. There was something about Lillian—something insidious—that was the quintessence of mean girl.

  But Blake accepted her rationale easily enough. “Let me go to the Revere Garden Inn and put out some feelers,” he said.

  “Go easy, Blake,” Julia warned. “If it is Lillian, we don’t want to tip her off. Not too soon, anyway.”

  He laughed. “Not to worry, Julia. This isn’t my first rodeo.” But he didn’t seem particularly offended.

  Celine was relieved. She liked them both—Blake and Julia—and she was glad they were getting along just fine.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  It was lunchtime at the Revere Garden Inn when Blake arrived there. And most of the guests with the exception of Lillian were in the inn’s Victorian dining room.

  “Would you care to join our guests?” Ann Revere peered anxiously up at him—the FBI badge and his own appearance causing their predictable nervous reaction. “I don’t think anyone’s looking for a missing friend . . . Well, Celine and Julia might be . . .”

  “They did mention a friend,” her husband agreed. “But I don’t think she’s missing.” He turned to Blake. “Of course, they’re not here either.”

  “That’s okay.” Blake gave them what he hoped was a friendly, reassuring smile. He indicated the parlor. “I think I’ll wait there, if that’s alright, and meet your guests one at a time.”

  None of the mostly elderly guests who joined him in the quaint, old-fashioned parlor had reported a missing person. And no one expressed anything more than polite interest when Blake casually mentioned that the FBI might have a line on the missing individual and were looking to provide the information to whoever was scouring the city in search of them.

  That didn’t surprise Blake. Celine had said she suspected Lillian, and he trusted her instincts. That Lillian wasn’t at the inn was mildly suspicious as well. But then again she was a young woman, probably disinclined to be indoors when she could be out and about.

  He stood up to go; he’d leave a message with the Reveres for Lillian. With any luck, she’d take the bait.

  “Special Agent Markham.” The sultry voice caught him off-guard.

  He glanced up, felt his eyes widen and his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed once, twice, a third time while he stared at the curvy brunette draped against the doorjamb.

  She smiled. “I’m Lillian.”

  Blake nodded stiffly, watching her sashay in and—without waiting for an invitation—drop gracefully into the couch in front of the window. She leaned back against the pile of cushions. Her lips stretched wider into an inviting smile.

  Off-duty, in a bar someplace, he’d have had no hesitation responding to that smile. On duty, knowing who she was, Blake tamped down the response she elicited in him.

  “What can I do to help you?” Lillian looked up at him.

  “I’m not sure you can.” Blake sat down and, on a whim, plucked the composite of Grayson from his folder. He hadn’t shown it to any of the guests.

  “Is this someone you’re looking for?”

  Her eyes swiveled slowly—too slowly, Blake thought—toward the photo. The nostrils flared. She looked at the composite far longer than was necessary, her body unnecessarily still.

  “What makes you think anyone here is looking for him?” Her head pivoted back toward him as she spoke.

  It was an interesting question. Blake countered with one of his own.

  “I take it you’re not?”

  “No.” The shake of the head and the curt denial came a fraction of a second later than he’d have expected.

  Lillian looked at the photo again, then back at him.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Blake put the composite away.

  “Whoever was looking for him left the number of the Revere Garden Inn.”

  He began to stand up.

  “And . . . ?” Lillian’s voice stopped him.

  Blake looked at her. “And now that we know where he is, his friend might want to be reunited with him.”

  He made for the door.

  “Special Agent Markham”—he turned instantly—“I don’t know if Ann mentioned it to you, but there are a couple of our guests you haven’t spoken with.” Lillian was leaning forward now. “I’d be happy to pass on a message.”

  Blake smiled down at her, feeling more in control now than he had when she’d first walked in.

  “No need. I can leave my card with the Reveres in case the other guests want to get in touch with me.”

  At the corner of Dartmouth and Boylston, Old South Church was larger and even more imposing than its neighbor three-quarters of a block away. The black doors at the foot of the campanile were thrown open.

  As she and Julia waited for the short line of people before them to go in, Celine craned her neck back to get a good look at the campanile. But following its soaring lines skyward was a dizzying experience, and she quickly lowered her head.

  “I think we go official this time,” Julia whispered as they stepped through the doorway.

  “Probably the best way,” Celine agreed. Something about the church’s atmosphere suggested its staff would be less accommodating and far less forthcoming than that of Trinity Church.

