The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

  To a handful of select flowers Wren took the shears, clipping the stems. “Do these flowers pretend at all?” She tossed the blooms to grasping hands in the audience. “They’re beautiful, are they not? Beautiful without invention or pretense.”

  She selected a last flower from the vase, a bright pink, and clipped its stem. And to the little girl who stood in wonder at the side of the stage, Wren approached, then handed her the perfect bloom.

  “Now it’s your turn, little one. And you will grow soon enough.” She patted her cheek. “But not tonight. You may bow to our guests.”

  The little girl smiled, front teeth missing, and bowed low. The crowd erupted in applause as she trotted back offstage. Wren took center stage again, standing under the spotlight with her brilliant blooms, and the crowd hushed once more.

  “Before we continue, might I have a volunteer from the audience? Someone who is quite certain they live a life of honor.”

  Wren peered out into the crowd, the lights along the rows of seats carrying a dim glow all the way to the back of the auditorium. She paused, seconds only, Elliot judging that she waited for her planted man to make his move. And though hands were flying up in droves, she didn’t call on them. She watched as the man stood, then opened her mouth to speak.

  Elliot shot to his feet before Wren could protest. “Right here. I’m your volunteer,” he called out.

  Connor sighed. “Matthews,” he moaned under his breath, shaking his head. “You can’t be serious.”

  Elliot stripped out of his tuxedo jacket and lobbed it in Connor’s lap. “See you on the other side I guess.” He headed for the stage without waiting for welcome. Instead, he proceeded down the aisle and trotted up the stairs, stopping only when he stood opposite Wren and her chair of blooms.

  He arched an eyebrow, offering a silent challenge in her direction.

  “Thank you, sir. We can see how eager you are to participate this eve.” She tossed a knowing smile at the crowd.

  Flashbulbs encased them in pops of light as laughter flavored the background.

  “Like everyone here.” Hands in his pockets, Elliot looked out over the span of filled seats for the first time. “My curiosity is piqued.”

  “Very well. We shall attempt to satisfy it. But first I must ask any volunteer if he has been on this stage before.”

  Elliot shook his head. “I can honestly say I’ve never met the Wren Lockhart who stands onstage with me now.”

  She gave him a look that suggested “I’ll ignore your cheek” and continued. “Good.” She crossed the stage, then handed him the shears. “Then you may pick one, sir. Choose the bloom that is pretending.”

  “Pretending what?” He reached out to take the tool in hand.

  Wren notched her chin, as if the answer were simple. “The one that is lying, of course. Choose and clip the stem that is guilty of inauthenticity. We believe you to have honor, and as such, you should be able to find the masked culprit among the rest of the innocent.”

  Elliot cleared his throat, humored that they traded barbs onstage no one else in the audience might decode, save for Connor or Irina. He accepted the challenge, turning back to the vase.

  The blooms were indeed brilliant. Fragrant even, which was a surprise.

  Elliot inspected them with a skeptical eye. He stood mere inches away, but for the life of him, he couldn’t see anything illegitimate. They could have been spring blooms in the entryway to a ladies’ parlor for how real they were. Even still, Elliot’s mind was bent on realism, and it pricked at the illusion before him.

  What his eyes saw in the moment couldn’t be trusted.

  She couldn’t be trusted. Not yet, anyway. Not while she held them all under the grand spell of her onstage illusions.

  One dark flower stood out among the bunch—bloodred as the coat she wore and as vibrant as her smile. The hue grew still darker at the center of the bud, as if the flower’s heart were a hidden shade of black.

  He took it in hand and clipped the stem with a single swipe. Elliot advanced two steps, and in a flash of chivalry he hadn’t expected, bowed to Wren, presenting the bloom to her.

  “Ms. Lockhart,” he whispered so only she could hear. “May I have a word with you after the show?”

  She shook her head, ever so slightly.

