The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

  “It was given to me the day before my mother died. So yes, it’s dear. But it’s been on the shelf for ages. I almost never get it down to look at it.”

  Irina stood by, still gripping the chair back. “Yet in all the years you and I have worked together, I’ve never even seen you with it. What made you get it out tonight?”

  Wren turned her back to her friend and went back to fiddling with the wardrobe. Anything to avoid digging any deeper into what was stirring inside her at the moment.

  She heard the sound of Irina’s wooden chair creak as she sat. “It was those agents, wasn’t it? First the one who came snooping around the house. Then both of them nosing around our backstage area—where no one else is supposed to be given access, I might add.” Irina folded her arms across her chest and frowned. “I knew I shouldn’t have let them come back that night. Now it’s troubled you for an entire week.”

  Wren waved off the idea that Agent Matthews or Agent Finnegan had truly upset her. They hadn’t really. But they made her think, and on some days, that could be even worse, if left to her own devices.

  “They didn’t cause me any trouble.”

  “No? Well, they sure didn’t come to sing you a lullaby.” Irina stood and stepped up to her side. “Wren. I’ve known you a long time. Since we took a chance and boarded that steamship from England. I remember those early days, when we both sought the American shore as a fresh start. The only thing that could possibly have you thinking about childhood fairy tales again is that they questioned you about your family. So tell me, what did they say?”

  “It’s not that really. They . . .” Wren ran a hand across her neck, her hair almost dried and taken to riotous curls against her jawline.

  “Yes?”

  “They want me to work with them to bring Horace Stapleton to justice.”

  “What?” Irina nearly shrieked. She grasped Wren’s elbow, staring in disbelief.

  “Well, not take him down. They want to find out the truth. They said that Stapleton will likely be charged with murder and—”

  “Murder? Not possible, Wren. Whoever that man pretending to be Victor Peale was, he dropped dead of his own misfortune. It was clearly just an elaborate stage illusion gone wrong. You and I both know that. And I thought you wanted to stay out of it.” Irina sighed as she moved over to the table and counted their locks and chains. “Helping the FBI is not even on the same continent as staying out of it.”

  “But what if it wasn’t an accident? They seem to think something more is going on. After the few things I’ve learned about the case already, I’m inclined to agree with them. But it also doesn’t make sense that Stapleton would bring a man back from the dead only to kill him a moment later.” Wren chewed on her thumbnail as she tried to slow the thoughts sailing through her mind.

  “And they want you to do the dirty work for them, to tell them everything about your life on vaudeville? Do you realize what will happen? If you walk into that Bureau office and spill the secrets of illusionists, your career will be over. You’ll be hated—no, we’ll be hated, and I don’t think you want that to happen.”

  “They’re not asking for everyone’s secrets onstage. They’re not even asking for mine.”

  “Then . . . ?” Irina cocked her head slightly.

  “They want to know how Stapleton managed it. That’s all. They want another illusionist to come in and prove he’s a fraud—which we both know is the case.”

  “You have to know what they’re really after.”

  Wren had wondered from the start . . . “Harry,” she whispered.

  “Yes. Now that he’s gone, only one or two people on earth know how he managed it all.” Irina paused. “That information could be very lucrative for the wrong person—and dangerous for you.”

  Wren was skilled in the art of hiding her emotions. She’d worked hard to become so. But not with Irina. She was a confidant, her business partner and friend who knew the inner workings of her stage illusions. Of course, Wren had kept a few things to herself. Harry had cautioned her long ago not to let anyone become privy to her deepest secrets, at least not until she had explicit trust in them.

  Perhaps it was her tumultuous upbringing and the fact that she’d buried Jenny Charles in name long ago, but Wren found it difficult to fully trust anyone.

  “Dangerous? Certainly not. They just want someone who thinks like Stapleton would to examine the case and see what sticks out.”

  Irina shook her head. “And what about Amberley Dover—your former friend? Why do they think she was at the cemetery? Surely there’s an explanation for why she came sauntering out of the woodwork.”

  Wren pinched the bridge of her nose, then squeezed her eyes tight, not ready to see her friend’s response to what she was about to say. “I gave them Amberley’s invitation. And I accepted. I’m going to her party.”

  “Wren, you can’t.”

  “Amberley is hiding something—that much is clear. And she had no qualms about standing up before God and Boston when she slinked up onto Stapleton’s stage. There has to be a reason for it. I have to put the past aside and find out what’s happening.”

  Wren looked to her friend, the like-minded manager who always wanted the best for her, and exhaled. “Please support me in this? My gut is telling me something is going on.”

  Irina sighed. “Ugh. ‘Please’? You never say that word.”

  “I know, but I need you to be with me on this. Someone is digging up Jennifer Charles, and whoever it is, they’re trying to come after me too. I can’t stand by and just ignore it—especially not when I have Charlotte to think about.”

  “Are they looking to dredge up old wounds?” Irina rested a hand on Wren’s forearm, concern creeping over her features.

