The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

  Looking on were astonished faces and the flashing of camera bulbs. As Connor knelt to see to the motionless Mr. Peale, Elliot craned his neck, stretching to his full height above the crowd, searching for the spot by the oak where she’d stood.

  Empty.

  All had been drawn in to the madness—except for Wren Lockhart. She’d swept up her curious air of oddity at the moment everyone else’s attentions had been affixed to the stage, disappearing into the cemetery’s icy landscape at the very height of the chaos.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Elliot said.

  “I’ll say it doesn’t.” Connor rocked back on his heels. He slid off his fedora and slapped it against his knee. “You can all move back now. We’ll not hear anything further from this man today. He’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 2

  JANUARY 12, 1927

  85 MOUNT VERNON STREET

  BOSTON, MASS.

  “There’s a man here to see you.” Irina bounded through the door to Wren’s private office.

  The sound of creaking floorboards drew Wren’s attention to her business manager, who’d begun moving about in a flurry.

  “I’m up to my elbows in all this.” Wren held a hand over the mound of mail littering her desk. “Could you please make our excuses?”

  “Not today, Wren. Excuses won’t be enough.” She rushed through the French doors to Wren’s adjoining bedchamber and dropped an armful of linens on the coverlet of the four-poster bed. “I’ve brought things for you to dress.”

  Irina continued, opening the oversized wardrobe on the far wall. She plucked out a pair of riding boots, then tossed them with a thump in the center of the ornamental rug covering the hardwood floor.

  Wren turned away. Irina was in one of her moods. As Wren’s manager, she was ambitious, always pushing Wren for public appearances—like photos with the mayor, an extra stage show squeezed in wherever possible. It had to be some such nuisance after the events of New Year’s Eve. The spotlight had been thrust on vaudeville, thanks to Horace Stapleton. No doubt Irina saw an advantage in it.

  Despite Irina’s overachieving nature, devising a workable escape plan was all Wren could think of at the moment. And this one wasn’t unlocking chains in a water tank or vanishing from inside the depths of a wardrobe. That she’d done onstage for years and could manage with her eyes closed. But escaping from her present circumstances felt far more impossible.

  Wren needed to think, not have her office invaded.

  She stared down at the stack of mail on her desk. The pink stationery with gold foil lettering on the top of the pile—she wished she could forget she’d ever seen it. It was an invitation to a lavish soirée in honor of grieving widow Amberley Dover’s upcoming birthday. It had arrived by messenger mere hours after Victor Peale had met his demise at the cemetery. And there it remained days later, looking back at her with defiance every time she dared to consider answering it.

  “Irina, if it’s a member of the press, then he should already know my answer. I’ve had no comment for nearly two weeks, and I will refuse any today. That goes for tomorrow too. If they keep this up, I may have the telephone disconnected. Those vultures will have to write their stories without my assistance. Period.”

  Irina shook her head, concern flashing in her green eyes. “It’s not the press.”

  Wren leaned back in her wooden swivel chair and parted the ivory lace drapes with her fingertips. The snow-blanketed landscape showed no tire tracks to mar the smooth drive. The street was still quiet, the sun just peeking through the maze of trees below.

  “I didn’t hear a car come up.”

  “The man claims he parked on the street and walked up across the ridge.”

  “Someone walked through the snowdrifts?” Wren released the drapes to float back into place and shrugged. “That’s bold. Who is it then?”

  Wren suppressed the thought of Mrs. Dover’s invitation. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d entertained a social call nor been invited for one.

  “It’s the law.”

  Wren waved her off with a flick of the wrist and turned back to her letters. The way Irina had charged in had almost made her think it was something serious. But a policeman stopping by her front stoop was nothing to worry about. They’d never been able to intimidate her before, and Stapleton’s fiasco at the cemetery wouldn’t change that.

  What could they possibly say to sway her into making a statement now?

