Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  But Reynolds was concealing something—and she needed to know what it was. Behind his mental shield—in her mind’s eye, Celine saw it as a copper plate—was information she had to get to.

  What else am I to do? she’d responded when Sister Mary Catherine had admonished her. It’s not like he’ll tell me if I ask.

  You wait for him to confide in you. Sister Mary Catherine was annoyed. You don’t wander into other people’s minds any more than you’d wander in through their doors, Celine. It’s an invasion of privacy.

  I know. And she did. But if Reynolds was connected to the General, she needed to know how.

  She’d had a premonition of death and two previsions of Reynolds before meeting the sculptor. She was entitled to a little mental trespassing.

  Reynolds seemed on the verge of a revelation, though. She sensed the hesitation in him—the desire to open up to her. Would flattery help?

  “I love the allusions to Vermeer.” She pointed to an apron-clad figure of John Mechelen standing by a table, pouring wine from a pitcher into a wine glass.

  It was a reference to Vermeer’s The Milkmaid. A very apt one, she thought. The names of the vineyard and bar she’d inherited alluded to the Dutch master.

  “I’d heard from Penny Hoskins that Thins and Mechelen were instrumental in revealing Vermeer’s technique,” he said. “I figured this would be a good way to suggest a love of both wine and art.”

  So Penny had helped with his research. The Director of the Gardner tended to be voluble, giving out more information than she needed to. What else, Celine wondered, had she told Reynolds?

  “She mentioned Simon Underwood using Vermeer’s technique and becoming an artist of note,” he said when she asked.

  “That’s a reference to The Art of Painting,” Celine guessed, pointing to a three-dimensional drawing of Underwood sitting before an easel.

  Underwood—a friend of both Dirck and John from their Boston University days—had lost his life four months ago at the same time Dirck had been murdered.

  The men who’d tightened the wire around their necks may have been apprehended. But the General—the man who’d ordered the kills—was still at large.

  “Yes, but he’s painting The Concert.” Reynolds indicated the unfinished painting on the easel.

  Celine examined the drawing. Had Reynolds made the reference to The Concert because Simon Underwood had forged the Gardner’s stolen painting? Or because Dirck had been instrumental in returning it?

  “I’m assuming Underwood knew Dirck and John had it,” Reynolds’ voice broke into her reverie.

  “Most likely he did.” Celine nodded curtly. What was Reynolds getting at? More importantly, what did he know?

  She was beginning to lose patience. Time to goad him into speaking.

  I wouldn’t, if I were you, Sister Mary Catherine warned, but the words were already out of Celine’s mouth.

  “Did Penny happen to mention I’m psychic?” Her gaze penetrated the green depths of the sculptor’s eyes.

  He met her gaze, his eyes veiled. “She did.”

  Damn, she’d blown it. His mental guard was all the way up again. There’d be no penetrating that burnished copper wall of defense.

  It was too late to back down. She forged ahead.

  “I have a strong sense you came here for a reason. To say or do something.” She saw the Lady out of the corner of her eye. “I wouldn’t leave it too late, if I were you.”

  “I’ve done what I set out to do.” Reynolds got to his feet. He picked up his leather case. “You can keep the drawings and the scale models. Let me know if you want any changes.”

  “Listen.” Celine stumbled to her feet. “You can’t go back to Boston. You’re in danger.” Was he really? Or was she just desperate to keep him in Paso Robles until she could pry the truth out of him?

  He looked at her. “I have to go back. My exhibition opens tomorrow.”

  She’d forgotten about that. The Gardner had offered to host an exclusive showing of Reynolds’ sculptures.

  “I can’t let Penny down.” His lips stretched into a slow grin. “Even if it means dying in a plane crash. At least she’ll know I died trying to make it to the show.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Minutes after the sculptor had left, Celine remained seated at the outdoor table. A woodpecker’s rhythmic drumming on a nearby tree trunk the only sound punctuating the stillness around her.

  She’d scared Reynolds away, Celine was convinced of that. But why? Because she’d sensed he had a purpose in visiting Paso Robles—a purpose that had little to do with her commission?

  Of course, if he’d been sent to kill her, he hadn’t accomplished his task. She’d come out of the encounter still alive.

  On a whim, she reached into her purse and took out her phone. Blake answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Good timing. I was just about to call you.”

  “Why?” she wondered, genuinely curious.

  “The articles in the Boston papers.”

  “Oh that.” She’d forgotten about it, her mind focusing on more pressing matters.

  “You’ve had reporters plaguing you, I’m told.”

  “Then you also know I’ve told them nothing,” she responded. “Did Julia call you?”

  “Wasn’t she supposed to?”

  “No, it’s just that she’s supposed to be attending to my wine-tasting party.”

  “Julia? Helping with a wine tasting? Wow!” Blake chortled. “If you don’t want to be in the wine business, Celine, sell the estate. There’s no need to deliberately run it into the ground.”

  She laughed along with him. “I’m sure Julia’s managing just fine.” At least Celine hoped she was. “Listen—”

  But Blake interrupted before she could explain her reason for calling.

