Upon entering the apartment, she tripped over the scattered pieces of mail she’d left by the door earlier that morning. She dropped to her knees and picked up the envelopes and magazines, plus the battered-looking box her mother had sent from Wisconsin. She carried the pile over to her workstation and stacked it beneath her desk, out of the way.
Then she returned to the front door and locked it. That way she’d hear him knock first (he’d left his keys behind) and she could shut off the computer before he saw what she was up to.
Feeling a bit dizzy, she sat down and began to type.
Calum Clarke wife death
Calum Clarke wife murder
Calum Clarke Brandy death
She couldn’t believe she was typing the words. But even more unbelievable was the fact that nothing came up under any of those search terms except Cal’s official website, pictures of him with a Close-Up Magician of the Year trophy, an interview in Genii magazine, and some paid-for clickbaits about his TV special.
She clicked frantically on the NEXT arrow at the bottom of the screen. Page 2, page 3…Here he was five years ago, entertaining celebrities at a fund-raiser. There he was a year before that, at a party held at the British consul’s house in Hancock Park. Page 4, page 5…There was Cal’s original headshot from the 1990s, with his then-crooked teeth. Another interview, this time for Magic Magazine. Page 6, page 7…At last, an obituary: “Brandy Clarke, née Sebastian, passed away late on Tuesday night. She is survived by her husband, Calum Clarke. In lieu of gifts, donations may be sent to Narcotics Anonymous.”
Jessica began to relax. Everything was fine. Evelyn was just a confused old lady, and Cal’s first wife had had a substance abuse problem. It was sad, but it wasn’t nefarious. Except…on page 18, practically buried, was a link to an LA Examiner article from three years ago.
The headline read: “Local Magician Calum Clarke Questioned in the Death of His Wife.”
Heart pounding, throat dry, Jessica clicked on the link.
It took her to a plain white page with black text: “This page no longer exists! Perhaps you’ve followed an out-of-date link, or perhaps it was never here to begin with.”
She opened a new browser screen and typed in archive.org. The Wayback Machine maintained a database of every single publicly accessible page on the web. Surely a news source counted as such?
She copied and pasted the original link into its search box.
Another dead end: “Due to a direct request from the owner of the site, we no longer have a copy of this article. The Internet Archive strives to follow the Oakland Archive Policy for Managing Removal Requests and Preserving Archival Integrity.”
Dammit.
Wait, why am I disappointed? This is a good thing. The Internet kept rumors, lies, hearsay, and misinformation alive forever—that was practically its purpose—so if there was nothing there, it meant nothing abnormal or alarming had surrounded Brandy’s death.
Her heart rate slowly returned to normal.
She got up, poured herself a glass of water, and settled back into her desk chair. Chill. Crushing guilt set in. How could you have entertained for even a second that he was a murderer? You should be helping your husband, supporting him, not imagining monstrous scenarios. According to Claire, it was her job as a magician wife to be on the lookout for anything that could hurt Cal or hobble his career.
But where to start? She knew a little about other close-up magicians, and she’d sensed a rivalry between him and Jonathan Fredericksson, but those things seemed trivial with Cal skyrocketing to success because of the pilot. Then she remembered something else Claire had said at the WAGs brunch: The biggest threat facing their husbands was that YouTube guy. She decided to learn all she could about the so-called Hipster Magician and the damage he’d inflicted on the magic community. Cal certainly didn’t have time to look into it right now, so she’d be his eyes and ears on the ground.
Most of the Hipster Magician segments on YouTube were three minutes long, and involved the little shit—wearing a Mardi Gras–style mask over his eyes, skinny black jeans, and vintage Pony shoes—dismantling the code of secrecy the majority of magicians honored. He’d uploaded thirty-seven videos so far, divided into categories like Coins, Cards, Levitation, Transpos, Mind Reading, Vanishing, and Reappearing.
At the beginning of each video, he delivered a nasal-toned manifesto.
“To the haters, know this: I’m helping the art. Only by burning down the forest can there be regrowth. Only by revealing the oldest, easiest, and, let’s face it, laziest illusions of the past fifty years will modern-day mages be forced to go beyond their comfort zones. Magic isn’t magic if it doesn’t evolve, if it doesn’t force its vessel to go beyond that which came before. This is my way of motivating magicians to be better, to provide a better experience for all who view their tricks. You’ll thank me one day.”
Jessica snorted. Bullshit. She subscribed to the channel’s push alerts so she’d get a text anytime a new video went live.
She’d failed Cal today with her ugly distrust, but at least he and Claire would be proud of her for taking a step in the right direction.
Speaking of Claire…
She typed Claire Frederickson into the browser.
Did you mean Claire Fredericksson? asked Google.
At first glance, Claire seemed invisible online, subsumed by her semi-famous husband’s presence. But on page 3, Jessica found an article in the Modesto Bee from 2005. It was a hometown-girl-hits-it-big puff piece that touted Claire’s accomplishments since leaving the Central Valley. There was a picture of her graduating from Oxford, playing with her baby girl on the beach, and posing next to a publicity poster from Jonathan’s national tour as the Monarch of Magic.
