Wren paused, enough to turn around and catch Elliot’s steady gaze. They were too far apart to speak, but she could guess what was going through his mind.
Elliot had linked them together by volunteering for her stage show at the Bijou. The papers had snapped photographs and reported the news in the wake of Stapleton’s arrest, including the fact that the FBI agent was in some familiarity with Wren Lockhart.
If there had been any hope for Elliot to stay incognito and learn just why Amberley had sent the party invitation in the first place, it was dead now. The birthday queen had her own agenda. And whatever her association with Horace Stapleton or the deceased Victor Peale, they weren’t likely to find out a pittance from the stage.
Wren swallowed hard and continued walking forward, knowing that Elliot was following somewhere behind. “Here we go.”
CHAPTER 8
Elliot wasn’t in the habit of being caught center stage, but since he’d met Wren, the practice was occurring with irritating regularity.
Always composed, she seemed undaunted by the impromptu show she was asked to give. What’s more, if she’d been annoyed when he’d approached her in the audience, any irritation had dissolved now. The transformation from the Wren who’d quipped with him in the audience versus the professional now taking command of the stage was nothing short of a wonder.
She’d show no fear, of that he was certain.
“Thank you, Amberley.” Wren’s smile veiled the ire he knew she had toward Amberley’s intentions.
The spotlights shone down on Wren, standing tall with light outlining the frame of her crisp ivory suit and black boots.
“Might your guests enjoy an escape demonstration? Not from this glamorous party though, I assure you. Isn’t it splendid, ladies and gentlemen? Mrs. Dover has gone all out for us tonight.” She extended an arm out to bow in the birthday girl’s presence.
Amberley shifted in her heels but smiled on with a glaze of haughtiness covering her face.
“Not a bluenose in this bunch, to be sure,” Wren added. Whistles and hollers billowed up from the crowded dance floor. “So now, I ask all of you—how does one escape from an unwanted entanglement? Or from a handcuff, perhaps? Not an engagement ring, mind you. I am quite sure every lovely lady in this room would not wish to free herself from that kind of handcuff. But what of the other kind—the darker, more mysterious entanglements of sin and deceit that seek to snare us? Would that handcuff be easier to shake?”
Wren shifted her attention to Elliot. “You are a law enforcement officer, Agent Mathews.”
He nodded, leaning in to the microphone. “Some say it, yes. On my better days, Ms. Lockhart.”
“Of course you are,” she answered in animated fashion, drawing the crowd under her spell as she toyed with the wit of his response. “And might I please have a handcuff from you?”
He raised his eyebrows in comical fashion, then patted his jacket as if looking for a jewelry store box he’d misplaced. “Which handcuff? Are you referring to the real thing or an engagement ring? If it’s the latter, I’m afraid I must have left it in my other tux.”
The crowd awed, as if witnessing a sweet moment between a couple.
The slightest trace of irritation marred Wren’s brow, even through the painted-on smile. This was her show evidently. He could play along but not steer it.
“How flattering of you, Agent Matthews. But the one escape act I’m best at is fleeing any sort of matrimonial entanglement.” She eased back a step, putting distance between them, enough so she could extend her hands, wrist on top of wrist, before him. “What I would like is for you to handcuff me. Surely you have a pair under that jacket somewhere.”
The crowd responded with jeers and delighted laughter as Elliot pulled the handcuffs from his belt.
“But you’ll want to take off your gloves, certainly. Your jacket too,” Amberley piped in. “I’ll hold them for you.”
Wren said nothing, just flitted a glance over at him.
Elliot’s breath caught in his chest for a split second. How did Wren plan to get out of this mess, especially when Amberley kept digging a deeper hole for her to climb out of? Whether Wren had a fail-safe in her pocket or in the palm of her hand, he couldn’t know. But she would have to employ it now.
Pausing only a second, Wren beamed to the crowd. “Well, that would make things easier, wouldn’t it?”