  The note in Victor Peale’s book had been a warning, and a none-too-subtle one at that. “If they uncover anything about Charlotte, I’ll hide her at a moment’s notice. I just have to keep the agents close until I can find out more about Stapleton. About Amberley. And certainly about who’s digging into my past and why. Even if I’m turning the FBI in circles, they’ll need to be circles that are within my reach.”

  “And that starts with attending Amberley Dover’s birthday party, doesn’t it?”

  The last thing Wren wanted was a public showdown with the illustrious and toxic-tongued Amberley Dover. But that was what it looked like Wren was about to get. Add the FBI agents into the mix, and she had a real storm brewing.

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  Wren shook her head. “Thanks, but no. This is something I have to do on my own. It will bring me comfort to know you’re watching over things while I’m gone.”

  “Try to lay low at the party if you can help it. Just learn what you can and try to find out what Amberley’s up to without tipping her off.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. I plan to stay out of it, unless of course Amberley has her own agenda. Then I’ll just have to make decisions on the fly.”

  Irina sighed and stretched her arms. “But that’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Let’s get the rest of this packed up.” She smiled, though reluctance was veiled somewhere behind the words. “And then we’ll have to figure out what you’re going to wear to that party.”

  Wren had thought of it too. She’d have to show up to the event in true Wren Lockhart-style, donning her best tuxedo and knee-high boots. Her satin top hat would go nicely, as would a silky gentleman’s shirt in a deep black. And there was one other little surprise she’d thought of—though she’d tell no one about this addition.

  The FBI agents may have been hot on her trail, but a girl still needed to have at least one secret that was all her own.

  CHAPTER 7

  JULY 23, 1924

  10 LIME STREET

  BOSTON, MASS.

  Wren stepped into the waiting car in front of Harry Houdini.

  He slid into the backseat bench beside her without a word. Having just left the sweltering-hot fourth-story séance
room of famed Boston medium Mina “Margery” Crandon, it didn’t surprise Wren that even the great Harry Houdini had been drawn to silence.

  He was no doubt lost in the measure of his thoughts as the driver pulled their car into the flood of automobile traffic on Lime Street. They’d dressed for the occasion—he in a smart suit and she in her usual costume of linen shirt and crisp trousers. But the late-July heat threatened to bake them in the back of the auto, even though the windows had been opened.

  Wren fanned a gloved hand in front of her face and waited on Harry, as she usually did, knowing that the gears were cranking in his mind and he’d comment when he was ready.

  He stared out the car window as buildings and pedestrians passed by.

  They neared Charles Street, and Boston’s Public Garden came into view, the man-made structures of the streets they’d left behind now replaced with a bowery of beautiful shade trees and low-hanging clouds that painted cottony-white brushstrokes across the summer sky.

  “What did you see in there?” Harry finally asked.

  Wren tapped her walking stick against the floor, thinking over the events of the last hour.

  “It was a clever setup—simple and manageable. She claimed to summon spirits from the other side. They responded on cue, in the voice of her brother and the ringing of a bell. Her guests seemed to leave satisfied, so in that way, I’d say she put on a rather seamless show.”

  “Seamless.” He pursed his lips. “Yet you’re not convinced?”

  “No. I am not. And I can tell you’re not either or you wouldn’t have asked me.”

  Margery Crandon had indeed put on a show to be remembered. It was Wren’s first séance, and though many in Boston’s social circles thoroughly enjoyed such diversions, she could only hope it would be her last.

  “Tell me what we know thus far, Wren. Facts only.”

  “Margery is a medium. Late thirties. A flapper, if I can say it, because I believe it to be fact. She claims both brains and beauty and has become quite popular in the parlors of Boston’s elite. Her apparent connection to the afterlife has come to the attention of Scientific American magazine. By all accounts, she’s vying for the twenty-five-hundred-dollar prize the magazine committee is offering to any medium able to display irrefutable evidence of psychic phenomena.”

  “That sounds rather textbook. And as one such committee member with a trained eye, I summoned myself to show up at her doorstep and investigate the authenticity of her claims.”

  And you brought me along. Though she still wasn’t entirely sure why.

  “So you are still not convinced,” he added, his counsel to her always frank. “Why? Did you see something that causes you to doubt?”

  “Everything about it causes me to doubt, but that’s just instinct. If you’re asking me personally, then I’d say it’s because my faith must always be stronger than what my eyes can see. However, if you’re asking Wren the illusionist, then I’d say that you once told me a showman must always make the crowd believe the story she tells. That’s what she did: staged a story for everyone gathered around that table. It was an ingenious act, but that’s all it was—an act. And so now, the choice is mine, whether I’ll believe it or stand firm on what I know to be truth.”

  Harry nodded, a knowing smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Fair enough. Was there any other reason?”

  “The fact that Amberley Dover was there,” she replied, unable to avoid a slight frown.

  Harry turned to her. Raised an eyebrow, showing the subtlety of his surprise. “Besides the obvious social connection, an odd choice. My former employee and a friend of yours, I understand?”

  Wren sighed. “We were friends once. Going back to the first days you brought me into your show. But it was a matter of faith that came between us. She favored mysticism on the stage and didn’t mind trickery if it gave people what they wanted. I couldn’t see anything but darkness in it. My faith wouldn’t bend and neither would her will. So we fell out over it. We haven’t spoken since.”

