Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  But perhaps there was a better alternative.

  “Molly—may I call you that?” At the other woman’s emphatic bob, Celine continued, “I guess you’ve heard about the sculptor Tony Reynolds’ murder.”

  She’d decided to keep as close to the truth as possible. After all, they’d arrived in an unmarked armored vehicle, accompanied by a man who’d introduced himself as an FBI agent. Everyone at the hotel must’ve guessed she and Julia were no ordinary tourists.

  “Oh, yes.” The young woman looked appropriately distressed. “You ladies are helping out the FBI, right?”

  “No.” Celine shook her head. She didn’t want to broadcast their role as unofficial consultants to the FBI. That was a surefire way of attracting trouble. And they’d attracted enough of it already.

  The General must have surmised she was involved in the investigation, but at least this time he had no idea where she and Julia were staying.

  “No. We’re just here to provide our statements. You see I’d commissioned a few pieces from Tony Reynolds for my business. He was in California the day before he died—”

  “Oh, my goodness! That’s awful.” Molly’s hand rose to cover her gaping mouth.

  “Yes, yes, it is. And now we’ve lost our sculptor—” Celine hoped she wasn’t coming across as completely heartless. But fortunately Molly seemed to understand.

  She bobbed her head. “You need another artist to continue the work. Of course.”

  “It has to be someone of his caliber. Someone with the ability to carry on his vision.”

  “To be sure.” Molly nodded some more. She leaned over the desk. “You know you could try the Cambridge Sculptors’ Association. I don’t know for a fact that Tony Reynolds was a member. But he must have been.”

  Celine felt her spirits rise. Excellent! They were getting somewhere at last.

  “The Cambridge Sculptors’ Association? Is that close to where we are? Walking distance, perhaps?”

  Molly wrinkled her nose apologetically. “It’s about two miles from here, actually. And it’s in Boston. But you know it’s only a nine-minute drive—just across the Charles River.”

  “What’s a nine-minute drive?” Julia had come up to the reception desk, armed with brochures and magazines.

  “A sculptors’ association Reynolds might have been a member of,” Celine informed her. “We could go there, see if we can find someone to take over from him.”

  Left unsaid was the fact that they might also discover someone who could shed light on Reynolds’ doings in the weeks before he’d been terminated. Someone that he might have confided in, although Celine sensed that Reynolds tended to play his cards close to his vest.

  Still, even a man like that was apt to carelessly let fall a clue or two.

  Flushed with her success at rattling the SAC’s cage, Ella dialed Mailand’s cell number. The Sheriff’s detective didn’t seem surprised to hear her voice.

  “I figured I’d be hearing from either you or Special Agent Markham,” he said the moment Ella identified herself. “First an attempted murder. Now a break-in. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to realize the two incidents are connected. I’m guessing the FBI’s come to the same conclusion.”

  Ella smiled. The man was quick on the uptake. She appreciated that.

  “You’re absolutely right, Detective,” she said.

  She saw no reason to beat about the bush or to be cagey with local law enforcement. It was that kind of foolish attitude that ensured a case remained unsolved for as long as the Gardner theft had been.

  Back in the nineties when the heist had taken place, if the FBI had allowed Boston PD a hand in the case, they might’ve recovered the art and put, if not the General himself, then at least his henchmen behind bars.

  But that was in the past. Nothing to do with her. Ella reined her thoughts in, concentrating on the here and now.

  She’d already conveyed Blake’s suspicion that Reynolds might have been framed for the attempted murder in her earlier call. Now she quickly filled Mailand in on their latest working theory—that the sculptor had been killed for what he knew about the Gardner heist.

  “So either Reynolds passed some information to Ms. Skye during his visit. Or our perp thinks he did,” Mailand concluded once she’d finished.

  “Exactly.”

  Ella leaned forward, pen poised in the air, about to explain the reason for her call. But Mailand wasn’t done talking.