  Her mind flashed back to the cemetery—to the man who’d locked his gaze with hers. The one whose blue eyes seemed able to look straight through her. Whoever he was, he knew how to handle himself. The way he scanned the crowd instead of watching the stage spoke volumes. If Wren had to wager a guess, she’d have put her money on the fact that he was a lawman.

  And that meant she’d employ a wide berth in the opposite direction.

  “As if the police have nothing better to do than to bother us. Take the gentleman’s card please, and tell him we’ll be in touch.” Wren returned to writing an address on her envelope. “That should send him on his way.”

  “Not this time. He says you’ve already done that. Twice this week alone . . .” Irina paused, staring back with eyebrows slightly raised.

  “Well?” Wren’s stomach started to sink. It wasn’t like Irina to be so coy about anything. “Then what does he want when he should already know our answer?”

  “He’s an agent from the Federal Bureau, and he claims he’ll stay here until you consent to speak with him.” Irina moved about the room again, her words hanging in the air as she pulled a brush from the vanity drawer. “Furthermore, he says he’ll take you to the downtown office if he must, but he’s giving you the choice as to where you’d prefer to answer his questions—as a courtesy.”

  The manner of anyone to make such a demand could prick Wren’s temper on the best of mornings. But not two weeks after the grand fiasco at Mount Auburn Cemetery? She had nothing to do with Stapleton’s public failure, except to feel that the man had brought ruin raining upon himself and now could stew in it.

  “He said it was a courtesy?”

  “Right before I left him in the entry.” Irina tipped her head toward the door that led to the hall. “He’s waiting there now.”

  Wren dropped her pen and stood. “Irina? Stop.” The unwelcome sensation of fear pricked at her spine. “In the ten years we’ve worked together, you’ve never been this insistent. Tell me. What’s happened?”

  Irina moved around to the side of the bed and set down an unbuttoned linen shirt and tuxedo jacket. “He knows who you are, Wren. I have no idea how, but he knows.”

  Wren swallowed hard and looked down at the soft ivory sweater and paisley drop-waist skirt she wore. They were airy and feminine—things she desperately wanted to feel—rather than having to put on the street costume and play her part of the eccentric illusionist while inside her own home.

  “How can you be sure?”

  Irina sighed, a slight crease to her brow. “Because he didn’t ask to see you,” she said, her voice hushed as if the gentleman could hear through the floorboards. “He said he wants to speak with Jennifer Charles. And he seems to think she’s here.”

  Wren’s throat went dry. Why in the world would anyone want to know about that name? It had been buried. Long ago buried in her past. Who could want to unearth it now?

  “I see . . . ,” she managed, though the words came out on a rough whisper.

  One last look at the invitation on top of the stack. It would have to wait yet again. She crossed the room, ready to do battle if that’s what lay ahead.

  “Make sure all of the doors are locked down the length of the hall.” Wren straightened her spine. “And see that things aren’t disturbed upstairs. I’ll do my best to get rid of him. When I pull the chord in the library, you’ll know he’s ready to leave—and quickly.”

  “Of course.”

  Time to go to work . . .

  She swept up the costume from the bed. “Oh, and I
rina? Make him wait. A good twenty minutes at the very least, so he knows where we stand.”

  Ms. Lockhart’s entry hall was not dissimilar from the many high-society homes Elliot had seen before. Hers boasted inlaid mahogany floors, an impressive, storybook staircase curving up a wall papered in tones of burnished cream and gold, a chandelier wrapped with gold-tipped leafy vines twinkling from the ceiling overhead, and lush ivory nail-head chairs lining the back wall.

  And the house smelled of warm cinnamon mingling with a strong odor of something Elliot could only guess was curry. The mix of spicy aromas swept through the entry of the ornate brick mansion, enveloping him the instant he’d stepped inside.

  Not altogether cold.

  Thick robin’s-egg blue and gold brocade curtains painted the length of wall from floor to ceiling at the opposite end of the entry. They were drawn tight over what? Doors? Hidden rooms? Elliot had to wonder if that was their purpose—to make one question everything the eye couldn’t see behind them.

