Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  A torrent of questions rushed through Celine’s brain. Had the Gardner’s stolen Rembrandts somehow made it to this antiques store? The slender bronze vases on an end table caught her eye.

  Were they authentic Shang dynasty vessels? Or twenty-first-century reproductions?

  She picked one up, instinctively turning it upside-down to examine the bottom. If it had ever belonged to the Gardner, a label with the accession number printed or penciled in would be affixed to the bottom.

  “I don’t think that’s what you think it is,” Julia said, quietly coming up behind her.

  “Those are junk.” It was the same voice that had called out to them. “Reproduction Shang dynasty wine vessels that tourists buy. I’m actually not sure why they’re even out here.”

  Celine whirled around. A name reverberated in her head, but her guardian angel’s voice was drowned out by the rush of blood draining into her brain.

  A slender, attractive woman about her own height—five-eight—stood before her, her dark hair pulled back into a loose bun. She smiled at Celine.

  “I have some authentic Chinese bronzes, if you’re interested in that kind of thing.”

  Celine stared at the woman; she was having trouble breathing. She stole a glance at Julia, but her friend appeared to have noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

  “You said these were junk,” the former fed said, holding up one of the faux Shang dynasty vessels. “Why do you have them displayed so prominently then?”

  The woman pursed her lips, lifting her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I guess my assistant thought they stood a chance of being snapped up now. You see they were made by—”

  “Tony Reynolds, your murdered lover,” Celine breathed the words out.

  “Celine!” Julia expostulated, head pivoting from Celine to the store owner’s ashen features.

  “You’re Sofia, aren’t you?” Celine’s eyes never left the older woman’s face. Her age was beginning to show now—faint lines and wrinkles revealing themselves in the smooth white veneer of her face. “Sofia Wozniak.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, it is her.” Julia gaped open-mouthed at the woman who’d sprinted past them down Reynolds’ stairs the day before.

  “I don’t understand.”

  The woman they’d recognized as Sofia backed away. The counter behind her stopped her progress. She reached out, gripping it with white knuckles.

  “Who are you two? How do you know my name?”

  Tell her, Celine. Reynolds had materialized, arms folded, an expression of pure venom on his face. Tell her how you know. Tell her you’re psychic.

  Celine glanced at him; she had no intention of revealing her abilities to Sofia.

  “You passed us by on the stairs yesterday,” Julia responded to Sofia. “Do you remember? In Tony Reynolds’ apartment?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Sofia shook her head. “We were lovers once, Tony and I. But it was over seven years ago. I haven’t seen him since.”

  Seven years ago. When Celine had been cast out from the Montague Museum? When Laurie, her intern, had gotten herself killed? When Hugh Norton—her eyes were drawn toward the faux bronze gus.

  That’s when I made those, Reynolds told her. Seven years ago.

  Celine knew instantly without having to be told why he’d copied the bronzes. Before she could confirm her impressions, Julia’s words penetrated her senses.

  “You may not have kept in touch with Reynolds, but you were in his apartment yesterday, Sofia. You were seen by more than one law enforcement agent—one of them from the FBI. I’m sure the man you drugged remembers you pretty well.”

  “You’re law enforcement?” Sofia’s dark eyes were wide—a trapped deer backed into a corner. A vein in her neck pulsed rapidly.

  “Julia Hood, FBI.” Julia held out her badge, not bothering to preface her identification with the usual and more accurate adjective—former. She tucked the badge back into her skirt pocket.

  Ask her why she stole from me, Celine, Reynolds demanded, his arms still folded.

  “What did you take from his apartment?” Celine turned to Sofia.

  Sofia’s eyes—wary—turned from Julia to her and then returned to Julia. “I didn’t take anything, I swear it.”

  “Not even a photograph?”

  Sofia’s gaze snapped toward Celine. “Why would I want any photographs of him?” Tears stained the mascara around her eyes. “I was done with the man—a long time ago.”

  But the intent was there all along. Ask her why she was in my warehouse.

