The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

The newfound depth upended her thoughts.

  “The person you lost, what would you give to speak with them again? If only for a moment?”

  Wren considered it, though the answer was always there, occupying a secret place at the edge of her heart.

  “I’d give everything I own without a second thought.”

  “As would I, Wren.”

  Harry turned away from the view beyond the vehicle window to look at her. She saw pain there, in his eyes. It clung to his face, genuine and heartbreaking.

  “And that’s why what we’re doing is so important. We’ve just been through a terrible war, followed closely by the devastation of the Spanish flu. Couple those together and few in this country have been left untouched by death’s hand. Countless hurting souls are drifting in the wake of loss. And mediums have built a following of thousands based, not in the merits of their actual abilities, but on the clever time and place they’re able to employ them.”

  Wren thought about the searing pain of loss. How it had changed everything for her. How her early years had been shadowed by it in some measure, and even now, after all the time that had passed, the pain could still manage to pulse raw under the surface.

  So many others struggled with the same wandering through grief. She swallowed hard, trying to force the emotion back down to its hiding place within her heart.

  “I see how it could happen, how people could believe in mediums, especially if they’re grasping for a bygone life. But I still hated being in that room today. It felt like supporting a lie.”

  “We must help others see it as you do,” Harry said. “And as for Amberley, I share a word of caution. She’s gone down a very different path. A journey like that could shake the very core of what you yourself believe in. No matter what friendship you might have had once, you cannot allow yourself to be taken in by her version of truth. I’m not saying you can’t seek restoration of a lost friendship. Believe me, I speak from a place of understanding. But you’re in a position that ensures you must tread carefully around her from now on. Your faith must not be built on a weak foundation.”

  Yes, he knew firsthand how the differences in faith beliefs could sever even the deepest bonds of friendship. He’d lost out over the defaming of spiritualists, and his friendship with a close author friend had been the casualty.

  Wren hastily wiped at a tear with her gloved hand, lest Harry see it.

  “Too many days the sun is shining, but I still can’t seem to feel it. Does that make any sense at all?” The truth made her eyes continue to tear despite her inner demand that they cooperate and reveal nothing of the emotion that clawed at her insides.

  “It does to me. Wren, no matter what any proprietor will tell you, vaudeville is not about money. Nor prestige. It puts a spotlight on the beliefs held in our very core. You may lose relationships over them. And you’ll find that the longer you’re a part of this world, you may be asked to sacrifice even more of who you are. As an entertainer, your job is to weave a story onstage—performing illusions that thrill the hearts and minds of the audience. Unfortunately, those who resort to false truths or claim the ability to harness magic that doesn’t exist will always draw a crowd. But you’re better than that. Frauds should be pitied. And then they should be publicly defamed for the damage they do to the hearts of the grieving.”

  “I could have been someone in the crowd once, someone vulnerable and hurt, who searched for belief like Amberley does. But at what point do people own their own faith? When can we finally let go of someone we’ve lost? For the life of me, I don’t have the answer.”

  “When we die, Wren.” Harry’s voice was weighted with the strangest layer of sadness.

  Sunshine cast beams of light against shadows as the car turned toward Tremont Street and the booming theater district that had become their temporary performance home.

  “As for returning from the dead, I know this with certainty: it’s humanly impossible.”

  FEBRUARY 5, 1927

  THE STATLER HOTEL

  BOSTON, MASS.

  “It’s humanly impossible . . .” Wren whispered Harry’s words aloud, remembering the day over two years before, when they’d driven along these very streets from Beacon Hill through the Boston Public Garden.

  Harry had spoken to her in a way he’d never done before or after, sharing the depth of conviction for why he’d invited her to Margery Crandon’s home that day. The conversation replayed in her mind as she drove along now, feeling numb as she angled her coal-black Pierce Arrow over the icy streets.

  It had been over three weeks since Agents Matthews and Finnegan had ventured backstage at the Bijou Theatre and asked her to become part of their plan to unearth the truth about Horace Stapleton. And now, with Amberley’s party looming before her, all Wren could think of was Harry’s warning to tread carefully where her former friend was concerned.