  The atmosphere is careful. Almost too controlled . . . Ms. Lockhart sees to every detail.

  Elliot had set out to learn as much as he could about the infamous Wren Lockhart in the past days. Though her three-story home looked quite stately from the street, with tall, arched windows that overlooked Boston’s famous Common, it was rumored to hold a menagerie of marvels on the inside. And he was here to learn if this, and his own suspicions about Ms. Lockhart, were indeed true.

  “Sir?”

  He turned. The woman who’d shown him in stood just behind, an aloof air surrounding her.

  “It’s not sir. Agent Matthews suits me fine. We hold no pretenses at the Bureau.”

  “Very well, Agent Matthews. If you’ll come this way.”

  The woman leading him down the hall must be the one he’d heard about—Ms. Lockhart’s business manager. With an avant-garde tunic in shades of rust and jade and deep-chocolate hair cropped tight like a man’s, she was the only woman in Boston who could fit the description of an islander from the South Pacific. The tight, sculpted coif at her brow highlighted dark-rimmed eyes of a striking and almost iridescent green. Her oversized gold earrings swayed with each step she took.

  She appeared quite controlled—every bit the type of individual Elliot expected for someone in Ms. Lockhart’s employ. She didn’t utter a word when she opened the door to a moderately sized library at the end of a hall. Floor-to-ceiling windows were tightly shuttered and a fire sizzled in the hearth, orange and yellow flickers dancing through the darkness.

  “Do come in, Agent Matthews.” She swept in before him, moving to the desk in the center of the room to flick on a lamp with an intricate filigree shade. Light bathed the space in a hue of warm gold. The room greeted Elliot with oddities that cried out for attention from a hundred different directions.

  A taxidermist’s talent was perched high above the mantel: a big-game cat’s head, labeled ocelot, mounted on a carved-wood plaque, with spotted fur and fangs bared a few inches long. Its oversized glass eyes were eerily lifelike, watching him as he waited in the doorway.

  On either side of the room were wooden built-ins lined with apothecary jars, which the woman busied herself with inspecting. Towers of ancient books, dusty and worn, were set in thick stacks on an ornately carved desk. Potted plants and rows of canisters bearing chalkboard labels tied with twine round their lids lined deep windowsills. The far wall held an oversized world map, a gold-framed oil painting of a pirate character, and an impressive collection of swords artfully displayed on hooks, their blades burnishing in the firelight.

  Elliot wasn’t easily intimidated.

  He’d walked into crime scenes that could turn even a seasoned veteran’s stomach and had weathered them without cracking the veneer of his exterior, no matter what was going on inside him. But the library wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. It was at once curious and threatening—the oddest sort of combination—as if a sideshow caravan had broken down and camped the contents of its wagons inside the four walls. It was such a contrast to the pristine entry hall that Elliot had to question what could be the motive to receive guests in spaces that were such polar opposites of one other.

  In truth, he’d never seen anything like it.

  “Please. Do make yourself comfortable.” The woman motioned him to the pair of high-back leather chairs by the fire. “Ms. Lockhart will be down momentarily.”

  Elliot crossed the room, to which the woman nodded and left the door open a shade behind her. He settled on the edge of the chair with his feet firmly planted on the hardwood floor, hands gathered in a loose fist in front of him.

  A deep-chested grandfather clock chimed loudly from its perch on the far wall—nine o’clock. The fire danced, popping and sizzling with the ticking of the clock, lulling into a soft melody about the room.

  He looked around.

  And waited.

  Elliot tapped his shoes against the hardwood, staring through the crack in the door as the minutes ticked by. He unbuttoned his jacket and leaned back into the chair. He checked the clock again, finding that his initial interest in the room’s contents had faded into apathy, followed by full-fledged irritation when nearly a half an hour had ticked by.

  He finally blew out his breath in a sigh and slapped his hands to his knees, ready to jump up and start tearing open doors if that’s what it took to get five minutes out of the woman’s busy schedule.

