Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  “Then, you’ll do it?”

  “If you need me to, sure. You took me in, Celine. I’ll never forget that. I won’t let you down, I promise.”

  “Putting your affairs in order, Celine.”

  Charles Durand, the lawyer she’d inherited along with the business, leaned back in his leather armchair and regarded her. He was a husky man in his fifties with prematurely graying hair, pink cheeks, and sharp, sapphire-blue eyes.

  “You could say that.” Celine placed her tote bag on the floor. She’d stopped by the lawyer’s office on her way back to the Delft. The sooner she handled this the better.

  “I’m glad you are.” Durand interlaced his fingers. “Not many people your age would think to do it. No one realizes just how much bother they can save their family and friends when they give their eventual demise some thought.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m doing this,” Celine informed him. “To save everyone needless trouble.”

  The afternoon sun poured in through the plate glass wall panels of Lance, Douglass & Durand, bathing her cushioned chair and Durand’s dark wood desk in a warm, golden glow. She was on the right path.

  Ignoring the Lady’s presence by the window, Celine launched into an explanation of what she wanted. Reynolds’ abrupt departure had put something into motion; she just didn’t know what.

  “Naming Wanda Roberts as a beneficiary is no problem.” Durand glanced up from the notes he’d been scribbling on a narrow white pad. “But have you spoken to Andrea about naming him a partner? You’ll need his consent in order to proceed.”

  “I have it,” Celine said. After much grumbling, her winemaker had agreed to her proposition. “You should name a younger person, cara,” he’d said. “One more likely than me to outlive you.”

  “I’ll do that,” she’d promised, “the moment I find someone who knows as much about wine as you do.”

  “Do you need him here?” she asked Durand now. “To sign papers?”

  Durand dismissed the idea. “I’ll draw up the papers and have them sent over. You and Giordano can handle them at your leisure.” He put his pen down. “I’m glad you’re taking this step, Celine. But let’s face it, you have plenty of time. Most of my other clients wait until they’re actually knocking on Death’s door.”

  He took a sip from the tall glass of water on his desk. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “I’m not sure.” Celine chose her words carefully. “I’d like to name Bryan Curtis as a beneficiary, but . . .”

  But Annabelle’s son resented her so much, he’d find a reason to take offense at the gesture. And Annabelle herself had balked at the idea of having any formal association with the business.

  “I’m too old for this kind of thing, Celine,” she’d said, her gray curls bouncing as she shook her head strenuously. “I’m happy to help you. But I really don’t want to run a business. I’ve no head for it.”

  Durand played with his pen, flicking it upside down as he regarded her. “Dirck’s nephew. It would be fitting.”

  “Yes, it would, but”—Celine looked down at her clenched hands—“he’ll see it as a burden at best. Throwing him a few crumbs to placate him at worst.” She raised her eyes. “There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do right as far as Bryan is concerned.”

  Durand nodded. “He’s hurting, Celine. Grieving, I guess.”

  “It’s not my fault Dirck walked away.” Hot tears pricked her eyes as her temper flared. “I wasn’t even born when he made that decision. I didn’t know he had a family. No one did.”

  “Of course.” Durand nodded again.

  How could he be so calm, so unfazed?

  “But Bryan needs to work through his feelings of hurt and betrayal—on his own. Your overtures of friendship—however well-meaning—don’t make up for what Dirck put him and Annabelle through.”

  What have I been telling you, Celine? Sister Mary Catherine’s voice boomed into Celine’s ear. You can shop around for advice, but you won’t hear anything different. You can’t erase the past. You can’t make up for what Dirck did.

  Celine sat back, suddenly exhausted. Was that what she was doing—making up for Dirck’s behavior?

  “So what do I do, Charles?”

  Durand smiled. “The only thing you can do, Celine. Nothing.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Back at the Delft, Celine murmured a quick apology—“Sorry it took me so long”—and hurried behind the counter. The bar was milling with customers—small, impromptu wine-tasting groups, couples sharing a bottle of wine, coffee and tea drinkers.

