The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

  He slid a thick file folder across the table. Wren caught it under her fingertips, then opened the cover.

  “You’ve got everything in that file. First things first—he didn’t come back from the dead.”

  “It’s humanly impossible,” she mumbled to herself, thinking back on Harry’s words from two years before.

  “What was that?”

  “Just something someone once told me—that it’s not possible,” she said, louder this time. “To come back from the dead, that is.”

  “Well, at least we agree on that much.”

  “You think there are two Victor Peales then—one in that grave whose life ended in 1903 and a different man who died in the cemetery on New Year’s Eve?”

  Elliot nodded. “Right. Stapleton wants us to believe they were one and the same, but it has to be two men going by the same name. It’s the only possible explanation for a man to come back from the dead some twenty years after he was originally buried. And we’re not diving into Stapleton’s phony world of spiritualism. We’ve got to look at the hard facts and make this puzzle complete out of the pieces in front of us. Let’s assume, for argument’s sake, that there was only one man in history to have conquered death, and Victor Peale’s not him.”

  “But many people ardently believe that’s what Stapleton did, despite the way it worked out in the end.”

  Elliot sighed, frustration evident. “I’m aware of that. For whatever reason, the vast majority of the public trust him. It’s blind trust, but he still has it—regardless of the fact that Houdini debunked him years ago and the fiasco at the cemetery was nothing more than an artful illusion gone wrong.”

  “Maybe Harry’s memory is fading already . . .” It pained her to think of it, not for the showman, but more for her mentor and friend. “So, where do we start? What do we have that can make cracks in his story?”

  “According to the marker at Mount Auburn Cemetery, the original Peale was born January 7, 1874, and died August 8, 1903. That man had no criminal background. No living relatives that we’ve been able to find. No acquaintances who can corroborate anything about him, except what it says on that gravestone.”

  “And what of the records from that section of the cemetery? What did they say?”

  “Clever.” Elliot grabbed a file near his left elbow. He turned it around so she could read the contents, pointing to the top of a letter from city government. “And yes. We checked on that. See? But records for that section of the cemetery were lost in a fire at the courthouse some six years ago now. They have nothing on it except that the entire section over the hill from Bigelow Chapel was full before the Spanish flu swept through in 1918.”

  “What about family plots? Aren’t they customarily purchased together? Surely there’s another Peale nearby and we could cross-check their names against his.”

  “Sounds good in theory, but that lead dried up too.” Elliot pulled out a four-square sheet of paper and unfolded it, spreading it wide over the top of their papers, revealing a topographic map of the landscape and cemetery plots.

  “So, Stapleton was set up right here.” He drew his index finger to outline a valley beneath the ridge and Bigelow’s stone chapel fence. “And Victor Peale’s grave was right in front of it. It’s easy enough to go back and check the gravestones that are still there, which we did. There are no disturbed graves and no other Peales nearby. In fact, we couldn’t find Victor Peale in any of the records for the city’s history.”

  Wren let that sink in, her mind moving along with his. “Then we should ask—where’s that first man’s body now?”

  He folded his hands together over the map. “Exactly. And we already questioned the doctor at the cemetery that day. The man said he’d be willing to stand up in court and stake his fifty-year medical practice on the fact that Peale was dead when he examined him.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I do. He seemed angry that it happened the way it did, with Stapleton making him appear foolhardy in front of every reporter in Boston. I don’t think someone involved in a conspiracy to commit murder would be calling my office demanding to know when the trial will begin.”

  “At least we have one person on our side then,” Wren said. “And what about Victor Peale, the latter? The one who reappeared and promptly died on New Year’s Eve?”

  “You mean, how did he die?” Elliot leaned back, raising his hands behind his head. “That’s the kicker. The medical examiner found nothing wrong with him after the fact. It’s as if his heart just stopped. We had an initial toxicology report conducted to see what, if anything, was found in his system at the time of death. But the results showed nothing of substance. So we’ve sent it off to a lab in New York. We should know more when that comes back, but it’s still a complicated bit of science and could be weeks before we have the answers we’re looking for.”

  Wren moved the map out of the way, turning back to the file of documents in front of her. She scanned the sheets of paper—details of a medical examiner’s report for the 1926 death and subsequent newspaper reports of the incident they both witnessed.

  “It says here the man who died on New Year’s Eve had no identification.”

  “None. All we found on his person was the book and note with your real name and that of Harry Houdini, a ticket stub to a baseball game at Philadelphia’s National League Park, and his suit and shoes. That’s it.”

  “What game?”

  “A Boston Braves game, though the ticket’s smudged and we can’t read the date. Might seem insignificant, but the person who left it put it there for a reason. We’re trying to uncover the connection. Even with that, the evidence we currently have only supports Stapleton’s claims. Peale’s suit was tailored from an exclusive North Yorkshire woolen mill that ceased operations by the early 1870s. There’d be no way to reproduce it, and we’ve had an expert tailor authenticate it. And his shoes were of the same era, traced to a manufacturer in Paris from 1868. If the aim was trickery, Stapleton’s gone to quite an extent to cover all of his bases. It’s as if he wanted us to check everything out, only to find the details are airtight.”