  Wren eased her car to a stop in front of the soon-to-open Statler Hotel and glanced up as a uniformed man opened the door, offering his hand to help her out.

  She nodded her thanks but kept her hand on her walking stick.

  No picks were taped in her gloves this night, but it was a common practice for her to project a detached manner at all times. If she refrained from taking a gentleman’s hand as a rule, it would never catch her off guard when she was indeed gloved up.

  “We’ll take it for you, madam.”

  She nodded to the valet, leaving the car in his care.

  The Statler Hotel was an imposing structure from the sidewalk along Providence Street. Lights glowed out from windows more than ten stories up.

  Wren stepped through the gilded glass front doors, tipping her head to the doorman as she passed. The lobby smelled of fresh paint and furniture polish, mixed with savory food, the aroma of which presumably floated out from the Imperial Ballroom to mingle amongst the gathering of chic society guests.

  Whispers echoed behind her as she breezed through the lobby. She could feel the sting of eyes boring into her back. No bother. One couldn’t venture out in her attire and expect to receive a usual welcome. She’d dressed in her most notable outfit: an ivory, fox-trimmed coat and sleek suit, with a black silk shirt and gold-stud cuff links peeking out at her wrists, glittering against her matching gloves.

  Wren’s boots clicked against the marble floor, her strides wide and her cadence strong. She scanned the crowd for the familiar faces of Agents Matthews and Finnegan. They were sure to have faded into the background somewhere, keeping an eye out for her entrance. But other than their ghostly presence, Wren knew she was walking into the lions’ den alone.

  “Your invitation, madam?”

  The question jarred Wren from her thoughts.

  A man, tuxedo-clad and white-gloved, stood guard at the door to the ballroom fete.

  “It appears that I neglected to bring it along.” Wren kept her spine pin-straight and her chin high, an air of superiority fully in place. “Will that be a problem?”

  “I’m sorry, madam, but without an invitation . . .”

  “Do you know who I am?” She hated sounding so pretentious. But since it was the only way to get in the party, she’d swallow the bitter taste of it and square her shoulders.

  He shook his head. “My apologies. I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Probably younger than her twenty-six years, he looked provincial and untested—that much was evident by the shifty-footed stance he employed. He looked to the line of people forming behind her, flip-flopping his glance from her to an older, tuxedo-clad staff member off to the side, probably a manager of some sort.

  Wren stood tall and tapped her walking stick on the marble floor. “I do not usually require an invitation.”

  “I’ll vouch for her,” came a singsong voice from the direction of the stairs behind them.

  A hush fell in the lobby alcove, drawing Wren to turn around.

  Amberley, the widow-turned-heiress, floated down the grand staircase in an ensemble of black-and-gold beads, sewn over silk in
a deep and luxurious blood orange. Glittering diamonds winked out from her lobes and sparkled on the headband woven through the coif at her nape. Evening gloves nipped at her upper arms to the edge of a nude mink shawl. She surveyed the scene, elegant and self-important, toying with a long-stemmed cigarette holder in her hand.

  “After all, we are old friends. Don’t you know who she is, sir? This is the famed illusionist Wren Lockhart. I’d hate to think she’d not be admitted to a celebration of gaiety such as this.” Amberley spoke through a honeyed smile, with lips that curved up in welcome.

  It took nothing for her to cut through the short lobby to the party doors. She slinked along, her heels oddly silent against the marble floor, like a feline taking a post-nap stroll. To anyone on the outside looking in, her greeting would have appeared quite refined, even cordial. But Wren knew better. Amberley’s smile may have been sugarcoated, but the depths of her eyes proved glacial.

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Dover.” The young man bowed in apology, then turned his attention to the line of party guests.

  Amberley waltzed through the doors ahead of Wren, though the glittering host slowed her steps in expectation that Wren would follow. “Misplaced your invitation? I was sure I sent it out several weeks ago. You should have put it in a safe place until this evening.”