  Harry nodded, releasing a slight grunt under his breath. “And now she’s known as a pretty young socialite who dabbles in spiritualism in her free time. But she was brought in as a silent observer, wasn’t she? Why would you suspect her?”

  “Amberley was anything but silent. She jabbered on like a magpie. If there really were spirits there, I’m surprised they could manage to get a word in at all. The voices of the afterlife have nothing on her.”

  “So she’s a talker. But where’s your evidence?”

  Wren tipped her shoulders up in a shrug. “It’s a hunch. She didn’t mind trickery in the past. Why would that change now?”

  “Hunches carry no weight, and you certainly can’t defend them.”

  “The choice is not so odd, sir, when you think about it. Amberley’s husband has had a long friendship with Dr. Crandon. It goes to say that Margery’s husband and a close acquaintance would have an association that would overstep the boundaries of truth. I can see how a medium would solicit the help of a friend, especially one who has such impressive social standing as Amberley Dover enjoys.”

  “Circumstantial. You need hard evidence, Wren. Think back. What were we allowed to see in that room? What did your ears tell you when the lights were dimmed? Look at the connections for how the unexplained could be, in fact, explainable. There’s always evidence, if you look behind the curtain. And there’s always a curtain. You just have to be smarter than they are about how you peek behind it. So I’ll ask you again, and think carefully before you answer—what did you see in there? Think about it as an illusionist would.”

  Wren was certain he’d already worked out how the medium managed to fool so many unsuspecting housewives in their parlor séance parties. Either Amberley had been drawn in by her interest in mysticism, or she was in on some scheme. Harry evidently knew, but he wanted Wren to draw the conclusions on her own.

  She went back over the last hour in her mind, gazing out as trees flashed by the car windows. Her thoughts shifted into the layout of the room at 10 Lime Street.

  Amberley was seated at Margery’s right side: pretty, painted, wide-eyed, and staring daggers at Wren from across the table. Malcom Bird, a committee member of Scientific American, sat on her left, quiet and observant. Wren and Harry occupied chairs across from them.

  The unease Wren had felt around that table returned to flutter about her midsection. Her senses had been on high alert in that attic room . . . her eyes watching . . . her heart beating faster . . . her mind telling her to cling to her faith. That the séance was a charade. That she should hold fast to what her heart knew until she could escape the darkness permeating the room . . . not to give in to the belief that spirits of the dead could come back to the living.

  Not when she knew better.

  The room spun in her mind, her memory clicking through the mental pictures she’d taken: the fall of shadows in the fourth-story room, making every pinprick of light stand out from the dark. It fell into place then, something that had been overlooked. Their séance hadn’t been in a high-society parlor. Instead, Margery had controlled the atmosphere herself, down to the light, the furnishings, and the collection of people in the room.

  “Amberley was brought in to be the distraction—for us. Could the contention in our past have been exploited so we’d focus on who was in the room and not what?”

  He seemed to already know that and nodded her along, a distant smile pressed on his lips. “Good. What else?”

  “The room was minimally set up—just chairs, a table, and a cabinet—and was checked before and after the séance itself. But that simplicity aids in belief, doesn’t it? And if she doesn’t charge for her services, which she almost never does, it’s that much more credible. She doesn’t prey on guests around her table. Instead, she’s benevolent. She’s one of them, essentially. With a house in the heart of the city and furnishings similar to those they might have in their own homes. It makes her abilities seem more extraordinary when set a
gainst a common backdrop.”

  “That works in her favor. So how did she do it?”

  “I think someone smuggled in a bell for her.”

  “You think it was Amberley.”

  She cleared her throat, challenge evident in the timing.

  Harry nodded, choosing not to dissent. “Fine. And if so, the bell was—”

  “Under the table,” she whispered, finishing his thought as the possibilities came together, like puzzle pieces falling into place. “She used her foot, didn’t she?”

  “Precisely.”

  Wren crossed her arms over her chest.

  So simple. Ingenious really, when you thought about all the pomp and circumstance that went into the show itself. By comparison, the real answer was unsophisticated. Was it possible that the calling of spirits and conversing with the dead came down to a woman who could artfully slip her foot from her shoe and, under cover of a tablecloth, grasp a bell handle to ring with her toes?

  “So you’ll discredit them?”

  “I will render my opinion in a public forum, yes.” He nodded, his brow creased. “I’d only have played my hand if I found her claims to be false. I’ve seen enough now to believe that they are.”

  “And what of the ability to converse with those who have passed on? She claims she can bring people back from the dead—if only to talk for a while. How can you possibly disprove something like that, especially when so many ardently believe in her, Amberley Dover included?”

  “Wren, you told me you once lost someone very dear to you.”

  She drew in a sharp breath, absorbing his swift change in subject.

  “Yes. I did lose someone once.” She avoided revealing emotion with her quiet tone.

  Those memories had been locked away, deep down so she rarely visited them. Conversations with Harry were always focused on fact. They weren’t in the habit of discussing anything but illusions and the business of a traveling stage show. Yet now his deliberations seemed weighted solely in the opposite direction.