Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  The ringing continued.

  You must die.

  Celine’s eyes snapped open. She stared at the three people in the room with her.

  “He wants me dead,” she announced. “The General wants me dead.”

  Chapter Eight

  “No, it’s not true!” Celine resisted the urge to slam down her phone. She’d been jolted out of her trance by a ringing phone. Had heard it ringing, even though the ringer was on mute.

  Now she was regretting answering the damn thing.

  “But the Boston newspapers say—”

  “I don’t care what they say,” Celine interrupted the reporter from the Paso Tribune, her voice shrill. “I’ve never said anyone from within the Gardner Museum orchestrated the heist.”

  The July sun beat down upon her—hot and muggy after the morning drizzle—as she paced the parking lot behind the bar, phone clutched to her ear. It was making her feel feverish.

  Finding herself at the edge of the lot, facing the alley that ran behind the row of businesses on 13th Street, she turned back.

  Jonah was staring at her from the back door of the Delft. She glared back at him; he was responsible for this debacle, she guessed. Had to be. Who else could it be?

  The urge to sock his pasty-white face and the round wire-rimmed glasses that gave him such an owl-like look was overwhelming.

  Calm down, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine whispered. Anger blocks your sight.

  I know. But her heart continued to palpitate rapidly, her breath came in shallow gasps.

  The Tribune reporter’s words filtered through the haze of red-hot fury that surrounded her.

  “But you do think whoever was behind the heist wanted the Degas sketches and not the Dutch works, right?”

  The guy was persistent, Celine had to give him that. Not wanting to lie, she deflected. “Do the Boston newspapers say that as well?”

  She inflected an intentional note of sarcasm into her voice. It seemed to work.

  “I’m afraid so, Ms. Skye.” The Tribune reporter sounded sheepish. “Care to comment.”

  “I’d prefer not to dignify that kind of nonsense with any comment,” she said firmly.

  She hung up and strode over to Jonah.

  “You’re behind this, aren’t you?” She stopped inches from him and glared. “I thought we had a deal. I let you sit in on my trance.”

  Jonah staggered back, palms raised in a gesture of surrender. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Celine?”

  “Apparently every newspaper in Boston thinks the Gardner heist was an inside job—organized by someone high-up within the museum. You told them that, didn’t you?”

  Jonah withdrew a couple more steps, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t. How could I? I only just heard you mention it in your trance.”

  Celine stopped, fists clenched. “I said no such thing.” She frowned. “Did I?”

  She didn’t always remember every single word she pronounced in a trance. But surely she’d have recalled a bombshell like that.

  Jonah plucked a notebook from the back pocket of his skin-tight jeans. He quickly flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

  “You said, quote: Associated with the museum. Affiliated with it.”

  “That could be anyone.” She’d had a vague impression of a man. It was gone now—fading away like a wisp of smoke. “And it could mean anything,” she muttered to herself.

  Her words had been vague enough to refer to a gardener, a guard, a receptionist. But there’d been an aura of power and authority about the man she’d caught a glimpse of.

  She felt Jonah’s eyes on her—dark brown, avid, a hungry hyena waiting for tidbits to fall from her mouth.

  “So you had nothing to do with the reports in the Boston papers this morning?”

  She studied his face. Was it her imagination—or was he looking paler than usual?

  “Look, Celine, I swear”—Jonah held up his palms in a gesture of surrender—“on my mother’s honor.”

  She kept her eyes on his face.

  “I’ve said nothing, published nothing. You have to admit, you’ve given me very little to work with.”

  That was true enough.

  “Fine,” she said, brushing past him back into the bar. She had to find Julia.

  Chapter Nine

  Julia was still in Dirck’s sanctum, poring over transcripts from the morning’s session. Celine stormed in, hitting a button on the wall. A panel slid out, closing them off from the main area of the bar. She didn’t want Annabelle hearing about this.

  “We have trouble,” she said tersely.

  “I can see it on your face. What’s going on?” Julia’s blue eyes were narrowed, but her face remained restful, impassive like the Dalai Llama.

