A deadly clue, p.1
A Deadly Clue, page 1
A Deadly Clue
A HUNTER AND CLEWE MYSTERY
Victoria Gilbert
Dedicated to everyone who still believes
in love, hope, kindness, and dreams.
Keep believing - our world needs you!
Chapter One
A garden in winter is like a closed book—all its wonders are concealed.
From my walks through the extensive gardens at Aircroft, the estate owned by my employer, wealthy businessman Cameron Clewe, I could picture the herbs and flowers hidden under the cover of bare branches and brown mulch. But on a cold January day, only a few evergreens provided a splash of color.
Maintaining a fast pace, I reached the steps leading up to a marble-columned, open-sided pavilion with a timber roof. I paused at a koi pond. In warmer seasons, a waterfall tumbled down a stepped water feature that was flanked by the marble stairs. But in winter the fountain at the top of the steps was drained and the pond covered with a domed greenhouse structure to prevent the water from freezing. I couldn’t see the fish through the green plastic panels but knew they were fine, as they were checked regularly by an expert.
I turned to face the back façade of the sprawling Aircroft mansion. A long flagstone path, bordered on one side by the now sleeping beds and on the other by a rectangle of faded grass, was mirrored by a matching path on the other side of the garden.
Striding down one of the paths was a tall, slender figure in a knee-length black wool coat. Open over a cream fisherman’s cable-knit sweater and turquoise turtleneck, the coat’s unbuttoned front edges flapped in the sharp wind. The man wore gloves but no hat, and the winter sunlight lit the tips of his shaggy auburn hair with flame.
“Jane,” he called out as he approached me. “You’re finally here.”
I pushed back the hood of my navy down coat. “On the second Monday in January, as promised.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Cam stopped in front of me, his sea-green gaze focused on my face. “Did you have a good trip?”
“Of course. New York is always magical during the holidays, and I got to spend time with my daughter. What could be better?”
Cam thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. “How is Bailey? I assume you saw her show?”
“Twice, actually. And she’s doing great.” I smiled as the image of my thirty-two-year-old actress daughter flashed through my mind. “They have hopes that the musical can make the leap from off- to on-Broadway.”
“I wish I could see that,” Cam said
I studied him for a moment. “You can, anytime you want. I’ll even get you a free ticket.”
“Navigating New York might be a little beyond my capability. I know you think I should continue to push my boundaries …”
I nodded. “Absolutely.”
“But a city like New York can intimidate the average person, much less someone who has trouble dealing with even small crowds.”
“Somebody could accompany you. Me, for instance, or”—I offered him a sly smile—“Lauren. The way you make her work twenty-four-seven, I’m sure she’d enjoy an all-expenses-paid getaway.”
Cam slid his hands from his pockets and waved this suggestion aside. “She just had a break. After you left, she decided to join her family for the holidays, leaving me alone.”
“That’s not entirely true, is it?” I tipped my head to one side. “Fess up. I bet you didn’t allow either Jenna or Mateo more than a day or two off.”
Cam’s lips thinned. “They didn’t ask for more than that. Besides, I gave them both a bonus.”
“Glad to hear it.” I reached out to lay my gloved fingers on his arm. “Sorry, I shouldn’t tease you right after getting back. I know Aircroft can feel empty when there aren’t many visitors, much less with limited staff. Speaking of which,” I added, lifting my hand, “how was Christmas dinner? Mateo told me he was cooking a feast for your grandmother and great-uncle.”
Cam’s face paled, throwing the smattering of freckles over his high cheekbones into high relief. “I’d rather not discuss that fiasco.”
I studied him with narrowed eyes. It had been less than six months since Cam had learned that his biological father, Rafe Glenn, had gone missing. And that he has a living grandmother and great-uncle, I thought. Neither of whom ever disclosed their existence until last summer. Far too late in Cam’s opinion, and mine. Long past the time when a lonely, motherless child could’ve used their love and support.
Which was why I empathized with Cam’s reluctance to welcome them into his life. Lily Glenn and her younger brother Gordy had made several attempts to meet with Cam after they’d revealed their family connection, all of which he’d refused. He’d only contacted them by phone and email, and then simply in relation to the ongoing search for his missing father. I also knew he’d been convinced to invite Lily and Gordy for Christmas dinner because I, the librarian he’d hired to catalog his extensive book collections, and his personal assistant, Lauren Walker, had talked him into it.
“I’m guessing it didn’t go well.” I offered him a sympathetic smile.
“Chekhov would’ve taken notes. That’s all I’m going to say.”
I shook my head. “That bad, huh?” Since my daughter was an actress, I’d seen several Chekhov plays, all of which had depicted highly dysfunctional families.
“I tried my best, but I’m afraid my resentment got the better of me.” Cam tapped his foot against the flagstones in a waltz beat. He often felt compelled to do things in threes, a symptom of his untreated obsessive-compulsive disorder. That, combined with his anxiety and a slight case of agoraphobia, meant he rarely ventured off the estate.