She shed her jacket and pulled off her gloves, finger by finger, then laid them over the graceful arm Amberley had offered. Wren then extended her arms out in an elegant wave, showing that nothing was concealed in her palms.
As confident as ever, Wren turned back to Elliot with her arms stretched out in front of her, waiting. Beads of sweat began to form on his brow. He could feel them building under the swelter of the spotlights.
He released one handcuff from his palm, dropping it down on the chain. Metal glinted in the light as he stepped up to Wren, then eased his fingertips around the warmth of one of her wrists. “Are you sure you want me to do this?” he whispered, the question barely audible.
Wren nodded, ever so slightly, not backing down.
“Thank you, Agent Matthews.” She faced the crowd, holding her bound wrists high above her head. She parted her arms, clinking the metal several times. “You can see—they’re quite real.”
Amberley, no doubt thinking she’d won, stood off to the side. She looked to be relishing the moment that was about to come, absently stroking the mink shawl at her collar as if it were a beloved pet.
Elliot hated to admit it, but he doubted too.
He’d registered the slightest bit of hesitation in Wren’s eyes. And he felt it—the tiniest reaction when he’d taken her hand in his and slid the metal rings around her wrists, then locked them tight. Maybe the handcuffs she used in her stage show had been doctored in some fashion—made easier to break free from. But there was no mistaking it now: Wren was in a proper fix with real FBI-issued handcuffs binding her wrists.
Amberley had set her up to fail, and do so miserably in public fashion. Which, if what Wren had told him was correct, was what she’d done to Amberley when Houdini had dethroned Margery.
“Agent Matthews, I do hate to trouble you.” Wren looked properly sorry, playing to the crowd with drooped shoulders. “But I wonder if I might borrow your jacket. You see, this metal is terribly cold against my skin. It might help if you could lay your jacket over my hands. Warm them up a bit?”
Elliot had no idea what she was poised to do, he simply followed her instruction and slipped out of his jacket, then laid the black fabric over her wrists.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen.” Wren’s voice cut across the silent expectation of the party guests. “I ask you to raise your glasses, in honor of our illustrious hostess, Mrs. Amberley Dover.”
The crowd obeyed, watching, waiting for Wren’s next move.
Would she manage to free herself from the handcuffs? Or would she be caught in Amberley’s well-constructed trap in front of every important name in Boston society?
“Excuse me, sir.” She addressed the band leader. “May we have a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’? It’s only fitting, isn’t it, that we celebrate tonight?”
“Right you are, Ms. Lockhart.” The band leader brought his musicians to attention, several men grabbing up horns and the pianist waking up his fingers to dance over the ivories once more. Jazzy music rang out and Wren, perched behind the microphone, led them with the clear tone of a lark’s song.
All eyes were peeled on her. On the black tuxedo jacket that moved only slightly, not nearly enough for hands to slip out of a pair of handcuffs or expert fingers to somehow file through metal.
She sang out, showing off talent Elliot hadn’t known she possessed. It was one thing to capture a packed auditorium with words and illusions. But she was winning them now with yet another talent.
By the end of the song, the partygoers were on the edges of their seats, smiling and applauding Wren, who whipped the jacket
off her wrists to reveal freed hands.
Elliot couldn’t hide his smile.
In one hand, Wren showed off the handcuffs. In the other, she grasped a small bell. She rang it against the microphone as the crowd’s cheering and clapping filled the Imperial Ballroom’s vaulted ceiling.
Wren turned to Amberley, presenting the bell with a deep, flamboyant curtsy.
Amberley’s cheeks were nearly set aflame with anger when Wren took her coat and gloves back, then bowed with a triumphant smile. “It’s time this was returned to you. Happy birthday, Amberley.”
“Wren?”
She’d hoped to slip out of the front lobby doors unseen. But she turned at the sound of the shout to see Elliot trailing down the steps behind her. He chased her down to the street, his labored breathing puffing out on a frozen cloud.
“You’re leaving,” he said when he caught up to her.