  Nothing ever seemed to take Julia by surprise, Celine reflected. The former fed was like a rock, ready for anything. Her manner brought a measure of calm to Celine.

  “That was a reporter from the Paso Tribune. You won’t believe what the Boston papers are saying.” She filled her friend in.

  “They’ve twisted my words. It’s . . .” Words failed her. It felt like a betrayal. As though someone had breached her mind, filtered its impressions, and put the worst possible interpretation on them.

  “It’s what reporters do, Celine.” Julia’s head was bent over her phone’s browser. “Unconfirmed reports,” she read aloud. “At least they say that. But they couldn’t resist publishing it all the same.”

  She gave a wry shrug. “Sounds like the kind of thing Jonah would write.”

  “It wasn’t him,” Celine told her. “I confronted him, and he categorically denied having anything to do with that tripe.”

  “There’s nothing in the Gazette. So that does bear out his story, I guess.”

  “I just don’t understand why,” Celine repeated. She ground the heels of her palms together. The whole situation was so frustrating. “Why now? And Penny must be—”

  “Furious. I know.” Julia looked up at her. They’d promised to keep the director of the Gardner Museum in the loop. “But she’ll understand you had nothing to do with this.”

  “Yes, but I still feel like I’ve betrayed her trust.” Celine raked her fingers through her long red hair.

  “Some of it’s true, that’s the worst of it,” she continued. The silken strands of her hair felt pleasantly cool against her feverish fingers.

  Julia gave her a piercing look. “Some of it sounds like what you said this morning. A connection to the Gardner. You’ve never mentioned that before—not in the context of—” She broke off. “What exactly did you see this morning when you mentioned that?”

  Celine closed her eyes, trying to recall the images that were already receding from her mind. Hazy wisps of them returned. She drew them toward her like strands of cotton candy.

  “I smell cologne,” she whispered. “A man in a suit. His back is turned to me. Broad shoulders. Powerful.”

  “Can you get him to turn around?”

  “No.” She knew why instantly. “I’ve never seen his face.”

  Although the explanation didn’t make sense. She couldn’t recall seeing the General’s face either.

  “And the impressions? What he likes?”

  “Black ink. Black chalk.” Celine’s right hand jerked up, executing swift movements. “Movement. He captures it so well. A moment in time. Sepia tones.”

  “The sketches,” Julia said. “The stolen Degas sketches. Is that what you’re seeing?”

  The images receded from Celine’s mind; she opened her eyes. Julia was still talking to herself.

  “A man with an appreciation for Degas and with a connection to the Gardner Museum. A trustee?”

  “I’m not sure.” The image on Celine’s mental screen had been from a zoomed-in perspective, too fuzzy to be interpreted in any meaningful fashion. “I don’t understand what I saw or even why I saw it. My mind just seems to wander at random from one impression to another.”r />
  Julia shuffled through her notes. “It may not be quite as random as all that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Julia looked up. “There was something Jonah said that triggered those impressions. And you went from there to sensing the General wants you dead.”

  “He does want me dead.” It was the one thing Celine saw quite clearly. “He may be reluctant to do it. But his mind’s made up. He feels compelled.”

  “I believe you.” Julia picked up her phone stared at it. The screen was still on the Massachusetts Post article. “Maybe now we know why.”

  “Celine? You in there?” Wanda Roberts’ voice followed the hard rapping on the wooden panel that concealed Dirck’s sanctum from the bar.

  Celine glanced over her shoulder, reluctant to end her conversation with Julia.

  “You better get out here, girl!” Wanda called again. Her voice was raspy, gruff. “Your wine tasting group is gonna be here in a few.”

  Damn! Celine had forgotten about that. She was half-tempted to ask Wanda to cover for her, but what kind of example would that set? Not for Wanda, who had a no-nonsense, take-charge manner when it came to work. But for the rest of their employees.

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Celine turned back to Julia.