  Julia glanced up, the bottle of wine in her hands tipped over a guest’s wine glass, ready to be poured. Her finely drawn dark eyebrows were raised. She took a step back, prepared to retreat if Celine wanted her to.

  Motioning her to stay, Celine took her place behind the cash register. She needed the former fed by her side. Between ringing up sales and typing up receipts, she filled Julia in on her meeting with Reynolds.

  “He doesn’t have a criminal record, meaning his association with the General is either innocuous or fairly recent.” But even as she spoke, Celine realized neither explanation seemed entirely right.

  An image of the bronze vessel in Reynolds’ hands flashed into her mind again.

  “He knows more than he’s letting on.”

  “About the General?”

  “And the heist. I think—” Celine hesitated. Had she seen the Gardner’s stolen Chinese gu in Reynolds’ hands? It had supposedly been sighted seven years ago when she was an under-appreciated, low-level employee at the Montague Museum.

  But Julia had checked out the tip herself—she and Celine hadn’t known each other at the time— and confirmed it was as bogus as the vessel alleged to be the Gardner’s Shang Dynasty wine vessel.

  “I think I had a flash of the Gardner’s Chinese gu in—Will that be all for you?” Celine said brightly, addressing the woman who’d approached the cash register, wine purchases and magnets in hand.

  She completed the transaction, but it was a while before Julia—occupied with serving customers—could return to pursue the conversation with her.

  “You were saying . . .” Julia prompted. “Something about the gu?”

  Celine shook her head. “I’m actually not sure what I saw. Reynolds’ hands on the gu—he recognized it.”

  “You think he knows where it is? Or was that just your mind’s way of confirming his connection to the General?”

  Celine considered this. From what she’d seen in her visions, Reissfelder and DiMuzio had taken the gu. Ostensibly for the General.

  “That was so if they’d been caught that night and been recognized as the men who’d broken into the Gardner, the entire haul wouldn’t be lost,” she said to herself. She looked up at Julia. “You’re probably right.”

  You got a lot more than that, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine said. An image of a calendar’s pages being rapidly flicked back occupied Celine’s mental screen. It was a reference to time.

  Reynolds had known the General for a long time. Okay, but what did that tell her? Hearing Julia’s voice, she turned her attention back to the former fed.

  “So Blake was right. Reynolds was here casing the joint, so to speak.” Julia regarded her, concern making the fine web of wrinkles on her face stand out. When Celine didn’t confirm her impression, she continued: “It makes sense. He’s not going to make his move the very day he gets here.”

  She moved away to serve a waiting patron before Celine could respond.

  He doesn’t intend to come back, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine informed her. And he likely won’t be able to.

  Yet Reynolds had said he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do.

  When Julia returned, she shared her impressions with the former fed. “I just don’t understand what I’m getting,” she said.

  “It seems simple enough to me.” Julia flicked her ponytail back—strands of graying hair escaped the confines of her navy bl
ue hairband. “If Reynolds hasn’t been tasked with the hit, then he was here to just observe—and to report back to the General.”

  “Or his agent.” Something else Blake had said to her snaked up into her mind.

  The Post reporter who’d responded to the anonymous tip that was the basis of his unverified article had recognized the incoming call as coming from a Boston phone number.

  “It was a burner phone,” Blake had told her, “discarded shortly after it was used. But the call was made from San Luis Obispo.”

  “A Boston number making a call from Central California?” Julia said when Celine shared the details with her. “That could be anyone—Jonah, Wanda”—she lowered her voice and surveyed the room—“and I hate to say this, but Annabelle as well.”

  “Or Bryan,” Celine said flatly. Her mind had gone straight to Annabelle’s son when she’d heard what Blake had uncovered. “The reporter thought the caller was male, and the call was made over the weekend. Bryan was still in Paso Robles at the time.”

  Julia’s eyes targeted Annabelle, who was explaining the choice of brews available to a couple sitting across the room. “Are you planning to say anything to her about this?”

