Why they couldn’t just demand Amberley comply with an official investigation still puzzled her. Between a dead man in Mount Auburn Cemetery and the car chase after the party, one would think Amberley would do anything possible to ensure her own safety. When people were dying, matters of reluctance should be the first to fly out the window.
Elliot turned to her, forcing a weary smile. “We may not have answers on everything, but until we know more, you did your part, Wren, and I’m grateful.”
“The note was a nice touch. Amberley never questioned whether we were being tailed at the Bureau office. I almost bought it myself. You had me checking over my shoulder a couple of times, until I saw your car pull up and figured it out.” She bit back a laugh.
“The note under the door was Connor’s idea.”
“And the man at the interrogation room door?”
“An oblivious agent who was slipped a few bucks to keep his eye on the door. She wouldn’t have known, but something in Connor’s face gave it away when Amberley insisted we call the mayor and tell him about corruption at the Bureau. She was mad as a hornet when she figured that part out—that once we had her in custody, it was a bit of an overacted plan to nudge her into talking.”
“I can imagine. Oh, poor Connor.” Wren laughed outright then, doing her best to hide a smile behind her hand.
“At least here we should be able to lie low for a few days, figure this out.”
“Won’t someone wonder where Amberley is? She was picked up in dramatic fashion, in front of the mayor’s wife and a parlor full of ladies. She’s not likely to forgive that anytime soon. And her social circles will no doubt be speculating as to her location.”
“We had her telephone her house to tell her staff she’d skipped out on holiday. Though I’m not sure this is the kind of getaway she’s used to. She’ll have to be holed up here until we secure a signed statement from her. That could take days. Or weeks, if she gets wise and tries to string it out.”
It was the first time Wren allowed herself to relax after hours of running.
Amberley might have been too incensed to be charmed by the cottage, but the sound of the ocean waving past the windows soothed Wren’s sensibilities, and the scent of salty air drifted in to remind her that she was safe, for the moment, in the quiet seaside hideaway.
Suddenly, her body awoke.
Every bump and bruise seemed to cry out, the soreness in her shoulder taking center stage, as if she’d climbed down a hundred trees instead of just one. Her stomach rumbled with the reminder that she hadn’t eaten in hours. And a wave of exhaustion tempted her to lean back farther and allow her lids to drift closed.
“While I don’t relish the idea of having to hide away here, I understand why we have to for right now. And actually”—she glanced around—“it’s nice. Smaller than the grand house of oddities I live in.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.” He leaned back in his chair, joining her to scan the wall of built-in bookcases and the windows overlooking the water. “Any place can be home if you see it that way. This old place is full of memories. I spent summers here when I was a boy. It still feels like home somehow.”
Wren imagined the woman’s gentle touch that had chosen the drapes to clothe the windows or the flowered wallpaper that wrapped the room in an endless spring. Even the settee that warmed her by the fire was welcoming, soft, and unassuming. It was a rare glimpse into Elliot’s personal life to imagine him tearing through the parlor and halls as a boy or dashing into the waves under the summer sun.
“What was her name?”
He tipped his head to the side. “Whose?”
“Your aunt.”
“Agatha.” He looked around as the firelight created shadows across the room. “It’s odd to think of this place as mine now. I seldom come back. And I certainly never bring anyone here.”
“And now you have a house full, with two strong-minded women who loathe each other and a rookie agent with lovesickness to contend with. We’re quite a party of first-time guests.”
Elliot laughed, baring a smile she hadn’t expected. It barred her from finding offense in the fact that he welcomed her wit.
“And I assume that laughter means you’ll be glad to know Amberley and I came to an agreement of sorts when we were locked in that Bureau office together.”
“Which is?”
“We agree to disagree on just about everything. That goes without saying. But we also agree not to strangle one another before breakfast. I have no plans to murder your star witness over a plate of bacon and eggs, in case you were worried.”
“And if she has plans to murder you?”