  “I must have mislaid it. Silly me.” Wren kept her gaze on the ballroom, inspecting the layout of revelry before her.

  Round tables with silver candelabras and elaborate floral concoctions dotted the back half of the ballroom. Guests flitted around the dance floor at the front, beneath a wide stage with a brass band and pianist playing jazzy tunes to billow off the arched two-story ceiling.

  “Well, I’m delighted that I came down to the lobby when I did. I’d hate to think of the write-up in the paper if the infamous Wren Lockhart was turned away from a party like this. What would those society column readers say then?”

  “What do they ever say when lies are printed?”

  “Oh, Wren! You do brighten every room with your cheek, don’t you?” Amberley tossed her head and laughed, bouncing the row of sculpted curls against her brow. “But if you’re concerned about what the press may write tonight, perhaps you should go speak to them straightaway. Get on their good side early.” She angled her cigarette holder toward the back of the room. “See? They’re just there, positioned by the far wall. You could even have your photo taken, if you’d like.”

  “Not particularly. No.”

  “And waste the delights of this gorgeous getup? Oh dear.” Amberley ran her gloved hand against the lapel of Wren’s tuxedo jacket. “You really must try to live a little, darling.”

  “I try to at least once a day.”

  The blatant cat-and-mouse game Amberley had initiated was tiring Wren—and quickly. She scanned the room, looking for help. Though she was reluctant to admit it to herself, the FBI accomplices were nowhere to be seen. She might be without an ally in the entire ballroom. Perhaps they’d been called away for another case, or worse, had left her to fend off the bejeweled wolves on her own.

  It still hadn’t been made clear why Wren was invited to the party in the first place. But the last thing she would do now would be to give Amberley the satisfaction of asking outright. So if she preferred to employ false gaiety in her manners, Wren would grit her teeth and withstand it.

  “You know, Wren, we have come a long way from Lime Street, haven’t we? Or other streets before that.” Amberley tilted her head slightly, as if she were working something out in her mind. “I wonder, just to liven things up, would you consent to perform something for my guests tonight? Like the old days.”

  Wren’s refusal would have been swift if Amberley hadn’t stopped it in full force on the first syllable by tugging on her arm like coaxing a toddler.

  “Oh, you know how I enjoy your parlor tricks. Fun little distractions at society parties.” She winked. “You must say yes. It would be such a treat for everyone.”

  “I’ve never performed a trick in my life.”

  “Oh yes, you are particular. I should have said illusions.”

  Amberley didn’t give Wren a chance to respond.

  The birthday girl flitted off like a jovial butterfly, fluttering past the throngs of guests to the front stage. She climbed the stairs and crossed the stage, then whispered in the band leader’s ear. He halted the music full stop, then instructed his pianist to give an introduction. The musician’s fingers sailed over the ivories and the horns sang, belting out notes from the jaunty tune “Prohibition Blues” as they moved back to clear a space on the stage.

  The audience waited, gleeful at the prospect of a show but oblivious to Amberley’s intentions. It was a setup, of course. Amberley’s chance to publically humiliate Wren in the way she’d been lambasted after Margery Crandon’s public fall nearly three years before.

  Wren had half expected Amberley to try and turn the tables.

  She watched as Amberley took over the microphone. She whispered something to the band leader, then turned to the throngs of partygoers with a honeyed smile, chatting her thanks for their attendance of her birthday celebration.

  “May I have this dance?” Elliot had managed to sneak up, just a step behind, and whisper the request.

  Wren straightened her shoulders on principle. “I don’t dance.”

  As usual, he didn’t try to hide a laugh at her coiled response. “Yes, I forgot. Anything fun must be outlawed, unless, of course, it’s performed on a stage. Strike dancing from Wren’s list of hobbies. She’s addicted to work, just like I am.”

  Annoyance mounted and Wren exhaled. Elliot Matthews was far too relaxed at the moment. She glanced over. He was scanning the room, as was his usual practice. His eyes watched everything. Calculating, as if he couldn’t have cared less for a grand party unless it profited his investigation.