Jessica recognized the image—why was it familiar? Oh, right! She’d seen his show when she was thirteen, in Chicago. She probably had the original program tucked away somewhere. How funny!
Back when she was just an audience member, an outsider, life had been simpler. No magic tricks popping out at her from behind every cabinet or drawer. No strange women at mysterious, underground clubs talking intimately about her husband’s bedroom habits.
“Someone’s got a crush,” came a low, singsong voice behind her.
Jessica screamed.
Cal chuckled. “Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to make you jump.”
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she whispered.
She must’ve have been so absorbed in her research that she didn’t hear him jimmy the lock. Who knew what he’d even used? A pin? A credit card? He’d slipped in unnoticed because he was just that damn good. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut.
No locked door can keep him out.
“You’re shaking.” He rubbed her shoulders, and she tensed beneath his touch.
He gently turned her around to face him, and searched her eyes with his. “All right, Jessie?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, you just…startled me. Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?”
“I assumed you were out since the door was locked. Why are you doing a search on Claire?”
Jessica took a few breaths, determined to keep things light. “Well, she is a stone-cold fox. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“One does not typically refer to another woman as ‘a stone-cold fox’ to one’s new wife.” His accent sounded funny when he lobbed her phrases back at her. “Besides, I don’t think of her that way. I’ve known her since Oxford.”
“You, Brandy, and Claire went there together?”
“No, Claire was the only one enrolled. Brandy and I were wastrels. Townies, you’d call them. She’s the one who introduced me to Brandy. They grew up together and convinced me to move back with them to the States.”
“You married one of her friends, and she married one of yours?” Jessica asked.
“I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. Jonathan and Claire are the king and queen of the club. I am but a mere subject.”
“Pssshh. You should
be the king.”
“Making you my queen?”
“Obvi. But Claire would have to teach me everything. She’s like…damn. In control.”
“Well, first impressions can be deceiving,” he murmured. “Though I agree she’s too clever by half.”
“Are you staying for dinner?” Was it already six o’clock? The hours she’d spent online had flown by.
“Actually, I’m just grabbing a couple of things and then I’m back to the edit bay. Don’t wait up, okay?”
“Oh. Sure.”
He snapped his fingers, excited. “Before I go, I want to show you something I’m working on for Halloween. Come here.”
She sat on the couch and he flipped open his wallet, pulling out seven small business cards.
“I don’t want it to feel like a magic trick, though—I want it to feel like I’m reading your mind. Right, here we go.”
He spread the cards out on the coffee table so she could see them. Each contained a gothic image, grotesque and detailed, drawn in thin black ink. A wasp. A child’s old-fashioned doll. Two hissing black cats, one inside a 3-D square, the other outside it. A headless horseman. A jack-o’-lantern with a deranged grin. A bottle of poison with a skull-and-crossbones label. Two skeletons fucking.
“While my back is turned, choose one. Don’t pick them up or move them in any way, just choose one in your mind.”
After some hesitation, Jessica chose the doll. It was slightly less creepy than the others. But maybe that was the point—maybe he’d included it so she’d choose it. Or had he assumed she’d choose the amorous skeletons? The last thing she felt right now was turned on. She chose the cat. No, the grinning pumpkin.
She didn’t want him to be right.
She didn’t want him to know what she was thinking.
Pumpkin. He won’t guess pumpkin.
“Got it? You’re thinking of it?”
“Yeah,” she murmured.
Cal faced her again. “Is there any way I could know which one you’ve picked?”
“No.”
“You probably changed your mind a few times, too, didn’t you.”
She didn’t respond. Why bother, if he already knew?
While he spoke, he gathered up the cards, flipped through them, selected one, and placed it into his shirt pocket, all while looking at Jessica’s eyes rather than the deck. She couldn’t see whether he’d chosen correctly.
“Is there any way I could’ve influenced you?” he asked.
“I…don’t think so…”
“The hard part isn’t getting people to do what you want, it’s making sure they’re unaware of it.”
“Okay.”
“What would you say if I told you I knew which picture you’d choose, before you even chose it?”
“I’d say that was pretty disturbing.”
He grinned. “Excellent. I want it to feel as though I’m controlling you. Now. Moment of truth…” He placed the cards on the table again, facedown, and slowly turned each one faceup. Only the pumpkin was missing.
“Which one did you pick?” he prompted.
“The pumpkin,” she said quietly.
He plucked it from his shirt pocket and turned it over. There it was, grinning madly.
She shivered. “Wow.”
He can get into locked rooms. He knows what nasty drawing I’ll pick. How do I go up against that? How am I supposed to fight that?
His eyes glinted. “Want to know how it’s done?”
“No, that’s—”
“It doesn’t matter which one you pick—”
“Seriously, don’t tell me—”
“—because it’s not mind reading at all, it’s—”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “I asked you not to.”
He looked taken aback. “I thought you might enjoy—”
She stood up. “I don’t want to know! Don’t you get that? It’s no fun for me anymore.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks and she covered her face, ashamed, frustrated. Instead of coming home and steamrolling her with yet another of his new tricks, treating her like a feedback mechanism—she could’ve been anyone—she wished he’d come home to be with her, talk to her, have dinner as a couple and ask her how things had gone with her new client. But then, what would I have told him? It was a nightmare, she accused of you killing Brandy? And if I’m totally honest with myself I don’t know what to think of you?
