Club Deception Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Sarah Skilton

  Cover illustration by Sylvan Steenbrink. Cover design by Elizabeth Turner. Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

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  First Trade Paperback Edition: July 2017

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Skilton, Sarah, author.

  Title: Club deception / Sarah Skilton.

  Description: First trade paperback edition. | New York : Grand Central

  Publishing, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017008123| ISBN 9781455597017 (softcover) | ISBN

  9781478915973 (audio download) | ISBN 9781455597000 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Secret societies—Fiction. | Magicians—Fiction. | BISAC:

  FICTION / Contemporary Women.

  Classification: LCC PS3619.K5565 C58 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017008123

  ISBNs: 978-1-4555-9701-7 (trade paperback), 978-1-4555-9700-0 (ebook), 978-1-4789-1597-3 (audiobook, downloadable)

  E3-20170711-NF-DA

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Six Weeks Earlier Jessica

  Claire

  Jessica

  Kaimi

  Felix

  Claire

  Jessica

  Felix

  Jessica

  Kaimi

  Claire

  Jessica

  Kaimi

  Felix

  Jessica

  Felix

  Jessica

  Kaimi

  Jessica

  Claire

  Felix

  Kaimi

  Felix

  Jessica

  Felix

  Claire

  Jessica

  Claire

  Felix

  Jessica

  Claire

  Jessica

  Claire

  Jessica

  Felix

  Claire

  Acknowledgments

  Newsletters

  The art of the magician is not found in the simple deception, but in what surrounds it, the construction of a reality which supports the illusion.

  —Jim Steinmeyer, Art & Artifice

  The magician’s wife sat in Interview Room A with her legs crossed at the thigh and ankle. Though the room was equipped with a video recorder and two-way mirror, the soft lighting and broad, cushioned furniture provided a more comfortable atmosphere than did the harsh fluorescents, low ceilings, and plastic chairs used in the official interrogation room down the hall. Merely a person of interest, the magician’s wife had not been charged with a crime. Yet.

  The detective guessed she was in her forties. Her thick, honey-blond hair skimmed the top of her collarbone, and she was disheveled in an uncalculated, attractive way that suggested some kind of postcoital slackening. Her makeup was smeared, too, just a little—a thumb had recently pressed against her lower lip, perhaps; a hand had tangled in her hair.

  She wore a faded Liz Phair EXILE IN GUYVILLE T-shirt and dark jean shorts with white stitching on the pockets. On her feet she wore severe-looking, open-toed black stilettos with leather straps that crisscrossed up her calves and made every inch of her bare legs—she looked at least five foot nine—even more elongated.

  The combination of ’90s casual meets kinky footwear made her look like she was half in one world and half in another. He knew the detectives they’d passed in the hall were already working on a nickname for her and he wanted to be ready. Real Housewife of Silver Lake? No. Dominatrix Day Off.

  The arresting officer told the detective she’d chosen the shoes specifically. She’d been given the option of wearing something more practical but she’d declined, which was odd since she’d had no idea how long she’d be at RHD, the Robbery/Homicide Division of the LAPD, which investigated crimes of a high profile or particularly unusual nature. This one fell into both categories.

  “You’re taking the news pretty well.” The detective flipped his chair around and straddled it so he could lean toward the magician’s wife without coming across as threatening. The back of the chair served as a good barrier, and a place to rest his elbows.

  She frowned. “I’m not rending my garments, so I must not be upset?”

  “I was just remarking upon your relative composure.”

  “No, you’re saying I’m not believable as a widow. How would you like me to act?”

  “I’m not saying you should act one way or another.”

  “I could hold a press conference. That’s what Houdini’s wife did. Bess. Would that make you feel better?” The magician’s wife was babbling now, swivel-eyed, lost in her own world. “She used her husband’s death to drum up publicity for a séance, starring him, of course. Said he’d come back in exactly one year to haunt her. To be fair, it’s probably what Houdini would have wanted.”

  He felt a sting of pity for her. “Mrs. Fredericksson…”

  “Claire.”

  “Claire, I think you’re in shock. It’s understandable. Can I get you anything? Coffee, water, cigarette? Of course, we’d have to go outside for that.” He rattled them off by rote, but her eyes lit up at the mention of the last item.

  Just as quickly, she glanced away. “No, better not.”

  “No cigarette? You sure?”

  She ran a tired hand through her messy blond hair. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  “How long were you married to Jonathan?”

  “Twenty-two—no, twenty-three years.”

  “How long was he a magician?”

  “As long as I’ve known him.”

  “Did he ever tell you how he did his tricks?” It was probably irrelevant, but his curiosity overruled his common sense.