  Wren tapped her index finger against the table as she scanned the documents.

  “And where does Amberley play into this? Have you found any connections between her or her late husband and Victor Peale?”

  “We’d hoped to. Connor’s been our gopher in the ground these last couple of weeks. He’s got a nose for research, so I usually let him go and he brings back evidence every time.”

  “So what’s he come up with? Anything we can go on?”

  Elliot cocked an eyebrow in her direction. “Nothing yet. To be blunt, he’s young and brash, and being swindled by a woman with excessive charms. I’ve had him tailing Amberley Dover for the last couple of weeks now, and I’m afraid he’s going to fall into her gold-dipped clutches, if he hasn’t already.”

  “Is that what he did last night then, trailed Amberley?”

  “Yes,” Elliot sighed. “Though I can’t account for the in-between time.”

  “Agent Finnegan seems like a nice man. I do hope he knows what he’s doing.” Wren swept a lock of hair behind her ear and turned her attention back to the files in front of them.

  “It makes you uncomfortable that Amberley’s attractive, rich, and blinding the sense right out some poor man’s head?”

  “I wouldn’t say it like that. No.” She tiptoed around the truth. “What he chooses to do is his affair. I just think your partner should be . . . cautious in how he treads around Amberley, that’s all.”

  Elliot paused and set his glasses on the tabletop. “Why? What do you know?”

  Wren stopped herself. It was difficult to know what to say or how important any small piece of information might translate in Elliot’s mind. He was always calculating things, smart, and thinking two steps ahead of nearly everyone. If she gave him one shred of unintended evidence, it might lock into place and make connections that would reveal far more than she�
�d ever intended.

  “Wren?”

  She snapped her head up, his voice drawing her out of her thoughts. “Yes?”

  “Tell me.”

  Clearing her throat felt easier, so she did it and stalled a few seconds more. “Tell you what?”

  “Whatever it is you’re trying so hard to hide.”

  It’s not that easy.

  That’s what kept careening through her mind. That it wasn’t possible for her to simply let someone in and throw open every door to her past.

  “They were just rumors,” she clarified.

  He furrowed his brow. “About Amberley? What rumors?”

  Wren nodded, studying the face of the man across the table from her. “I thought you’d have heard about them already. Maybe come across them in one of your files down at the Bureau.”

  “Well, I haven’t. We don’t keep files on gossip, I’m sorry to say.”

  “It has to do with the day Harry took me to Margery Crandon’s séance in 1924.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “It wasn’t the first time I’d met Amberley.”

  “What are you talking about? It was the first time Houdini had brought you along in one of his fact-finding missions to defraud a spiritualist. You told me Amberley just happened to be there that day, as an acquaintance of the Crandons.”

  “That is true, but I’d also known her years before that, when I first came back to the States. And there were whispers floating around about her. She was Amberley Green though, a chorus girl on the circuit long before she met and married Stanley Dover.”

  Elliot nodded slowly, seeming to take her admission for what it was—a big step in her ability to trust anyone.

  “Okay.” He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking in protest. “And what were the rumors?”

  Wren swallowed hard, took a deep breath . . . and let go.

  “They say she’d killed a man.”

  CHAPTER 12

  With an accusation of cold-blooded murder tossed on the table, Elliot would need more to go on. A stack of rumors wouldn’t amount to nearly enough of a case to bring before a judge.

  “Murder?” He shook his head. “It’s not possible, Wren.”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “Of course not. But rumors are rumors. You can’t prove anything unless you have evidence.” He opened a file, knowing fact would overshadow any rumors, and slid it across the table in front of her.

  “We looked over everything we have concerning Amberley. See? Stanley Dover died in 1926, of a heart attack while he was miles away, on a train bound for Missouri. There were witnesses. And it was corroborated by a medical examiner after the fact. Case closed. There’s no way Amberley could be implicated of any wrongdoing. A grieving widow who hosts a lavish birthday celebration just months after her husband’s death may make her a poor wife, but not a murderess. You’ve got to give me more than that to go on.”

  Wren narrowed her eyes, staring him down from across the table.

  She didn’t appear angry that he’d taken up for the evidence in the case. Rather, he judged it as a personal challenge when Amberley had drawn a curtain of doubt between them. A challenge that Wren wouldn’t consider backing down from now.

  She looked as though evidence could be blown to bits for all she cared. “I never said she killed her husband.”

  “Okay . . . Then who did she kill?”

  “There were rumors on the circuit. If you were in vaudeville during the war years, you heard of it. It wouldn’t take much to have Connor dig it up if he were to ask Amberley himself.”

  “I’m sure not.” He tapped his pencil against the table as he waited for her answer, his patience bleeding thin. “But I asked you, Wren.”

  “You said yourself that I don’t have anything we can prove.”

  The last thing he’d expected was to have to dig for another name. To find another story to corroborate would only delay things. It dropped him right at the edge of total frustration. Time was precious, and they were losing it with every day. All the while Wren was sitting right in front of him, still clutching answers tight to her vest.