  “Thank you, sir,” Wren announced, but refrained from accepting the gift. “But I fear my heart is already spoken for. You’ll have to save that bloom for another young lady.”

  The crowd gasped behind Elliot then, not at Wren’s words, but at something else. He hadn’t time to process, not even as his eyes told him he was witnessing the impossible.

  The blooms in the vase sagged, their brilliance withering away.

  Their vibrant hues had begun to fade into a wretched mass of wilting brown. Petals broke away and fluttered to the stage, the peonies’ vines curling and leaves turning black as death.

  To the astonishment of all, the vase full of flowers disintegrated into lifeless stems and a ring of ash around the vase.

  Elliot turned to Wren, shock reverberating through him.

  She looked back, not with the haughtiness he expected. She’d clearly bested him and could have held her superiority over him. But instead, her countenance held an openness that didn’t speak of victory. In fact, it looked real. As if it had pained her to reveal the truth that delicacy could die away and ash could so easily take the place of something beautiful.

  “I believe you’ve chosen with wisdom, sir,” she said with a nod to him. “You’ve found the one bloom that is truly beautiful at its core. This one looked different from the rest, but you didn’t judge it harshly. You saw it not for what it is . . .” Wren turned toward the chair again, then cupped her hands around the pile of the ash. She sifted it from palm to gloved palm, then turned to face the crowd. “. . . but for what it could be.” And with that, she tossed the ash into the air.

  The ash took flight, sailing over the audience on the wings of a bird that fluttered and soared high, chirping as it disappeared over the balcony.

  The crowd erupted, clapping and whistling in delight. Elliot stole a final glance over at Wren, who didn’t return the gesture. She looked to her crowd, a softness in the smile that eased over her lips as the wave of applause washed over them.

  “Thank you.” She held her arm out to him. “A round of applause for our volunteer, please.”

  Elliot returned the final peony to the vase.

  It rested against the crystal rim, the lone splash of color set against the remainder of the wilted bunch. He trotted down the stairs and found his place next to Connor but stayed on his feet, applauding with the rest of the audience.

  He’d forgotten just about everything in that moment.

  That they had a job to do that amounted to more than awe at stage tricks. They had the truth to unearth, to find justice for a man who’d lost his life. But somewhere between the astonishing sight of flowers blooming out of thin air and the enchantment of a little girl’s wide-eyed wonder, Elliot began to feel he might have misjudged Wren Lockhart.

  He’d been unyielding, accusatory even, in the way he’d questioned her. He wasn’t sure how she did it, but the real illusion wasn’t that flowers grew or wilted away before their eyes, or that a bird could rise from the ashes of death. It was how Wren had mystified them all, winning over a packed house of Boston society in the span of a few heartbeats.

  She’d shown a genuine softness onstage that he hadn’t anticipated. And the crowd reveled in it. Elliot looked around, seeing the faces of men and women, members of the press . . . even Connor, all left spellbound by the woman in red.

  “I’ll say this for her,” Connor chimed in over the crowd. “She certainly isn’t like any witness we’ve had before. Someone will have to keep a keen eye on that one.”

  “Yes.” Elliot nodded, watching as Wren eased into her next act onstage. “Someone will.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Gentlemen here to see you, Ms. Lockhart.�
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  Wren leaned against the table as she pressed the tips of her hair into a linen hand towel, soaking up the moisture left over from the water tank escape she’d just completed onstage. She glanced up at the sound of Irina’s voice, finding her standing guard at the stage door like the protector of a castle drawbridge.

  “Let me guess . . .”

  “I’ll give you two guesses but you’ll only need the one,” Irina replied, eyebrows raised.

  Of course the agents had found their way backstage.

  Wren had been expecting them. But she was exhausted in mind and body—as usual, quite spent after a show. She was also soaked to the skin and not at all interested in trading wits with two bothersome agents.

  She sighed though, finding no way around it now.

  Wren ran a hand through the mass of damp waves at her nape, then straightened her posture and nodded for them to be let in. “Thank you, Irina.”