  “You look a bit nervous, Ms. Lockhart.”

  “I do not because I am not.”

  “Mrs. Dover’s playing to the crowd like a pro. So she sent you an invitation to get you up onstage without notice and, in doing so, embarrasses you in the most public way she could.”

  “It certainly looks that way.”

  Elliot stepped up beside her. For some reason she was surprised to see he hadn’t arrived at the party in a wrinkled shirt and trench coat. Instead, he’d made an effort again, just like her performance night at the Bijou. He looked as clean-cut and dignified as any guest here.

  “How many tuxes do you own?”

  He sipped on a drink that matched the deep orange-red of Amberley’s gown. “I could ask you the same thing, Ms. Lockhart.”

  “Unappreciated, but duly noted. Though I wish your attention to detail would prove more worthwhile than noticing what people are wearing.”

  He leaned closer to her. “Or drinking. I’d have this party shut down if it wouldn’t ruin our undercover sting.” He held up his tumbler. “Someone’s spiked this. These high-society crowds will just never learn, will they?” Not missing a beat, he slipped the glass on a waiter’s tray as he swept by.

  Wren exhaled in exasperation, dropping her voice low. “Look at Amberley. You’re really not supposed to be talking to me. Or have you forgotten? That was your idea when we planned this. I was supposed to get in, find out why Amberley invited me, and if possible learn what I can about her little exposé on Stapleton’s stage. Then I melt into the background—certainly without making friends with the FBI. But now you’re dropping it all flat because you’ve stepped into a lavish speakeasy and you want a little tipsy-talk?”

  “And dancing. Don’t forget that, even though you turned me down.”

  “I turn everyone down, Agent Matthews,” she fired back, trying to keep her response at a decibel low enough to still retain the confines of a private conversation.

  “Well, I’m talking to you now because our agreement was before Amberley upped the stakes. She’s plotting something.”

  “Of course she is.”

  He til
ted his head toward the stage. “You’ve got to admit that the woman has some grit about her.”

  “When all is said and done, I don’t think you’ll be prepared to handle her brand of it.”

  Wren turned her gaze, eager to change the subject, to lose him, or both. She surveyed the reveling crowd. “Where is Agent Finnegan, should this night turn sour and we need an extra badge?”

  “Wouldn’t we like to know? I lost him somewhere between the words ‘nice clambake’ and ‘I think I’ll just go question that group of ladies by the cake table.’ He’s likely taken with one of them and found a quiet corner in which to hear all of her secrets.” Elliot sighed, his eyes taken to scanning the length of the ballroom. “I’ll think about firing him tomorrow. But right now you might want to keep focused on our hostess.”

  Wren shifted her eyes back to the stage, the silky form of Amberley absorbing the crowd’s reverence from above. She moved about, then pointed to her audience.

  “Don’t look now.” Elliot whistled low. “You’re being summoned to court.”

  Amberley smiled to the crowd. “. . . Yes, Ms. Lockhart is here! Right in the back of this ballroom.” She eased her arm out to point at Wren. “And she has consented to entertain us tonight.”

  She snapped her fingers against the microphone. “Up to the stage, Wren. Won’t you, my dear?”

  Wren’s pulse burned. She didn’t take to being summoned like a lapdog.

  “I didn’t know you were anyone’s ‘my dear,’” Elliot said, coughing the last two words under his breath as she edged away.

  Wren ignored his brass and kept moving forward. Flappers in beaded dresses and gentlemen in their best dinner jackets parted, smiling and clapping as she threaded her way through the dazzling sequined sea.

  “And wouldn’t you know it? Our famous illusionist has brought a friend. Dare I say, an escort? Well, we know him at the very least to have been her assistant onstage for one of her last shows. Agent Elliot Matthews?” Amberley sang out. “You’re here somewhere, aren’t you?” She raised a gloved hand to her brow, shielding her eyes from the blast of the stage lights. “Yes . . . in the back. Won’t you join us onstage?”