“Then she’ll be quite sorry.”
He whistled low. “I won’t tell you how much of a unicorn that statement is for Amberley Dover to be sorry for something.”
“Indeed. Sorry or not, I just wish she’d give us something we could use.”
“She will.” He gazed back at her, his brow furrowed slightly, as if something kept him questioning their exchange.
“Are you . . . are you sure she didn’t say anything?”
“Nothing of importance, Wren. At least nothing that changes this case in my eyes. And what you said the night we spoke backstage at the Bijou is true: secrets always come up for air. And I have a feeling the full weight of Horace Stapleton’s are about to make an appearance, and they’ll tip the scales one way or another.”
CHAPTER 16
APRIL 3, 1907
256 W. NEWTON STREET
BOSTON, MASS.
“Jenny?” Olivia Charles whispered over her shoulder, drawing her daughter’s attention from The Welsh Fairy Book she’d received from her uncle. It had already become a treasure, gently cradled in her lap.
Her little flame-haired Jenny with bouncing waves and a freckled-over smile set her book aside and slid off the four-poster bed, then padded over to the open French doors. She lingered in the drifting edge of the curtains.
“Come here, Jenny,” Olivia whispered, scared to speak any louder, for the magic of the moment would be broken if she did. She gazed out over the second-story stone balcony to their backyard garden below.
Spring had just breezed in on the calendar, though the sun had no inclination to burn off the morning mist just yet. It was steadfast, a painted backdrop around the garden grounds every morning. The fog surrounded the trunks of aged trees in a haze of white, limbs climbing up out of the ghostly vapor. The tree’s arms stretched and yawned toward the sky, spring buds dotting all the way up to the tips of the branches.
It was there, what Olivia wanted to show her daughter—a sprightly little wren, nestled just out of reach along the end of a branch. She held her hand open and still before the little bird, a crumbled butter cookie offering she’d tucked inside her palm.
“Do come see, Jenny,” she whispered again. And when she heard her daughter’s buckle shoes finally clip against the balcony floor, she hushed her with an outstretched hand. “Quiet as you can now. We don’t want to frighten her.”
“What is it, Momma?”
“Look.” Olivia nodded toward the little bird hopping and bobbing on the limb. “There she is. See? That’s our little wren.”
Jenny tilted her head, confused. “But she’s a wild bird, isn’t she?”
“Of course she is, but that’s just what she has to show the rest of the birds. That she is wild like them. But underneath? She is smart—she will not give away her secrets easily. And I think she really longs to be someone’s pet. She has a soft heart beating beneath her breast. I can see it. She’s come back to visit every day this week. Only kindness will do that.”
“Why does she return?”
Olivia leaned back, shocked by the notion of such a question. “Isn’t it obvious? She likes us, of course. Because she hasn’t even tasted the tea cookie yet, or she’d come back without hesitation. I always leave one for her. Just there—on the stone ledge.” Olivia smiled at seeing the delight on her daughter’s face. �
�And do you know what she does?”
Jenny was breathless with wonder; Olivia could tell.
“What does she do?” she breathed out.
“She never touches it,” Olivia said. But sensing her daughter’s disappointment, she added, “I think she looks exceptionally hungry today, though. I believe that she’s ready to trust us enough that she’ll eat from your hand.”
“My hand?” Jenny shook her head. Perhaps she was fearful to take on the responsibility should the wren get skittish and fly off again.
It felt right, so Olivia reached out and cupped her daughter’s hand to roll the cookie crumbs in it. “Now wait. Just lay your hand out, open to the sky. When she’s ready, she’ll come to you. But you have to let it be her choice as to whether she sees you as a friend or a foe. She’ll open up to you when she’s ready.” Olivia leaned in closer from behind, cheek just grazing the softness of her daughter’s. “Let us see what she chooses.”
The wren danced from perch to perch, teetering on the edge of trust. She flitted down from the tree branch to the stone railing and, finally, took little hops toward them.