  Her business manager melted into the background as the men swept into her backstage world.

  The shorter of the two men sidestepped a wooden stool and the wardrobe in his path, avoiding a crash with a half stumble. He righted himself, nonplussed, and crossed the length of the alcove to her side.

  Wren looked to Agent Matthews, but he appeared not to have noticed the blunder. He hung back, taking in the full layout of the backstage area. His inspection dusted from corner to corner of her stage props and floor to ceiling. If anything, the man was curious. Too curious. That kind of inquisitive spirit was a most unwelcome quality of any guest’s foray into an illusionist’s world.

  “Agent Matthews? It’s a pleasure to see you again.” She drew his gaze from the spindle chair that had been pushed up against the wall, the vase still cradling the crimson peony from the opening act they’d shared. “And may I assume you are Mr. Finnegan?”

  Connor stepped up, eager to thrust out his hand, looking positively delighted that she knew his name before he’d offered it.

  “Agent Connor Finnegan, Ms. Lockhart. Boston Bureau. It’s a pleasure, ma’am.” He stood with his hand outstretched.

  With picks and tape that she hadn’t yet had the chance to remove from the inside of her gloves, the last thing Wren could do was accept his hand. She folded her towel instead, then leaned against a nearby table, crossing one arm over the other.

  “Yes. We haven’t met, but I recognized your name associated with Agent Matthews’s in the newspapers. If you’ll permit me, sir, I’m soaked to the skin. Might I defer a handshake until the next time we meet?”

  “Oh, yes.” Connor shifted back, a clumsy smile on his face. “Yes, of course.”

  “Is this a good time?” Elliot cut in matter-of-factly. He continued loitering at the edge of the backstage shadows, quite opposite from the ardent advances of his partner.

  “That all depends on why you’re here, doesn’t it?”

  Connor shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “However did you manage to escape from a pair of handcuffs behind your back, while under water no less? And conjuring a bird from ash?” He winked. “Care to tell us how you did it?”

  “That’s an age-old question, Mr. Finnegan. One that would put people like me out of business.” Wren pressed her lips into a knowing smile.

  “Well, I admit I didn’t expect to enjoy the show, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “It’s quite alright. But we managed to change your mind anyway?”

  “Changed my mind? And then some.”

  She turned to Elliot. “And what about you, Agent Matthews? Did you enjoy the show?”

  “He did. But he wouldn’t dare admit it.” Connor chuckled and rolled back on his heels, a boyish grin on his face. “As to the handcuffs you used—I bet we’d be the ones who were sorry if we ever had to arrest you.”

  “Then let’s hope it never comes to that.” She dropped the towel to the tabletop.

  Wren was owning the definition of aloof at the moment.

  It was much smarter to reveal nothing but carefully masked lightheartedness with the more jovial Agent Finnegan. But his partner? Wren couldn’t place Agent Matthews’s intentions at all, and that unnerved her. Best to hurry them along with their questions, then away from her stage and, hopefully, shoo them out of her life completely.

  Wren clasped her hands in front of her. “If you’ll forgive me, gentlemen, I’m quite tired and still have a bit to do before we can lock up tonight. So, is there something I can help you with?”

  “That all depends.” Elliot took a step forward into the full light.

  She tilted her head a fraction. “A rather intriguing answer.”

  “We have a proposition for you, Ms. Lockhart.”

  “I’m afraid I’m already booked up. I have a few months left on my contract here. After that, I’m away to Europe for a late-summer tour.”

  “We’re not offering you a job.”

  “What then?”

  “A chance to seek justice,” Elliot answered. “Or truth. Whichever interests you most.”

  “The truth about what?” Wren darted her glance between the men.

  “Horace Stapleton. Since he will likely be indicted for murder.”

  “Murder.” Wren sighed, half expecting it would come to this. Still, it was grating to hear it stated as fact. “Alright then. Go on. What does this have to do with me?”