Wren handed the valet her ticket, thanking him with a quick nod. “Of course. I did what I came to do. We found out why Amberley invited me tonight—to humiliate me in kind. What else is there to stay for?”
Elliot stared back at her, unabashed wonder lighting his face in a wide grin. So offbeat for the carefully controlled investigator. “How did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“That. In there onstage.” He held out his handcuffs. “These are real, you know.”
She gave in to a tiny laugh. “I figured that out when you clamped them around my wrists—pretty tight, I might add. Remind me never to let you back up on one of my stages. You’re a hazard to the conventions of a well-planned show.”
He shook his head, reaching out to halt her with a light touch to her elbow.
She froze.
This wasn’t an action in jest. He was deadly serious.
“No. You bested Amberley tonight. But it’s as if you knew this would happen. And after what you told me about the séance and the bell that played a part in exposing her as having defrauded people . . . You planned it all, didn’t you? Was this some sort of revenge?”
Wren eased back from his touch, suddenly feeling the onslaught of the cold. She tugged the collar of her coat higher around her chin and shrugged, as if he’d made it all up. “I don’t know what you mean,” she stated flatly, moving a step back as the valet turned the car over to her. “Good night, Agent Matthews.”
Wren walked around the back of the car, heading to the driver’s side door. She grabbed the handle in haste, and her glove slipped on a coating of ice. She fumbled the walking stick in her hand and it fell into the slush at her feet.
Get out of here. He’s asking too many questions. Getting closer . . .
There had been a split second onstage that she couldn’t stand to relive, especially not with him so near.
Never before had Wren doubted her abilities—onstage or off. But she doubted now. The one thing she knew she’d fail miserably at was to hide the fact that he’d affected her. The brush of his hand against her skin had stirred in the pit of her stomach. The brush of familiarity was something she desperately wished to forget.
Wren dipped her gloved fingertips in the snow, retrieving the walking stick, then flung open the door.
“Connor drove me here, but seeing as he’s out of pocket . . .” Elliot had slid over to occupy the driver’s seat of her Pierce Arrow. “It appears as if I need a lift home.”
“This is my car.” Irritation flooded in. “I’m sorry, but no one drives it except me.”
Elliot ignored her, which he seemed too skilled at doing. The valet had left the engine running, but Elliot had settled into the driver’s seat without a second thought. “You’re not sorry. And I should have known you weren’t the chauffer type.” He tossed a glance to the passenger door still being held open by the valet. “We need to talk. Are you going to get in or not?”
The nerve! Never before had anyone been so bold as to order her around, and certainly not to make himself at home in the driver’s seat of her car. But standing in the cold, arguing in front of the valet and partygoers whispering as they walked by, didn’t seem to help matters.
Wren sighed and walked around to the passenger side, then slid in as the valet closed the door behind her. “I told you before, Agent Matthews, I value my privacy above all things. And I don’t take to interference in my affairs. Not from anyone.”
“It’s not interfering to share a drive home, especially when we need to talk without the press hounding us. Think of it as we’re just—sharing the same oxygen for a while.”
She twisted her hands in her lap, her fight for composure losing the battle at her fingertips. Realizing he might see the evidence of her unease, she ceased fidgeting and calmed her fingers. It felt good to draw in a deep breath, too, especially when she needed an extra shot of moxie to give him the full force of her opinion.
“I’ll tell you in as blunt a manner as possible, I am not a chorus girl who will swoon at some gentleman’s smile. I meant what I said onstage,” she bit out, refusing to look at him. She fixed her glare on the frozen landscape out the window. It was safer. “I have no interest in any entanglements. If I live alone and drive alone, it’s what I want. And no matter how many smooth talkers come along, I won’t be convinced otherwise. If we have to work together for your case, then so be it. But rest assured, if you try one thing, I will not hesitate to plant the end of my walking stick into your midsection.”
Elliot didn’t respond.