  Claire obviously wished he’d resisted. She picked at the frayed hem of her jean shorts and made him wait for a long beat before answering. “Once I know how a trick is done I lose all interest in it. That’s a quote from someone. I don’t remember who.”

  “So you weren’t his assistant?”

  “God, no. Have you seen what magicians do to women?”

  He raised his hands apologetically. “I meant no disrespect.”

  “They’re called torture illusions. Originated in the twenties, a perfect response to women’s suffrage. What a relief i
t must have been to see those uppity females getting stabbed, sawed in half, hypnotized, vivisected—”

  “Mrs. Fredericksson,” he interrupted. “I’m not here for a history lesson. I’m here to figure out who poisoned your husband.”

  She swallowed, had the good sense to look abashed. “I didn’t kill him and I don’t know who did.”

  “Women are far more likely to use poison than men are. And you just told me magicians hate women, so let’s elaborate on that.”

  She shook her head imperiously. “No, that’s not what I said. They don’t hate women. Quite the contrary. But there are people who hate magicians. That’s the question you should be asking. That’s how you find the person who did this.”

  “Okay, who hates magicians?”

  “Other magicians, of course.” She paused. “Every magician has another magician he hates. Doesn’t matter if you’re a hobbyist or a top performer, a stage illusionist or a close-up expert. Somewhere, for whatever reason, another magician hates you.”

  He regarded her carefully. “You’ve given this speech before.”

  “I try to warn the new wives. Most of them have no idea what they’re getting into.”

  “What are they getting into?”

  She dismissed him with a wave. “Oh, I don’t know. Disillusionment. Misdirection. Now you see him, now you don’t.”

  “I thought that was every marriage.”

  “A lot of magicians—the good ones, anyway—lead a double life. It can be disconcerting to discover. On the other hand…he might make us float. He might make us fly.” She sounded far away, and her pale-green eyes shimmered like gemstones. He was certain a tear would slip down her cheek but she kept it at bay, perhaps through sheer willpower.

  “Is that why you married Jonathan?” he asked.

  “No.” She looked straight at him. “I wanted to disappear. And that was the only way I knew how.”

  Six Weeks Earlier

  Jessica

  There was a girl in a fish tank in the lobby of the Standard hotel.

  It was not an illusion; it was downtown Los Angeles, Jessica’s new home.

  The large, waterless aquarium sat behind the concierge desk. The girl inside looked about twenty-two, not much younger than Jessica, and she was sexy in an understated way. Warm pink lighting washed over her, making her white tank top and formfitting shorts look pink, too. She didn’t dance or pose or strip or anything. As far as Jessica could tell, the girl just went about her life: texting, reading, uploading pictures to Instagram, and napping on her side, knees curled up to her chest.

  Sweet gig. Wonder how she got it?

  “Single or double?” asked the clerk. He looked fresh off the set of a teeth-whitening ad, and his gaze slid up and down the exposed V of skin where Jessica’s burgundy wraparound crossed her slim frame.

  She winked, and proceeded to break his heart. “Honeymoon suite.”

  Cal’s place was a disaster, so for the next week she and Cal would be living in a hotel, just like when they first met.

  His loft apartment on Sunset and Vine was bright and open, all floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek granite countertops, and wood paneling on the floor and cabinets, but the furniture was dusty and sun-faded: par for the course when you’ve been traveling the world for three years straight.

  Unopened boxes of custom-made playing cards were stacked in precarious towers throughout the living room. Large posters of Cardini (THE SUAVE DECEIVER), Thurston (THE WONDER SHOW OF THE UNIVERSE), Blackstone (THE WORLD’S MASTER MAGICIAN), and Alexander (THE MAN WHO KNOWS) sat against the wall in chipped, gilded frames (“The man who knows” what? Jessica thought).

  An antique armoire crouched in the corner, battle-ready and prepared to die to keep its owner’s secrets.

  On the floor:

  Swords, box cutters, trunks, saws, heaps of magic books.

  Rope.

  A straitjacket.

  On the dining room table:

  Bicycle playing cards, with red and blue backs, pristine in their plastic wrappers. Pens that opened on both sides. Creased dollar bills.

  “Bit of a shambles, isn’t it? My bachelor pad,” Cal had said as he ran a hand through his dark hair, mussing it up into points. “Or is the proper term man cave?”

  “It’s a magician cave.” Jessica laughed, clasping his hand in hers. “Normal bachelors don’t live like this.”

  He pretended to be shocked. “Are you saying I’m not normal?”

  “Thank God,” she answered.

  A promotional poster for MASKELYNE & COOKE’S MYSTERIES AT THE EGYPTIAN HALL IN LONDON caught her eye. “Did you get to see them?”