  “Look, I’m glad you’re not as bothered by those goddamn articles as I feared you might be. The TV stations have been sniffing around, but we’ve been able to convince them it’s nothing but errant gossip.

  “Even so, we’ve got to be careful now, seriously watch our steps. Especially after those startling revelations you had this morning. We need to keep a lid on insights like that.”

  “I had them after”—Celine emphasized the word—“the article had already come out.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes, why?” He was acting like she’d personally leaked the information to the press.

  Blake blew out a pent-up sigh. “We’ve always suspected the General was behind Hibbert’s hit piece, right?”

  “Yes, it was a great way of finding out whether the other stolen items were in my backyard.”

  “Right.” Blake released another breath. “But what would the General’s motive be for divulging this information—that a high-level insider might be involved? Why release that fact—especially if it might be true?”

  “Clearly, he didn’t.” Celine wasn’t sure where Blake was going with this.

  “Then we have to consider the idea of a mole in our ranks. Someone who’s leaking information to the press—and it would be easy to do with Jonah Hibbert dogging your steps—as a way of communicating with the General.”

  “You mean someone’s watching us.” The skin on her nape prickled. “And passing the information along via what looks like sensationalist gossip in the media?”

  “Yes, and with Hibbert—”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t him.” Jonah hadn’t been privy to any of her prior sessions. “If you’re worried about a leak, it’s gotta be someone in the FBI. Although I can’t imagine where they got the information they did leak.”

  “Fact is, none of it was that much of a stretch from what you’ve said before. Sounds like you spooked someone, and this is his—or her—way of warning the General that you’re getting closer to the truth. Your theory—that there were two people behind the theft and two different motives for it—has never been made public. But it’s all over the news now. That ca
n’t be a coincidence.”

  Blake paused. “There are a lot of people around you these days. You’ve got Annabelle, Bryan, that new marketing manager of yours, Jonah. Anything you inadvertently let slip could fall into the wrong hands.

  But these were all people she could trust. She didn’t belabor the point, though.

  “I’ll be careful,” she promised instead. Then before he could say anything else, she plunged ahead with her request. “There’s a favor I’d like to ask.” After that humiliating raid on her property, she figured he owed her.

  Besides the hunch she wanted to follow up on could only be done with FBI resources.

  “Sure, anything,” Blake said without hesitation.

  She was still sitting in the garden when Blake called back twenty minutes later.

  “You were right,” he informed Celine.

  Celine clutched the phone to her ear, listening carefully.

  “Reynolds was booked on a later flight out of SLO County. He made a last-minute change, taking the first available flight back to Boston.”

  “I knew it!” Validation surged through her being—a familiar electrifying tingle that lit up her body when her psychic senses were proven right. “I just knew it.”

  The afternoon sun warmed her back, dappling the wood and bronze models Reynolds had left behind. She fingered them absent-mindedly.

  “He seemed in such a hurry to leave. He comes all the way from Boston. It’s a long flight. You’d think he’d stay a while. But no.”

  She couldn’t for the life of her figure out what she’d said to send the sculptor hurtling back to Boston. But at least she’d confirmed her suspicion that it had something to do with their encounter.

  “Wish I knew what I said to drive him away,” she mused.

  Blake coughed. “What exactly is this about, Celine?”

  The question took her by surprise, although it shouldn’t have. She hadn’t told Blake anything other than that she needed a favor. There’d been a reason for that.

  There was nothing concrete she could offer the agent about Tony Reynolds. Just a strong inkling that something seemed fishy. And she hadn’t wanted Blake to balk at using FBI resources for what, on the face of it, seemed like a flimsy reason.

  She’d allowed him to think she was merely checking out Reynolds as an individual she’d possibly be contracting with.

  “Listen, you’re a grown woman,” Blake broke the silence. “You probably know what you’re doing. But . . . ahmm . . . Tony Reynolds might not be the best person for you to pursue.”

  “I thought you said he didn’t have a criminal record.”

  She’d asked about that in her initial phone call, and Blake had confirmed that the sculptor seemed to be operating on the right side of the law.

  That had shed some light on the connection she’d perceived between him and the General. Either Reynolds had no idea who he was dealing with. Or, until that point, the association had been entirely on the up-and-up.

  No different than the connection the General might have with a housekeeper—if he employed one—or a gardener or a delivery boy.

  “He doesn’t,” Blake confirmed her assumption. “But he has a reputation for being something of a womanizer. Treats women like playthings. Yet they keep running to him like moths to a flame.”

  He paused.

  “I just don’t want to see you getting hurt.”

  It took her some time to process the federal agent’s concerns.

  “You think I’m . . . you can’t possibly think I . . .”

  “Look, he’s a handsome man. I get it. And you’re a grown woman. Just thought you should know, he may not be interested in anything more than a casual fling.”

  “I don’t think he’s interested in even that.” Blake was beginning to say something, but Celine spoke over him. “And neither am I. But I sensed a connection to the General.”

  She elaborated on what she’d received psychically since the morning.

  “Jesus Christ, Celine! You could’ve told me that when you called.”