He pulled her into his arms. “Sweetheart, what’s got you so edgy today? I won’t tell you the secrets anymore, you’re right, that was completely daft. What’s going on?”
His phone rang.
She wiped her eyes. “Answer it,” she said, miserable.
“No, I want to hear what you—”
“Just answer it,” she demanded.
He sighed and picked up his phone. “…Yeah, I’ll be there shortly. Right.” He hung up. “They need me to approve the ad they’re putting together.”
“Sure.” She sniffed. “It’s fine.”
He kissed her forehead and briefly stroked her cheek with his thumb, rubbing the last remnants of tears away. “I’m so close to being finished. I promise things will be different soon. We’ll have loads of time together. I love you.”
You hardly even know me.
“Talk tomorrow?” he said. “Jessie?”
She swallowed, nodded, and watched him walk out the door. Again.
With nothing else to do—she’d have killed for a drink, but there wasn’t any booze in the house—she sorted through the mail, starting with the odd, lumpy box her mother had sent. A messily scrawled notecard inside read, “Your father sent this for you on your 18th birthday. I forgot. Mom.”
No mention of Jessica’s new life, her husband, or her move to LA. No acknowledgment that her eighteenth birthday was eight years ago. She would’ve been angry with the woman who’d birthed her, but she’d learned long ago that her parents lived in a world that scarcely included her. It didn’t even include each other.
A fragile-looking music box sat within the duct-taped, folded cardboard. She lifted the music box’s lid to reveal a bird automaton. It was pretty, she’d give him that. The crank to make it sing didn’t work.
She wasn’t surprised. It was as useless as her family tree. Thanks for nothing, Pop. Awesome.
Maybe she could fix it and sell it. Wait, wasn’t that Kaimi’s job? She snapped a picture of the music box and texted it to Kaimi with a question mark below it.
The rest of the mail (besides the horrible clown magazine) consisted of bills: phone, Internet, website hosting, and furniture. The last one was a bill from a website called Reputation Restorer, for a whopping fifteen grand. It was divided into payments, and Cal’s first payment of twenty-five hundred dollars was due. Whoa. Can he afford that, even with his TV money?
She got back online and searched for Reputation Restorer. She knew what it was before she clicked on the link. She just didn’t want to be right.
No wonder his online footprint was scrubbed clean. The company promised to remove or suppress any negative mentions on message boards, articles, websites, and search engines. If they couldn’t be removed, they’d be pushed so far down in any search results that 99 percent of users would never come across them.
The service had been purchased August 3.
The day before she and Cal got married.
Kaimi
Finding a buyer for the Erdnase papers was easier said than done. Landon had been right about one thing: Everyone wanted them, but few could afford them. Half the magicians at Club Deception could barely rub two nickels together; just paying the annual membership dues was a hardship. The members who did earn high salaries didn’t make them from magic; they were agents or doctors or lawyers who practiced the art as hobbyists, and couldn’t justify spending six or seven figures on a half-torn set of papers. How would they explain it to their wives? And legitimate curators with public collections couldn’t purchase stolen goods without fear of facing charge
s themselves.
The first three contenders, Calum, Jonathan, and Nigel Allen (who operated Magic Crossroads, the London equivalent of Club Deception), remained the only contenders in Kaimi’s view, with Nigel as her number one prospect. Rich but unscrupulous, he was her ideal customer. However, Nigel was holding out until the second half of the instructions were added to the set, and according to Landon they didn’t exist.
Nobody knew Kaimi didn’t have the papers in hand yet. She was waiting for Landon to leave for New Mexico for a speaking engagement. Once they were in her possession, she’d off-load them as fast as possible and fly home to Hawaii before he even knew they were gone.
Landon texted her once a day in the evenings for progress reports. She’d ignored him for the past four days.
She told herself it wasn’t shame that kept her silent, but indifference.
To keep her mind off waiting, she accepted Jessica Clarke’s second lunch invitation.
Jessica had inherited an enamel music box and wanted Kaimi to assess its value. Kaimi had contacted a former professor whose specialty was authenticating watches and automatons from Paris. His initial theory was that it might have been manufactured by Pierre Jaquet-Droz over two hundred years ago, and based on Jessica’s description, he was able to provide Kaimi with a checklist of attributes the music box ought to have. Looking at it in person would tell her whether it passed the test.
At noon, she arrived at the Clarkes’, surprised to see Jessica wearing pajama shorts and a tank top, sans makeup. Her eyes were puffy, her smile seemed forced, and when Kaimi handed Jessica a housewarming gift (a personalized cutting board that read, THE CLARKES—MAKING MAGIC TOGETHER SINCE 2016), Jessica’s eyes filled with tears.
Kaimi quickly shut the door behind her. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Jessica shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“What happened?” Kaimi’s stomach was in knots. Her connection with Jessica was built on a lie, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t fond of her.
Club Deception Page 16