  “Wait, she was in your warehouse?” Celine blurted out aloud.

  “Who’re you talking to?” Sofia’s screech of alarm startled her. Celine turned to face her.

  “You were in Tony Reynolds’ warehouse last night. What were you doing there?”

  She heard the door swing open as she spoke, heard muffled footsteps on the carpet.

  “Answer the question, Ms. Wozniak”—it was Blake’s voice, colder and harder than carbon steel; how had he tracked them down?—“What were you doing in Tony Reynolds’ warehouse?”

  Celine assumed he’d held out his badge, identified himself as an FBI agent. But her eyes remained glued on Sofia, who shrank farther back against the onslaught of their questions.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  “Don’t bother denying it.” Blake strode across the carpeted floor. “We know you were at Reynolds’ warehouse. The security camera he’d installed picked you up clear as day.”

  Sofia flinched as though she’d been struck, but her lips remained tightly clamped together. If they were hoping for an admission of guilt, they weren’t going to get it.

  She’s a stubborn woman, that one, Reynolds said. Always been that way.

  What was she looking for? Celine pressed him, but Reynolds just shook his head. Ask her, he persisted. He crossed his arms, staring at the back of Blake’s close-cropped head.

  “What were you looking for?” the FBI agent demanded again.

  Sofia gripped the corner of the counter, her knuckles white.

  “What did you take, Sofia?” Julia’s tone was gentler than it had been before.

  “Nothing.” Sofia’s gaze swept past Blake toward Julia; her face was wreathed in a desperate uncertainty. “I didn’t take anything. I didn’t fi—” She stopped herself abruptly and glanced away.

  Spit it out, Sofia, Reynolds urged, although it was doubtful she heard him What were you trying to steal from me?

  In an instant, he was at her side, so close to her, he could’ve reached out to touch her. So close that had he been alive, she would’ve felt his warm breath on her neck. She may not have been psychic, but Celine wondered if Sofia could sense Reynolds’ presence all the same.

  What were you trying to steal from me?

  “Tony thinks you were working with his killer,” Celine said. The remark acted, as she’d intended, like a jolt of electricity on Sofia’s nerves.

  Her head shot up. “I have no idea how he got himself killed. Or who killed him.” Her back stiffened, her eyes blazed. “I don’t know because I’m not a criminal. I don’t associate with criminals.”

  “Not a criminal.” Blake laughed. “You could’ve fooled me. Drugging a police officer, breaking and entering—not once, but twice. Those don’t seem like the actions of an upstanding citizen.”

  Sofia flinched again, as though she’d been slapped, and looked down. She was struggling with herself, Celine sensed, wondering how much to reveal to them. What Celine couldn’t understand was why.

  “It would be easier to just tell us the truth,” she urged.

  “And if you work with us, we won’t have to arrest you,” Julia reminded her. “I don’t think Daddy would take too kindly to that, do you?”

  That evidently got Sofia’s attention. She was close to forty, yet her father’s approval—or lack thereof—still served as a strong incentive. That was Julia’s guess—Celine picked up the thought passing through her friend’s mind.
>
  But it wasn’t a desire for approval that kept Sofia tethered to her father. It was something else. Celine focused on Sofia, struggling to interpret the waves of sensations washing toward her.

  But the other woman must have tamped down her emotions; the tenuous impressions subsided as abruptly as they’d begun.

  Sofia raised her head, facing them squarely. “All right. I did break into Tony’s warehouse. There was something I needed to find. Something that isn’t his to keep.”

  Her words had whipped Reynolds’ face into a perfect storm of fury.

  It isn’t her pal’s to keep, either, he spat out. Tell her that.

  “Tony says it isn’t your friend’s to keep either,” Celine informed the other woman.

  Sofia’s face crumpled. “I know. I’m just trying to help her get away from her husband. This is all the leverage we have.”

  I don’t buy that, Reynolds scoffed. Her friend’s just a gold-digging whore.

  Celine ignored the dead man. She didn’t think Sofia was lying. She stole a glance at the others. Both Julia and Blake seemed convinced as well.