  “I think we have enough evidence to confirm that theory, Ms. Rawlins,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Ella brought her hand, and the pen grasped within it, down to her desk.

  “You see Mrs. Curtis’s cottage wasn’t the only one broken into.”

  “It wasn’t?” She was being rude, interrupting the man. But Ella was confused. Julia hadn’t shared any of this with her. And Julia had gotten her information from Annabelle, hadn’t she?

  Ella mentioned this to Mailand.

  “That’s because Mrs. Curtis herself wasn’t aware of it until we arrived and began checking out the other buildings,” Mailand explained.

  “And the other building broken into?” Ella asked, although she had a feeling she knew what Mailand’s reply would be.

  “Ms. Skye’s cottage. The intruder—or intruders, hard to tell how many there were—must’ve broken into her cottage first. They did a better job concealing their steps there, locking the door when they left. But the place was thoroughly ransacked.”

  “Obviously, they found nothing there,” Ella mused, “so they went on to Annabelle—Mrs. Curtis’s—cottage.” Where they’d found one of the models Reynolds had given Celine. The only one—judging by the description Julia had provided of it—that had any chance of containing clues to the whereabouts of the Gardner’s stolen Rembrandts.

  The stream of frustrated air she blew out must have been audible at the other end of the line because Mailand immediately caught on, and responded.

  “The piece stolen from Mrs. Curtis’s cottage was important, I gather.”

  It was a delicate albeit unnecessary attempt to fish for information.

  The only reason Ella hadn’t spelled out the facts was because she’d assumed Mailand had already divined the truth.

  “It might have been.” Ella explained its significance, suggesting he take charge of the other miniature pieces Reynolds had left with Celine.

  “On the off chance,” she said, “that they’ve taken the wrong thing.”

  It was unlikely. But there was no point leaving any stone unturned.

  “No, there’s not,” Mailand agreed. “Although at this point, our only hope might be to put pressure on the mailman Reynolds likely saw when he visited here. He may not have been our intruder, but he may know something about what went down.”

  Ella was glad he’d brought up the subject. She’d been wondering how to broach it.

  “I think we can safely conclude that whoever hired him, hired our intruder as well.” She paused. She’d noticed his use of the definite article: the mailman; not a mailman.

  Did it mean anything? Or had he just misspoken? It was her turn to probe.

  “I take it you have some evidence that points to this mailman’s involvement in the first incident.”

  “We’ve identified one guy who seems more than suspicious. Luckily, he’s coming in for a polygraph today.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The Cambridge Sculptors’ Association was on Newbury Street, behind Old South Church, a Gothic church Celine and Julia had visited on their last trip to Boston. The cab had just dropped them off when Julia’s phone trilled.

  “It’s Ella,” she said, putting the phone on speaker.

  “Julia, I’m glad I caught you.” Ella’s voice emerged in a tinny blare from the former fed’s iPhone. “I have troubling news. It turns out the General may have someone in Paso Robles feeding him information.”

  A twinge of alarm pulsed through Celine’s chest, a psychic sign that unwelcome as the n
ews was, Ella was right. Her gaze locked with Julia, her own worry mirrored in the agent’s narrowed eyes.

  Julia’s knuckles whitened as her fingers tightened around her phone. “Someone at the winery?”

  Dear God, that couldn’t be true. Celine caught sight of her face in the glass gallery door across the street. The color had drained from it, leaving it a ghastly shade of white. A mole in the winery? That was impossible.

  Andrea had been with them for years. Wanda had—only been with them a couple of months, but Celine was certain she would never do anything to betray her. And Annabelle—Annabelle was Dirck’s sister.

  Was it Bryan?

  “No, nothing as bad as that.” Ella was responding to Julia’s question. “It’s the mailman Reynolds was warning you about. The one he saw when he visited the winery. Mailand may have tracked down the guy. I called him a while back.”

  “And?” Julia bent her head over the phone. Celine hunched closer as well. The news that her cottage had also been broken into, she brushed aside. There’d been nothing there for the intruders to find.