She heard only the cadence of the engine and the sound of tiny raindrops pelting the windshield and roof with their icy spray. When she was certain she’d made her point, Wren finally turned to look at him, expecting the words to have cut as deep as she’d intended. Instead, she was met with a pair of blue eyes that sparkled through the dim light of the downtown streetlamps. He was amused and didn’t mind showing it.
“My, you’re arrogant, aren’t you?” He laughed, edging the car onto the street. “Have you always been like this?”
“Like what?”
Elliot scoffed. “You know. Thinking you’re above Amberley’s petty ways when you’re so much like her you two could be sisters. Did you stop to think that not every man in that ballroom wanted you?”
She caught his eye roll, which only fanned the flame of her irritation. “I never said that!”
“Listen, I don’t want to argue with you. And I don’t want to interfere in your life. We’re stuck with each other until this case is over, so you might as well drop the queen act and try to be civil.” He steered the car in a turn, misjudging the distance of the curb. The back wheel thumped over it, jarring Wren in her seat.
The sound of a loud pop shut off her reply, followed by another.
“Oh no.” She turned to look over her shoulder, certain after that rub up against the rough curb he’d managed to flatten one of her tires on a sharp edge. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you drive.”
Elliot shot a glance out the back, then, without warning, slammed his foot on the gas pedal.
“What are you doing?” she yelled, her heart rising to her throat. Wren grasped the door frame with her fingernails as wheels skidded on ice and her back fused to the seat.
They fishtailed, the car’s back end swimming wildly against the road.
“Hold tight!” Elliot turned the car to whisk down a side street.
“Hold tight for what?”
They came up over a slight rise, and the flood of two headlights illuminated the car’s interior through the back window. A pop cut through the night, followed by another, with the sound of metal chinking at the back of the car.
She gasped, despite her attempts to focus on what was happening. Another high-pitched chink struck, crackling the glass around a tiny circle in the windshield above Elliot’s head.
“Get down!”
With a firm grip, his palm pushed the back of her head below the line of the front seat. He turned the car from right to left, whizzing down Boston’s webbed tangle of streets, jostling them about like prisoners in a
chucked tin can.
The shadows of gangly tree limbs flew by the windows, along with the sight of random brick buildings lining both sides of the street, and intermittent light from the streetlamps that whizzed by the car.
Elliot was silent, eyes focused on the maze of streets.
Cracks of gunfire sprayed the back of the car like errant fireworks tied to the bumper. He responded by speeding down another back alley, then turned tight to the left, fighting to lose whoever was tailing them. A shot of white-hot pain seared down the length of Wren’s left arm. Without thinking, she reacted by trying to rise again, only to feel Elliot’s arm wrap her shoulders and haul her down against his side.
“Wren, get down! What’s the matter with you? You’re not bulletproof, you know.”
“We’ve got to get out of here.” Her breathing was choppy and shallow. “Someone’s shooting at us.”
“Well, they’re not throwing confetti, that’s for sure. Hang on.” He took a sharp turn down a residential street. Bowers of shade trees obscured the streetlamps’ light.
Wren wasn’t used to the uncertainty coursing through her body. She fought to calm down, think logically, her mind sorting through scenarios that might help them in the moment.
The pops of metal had eased, the headlights behind them fading somewhere in the distance.
“Was that for you . . . or me?” she whispered, half afraid to hear Elliot’s answer.
“Why would it be for you?” He looked her dead in the eyes for a split second. “Either way, I couldn’t care less right now. We’re in this car together. All that matters is making sure we’ve lost them. I’ll think about why someone’s trying to put a bullet in one or both of us after that.”
Somehow it felt safer knowing there was a cascade of row houses nearby. Perhaps they could find help, even ditch the car and rush into one of the family homes to hide out until the authorities could show up.
“We could stop here. Ring for help?” Wren pointed her index finger to the rows of front doors with people inside, guaranteed to have telephones and doors that locked tight.
The Illusionist's Apprentice Page 11