  “His possession of stolen goods, you mean?” Blake inched closer to Sofia. “Stolen artworks?”

  Sofia nodded. “He showed it to her once. That’s how she knows what he has.”

  “One item. Definitely stolen. Have you seen it?” Blake pressed.

  Sofia shook her head. “No. But I believe her, Agent. She wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “And this has what to do with Tony Reynolds now?”

  Julia’s question was a brusque reminder that Sofia was still a wanted woman with questions to answer, although it was clear to Celine how the sculptor had been involved.

  Sofia seemed to welcome the question, however, turning eagerly to the former fed.

  “He must’ve asked Tony to keep the item for him”—She was going to great lengths to avoid naming it, Celine noticed—“It’s not in the house my friend shared with her husband. And Tony is the only person we can think of who wouldn’t bat an eyelid at something this shady.”

  Celine gasped, feeling the gut-wrenching pain Sofia’s contempt was causing Reynolds as surely as if the woman had physically assaulted her. He’d never stopped loving her; and he’d never stopped hurting from her withdrawal.

  Sweet, loving Sofia. Reynolds’ features twisted. Always ready to see the best in me.

  He needs to make peace with her, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine told her. They need to be at peace with each other before he can leave.

  Celine didn’t have to be told twice. Sofia was in agony, too. She’d seen the tears welling up, the gaunt, haunted expression whenever Reynolds’ name was mentioned.

  “Tony was trying to return the Rembrandt, Sofia,” she said. “It was a Rembrandt, wasn’t it?”

  “How do you know what he was trying to do?” Sofia’s head snapped toward her. “Did he tell you so? You were a fool to believe him.”

  “He made a call to the Gardner on the day he was killed,” Celine said quietly. “He tried repeatedly to get in touch with Penny Hoskins.”

  “We believe he was killed to prevent him from talking,” Blake confirmed.

  How he’d divined what she was trying to do, Celine didn’t know, but she was grateful to him all the same. Blake could be mulish and pigheaded, but when push came to shove, he’d also shown himself to be extremely insightful.

  “But—” Sofia was clearly having trouble believing them.

  There’s no point. She’ll never believe you, Reynolds sounded a bitter warning. It’s your word against Daddy’s. He faded away.

  But Celine felt compelled to continue.

  “He was no forger, either, Sofia. He’d given that up a long time ago.”

  “That reminds me.” Before Sofia could react, Blake twisted abruptly around and headed for the door. The bell chimed again as he pushed the door open.

  “There’s something I need you ladies to see.”

  Sofia barely registered Blake’s departure. Her lustrous dark eyes remained fixed on Celine’s face. She chewed on her lip and swallowed, obviously working up the nerve to ask a question.

  “How do you know so much about Tony?” she eventually asked, bringing each word out as though it were a hard pebble she’d swallowed. She paused. “Were you his latest?”

  “His latest client,” Celine clarified. She stepped closer to Sofia, taking her cold, bloodless palm in hers. “Listen to me, Sofia. I’m psychic. That’s how I know Tony never stopped loving you. That’s how I know he was striving not to fall back into his old life.”

  Sensing Sofia was opening up to her, Celine continued. “Did Tony know a man called Hugh Norton?”

  A harsh laugh erupted from Sofia, breaking the spell Celine had woven. “Are you kidding me? It was Hugh Norton who helped nurture Tony’s talents, turning him from forgery to a legitimate career in art.”

  “I don’t think Hugh Norton is quite the noble gentleman you take him for, Sofia,” Celine began. But she’d clearly lost Sofia.

  Sofia pulled her hand away from Celine’s. “I have no idea who you are, but you’re no psychic if you’re suggesting Hugh Norton had anything to do with Tony’s foray into criminality.”

  Great! With her characteristic bluntness, she’d managed to shatter the fragile connection she’d forged with the other woman. Nice going, Celine, she chided herself.

  Fortunately, Julia was quick to step in.