  “And this guy Mailand ferreted out?” she pushed impatiently.

  “I’m getting to that,” Ella said, unoffended by Celine’s tetchiness. “When we asked Mailand to verify Reynolds’ story, he questioned the van drivers and delivery guys again.”

  Mailand had detected signs of deception in one of the men.

  “A scrawny, brown-haired, shifty-eyed, weasel-faced guy—that’s in Mailand’s words,” Ella said. “So he had his guys do a little more digging. Turns out deliveries on this guy’s route were delayed on the day Reynolds was in town.”

  They’d been delayed longer than usual, according to the residents on the mailman’s route.

  A little more digging had produced camera footage of the mail truck parked for an extended period on one of the residential streets outside downtown Paso Robles.

  “You can see a blurry, uniformed figure climbing out of the van. But we have no idea where he went. The camera’s across the street from where the van was parked, and didn’t capture that. Then about fifteen minutes later, the truck pulls away from the curb—driving not in the direction of, but away from its usual route. It was gone long enough to have made the trip to the Mechelen and back.”

  “Meaning it was seen returning to this spot—the spot where it was initially parked?” Julia asked.

  “Yup. It was parked there for another ten or fifteen minutes before resuming its normal route.”

  They digested this information. Then the faintest tendril of a thought stirred in Celine’s mind.

  “You said residents on this guy’s route were complaining their mail was delayed longer than usual that day?”

  “Yup. That’s what they told Mailand’s guys.”

  “Meaning it had happened before. Or was happening on a regular basis,” Celine probed, unsure where she was going with this.

  “I-uh-well, yes, I suppose that’s what they were saying.” Ella sounded embarrassed—and a little bewildered. “I guess neither one of us picked up on that.”

  Julia looked at Celine. “What’s your point?”

  Celine shrugged, chewing on her lip. “I’m just wondering if this guy made a habit of stopping on this particular street. If so, he might be meeting someone there.”—a sharp intake of breath audible through the phone’s speakers told Celine her suggestion had resonated with Ella—“Someone who’s the General’s agent. I don’t see a man as cagey as the General making personal contact with a hired hand, so to speak.”

  “No, no, I guess not,” Julia agreed.

  “Oh, God! If you’re right,” Ella was sounding distressed, “we need to figure out who the mailman’s handler is.” They heard the scratching of a pen as she continued, “He’s supposed to be coming in for a polygraph today. I’d better get on the horn with Mailand again.”

  “Thanks,” Celine’s voice joined with Julia’s. But as Julia hung up, another disturbing thought occurred to her.

  “I’m sure Mailand’s on the right track. But I still don’t see how this guy could’ve known about the sculptures Reynolds left with me.”

  Don’t trust the mailman, the breeze whispered in her ear.

  But she hadn’t. She didn’t even know the guy.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  “This is it, I think.” Julia stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and craned her neck up.

  Forcing her thoughts away from their recent phone call, Celine looked up as well. Although their cab had dropped them almost directly in front of their destination, talking with Ella had taken them nearly a block east to Exeter Street.

  They’d retraced their steps and were now standing in front of an unassuming building. A short flight of eight steps led up to a nondescript glass door. The street number painted in an elaborate gold script on the glass was the only sign of embellishment visible.

  “Looks like it.” Celine read the number. “160 Newbury Street. That’s the number the receptionist back at the hotel gave me.”

  “They’re not too big on promoting themselves, are they?” Julia commented dryly. Leaning heavily on the iron railing, she planted her foot on the first step. “No sign, no nothing.” She propelled herself up to the next step.

  “Probably just the way Reynolds liked it—cryptic, discreet to the point of being invisible.” Celine followed Julia up the short flight. The steps were steeper than they looked. “Assuming he was a member.”