Jenny stood frozen, delight held just at bay as she waited for the bird to choose whether to eat from her hand.
“What shall we call our new friend? What about Jenny?” Olivia squeezed her arm around her daughter’s shoulder.
“For me?” Jenny whispered, her voice caught in the magic of the moment.
“Of course. She could be our happy secret—our very own Jenny Wren.” They watched the little wren, tiny feet dancing and head bobbing around the tips of Jenny’s fingers. “She’s got fire in her, see? I think she’s got the same spirit as you. So the name fits.”
Jenny turned to look back in the nursery and the bed that cradled her sleeping sister. “Won’t Charlotte want a pet named after her too?”
Olivia thought about it, how at only six years old her daughter had simply fallen into reading and scarcely a year later, delighted in every fairy-tale story she could get her young hands on. The stories were both lovely and frightening at the same time—tales of princesses and knights on white steeds. Of tiny birds and lonely tower balconies. And always off on the horizon lay the presence of darkness. A threat that was poised to roll into the story, making a hero or heroine arise.
Olivia hated that she could watch her daughter now, with such innocence that teetered on the verge of being shattered. But still, the hope of light kept her going. It reminded her that for any of the darkness in the world, there was always light to counter it.
Even in the darkness of their home and family, Olivia could look out over a second-story balcony and find light in a little wren, just as she could in the way the breeze caught the nursery curtains, dusting the edge of her youngest daughter’s bed with a veil of gauzy yellow.
A mop of auburn hair lay still against the pillow.
Charlotte’s breathing was even and still.
“Your sister will grow up one day, Jenny. When she does, she’ll need us to help her believe in fairy tales too. She’ll need to know that there is light in the world. And we should be the ones to show her. We’ll train some beautiful winged creature to be her pet. A butterfly, perhaps? One that floats on golden wings? She’d like that.”
“I wish I could float away sometimes. Like the sprites in our fairy stories. Or our winged friends . . . ,” Jenny whispered, stone-still as their wren tiptoed around its butter cookie prize.
Me too, little bird.
The morning was wearing thin. Olivia could feel it. The sun was rising, cutting higher through the trees now—almost time for their sunrise spell to be broken.
A door slammed inside the house, echoing down the hall. The cadence of heavy footfalls on the stairs shattered the beauty of their stolen moment, replacing it with the errant echoes of yelling just past the nursery door.
There was another grand slam and the birds took flight, scattering to perches well above the balcony. Olivia watched them, tears gathering in her eyes as they fled, wishing she and her sweet daughters could sail away with them.
“Momma.” Jenny pointed up to the empty branches, the cookie crumbs falling from her palm to scatter about the ledge. Wind toyed with them like forgotten dust. “Our birds!”
“Don’t worry.” She tugged her at the arm, ushering her back inside. “They will come back tomorrow. You’ll see. We are friends now. Our Jenny Wren will not want to miss out on another visit. Perhaps Charlotte will be awake then and she can meet her too.”
A crash reverberated down the hall.
Olivia’s heart sank. It sounded as if her new pitcher and basin had met their demise against her bedroom floor.
“Does that mean Father’s home?” Jenny asked, her voice sounding too grown up, her eyes keenly watching the closed door.
“Yes,” Olivia mumbled, her whisper painful even for her own ears to hear. “It sounds like your father is home.” She eased them into the nursery, closed the double doors, and locked the outdoor balcony world tight behind them.
It wasn’t safe to bring the girls around Josiah when he was like this.
A full night of revelry at his theater ensured he’d be home late—not until morning. It also ensured his temper would flare, and his weakness for strong drink would make him the thing they most feared in Jenny’s beloved fairy tales: the monster that swept in with each sunrise.
“Stay here, Jenny.” She brushed her fingertips under Jenny’s chin, raising her eyes to look at her. “No matter what you hear, stay here with Charlotte. If she wakes, you read her one of your fairy-tale stories. Maybe even tell her about our secret wren if she cries.”