  “No.” Celine didn’t even have to stop to ponder her decision. They had no evidence, but Bryan fit the bill. He was the only person she could think of—other than the General—with a motive to harm her.

  Had the General ensnared Bryan in his web? She hoped not. Bryan would only end up hurting himself—and his mother—if he tried to destroy her.

  When the last customer had left and Wanda and the rest of the Delft’s staff had finished for the day, Celine sank into the cream-colored, floral-patterned couch in Dirck’s sanctum.

  In preparation for harvest time, Andrea had given her a list of items to order: stainless steel tanks for their white wines—“I want to create a batch without any oak flavors, cara,” he’d told her—Hungarian and French oaks to replace some of their older barrels; yeast and nutrients; bottles as well.

  Her laptop perched on her knees, Celine began to send out emails to her various suppliers. They’d need to book a time with the cleaning crews to clean out the grape bins.

  Aware of Annabelle’s slender form standing by the doorway, she looked up.

  “How’d it go with that sculptor Tony Reynolds?” Annabelle walked over to her, sitting down on one of the matching armchairs on the other side of the coffee table. “Did you like his ideas?”

  Celine nodded. “I did.” She’d forgotten how enthusiastic Annabelle had been when Penny had first suggested installing sculptures on the estate to keep alive the memories of Dirck, John, and their friend Simon Underwood.

  “He gave me his drawings.” She tipped her chin at her tote bag, slumped on the coffee table. “Take a look, if you like.”

  She hadn’t put away his designs or the miniature models he’d created of them.

  “If you root around in there, you’ll find these absolutely stunning wood and bronze models he’s created. Take a couple for yourself if you like.”

  Annabelle looked at her, blue eyes tearing up. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. Help yourself. And Annabelle, if there’s anything you want Reynolds to change, just let me know.”

  Annabelle leaned over and gently squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Celine. You have no idea how much this means to me. I wish Dirck and I could’ve spoken or met while . . .” She drew back, clamping her lips together and brushing away the tears that welled up in her eyes.

  “I understand why he couldn’t, of course. It doesn’t make it any easier to bear, though, does it?”

  No, it didn’t. Believing in an afterlife—knowing the soul survived death, however painful—didn’t make you miss your family members any less.

  The other side was as distant and unreachable to the living as the New World must’ve been to the mothers, fathers, and children the first Pilgrims had left behind when they crossed the Atlantic.

  It was Annabelle, a retired schoolteacher, who’d come up with the analogy. “It must have been hard back in those days when there was no way of sending a message to let your loved ones know you’d made it across safely. No way of letting folks back home know that someone had died either.”

  “How’s Bryan doing?” Celine asked. It was an attempt to change the subject for Annabelle’s sake as well as to satisfy her own curiosity. He’d left in a huff a few days ago, tired, he said, of hanging around where he wasn’t wanted.

  “I think my dear dead uncle made his wishes quite clear, don’t you? He didn’t want us around, didn’t want us sharing in all of this.” Bryan had waved his arm expansively around the vineyards that surrounded the estate.

  Annabelle managed a smile. “He’s inundated. There was a backlog of jobs waiting for him.” Byran was a master plumber in Boston. “Probably a good thing he returned. People with plumbing issues aren’t exactly the most patient of clients. Neither are general contractors, of course.”

  “No, I guess not.” Celine returned to her work, while Annabelle pulled out Reynolds’ plans and spread them out on the coffee table between them.

  “These are stunning,” Annabelle said a few minutes later. “Reynolds must have missed his calling. He’s an excellent draftsman.”

  “So, he is.” Julia had walked in just then and was peering over Annabelle’s shoulders at the three-dimensional drawings Reynolds had created of each piece from a range of perspectives—front, rear, and three-quarter view from either side. “Wonder why he didn’t become an artist.”

  Celine raised her eyes from her laptop. “He wasn’t good enough, or so he believed. Lacked originality of vision. It’s the usual reason art students give up on their dreams.” She had given up on hers—although in her case, it had been her visions of murder that had compelled her to do it.