It was a shame. He’d been doing better, visiting me at my garage apartment from time to time as well as enjoying a few meals out with friends. Until the news of his father’s disappearance and his realization of the abandonment of his grandmother and great-uncle, I thought, with a frown. That’s set him back.
I pulled my hood back over my short salt-and-pepper hair. “Well, I think I’m going to go inside. Cold and my old bones don’t get along these days.”
“You’re always telling me that sixty-two isn’t that old,” Cam said.
“Okay, then let’s say I’m going in because I have a stack of books to catalog,” I headed toward the house at a brisk walk.
Cam kept pace with me. “Speaking of which, I have a mission for you.”
“Related to the search for your birth father?” I cast him a sidelong glance.
“No, something else.” Cam cleared his throat. “I need you to pick up some books I bought from an estate sale.”
I wiped away the dampness the cold wind had drawn from my eyes. “You can’t have them shipped here? What’s so valuable?”
“That isn’t the reason. Anyway, it’s a small collection of books, so it shouldn’t be an issue transporting it by car.” Cam’s long stride had taken him a few paces in front of me. He paused to allow me to catch up. “Do you remember me talking about Macnamara Stewart?”
“The man who liked to best your stepfather at auctions for rare books and paintings and such?”
Cam grimaced. “Right, and often did, much to Al’s chagrin.”
“You said Mac Stewart was even richer than Albert Clewe, which must have contributed to the rivalry.”
“He was. Mac also outlived Al by quite a few years. He passed away about four months ago, age ninety-something.” Cam stopped at the entrance to the kitchen garden, where his chef, Mateo Marin, grew herbs and vegetables. “Mac sold me a few items from his book collection not long before he died, but fell ill before he could have them shipped to Aircroft.”
I lifted my head to meet Cam’s gaze. “You’re afraid the family doesn’t know which books you bought?”
“I’m sure they don’t. It was a private deal between us.” Cam clasped his gloved hands in front of his chest. “The family seems to have little interest in books, even though Mac was a connoisseur. As I mentioned, he often competed with Al when valuable books or antiques went on the market. That’s actually how they became acquainted in the first place.”
I pulled open the door to the mudroom attached to Aircroft’s expansive kitchen. “Were they friends?”
“Not really.” Cam grabbed the upper edge of the door to follow me inside. “Although they did socialize. We hosted various members of the Stewart clan here from time to time.”
“Which means you’ve met some of them.” I sat down on a bench to pull off my boots and slip on the loafers I’d left in the mudroom.
Cam remained standing, balancing himself by pressing a palm against the plaster wall as he changed his shoes. “Just in passing. It was Al entertaining them, not me. But back to the mission—I need you to take the bill of sale Mac sent me and find the actual volumes in his personal library.”
“In other words, you want to make sure the editions and copyright dates match what you bought.” I tugged up my wool socks. “Are you afraid no one in the Stewart clan is capable of doing that?”
Cam shot me a sardonic smile. “Let’s just say I’d rather not have any books shipped here, only to have to send some volumes back. Not to mention the possibility of someone in the family selling off Mac’s personal property without the knowledge that a few items already belong to me.”
“You could call them, or do a video chat.”
“I don’t believe that would suffice. I will have Lauren call to alert the Stewarts to the business transaction, and tell them exactly which volumes are involved, but I’d like you, as a professional, t
“Or anyone, it seems.” I stood up to face him. “Okay, so I need to go in person to make sure you get what you paid for. When do you want me to undertake this mission?”
Cam laid a hand on my shoulder. “Tomorrow. Before any member of the Stewart family realizes the actual value of the books and changes their mind.”
Chapter Two
If there was one person who might be able to help me understand what den of society elites I’d be walking into the next day, it was my landlord and neighbor, Vincent Fisher. Retired as a reporter for a local newspaper, Vince still had numerous connections in the field of journalism. It was also likely he’d covered the Stewart family in the past.
I parked my compact car in the small gravel lot in front of Vince’s 1920s brick bungalow, next to a vehicle belonging to Vince’s girlfriend, Donna Valenti. The garage where Vince had parked his car was off to one side, with the steep wooden stairs that led to my upstairs apartment still draped in dried-out climbing rose vines. It was a convenient rental—relatively inexpensive and only a short walk to downtown Bradfordville, the small town not far from both Winston-Salem and Greensboro. I crossed to the covered porch and rang the doorbell, which was answered immediately by a stocky man of medium height.
“Hello, so nice to see you,” Vince said, his hazel eyes sparkling behind the lenses of his wire-framed glasses. “You haven’t been by since you got back from New York. Please, come in and share all the details.”
“Glad to, but I do have an ulterior motive for this visit,” I said, as I followed him into the house.
Although I’d visited Vince’s home many times before, the interior always surprised me. Vince hadn’t changed the exterior of his vintage home, but he’d adopted a totally different style inside. It was sleek Scandinavian modern, with blonde wood floors and trim, low-backed ivory sofas, and sculptural wooden chairs. Everything was simple, but stylish.