  She ignored the remark. “Before Reynolds left, he said he’d done what he set out to do. But if he was sent to eliminate a liability—me—he didn’t do it.”

  Either he’d changed his mind. Or—

  “He must have been trying to get the lay of the land—scouting out the place, determining the vulnerabilities in your security. Does Julia know?”

  “I haven’t spoken with her yet.”

  She hadn’t wanted to know how many potential patrons Julia had driven away with her flippant attitude toward the wine they were selling. Doctoring their reds with Equal, for goodness’ sake!

  “Goddammit, Celine, you need to tell her. Neither one of us can protect you if we have no idea where the danger is coming from. And if you’ve identified the source of the threat . . .” His voice tightened.

  She heard the tense drumbeat of his fingers on the phone. He was recalling the kidnapping he’d failed to prevent four months ago. Her kidnapping.

  But that had been as much her fault as his. She was the psychic on the team.

  “I’ll put a tail on him.” Blake had managed to get a grip on his emotions. “We know when his flight arrives. We’ll be ready for him whatever he tries to do.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wanda called just as Celine was gathering up the drawings Reynolds had left.

  “I’m headed back,” Celine said immediately, attempting to forestall any complaints her new marketing manager might have about Julia’s handling of customers.

  “There’s no rush,” Wanda assured her. “I just thought you’d want to know that Julia—”

  “I know. I shouldn’t have left her with the wedding party. I guess she drove them away, huh?”

  “No—”

  “No?” Celine nervously fingered the beautiful woodpecker made of English cedar Reynolds had left along with his other scale models.

  Dear God, it couldn’t be much worse than that, could it?

  “What do you mean, no? What exactly did Julia do?”

  “She sold an entire case of red wine to the wedding party.”

  “What!” Celine slipped the woodpecker into her purse. She’d need to find a place to display it.

  Reynolds had spied a woodpecker in the images showcasing the Mechelen’s ornate gardens on their website and had decided a replica would be the perfect installation. “It captures the spirit of the place,” he’d told her.

  The memory ran through her mind on a parallel track as she continued to speak. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she told Wanda.

  “I’m not, God’s honor.” Wanda giggled. “They all loved the idea of adding sweetener to their wine.”

  Of course they had. Wine was an acquired taste—the reds, in particular, requiring years of familiarity before they could be fully appreciated. New to the world of wine, her guests had obviously not had the time to develop a taste for the robust reds the Mechelen’s Italian winemaker loved to create.

  An awful thought ran through her mind. “Julia didn’t sell our entire supply of Equal as well, did she?”

  Wanda burst out laughing. “No, of course not. But I have a feeling those folks just might be headed to the nearest grocery store. They’ve got a lot of wine to sweeten.”

  Wanda’s laughter was contagious. Celine was about to join in when she caught sight of her winemaker near the Tasting Room. She bit back her grin. “Do me a favor, Wanda—make sure Andrea doesn’t hear about this, okay?”

  Andrea wouldn’t find the story all that amusing. Quite the contrary, in fact.

  “I won’t,” Wanda promised. “But you’ve got to admit it’s a great way to sell red wine. Especially to newbies.”

  There was a pause.

  “You might want to let Julia help out a little more, you know,” Wanda suggested. “Seeing as how you’re busy with . . . other stuff.”

  The marketing manager’s words reminded Celine of something she’d been meaning to do for a long
time. The morning’s events and the encounter with Reynolds had cemented her decision.

  “About that, there’s something I need to say.” She hesitated, unsure how to explain what she wanted. “This work that I do—helping Julia, Penny, the FBI—it takes me away from the business. But that’s not the worst of it—”

  “You’re thinking of selling, is that it?” Wanda’s gruff voice sounded harsher than ever.

  “No, Wanda—”

  “It’s okay, if you are. It’s your business. Just let me—let everyone—know when, so we can, you know. . .”

  “Wanda, I’m not going to sell our vineyards and bar.” Celine set her tote bag down and transferred her phone to her other ear. “I wanted to ask if you’d be okay with being named as a beneficiary on the Trust?”

  There was silence on the other end. Unsure of Wanda’s reaction, Celine hurtled along. “I mean, if something were to happen to me—which, it could. I can’t pretend the work I do doesn’t put me in harm’s way. If that happened, would you be willing to take over?”

  She hadn’t told Wanda about the premonition she’d had that morning—that she was next on the General’s hit list. Acknowledging the potential of danger was as far as she was willing to go. The sound of Wanda’s breathing filled the silence between them—amplified by the phone’s speaker.

  Celine held her breath. Was she asking too much of Wanda? The twenty-six-year-old had been hired barely months ago. And now Celine was asking her to consider devoting her entire life to a business built by two men she’d never even met.

  “You won’t be on your own. Andrea will be named on the Trust as well.” She was going to ask him to partner with her. If the General succeeded in executing his threat, he’d be the best person to take charge and continue Dirck and John’s legacy. “But Andrea will need help.”

  She waited for Wanda to say something—anything.

  “Wanda?”

  “I—I don’t know what to say. I’m so honored, I—”