  At the reception, a black woman with short hair glanced up as she and Julia approached her desk
.

  “What’s this about?” she asked, eyes widening as Julia held up her badge.

  “Has anyone been here this morning asking about this man?” Julia held out the composite of Grayson that they’d retrieved from Trinity’s Verger.

  The receptionist—Tamara Williams, according to the brass nametag pinned to her jacket—stared at the composite, then at Julia’s badge, and then shifted her gaze back to the composite.

  She pushed her chair back, rising quickly. “Let me get someone to help you,” she said, and disappeared behind a door.

  “Notice, how we didn’t get invited in this time.” Julia put her badge away.

  “I doubt posing as hapless tourists would’ve got us back there, either.” Celine looked at her. “Does it matter, though?”

  “No, it just means we won’t get very far here,” Julia replied as the receptionist returned with an overweight, long-haired, white woman.

  “Kayleigh Byrne.” The newcomer stretched her hand out. But her hazel eyes held no warmth. “I’m the Interim Associate Minister here. How may I help you?”

  Julia repeated her question.

  Kayleigh regarded her, a watchful, wary expression on her face.

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  Julia’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. Celine didn’t blame her. Kayleigh Byrne was treating them as though they were the enemy. When all they were trying to do was their job.

  “It’s about a very dangerous man on the track of another man who’s about to be very dead if we don’t find him in time, Ms. Byrne.”

  “We did have someone inquire after him,’ Kayleigh conceded. “But we didn’t tell him anything.”

  “Because you didn’t have anything to say?” Julia asked. “Or because you weren’t willing to?”

  The Associate Minister rolled her eyes and expelled an exasperated sigh. “Look, it’s not like we hide fugitives or anything like that.”

  “I’m not suggesting you do,” Julia countered. “But this man”—she tapped the composite—“could be in a great deal of danger. Is he here? Has he ever been?”

  Kayleigh Byrne ignored the question. “Why do you think he’d come here?”

  “Because”—it was Celine who answered the question—“we have reason to believe he’s at a church with a connection to the Gardner Museum. Your church is the only one that fits the bill.”

  Kayleigh Byrne seemed to see Celine for the first time.

  “If that’s the case, we’re not the only church you should be looking at.”

  Celine was about to call Blake—they needed to find a second church with a connection to the Gardner Museum—when her phone rang.

  “It is Lillian,” Blake said the moment she answered.

  She cupped her hand over her phone. “Blake,” she mouthed to Julia. “Seems we were right about Lillian.”

  “No doubt about it, she’s the plant,” Blake was saying.

  “Did you arrest her?”

  A low, amused rumble of laughter greeted her question.

  “I wish I could have.”

  She put the phone on speaker, listening closely as he explained.

  “So what now?” Julia lowered her head to the mouthpiece.

  “I’ve asked the Reveres to make sure the Beech Room is empty—the number you gave me connects to that room. The phone’s going to be disconnected. And they’ll let me know if any of the guests ask to be moved up there.

  “But Lillian knows the cat’s out of the bag, and she may not try anything. Anything that’ll tip us off any further, that’s to say. But I’d advise the usual precautions. Be aware of your surroundings. Don’t cue anyone in to your plans or whereabouts. Watch for anyone following you. And be careful not to take any calls on the Revere Inn lines.”

  “Got it,” Celine said. She asked the question she’d originally intended to ask.

  There was a pause.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” Blake said. “I can ask Ella to check again, but . . . I’ll just ask her, okay? If there actually is another church in the city with a Gardner connection, she’ll find out which one it is.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Lunch was over at the Revere Garden Inn by the time Celine and Julia returned, but the table fortunately hadn’t yet been cleared. They’d decided to head back to the inn for a quick bite to eat before researching churches again.

  Old South Church’s Kayleigh Byrne had been tantalizingly unhelpful—throwing out an intriguing possibility but refusing to elaborate on it any further. “You’re the FBI. I think you can figure it out yourselves,” she’d said primly before turning on her heels and walking away.

  “Too bad you can’t get a warrant to force people to talk,” Julia had grumbled again as they settled down in their cab. The conversation with Blake hadn’t put her in a much better mood. “And now I guess using the Revere’s Wi-Fi is out of the question as well.”

  They’d stopped at a Verizon store on the way back to the Inn for a portable Internet device that Julia could plug into her laptop. And now all they needed was lunch.

  “You must be famished,” Ann Revere greeted them with a smile.