“Jane, long time no see.” Relaxing in one of the wooden chairs, Donna Valenti waved and cast me a bright smile. A plump woman who always looked put-together, she was wearing a long-sleeved crimson wool dress with a hem that fell below her knees. Unlike Vince’s thatch of gray hair, the pewter-colored ponytail that draped over Donna’s shoulder was threaded with numerous black strands. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of her dark brown eyes, while her smooth skin and flushed cheeks exuded youthful energy.
I answered Donna’s greeting with a nod as I sat down on the sofa facing her chair. “I just got back over the weekend, and, before you ask, New York was a blast.”
“How’s Bailey? She must be busy.” Vince headed into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a quartz-topped island.
“Very. She has a performance every day except Monday, and two on Saturday.” I crossed my legs and rested one elbow on the sofa’s armrest. “But she loves it, so she never complains.”
Donna scooted closer to the front edge of her chair. “Is she still keeping in touch with that young man? You know, the chauffer who’s actually a writer. What’s his name?”
“Taylor Iverson, and yes, they’re still chatting over texts and video calls at least twice a week.”
Donna clapped her hands. “I knew those two were meant for each other!”
“I don’t know about that, but they do seem to get along well. I mean, it’s clear they’re friends. As for anything else …” I shrugged. “Anyway, I dropped by this evening because Cam asked me to drive to the Stewart estate tomorrow to pick up some books. I’d like to know a little more about the family before my visit, just so I don’t commit a faux-pas or two.”
“I’d imagine, being the librarian you are, you’ve already done some research.” Vince held up a wine glass. “Red or white?”
I leaned back into the sturdy sofa cushions. “White, please, and actually, I haven’t done much. I know the basics; that’s it. Of course, everyone in North Carolina has at least heard of the family, but I don’t know any details.”
Donna tapped her short fingernails against the arm of the chair. “You’re probably aware they made their fortune in tobacco, back when that was the state’s main crop.”
“Yes, that’s common knowledge,” I said. “But they left that business behind a decade or so ago, didn’t they?”
“They did.” Vince crossed the room and handed me a glass of wine before sitting down next to me. “Just like Cam, they divested their holdings in problematic ventures. Well, obvious ones.” Vince took a sip of his own wine. “I’m sure they still have money in other investments that aren’t exactly prohealth or environmentally friendly, but the tobacco trade was far too visible. When Macnamara Stewart stepped down, the first thing his oldest son Duff did as the new CEO was to exit the tobacco business.”
“Duff must be my age,” I said, setting my wineglass on a coaster on the sleek side table.
“A little older. He’s sixty-eight.” Donna leaned forward, flipping her braid behind her shoulder. “Three years older than me. Not that I ever met him, but I often saw his photo on the society pages of the newspaper. Always with a different girl.”
“I suppose he was considered quite a catch back then,” I said.
Donna lifted her own wine glass from the glass-topped table next to her chair. “Most definitely. He had those all-American looks and well”—she winked and took a sip—“he was rich. Really rich, not like the sons of doctors and lawyers who thought they were all that when I was a girl.”
“Duff hasn’t actually been CEO as long as you’d think,” Vince said, swirling the wine in his glass. “Mac Stewart refused to hand over the reins until he was in his eighties, so Duff didn’t get promoted until he was fifty.”
Donna nodded. “And I’d take bets that Duff’s going to follow in his father’s footsteps and keep working beyond normal retirement age.”
“Probably, even though he certainly wouldn’t need to. His wife, Sharon, is focused on charity work, and his youngest child, Malcolm, is an artist and teacher at the Sawtooth Center in downtown Winston-Salem. Neither of them are involved in the business, but his oldest, Ainsley, is forty and the director of marketing for the family holdings. There’s also an older son—Finlay, called Finn. He’s thirty-eight and is the chief financial officer. Normally, you’d expect Duff Stewart to step aside for one of them to become CEO, but from what I’ve heard, he has no intention of doing so anytime soon.” Vince glanced at Donna. “More wine, dear?”
“No, I’d better stop at this.” Donna set her empty glass back down. “I need to stay sensible enough to help make dinner,” she added with a grin.
“Good point.” Vince smiled at her before turning to me. “Speaking of which, would you like to join us? We’re just having spaghetti and a salad, but you’re welcome to stay.”
“Thanks, but I think I want to head home after I collect more intel for tomorrow. I have a few leftovers in the fridge I need to eat and, honestly, tonight I just want to put on pajamas and watch mindless TV before bed.”
“Totally understand.” Donna leaned back in her chair. “I think lounging about at home is an underrated pleasure.”
“Anway, speaking of all that information, I suppose you’ve heard that the Stewart family has had to deal with a few tragedies in the past,” Vince said.
“I seem to recall something about one of Mac Stewart’s children dying young.” I cast Vince a questioning glance. “It was a suicide, wasn’t it?”
“Sadly, yes. That was Kimberly Stewart, or I should say, Kimberly Stewart Ward.” Vince frowned. “I had to cover that story for my college paper, and it was a shocker. Kimberly was barely twenty-six and had only been married for a year when she took her life.”
A shiver vibrated through my shoulders as the image of my daughter flashed through my mind. “How terrible. I can’t imagine losing Bailey like that.”