  It had been ages since she’d painted anything. She regretted that sometimes.

  “It’s hard to make it as an artist,” Annabelle agreed. “And if your work is seen as derivative . . .” She turned to the next sheet. “That’s why Dirck and John never believed they’d make it.” She’d taken to calling her brother and his friend by the names they’d assumed thirty years ago when they’d fled Boston. Not Simon and Earl, but Dirck and John.

  They’d died and been buried with those names, she’d explained when Celine had asked her about it.

  “I’m so bushed.” Julia suppressed a yawn. “Are you two ready to leave?”

  As always, the former fed and Annabelle had hitched a ride with Celine. Parking spaces were few and far between on 13th, and the parking lot in the back was too tiny to accommodate more than two employee cars. The rest were reserved for customers.

  “Yup.” Celine sent the last email on her list, shut down her computer, and rose. Her Pilot was parked in the small lot behind the Delft. “Let’s go.”

  Jonah was waiting for them by the Mechelen’s Tasting Room. He approached Celine’s car when it pulled up.

  “I was just about to go to your cottage,” he said, poking his head in through the driver’s side window. “Your mail was in the office back there.” He handed her a stack of envelopes with a slim rectangular box on top. “Andrea wanted to close up, so I uhmm . . . ”

  “Offered to help?” Celine finished for him. “Thanks.”

  She placed the stack on the center console and prepared to drive Annabelle to her cottage—the cottage that had once belonged to Dirck. Julia had taken over John Mechelen’s place.

  “Chocolates.” Annabelle peered down at the slim box sitting on top of Celine’s stack of mail. “From Boston? You don’t have a secret admirer do you?”

  Celine smiled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Annabelle opening the lid and prying up a chocolate-covered cube.

  A quick succession of images flashed through Celine’s mind. The gu. Laurie, the intern from the Montague Museum. The red inhaler she’d kept seeing before Laurie was murdered.

  It took but a moment for their significance to
register.

  “Annabelle, no!” Her voice was shrill with panic. She jammed her foot on the brake.

  But Annabelle had already popped the poisoned chocolate into her mouth.

  “Spit it out, Annabelle. Quick!”

  Eyes bulging with fear, mouth foaming, Annabelle spat out chocolate remnants and chocolate-tinged spit.

  “What’s the matter, Celine?” Julia leaned forward from the rear passenger seat.

  “Cyanide.” The Pilot’s wheels squealed as Celine swung the car around and peeled forward. “We’ve got to get her to the Emergency Room.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The nearest Emergency Facility was in Templeton, seven miles from the Mechelen. The drive, even on a relatively quiet, traffic-free day, took nearly fifteen minutes. Celine made it in nine, turning off Las Tablas Road into the narrow, rectangular parking lot.

  “Hang in there, Annabelle!” Celine pleaded. “Please, just hang in there.”

  Annabelle sat hunched in the passenger seat, arms wrapped around herself, mouth hanging open, softly moaning. The poison had already begun to take effect. Her features were flushed.

  “My head’s killing me. Oh God, dear God.”

  She retched repeatedly.

  “Ahh . . . uhhh . . .ahhh . . .”

  Julia reached forward to massage her back—firm, deep strokes designed to calm Annabelle down. It was all they could do at this time. “You’ll be fine, Annabelle. We’re at the hospital. It’s going to be okay.”

  The tires screeched as the Pilot rammed to a stop.

  “We’re here. We’re here. We’re here.”

  Thrusting the driver’s side door open, Celine ejected herself out of the car.

  Someone had left a wheelchair in the parking space next to theirs. Julia commandeered it as Celine helped Annabelle out of the car.

  The next several minutes passed in a blur, caught up in a whirlwind of activity. Celine sprinted ahead into the facility.

  “Cyanide poisoning,” she yelled as she pushed past the glass doors. “We have a case of cyanide poisoning.” She locked eyes with a nurse. “Please, we need help.”