  “We are,” Celine told her. “It’s been a long day.”

  “You’re in luck, then. The table hasn’t been cleared yet, so help yourselves.” Ann leaned conspiratorially closer. “There was an FBI agent here,” she informed them.

  Julia looked up, her expression impassive. “No trouble, I hope.”

  “Oh, no.” Ann shook her head. “Apparently someone reported a friend missing and left our number as their contact information.” She cocked her head and regarded them. “It wouldn’t by any chance have been . . . ?” Her voice trailed off as she searched the desk. “He left his card here, if you need to call.”

  “We haven’t lost anyone.” Julia smiled. “Not yet, anyway.”

  They were about to head into the dining room, when the phone rang. Ann answered it, gesturing to them to stay as she listened intently. “It’s for you,” she said, handing the receiver to Celine.

  “Celine? It’s me, Penny.”

  Remembering Blake’s advice, Celine quickly spoke up. “Penny, can I call you—”

  But Penny didn’t seem to have heard.

  “I have some news. As luck would have it—”

  “Penny, please,” Celine tried again. “I’ll need to call you back.”

  “Call me back?” Penny sounded puzzled and . . . hurt? Celine felt terrible, but she had no choice.

  “Yes. I’ll call you back in just a second, okay?”

  Celine took a notepad and pen off the desk and went out to the porch, dialing the number on her cell phone.

  “Sorry about that,” she apologized when she reached Penny.

  “What was that all about?” Penny wanted to know. “I thought you guys needed this urgently and . . .”

  “Prying ears,” Celine spoke softly into the phone. She glanced back into the inn, hoping Ann hadn’t overheard.

  “Oh, I see.” Penny, at least, seemed to understand. “Well, I was looking into Mrs. Gardner’s papers. I assume you know she lived at 152 Beacon.”

  “Yes.” Celine hadn’t been aware of that tidbit. But she didn’t want to have a long conversation about Belle Gardner’s houses.

  “It was a wedding gift from her father. Then later, Jack Gardner bought 150 Beacon. It was to house their growing collection of art. The Gardners decided to remodel and connect both houses.”

  “I see.” Celine pressed the phone closer to her ear.

  “Well, the architect they used was one John Hubbard Sturgis.”

  And Sturgis had built a church—a church in Boston. A church Isabella Gardner herself had been quite fond of.

  Celine rested the Revere Garden Inn’s notepad against the wooden railing surrounding the porch, and hastily scrawled the name of the church on the topmost sheet.

  A surge of excitement rushed through her as she hung up and swept down the hall into the dining room.


  “I think lunch will have to wait, Julia.” She handed Julia the notepad.

  Julia glanced at the pad, her mouth full of roast beef.

  “I guess it will,” she agreed, tearing off the sheet and stuffing it into her purse.

  “But what about lunch?” Ann protested as they dropped the notepad and pen off at the front desk.

  “Sorry, gotta go.”

  Julia and Celine hurried out onto the porch and down the stairs to the curb.

  “I don’t understand it,” Ann stared after her guests.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lillian emerge from the parlor. “Where are they going?”

  “I don’t know.” Ann was still staring out the open front door, bewildered. “They just got back, and they’re off again. Without lunch.”

  When she turned around, Lillian was standing in front of the desk, her fingers on the notepad.

  Ann was about to ask if she needed a sheet of paper, but Lillian just smiled. “I guess I’ll go in for a nap,” she said.

  Chapter Fifty

  “I’m not Greg.” The man Celine had privately dubbed B-aw-ston Greg stretched out his hand. “The name’s Grayson.” His pale blue eyes flickered toward Julia. “But I guess you’d figured that already.”

  Celine nodded. It had taken a moment to recognize the man who’d walked into the Delft a week—it seemed more like an eternity—ago. His frame had shrunk, like a slowly leaking balloon. The faded blue eyes had a haunted look. And a scraggly growth of gray-studded hair covered his chin.

  Out on the street, she wouldn’t have recognized him as the same man.

  He gestured toward the spindle-back Windsor armchairs set against the wall of his tiny hiding place.

  “How’d you find me?” Grayson asked when they’d sat down.

  They were at the Church of the Advent, an Episcopal church on the corner of Brimmer and Mount Vernon Street in Beacon Hill. Learning that Grayson had been a witness in a crime and could prove helpful in bringing the perpetrators to justice, the Rector had reluctantly admitted to Grayson’s presence at the church.