  “I’m not scared,” she assured her friend, but her voice trembled nonetheless. She swallowed. “It’s just that I don’t know where the danger is coming from. Or how? And it—” She swallowed hard again.

  “It unsettles you,” Julia finished for her. “I know. Just go out and do your thing. I’m here. I’m always here. The General can’t get to you.”

  Yes, he can. The words floated across her mind. If he wants you dead, you will be. She decided not to repeat the message to Julia.

  She got to her feet. “Don’t underestimate him. He’s very good at killing people. It’s what he does.”

  A customer was walking out of the Delft, arms laden with black fabric wine carriers, as Celine emerged from the sanctum, Julia behind her.

  “Came in for coffee,” Wanda informed her proudly, seeing Celine’s gaze following the departing customer. “Walked out with Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, and a couple of bottles of Viognier.”

  Celine grinned. “You talked him into a tasting and sold him on our wine? Great job!”

  Wanda’s smile widened, brightening the expression on her smooth brown face. Her tight dark curls bobbed. “Yes, ma’am, I sure did. But I just brought the guy to the proverbial well. It was Andrea’s fine winemaking skills that sold him on our product.”

  “You’re pretty amazing, Wanda, you know that!”

  Her gaze swept across the bar to the horseshoe-shaped counter—set for a wine tasting. Barely four months ago, Dirck had stood behind it.

  A ball of pain swelled within her throat. It was hard to believe he was gone.

  “I set the wine glasses out for you.” Wanda’s voice cut through the haze of pain. “And the menus.” She pointed. “Plates of cheese sticks and bowls of pistachios.”

  The nuts were grown on the estate. No one had thought to package them up and serve them to the customers until Wanda came along.

  Celine bit back the tears threatening to well up in her eyes. “Thanks, Wanda. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Chapter Ten

  The wine tasting was going well. At least something was, Celine thought.

  She brought out another bottle as her guests downed the last drop and held their glasses out, ready to sample the next item on the tasting menu.

  “Next up, is our Chardonnay.” She tipped the wine bottle; the straw-colored wine sloshed into the wine glass. “You’ll notice hints of apricot and pear.”

  She pushed the glass toward the young woman leaning eagerly forward.

  The Sauvignon Blanc she’d served earlier had been favorably received. It was light with a bright, crisp, citrusy note that most patrons—even those new to wine—found extremely pleasing.

  Celine hoped the party of six—a young bride-to-be, her fiancé, the bride’s parents, and the groom’s father and stepmother—enjoyed the Chardonnay as well.

  “This is really good!” The bride-to-be, an attractive, dark-haired woman, nodded in appreciation. “Isn’t it, Jordan?” She turned to her fiancé.

  “Yup,” Jordan agreed, his lips squished against the rim of his wine glass.

  He doesn’t like it, Celine thought. But he thinks he’ll be sleeping on the couch if he gives her an honest opinion.

  It was no way to start a relationship, but he wasn’t entirely wrong about the wine.

  The Chardonnay was harder to like—aged a little longer than the Sauvignon Blanc, it had an oaky aftertaste that took some getting used to.

  The relief on her guests’ faces when Celine mentioned this was unmistakable. People new to wine tended to think they had to appreciate every bottle they tasted.

  “Yes, it is a bit. . .” The bride-to-be wrinkled her nose daintily.

  “Definitely,” Jordan said, feeling himself on firmer ground now.

  “It gets a creamy, buttery flavor as it ages,” Celine informed the couple.

  They’d have a good marriage—if only Jordan didn’t feel pressured into telling white lies so as not to rock the boat.

  “And that woodsy taste mellows out.” She gave them a dazzling smile. This was the best part of the job—guiding new people into an appreciation of fine wine. It was helping to take her mind off the other, darker events relentlessly pressing into her consciousness.

  “This’ll be a good bottle to keep for your second or third anniversary.”

  “Ooh! That’s a fantastic idea.” The bride tipped her glass up, swallowing the rest of her Chardonnay. “I think we’ll take a couple of bottles. What do you think, honey?”