  It occurred to her that Reynolds might have hidden some clue to the whereabouts of the Gardner’s Rembrandt here. It was the perfect place. How many people even knew the Cambridge Sculptors’ Association existed—let alone that Reynolds might have been a member?

  The glass door led into a spacious, brightly lit hall. Rows of frosted-glass light fixtures on the ceiling expertly illuminated gold-framed landscapes and still lifes. A seated bronze figure, contorted beyond belief, was displayed in the center of the room.

  It had been ages since Celine had entered a contemporary art gallery. And she felt the familiar sensations of nostalgia mingled with nausea for the world she’d left. Been forced to leave, she reminded herself, breathing in the air-conditioned, sterile atmosphere of the place.

  The art world at its condescending worst, she thought sensing Julia’s warm presence behind her.

  “This place looks dead,” the former fed hissed into her ear. “Where is everybody?”

  “It’s like being in a long-abandoned but well-preserved crypt,” Celine agreed in an equally low voice.

  She searched the interior for any signs of a reception or lobby.

  “You’d think they’d have someone here to greet visitors,” Julia grumbled, following her gaze.

  “I guess it’s appointment-onl—”

  “Need any help?”

  The greeting bellowed out in a confident young voice was as startling as a loud clap of thunder on a sunny day. Celine pivoted around, following the sound until—

  “Oh, good heavens, we didn’t see you!” she exclaimed, her gaze colliding into a stout young woman with a side-swept, pixie-cut hairstyle. The desk she sat behind was set against the left wall, so close to the glass door, it was easily missed.

  Why on earth hadn’t the woman chosen to speak up sooner? The question buzzed insistently in Celine’s mind as she and Julia approached the desk. The woman must have read her mind.

  “We like to let visitors soak in the atmosphere,” she said, lips pressed into a small smirk of self-satisfaction.

  Like to let passersby show themselves for who they are, more likely, Celine thought. Sophisticated patrons to be cultivated. Or ignorant rubes to be shown the door.

  They’d put themselves in the ignorant rube category, she guessed. She’d have to repair the impression or they’d get nowhere here.

  Rising, the woman held out her hand. “Trina Kolev, Associate Secretary. What can I do for you?”

  Celine shook the proffered hand, her eyes flickering toward Julia. The former fed
inclined her head—in a barely visible gesture. They’d agreed earlier to let Celine take the lead at the Cambridge Association, and now Julia was confirming the strategy.

  “We were told Tony Reynolds might be a member,” Celine began.

  Trina nodded. “That’s right. One of our most prominent members, in fact, but . . .” She hesitated. “If you want him for a commission, you’re out of luck. He’s—”

  “We know,” Celine interjected gracefully. “That’s why we’re here. I’d commissioned a few pieces from him for my winery. I’d just approved his designs when we heard the news.”

  “And you’re looking for someone else to complete the project.” Trina was nothing if not blunt.

  Clearly the sculptor’s death wasn’t regarded as a great loss.

  Not giving Celine a chance to respond, Trina went on, “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We promote representational art—mainly sculpture, but we are making a foray into painting as well, as you can see.” She gestured at the walls around them.

  Likely because there weren’t too many sculptors interested in representational art anymore, Celine guessed. Even Reynolds, judging by his installation in the Gardner, had been transitioning into the abstract.

  But Julia, never able to abide glaring contradictions, couldn’t help but comment.

  “So the Cambridge Sculptors’ Association is located in Boston—and promotes painters as well as sculptors?” The former fed’s gaze moved pointedly to the small brass sign—engraved with the association’s name—on the wall behind Trina.

  Trina glanced over her shoulder at the sign. “I know, we should change the name.” She turned back to them. “We’re not in Cambridge anymore, and we obviously promote artists and sculptors from all over New England. Somehow no one’s ever gotten around to it.”

  She tilted up her chin, inviting some type of response. Celine ignored it—as did Julia, her curiosity exhausted, now that the matter had been explained.

  “Now, about our little problem,” the former fed deftly brought the subject back to Reynolds.