  The door creaked across the room and suddenly, there she was—standing in the doorway, her golden eyes and porcelain skin bathed in the firelight. Her flaming hair was wavy and unbound, wild to a blunt point inches below her jawline. She wore gentleman’s attire again, but this time a tuxedo jacket in navy, a matching bow tie, and trousers of a light tan.

  Lovely wasn’t a word she probably wished would be used to describe her. Mysterious. Confident, maybe, that she didn’t have to dress like a lady. But despite the gentleman’s attire, Elliot found himself irritated by more than the time he’d been kept waiting. Wren Lockhart must command just about every room she walked into, down to the way she stood with shoulders back, spine straight and, without shame at her boldness, met people eye to eye.

  The way she seemed to be staring straight through him now. He’d never have owned up to it, but that confidence was decidedly memorable.

  He stood and angled his head in a slight nod.

  “Good morning.” She offered the greeting from deeply painted lips. “My apologies to have kept you waiting.”

  A hint of a British accent? Unexpected . . .

  Wren kept her gaze directed on Elliot as she stepped into the library. The manager woman returned and stood behind, awaiting instructions from her mistress.

  “Irina? Tea for two, please.”

  “Of course, Ms. Lockhart.” Irina offered the slightest of coy smiles, then tipped her head to Elliot. As if she knew some secret delight he didn’t and only played the part of the respectful servant for the merits of his benefit.

  “And you may close the door,” Wren added just as the woman was stepping out.

  Something exchanged between the women—they made a silent connection with their eyes.

  Wren waited until Irina had clicked the door closed before she crossed the room. “I hope Darjeeling is acceptable, Mr. . . .”

  “Elliot Matthews.” He nodded and remained standing until she decided to sit. “Or Agent Matthews. And whatever you have will be fine. To be honest, I’m not much for tea anyway.”

  She said nothing right away, just eased down into the chair across from the one he’d vacated moments before, keeping her back pin-straight and crossing her legs at the ankle. “Very well, Agent Matthews. To what do I owe the honor of a visit from Boston’s finest? I’m afraid I’m unaccustomed to calls this early in the day.”

  He followed her lead and sat, then pulled a notepad and pencil from his inner jacket pocket. “I’m from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, madam. The Boston field office. And I am sorry about the timing of this visi
t. It couldn’t be helped. But if you’ll allow me, I’m just here to ask a few questions in the death investigation of Victor Peale. Would that be alright?”

  “Who?”

  “Victor Aurelius Peale.” This is going to be like pulling teeth . . . “The man who died at the cemetery on New Year’s Eve,” he added, though it was perfectly clear Ms. Lockhart knew of whom he spoke. It had been the talk of Boston since it happened. And she’d been there. Plain as day. Occupying a spot under an old oak. Seething beneath layers of crimson satin.

  Wren clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, as if the recollection of the day’s events was falling back into place in her mind. “You’re quite certain that’s his name? And that he was alive to begin with? I read in the papers that it’s still up for debate whether he really is dead.”

  The lady had cheek.

  In spades.

  And though Elliot could assess many things about this woman, his ability to anticipate her next moves proved elusive. He managed to fight against a smile trying to ease across his lips.

  If she wanted a cat-and-mouse game of wits, she’d get one.

  “We are certain of his name . . . as much as we can be at this point. But yes, the medical examiner has confirmed he is dead. Do you always answer questions with a question?”

  She paused. “Well, that all depends, Agent Matthews. Should I suspect there’s a hidden motive behind this inquisition? Or is it simply a friendly call? Because if it’s friendly, we can enjoy our tea and talk about the art on the walls. But if it’s something different, I do wish you’d come out with it. I am a very busy woman.”

  “Very well. I have to question everyone who was at the cemetery when Victor Peale’s death occurred. On principle, of course.”

  “And how do you know I was there?”

  The veil fell and Elliot smiled this time. “Because you know I saw you there.”

  Wren drummed her slender fingertips in a silent melody against the armrest of her chair. “So you did. May I also assume Horace Stapleton was the first in line for your questioning?”