“Of course, Momma.”
“And you remember what I’ve said? You always look out for one another. It’s what wrens do, isn’t it? They share the darkness if they have to, just as they share the moments of light. Share light with her, okay?”
Pounding reverberated against the nursery door.
Olivia’s breathing quickened.
She ran a palm over the apple of Jenny’s cheek, loving the way freckles danced across the bridge of her nose. Why couldn’t the moment be drawn out? Why did she have to turn away from those freckles, the innocence they held?
No matter what her heart longed for, the moment refused to linger. If she wanted to keep Josiah out of the nursery, she’d have to go. Every time her husband came home in such a state, their fairy-tale world fractured a little more. And with each new break, Olivia wondered if she’d walk out the nursery door for the last time.
When would it all end . . . ?
“Remember—stay here, little Wren. No matter what you hear, don’t step through this door. Promise me?”
Jenny nodded, her little eyes glazing with tears.
Olivia took a deep breath as the pounding continued.
She notched her chin, ready to fight the dragon again. Wondering if she’d walk away wounded, or whether it would be the final time her heart was slain.
FEBRUARY 12, 1927
BIJOU THEATRE
WASHINGTON STREET
BOSTON, MASS.
Elliot stepped into Wren’s heavily veiled backstage world for the second time.
On this turn, she wasn’t sparring with federal agents or sifting through mountains of paperwork at her dining room table. Instead, she sat upon the spindle chair, squeezed between the oversized stage wardrobe and oblong table spread with the wares for her stage show.
She was silent, her gaze fixed in the kaleidoscope of fractured light cast by the crystal vase from the nearby tabletop. Her crimson costume was crisp and clean. Boots shining. Lips painted. To anyone, Wren appeared ready for spotlights to rain down. But Elliot knew better; this was the look of a performer who was miles away, lost in her own world. The only movement her gentle brushing of gloved fingertips over the pages of a book in her hands.
“Wren?”
She jumped at his voice, snapping the volume shut. “Yes?”
“I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s . .
.” He hesitated, arcing a thumb toward the stage. “Almost showtime.”
“I know.” She popped up to slip the book in a hidden drawer in the oblong table. Wren ran a gloved hand over her cheek and cleared her throat. “I could hear the crowd. But thank you.”
“Did I disturb you?”
Wren finally turned, the display of confidence back in her straightened spine. She gave a light tug to each cuff, further perfecting her composure.
“No.” She attempted to laugh it off with nonchalance. “But I am glad you’re here. I’ve been thinking.”
“You’re reconsidering your performance tonight? Good. Because—”
“Not particularly. I still plan to perform. But I was actually remembering something Harry said to me once. That to come back from the dead is humanly impossible. He told Bess that if he passed, he’d try to connect back with her in spirit if he could.”
“You don’t say. Do you think he has, come back to visit his wife?”
Wren sent him a look that said such a question was ill appreciated. But she answered anyway. “Not to my knowledge. I was never very close with Bess, so I wouldn’t push in to ask her. But to come back as Victor Peale did?” She shook her head. “It’s impossible, Elliot. No matter what Stapleton claims or what information Amberley will share. If the greatest illusionist in the world believed it to be impossible, how can I entertain ideas that are anything less?”
“I agree with you. That’s why I brought this.” He stepped closer to her and held out the newspaper clipping from August 8, 1903.
She scanned the headline: “Black Saturday Disaster,” and the lines below it, reading aloud: “. . . 12 dead and 232 injured when a balcony support gave way during a doubleheader baseball game between the Boston Braves and Philadelphia Phillies at Philadelphia’s National League Park . . .” Wren looked up. “Yes, I recall hearing something about it. I was quite young when it happened, but it’s still talked about to this day, even after the war. It’s terrible, but I don’t understand what it has to do with us.”
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