  Elliot nodded. “It’s more than that. The case is building up to a possible charge of premeditation, if the evidence proves it. And that presents some challenges we hadn’t anticipated.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t believe he did it. But we need your help to untangle the mess he’s made.”

  Wren knew it was a losing battle to hide astonishment from her face now. To charge a showman as dim-witted as Horace Stapleton with the crime of calculated murder was laughable. But the absurdity to think she’d dare to get involved left her nearly speechless. Hadn’t the press caused this with their theories and moral judgments inked in the newspapers every day? The last thing a showman needed was bad press. This reeked of nothing but. She couldn’t get involved.

  “We’ve surprised you,” Connor stated. “You haven’t seen the papers to know it had come to this?”

  She shook her head, damp hair clinging to her jaw. “I’ve been working all day. And I try to steer clear of the newspapers’ speculations as a rule.”

  “Then you need to have a clear understanding of why we’re here.” Elliot pulled a chair over in front of her. “Should we sit down?”

  She nodded and sat. Elliot waited for Connor to scoot up a stool of his own before joining them.

  “Regardless of how you want to stay out of it, that’s not likely to be a possibility now. Given that Stapleton’s name is attached to vaudeville, all manner of illusionists will find themselves under the spotlight. And that gang of press that was sitting in your front row tonight? They may try to tail you.”

  “But why? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “May I be frank, Ms. Lockhart?”

  “I prefer it, as a matter of fact.”

  “Then you won’t need to forgive me for stating that a woman who makes flowers grow out of thin air or owns a house of oddities and goes about in gentlemen’s clothing is going to be labeled an eccentric. Anyone who is that unconventional is assured to be a source of fascination for both the press and society at large. Judgments come packing along with your profession, I’m afraid, and the public has now been drawn behind the curtain of your world.”

  “I don’t care what people think.”

  “And we’re not here to judge you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Yet what you’re saying is . . . I’ve done this to myself? I deserve to be hounded by the press and law enforcement because I’m different? In the court of public opinion, I’m already guilty by association?”

  If Wren thought the men might be backing down, Elliot proved the opposite by leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. He stared back, blue eyes fixed on her face.

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nbsp; “No. You don’t deserve the bad press. I think George Valentine would agree with you that it can be very damaging to one’s livelihood.” He dropped his voice to a gruff whisper. “As would Ann O’Delia Diss Debar. Joaquín Argamasilla. Mina Crandon, also known as Margery. And one Horace Stapleton, just to name a few.”

  She allowed a veil of innocence to overpower her face. “To name a few what?”

  “You know as well as I do that’s a short list of the more notable spiritualists Harry Houdini publicly debunked in the last few years leading up to his death.”

  Wren straightened her spine. “Frauds he exposed, you mean.”

  “Or mediums you systematically defrauded—together.”

  “I never made claims against anyone.”

  He didn’t believe her, of course. The tight line to his jaw and the unwavering focus in his eyes confirmed it.

  “Maybe not, but you had a hand in building the evidence against some of them. And I can see by your expression that you think those people deserved it. Maybe they did. But whatever they did or didn’t do is not my concern.”

  Wren didn’t deny it. Who knew what was documented in that file of his? But she didn’t want to live under a cloak of dishonesty either.

  Best to evade.

  “I fail to see how any of this is relevant to your current case, Agent Matthews. Badgering me won’t get you any closer to the truth of a man’s death, especially when I had nothing to do with it.”

  “We’re not here to accuse you of anything. But right now our position is problematic. You see, Stapleton’s bail has been set high with the severity of the crime, but he claims he hasn’t the ability to post bond. So he’ll stay put until a trial date is set. We thought that might encourage him to talk. But even with the threat of a drawn-out trial, it hasn’t budged him. And the initial evidence we can find points to the fact that Stapleton’s claims are real. It looks as though he indeed raised Victor Peale from the dead.”