  “Tell us more about Hugh Norton,” she invited Sofia with a smile. “How did he and Tony get to know each other?”

  “Tony was fifteen when he came to Rose Antiques. He’d brought a Degas sketch with him. It was so good, it fooled my mother into believing it was authentic. She purchased it, and immediately contacted Hugh Norton.”

  “Because Norton has a taste for Impressionists,” Julia surmised. They already knew that to be the case, but Celine knew Julia was simply trying to keep Sofia talking.

  “Yes.” Sofia nodded. “True art lovers are as much fascinated by an artist’s sketches and preparatory work as by their finished paintings. Hugh Norton was no different.”

  Just like the General’s partner. The thought surfaced unbidden into Celine’s mind, but she kept it to herself.

  “And it was Norton who discovered the Degas wasn’t authentic?” She heard Julia asking.

  “It was the signature.” Sofia smiled. “Degas never signed anything he wasn’t planning to sell or exhibit. After his death, his estate stamped all of his remaining works. Many of his sketches and drawings carry that red stamped impression of his signature. But Tony had used red ink to recreate it.”

  “He thought Degas had signed his works in red,” Celine voiced the thought as it entered her mind.

  “Yes. He was looking at images in his books. It’s hard to tell it’s a stamped, not a handwritten, signature. And the watermark was all wrong. Norton had the money to have an expert examine the paper. He’s always been careful like that about his acquisitions.”

  “I take it he didn’t press charges,” Julia said.

  “Because Tony was just a boy—but clearly a very talented one. Norton thought his talent should be developed.”

  So he could become an art forger. Celine was quite sure that was the reason for Norton’s interest in the young Reynolds.

  Her face must have mirrored her skepticism because Sofia turned to her.

  “You can talk to Tony’s teacher if you like. He’ll confirm what I’m telling you.”

  “His teacher?”

  “Frank van Mieris. He’s retired now, but he was a BU art professor at the time.”

  “Yes.” Celine’s eyes flickered toward Julia. They exchanged a glance. “Yes, we know who he is.”

  Van Mieris had taught Simon Underwood and her former employers, Dirck Thins and John Mechelen, as well.

  With his interest in understanding the techniques of classical painters, van Mieris’s influence would’ve ensured that Reynolds developed an expertise in the precise techniques
used by any painter from the Dutch masters to the impressionists.

  The perfect skill for an art forger to possess.

  Chapter Sixty

  Things were falling into place, Blake thought. Sofia had been telling Julia and Celine about Hugh Norton’s connection with Reynolds when he’d re-entered the store, lugging the canvases in with him.

  He stole a glance at Celine. Damn! He should never have mistrusted her intuition. She’d been right about Hugh Norton; right to suspect a connection between the art patron and their murder victim.

  And she’d somehow known—before he’d even had a chance to reveal the canvases he’d discovered—that Reynolds was a forger. The van Mieris connection Sofia had revealed just sealed the deal.

  But his hopes deflated as soon as they’d crested. They didn’t have a prayer in hell of proving Norton was connected to the Gardner theft. Norton wasn’t the only art collector with a passion for Impressionist works and sketches. Heck, Isabella Gardner had possessed the same passion herself.

  Blake cleared his throat, announcing his return. When the women looked his way, he hefted the canvases across the room and onto the wooden counter.

  “Found these at his warehouse,” he said. “I take it you saw them when you went in.”

  Sofia dipped her chin, her lips pursed. “Those are Tony’s works, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Julia and Celine lowered their heads, studying the works intently. “They’re remarkably good,” Julia said after a while. “But if he copied these, he must’ve had access to the originals.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Sofia said. “Or someone he knew did. He refused to tell me anything about it, though. That’s why we broke up. I just couldn’t live with his lies.”

  “He didn’t want to hurt you,” Celine said.

  It was clear to Blake she had no idea what the words meant. She was merely repeating a message—from her guardian angel, he supposed. And Sofia, judging by the hard expression on her face, was having a hard time believing Celine. What could possibly make the truth—whatever it was—more painful than Reynolds’ lies?