  “Before my time, sadly. As you can see, I have a lot of picture hanging to do. These two”—he pointed to Blackstone and Thurston—“have to be kept apart. They despise each other.” Indeed, the two magicians positioned on opposite sides of the room seemed to glower at one another. Both posters featured impish red devils whispering instructions in their respective magician’s ear, as though adding fuel to the fire of their animosity.

  Jessica grinned. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “Let’s go someplace lush while I have the place sorted,” Cal suggested. His subtle, velvety British accent curled around Jessica’s ears and lulled her into a hypnotic state, and he’d slipped his credit card inside the back pocket of her skintight Levi’s before she could blink.

  “But—we just got here. I’m tired from the flight,” she protested.

  “All the more reason to rest comfortably. Call for room service, hit the spa.” He kissed her forehead. “Book a suite at The Standard downtown. It’ll cost a bomb but the view’s brilliant.”

  She thought their current view was pretty brilliant. “What about you?”

  “I’ll come by after I dig through some boxes.”

  She pulled his face down toward hers for a proper kiss, only to be interrupted by the chirp of his cell phone.

  His producers needed him in Santa Barbara to shoot B-roll for his TV pilot, which was why, an hour later, Jessica found herself checking in to The Standard by herself.

  The room was classy and modern but sterile. The furniture cut the space into segments, all hard lines and muted colors, separate and formal; it reminded her of the furniture on Mad Men. She sat by the window, sipping a Perrier and watching the sun go down. On Flower Street below, the sign for The Standard hung upside down. Maybe only people who could afford rooms got to see it properly?

  She didn’t blame Cal for racing off. His upcoming TV special was a huge step for his career, and the reason he’d returned to Los Angeles after such a long absence.

  On top of the hotel dresser, next to the TV, her phone vibrated.

  Just seeing Cal’s name on the screen lit a flame inside her like a matchstick striking a box.

  She tapped ANSWER. “Hey, babe, when will you be here?”

  “Not for a while, I’m afraid.” She could picture his handsome face lined with regret, his tie loosened after a long evening of performing. “Traffic’s a nightmare.”

  “Shit, really?”

  “Really. Why don’t you get dolled up and pop round the club? The WAGs are dying to meet you.”

  “Who?”

  “Right, sorry, wives and girlfriends.”

  “I’d rather wait and go with you,” she said.

  “You’ll go the club, have a lovely time, and return to the hotel. You’ll wait up for me, and…”

  She smirked. “And what?”

  “And when I get home, I’ll do the rope trick.” His voice was a caress. “You remember the rope trick, don’t you, pet?”

  Her heart began to race. “Yes,” she whispered. Sometimes it seemed to be the only word she could form around him.

  “It’s settled, then.”

  Now he sounded a little too cocky, which shook her out of her reverie. “You know,” she said with a laugh, “one day that’s not going to work.”

  “Until that day…charge a taxi to the room and
have the driver wait till you’re inside the club, the area’s a bit dodgy.”

  “Okay.”

  “Make a good impression on the ladies, and you’ll have a set of friends for life.”

  She released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Now you’re making me nervous.”

  “Just be your adorable, charming self, and ask to speak with Claire.”

  “What does she look like? And how do you know she’ll be there?”

  “She’s a Hitchcock blonde, my age, and she’s always there.”

  * * *

  Purchased in the late 1980s by the Brotherhood of Arcana, Club Deception was a hidden, members-only club built out of a converted speakeasy in downtown Los Angeles for use strictly by magicians and their guests. It contained a small apartment for monthlong residencies; a lecture hall where visiting magicians were expected to teach classes; a library culled from the works of John Mulholland (including copies of every issue he edited of The Sphinx until “retiring” to join the CIA); a small museum of magic patents and curiosities; a luxurious, private screening room with red velvet armchairs, chaise lounges, and a champagne fountain; and a midsize performance stage that only opened its doors to outsiders twice a year, for the Close-Up Magic Competition in the spring and the Stage Show Magic Competition in the fall.

  Membership dues were ten thousand dollars a year and admittance required sponsorship from an existing member, as well as successful completion of a grueling audition. The dress code was strict: jackets and ties for gents, evening gowns for ladies. Those who arrived in anything else would be sent home.

  As a first-time visitor, the only thing Jessica knew about Club Deception was that she couldn’t find it. The air was strangely cool—after ninety-nine-degree weather all day, she’d expected the evening to continue in that vein, as it did in the Midwest. But the instant the sun went down, all warmth left with it. The lone streetlamp nearby was cracked, and her taxi had departed despite the tip she’d given the driver to stick around.

  The address Cal had texted her didn’t seem to correspond to anything. She wandered alone and lost until she realized the entrance didn’t face the street but the alley, with the numbers written sideways, one per brick, going up the side of the building.