  Elliot dropped the pencil and ran a hand over his face, lack of sleep taking its toll.

  They were getting nowhere, and fast. All he could claim at the moment was frayed nerves, and that wasn’t likely to help at all.

  He clapped his hands together and stood. He could feel her watching as he flipped folders closed, piled stacks of papers back together, and shoved them in his leather satchel.

  “Now what are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” Elliot refused to look up at her. “I think we’re finished for today. You need your rest, and I’d like to claim more than an hour of sleep myself. We’ll start again tomorrow. Maybe by then you’ll have gained enough trust in the system to seek fact, instead of stirring an old rivalry.”

  She pushed back from her chair and swept around to his side of the table. “After that fiasco onstage last night, surely you know Amberley is the one keeping it going.”

  “But you’re certainly not doing anything to stop it.”

  “So that’s it? You’re leaving when a potential murderer is out there, using high-society parties as a cover to kill? Someone sent a car filled with hired guns after us last night, Elliot. By some miracle, we survived. If she didn’t do it—which is a long shot—then I guarantee she at least knows who did.”

  He slammed the folders down on the table and turned to face Wren, meeting her head-on. “I’d love nothing better than to find out who it was, but you keep dancing around the details with me, Wren. I’m weary of turning puzzle pieces in every conversation with you. Either lay it all out on the table or don’t—but don’t presume to play your stage games with me. I’m not some fool sitting in your audience. No more acts. No more show. I want truth from you, right now, or nothing at all.”

  “You say you want truth? I don’t know a thing about you except that your aunt left you a rather beautiful seaside cottage that you never use. You claim no family. Want no entanglements save for your work, which you hold in a white-knuckled grip. Beyond that, you’re a bigger mystery than I am. Yet you demand trust from me, just like that. Now who’s playing games?”

  “I’m trying to find a link between this case and why someone wanted to put a bullet in your head last night. It’s not just about Stapleton any longer. You and I both know there’s something bigger going on. Yet you refuse agents to watch your house. You won’t hire any private security. So forgive me, but I think Amberley is the least of your problems right now. We need to get past your defenses before we work on anyone else’s.”

  Pounding a fist to the tabletop would have felt good in the moment, but it would do nothing by way of forcing Wren to spill her secrets. She’d be sure to bristle back.

  Hard-pressed as he was to admit it, Wren was right. They were a little more alike than he’d initially bargained for, which made for a mixture of oil and water at the moment. Isolation had become both a habit and a comfort to him too. And there she was: a stranger who walked in similar shoes.

  Wren was made-up before him, costumed and perfected in the swath of sunlight that beamed in from the windows. This picture was how the world perceived her. Yet it wasn’t who she really was, and he could see that now.

  Something new emerged from within her—the clear presence of indecision in her eyes.

  It was the first time Elliot had seen her carefully controlled veneer crack at all. He cooled, not wishing to battle under the sudden glimmer of vulnerability.

  “You’re trying to sidestep me, Wren, when all I want to do is help. Why won’t you let me do that?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then her chin trembled ever so slightly and she shut her mouth. After swallowing, she tried again. “Don’t you understand? I’m trying to tell you that I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  She shook her head. Brought her good hand up to hastily wipe at the moisture gathering under her eyes
, as if ashamed to show an inkling of real emotion to anyone.

  He tried again, softer this time. “What are you afraid of?”

  Wren didn’t reply right away. Instead, she blinked back. Her countenance soft. Open, almost hopeful before him.

  “Elliot . . .” Her golden eyes studied his face. She looked down for a breath, as if she’d come close to revealing something but thought better of it and retreated again. “Friend or foe—it’s difficult to tell the difference sometimes. We don’t always want to see what’s right in front of us. That’s what gives me pause about Connor associating with someone like Amberley Dover. He doesn’t know it, but he’s playing with fire when he skirts around her world.”

  “Is it the same feeling that gives you pause about me?”

  She tried to turn away, diverting her attention to a folder on the table.

  Elliot stopped her retreat by stepping in front of her. The illusion fell as he looked down at Wren, her golden eyes open and searching, allowing him to see past the mask to the depths of who she was beneath it.

  What he saw was beautiful.

  Breathtakingly beautiful. Real, but caged.

  “I’ll wait.” He delivered his offer with the softest tone he had.

  Surprised to find he’d said the words, even more that it wasn’t all business in that moment, and he felt a whisper of breathlessness before her that he hadn’t known for a long, long time.

  It stirred something he thought had been lost, maybe scarred over forever.

  “This is what we’re here for. To get to the bottom of all this. And I hope, after last night, you know I’m on your side. Whatever you need to tell me, I’ll wait until you feel safe enough to give it, and I’ll protect it when you do.”

  She wavered, her eyes deftly breaking the connection with his.

  “Did you hear me?” He coaxed her to look at him with the softness of his words. “I said I’ll protect you, if it’s what you want. I’ll be a friend to you.”

  A knock at the door cut through the growing threat of closeness between them.

  “Ms. Lockhart?” Irina’s voice carried in from the doorway, firm in breaking them apart. “You have another guest. I found him at the back door.”