  “Absolutely!” Jordan was appropriately enthusiastic. But then he’d have been just as eager to please if his fiancée had suggested he jump off a cliff.

  Celine suppressed a grin, but as she glanced up, her amusement faded.

  There was the red Mustang she’d seen earlier that morning. A tall figure swept out of the sports car. Then the image faded, the sun glinting against the window making her squint.

  This was the second time she’d had a vision of the man. What could it mean?

  Her heart muscles clenched.

  Was she seeing the General’s agent? The agent of her death?

  “You look really pale, miss.” The gruff male voice—the bride’s father—brought her out of her reverie. “Everything okay?”

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” This from the groom’s stepmother, a slender woman in her forties with wavy hair dyed platinum blond.

  “Wait!” Her jaw dropped. “You’re the psychic who helped recover those paintings stolen from the Gardner Museum, aren’t you?”

  “I do believe you’re right, babycakes!” The groom’s father slapped his thigh. “That’s her all right.” He leaned forward, chest hairs poking out of his baggy floral-patterned shirt. “So, you really think that heist was an inside job?”

  “It’s in all the papers,” the bride’s mother explained apologetically. “The Boston papers.”

  “You’re from Boston?” Celine surveyed the party. She’d grown so accustomed to hearing the Boston tones in Annabelle’s voice, her guests’ distinctive accents had escaped her.

  The bride nodded. “You really are psychic, aren’t you?”

  “Were you having a vision just now?” The bride’s mother stared at her, eyes wide. She was dying of cancer—Celine could see it in the fading colors of her aura and the yellowish hue of her skin. But the woman’s curiosity remained undiminished.“Something to do with the Gardner heist?”

  Everyone leaned forward expectantly.

  Celine felt her cheeks flaming. Some wine tasting this was turning out to be. Don’t comment, Julia had warned her. But if she refused to say a word, wouldn’t that just lend credence to the Post’s wild speculations?

 
Speculations that Julia was beginning to think might have some basis in fact. Although Celine still wasn’t sure.

  The faint whisper of cologne assailed her nostrils again. An expensive suit. Broad shoulders. A powerful male presence.

  Was Julia right? Was this someone high up in the museum’s hierarchy?

  “Connected to the Gardner, your words. What else could that mean?” Julia asked when Celine questioned her leap in logic. They’d managed to sneak in a whispered discussion when Celine had hurried into the kitchen for refills on the cheese sticks and pistachios. The men in the group had made short work of those.

  “Besides I can’t think of anything else that would’ve put a target on your back, can you?”

  Celine had been forced to concede she couldn’t. Dismaying as the prospect was, they’d have to at least consider the possibility Julia was right. What Penny would have to say about that when she heard, Celine didn’t know. The thought brought back the queasy sensation she’d felt earlier, as though her stomach were in free fall.

  The loud buzzing of her guests’ voices invaded her thoughts.

  “Oh, do tell us what you think!” the bride was urging her.

  “It’s an ongoing investigation.” Julia had appeared from nowhere. “Ms. Skye can’t comment on it.”

  “But she told the papers it was an inside job,” the groom’s father argued.

  “Actually, no, I didn’t,” Celine said, taking matters into her own hands. “I’m sorry to say the Post never reached out to me for comment. If they had, I would’ve corrected their impressions.”

  “So, what do you think?” The groom’s father wasn’t about to let go. Julia looked as though she wanted to sock him. She opened her mouth, her expression stormy.

  Celine could hear the former fed’s thoughts as clearly as though she’d uttered them. Put a sock in it, buddy!

  She reached out for her friend’s hand; her gaze bore into Julia’s. She couldn’t allow the former fed to drive away potential customers.

  You could easily put a stop to this, my dear, Sister Mary Catherine murmured. Sometimes tact and circumspection are vastly overrated.

  Her hand still covering Julia’s, Celine turned to the groom’s father and smiled. “I think fidelity is very important in a relationship.” She gazed meaningfully at the florid-faced man. “The older one grows, especially.”