The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

  Then sanity prevailed. Cole was too eager to give away a fortune. How deep did his lies go? Whatever he was keeping from them, Granville suspected it would be a problem before they were done. They’d do better to stay in town and wait for a lead from the police in Denver.

  Beside him, Scott reached to take the nugget, and he reluctantly let it go.

  “So you’ll you hire on?” Cole demanded.

  About to say no, Granville glanced at his friend’s tense expression and changed his mind. For Scott’s sake, it was worth the risk. “Yes, we’ll do it. When do we start?”

  “If you have your own gear, then we just need to buy grub. We c’n leave tomorrow.”

  “I’m afraid not. I have a prior engagement,” said Granville, with a flash of inner amusement as he thought about the New Year’s ball, and about Emily. “I’ll be ready to leave Tuesday morning.”

  TWO

  Monday, January 1, 1900

  “The Honorable John Granville and Miss Emily Turner,” intoned the butler, hired for the occasion. As they entered the crowded, high-ceilinged ballroom, Emily hid a delighted grin. Less than two weeks ago, she’d been locked in her room in disgrace, yet here she was at the Howe’s “Turn of the Century” ball, on the arm of her intriguing pretend-fiancé.

  Unlike her older sisters, she hadn’t even planned a new dress for tonight, but after Granville announced their engagement, Mama had given her the dress for Christmas. In keeping with the occasion, her gown was pale green silk, with sheer lace sleeves and an elegant train that shimmered as she moved. She’d checked, pirouetting in front of the old cheval mirror in the parlor when no one was looking.

  The silk was from China, and came in on one of the Empress ships. It hadn’t been made up, of course. Mama had to pay Madame Christina an outrageous amount for the three rushed fittings it had taken to finish it in time. Emily had always hated dress fittings; standing so still, being poked and prodded at, but this time it might have been worth it.

  “What is she doing with him?” Emily could imagine the whispers behind the ladies’ fans. Thank goodness their engagement wasn’t real; she’d have felt like a sideshow act. Mama kept giving her little looks to make sure she hadn’t tripped over her train or something equally dire. Papa looked so proud, yet two weeks ago he’d forbidden her even to speak to Granville. Until he’d found out about his noble birth, that is. She shot a glance at Granville.

  “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.

  “Immensely,” she said, surveying the room. It was packed with the cream of Vancouver society, dressed in their finest, while maids in crisp black and white circulated with trays of champagne. Her eyes followed the whirl of colors on the dance floor. “Usually I hate balls, but tonight feels different. Maybe it is because we are bidding goodbye to the 1890’s. And the music is superb, don’t you think?” I’m babbling, she thought, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. “I’ve heard there will be an amazing buffet. I’m particularly looking forward to trying the lobster patties and the cranberry fool.”

  “In the meantime, would you care to dance?”

  His tone was smooth but there was laughter glimmering in his eyes. She flushed, and smiled back at him. “I’d love to. But you don’t have to stay with me,” she said in an undertone. “There are so many people here you haven’t yet met. And we’re only pretending to be engaged, after all, until I finish my typewriting course and can earn my own living.”

  “Or until your father forgets you’re in disgrace for helping me free Scott from a charge of murder,” he said, whirling her into a waltz. He bent his head down, lowered his voice. “But I’m enjoying your company.”

  “Thank you,” she said, then was silent while he swirled her through a graceful turn. “We haven’t had the chance to talk since you got back from Denver. Is there news of little Sarah?”

  “Not yet. We’re hoping one of the connections we made there will give us a lead.”

  She shivered despite the heat of the dance. “That poor child. Has Lizzie the papers for her?”

  “Not even a record of her birth. And only the late unlamented Jackson’s word that he left the baby in care in Denver.” He was silent for a moment while he neatly avoided another couple and executed a truly masterly turn. “I’m beginning to fear he sold the child.”

  “But that’s horrible! Do you think you’ll ever find her?”

  “I promised Lizzie we’d bring her daughter back.”

  The arms that held her so lightly through the dance tightened a little and his jaw firmed. He’d keep his word, no matter what it cost him. Just as he’d done when he cleared his friend Scott of murder. Emily gripped his arm a little tighter, sought a lighter topic. “And how are things with your business? Have you any new clients?”

  He grinned.

  “You do,” she said. “Tell me.”

  But when she’d heard about their new client and his lost mine, her enthusiasm dimmed. She’d heard the stories of men losing their lives in those mountains. “You do know it’s dangerous?”

  A grin was her only answer. The dance came to an end and he escorted her off the floor. One of the maids stopped and proffered her tray. Emily gave the girl a quick smile as they each accepted a glass of champagne.

  Granville raised his glass to her in a silent toast. Emily could feel her cheeks heating, and hoped he’d blame it on the dancing. “This affair must seem awfully dull to you,” she said quickly, “after all the grand balls you attended in London.”

  “Actually I avoided most of them, and spent the better part of the ones I did attend in the card rooms.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. The grander the ball, the more formal it is, and the more rules there are. Too much posturing for my taste.”

  “I know. It’s fun to dress up, but none of this is real.” She waved a gloved hand at the throng.

  “You don’t enjoy the dancing?”

  Most men didn’t dance as well as he did. “Yes, but I’d much rather have spent the evening skating, then stopped for hot chocolate.”

  “Then we must plan such an evening.”

  She flushed a little, but met his eyes. “You needn’t pretend…” she began.

  “Emily!” came her father’s voice from behind her.

  “…to agree if you don’t,” she finished quickly. Granville’s eyes were glinting, the scoundrel. Removing her hand from his arm, she turned to face her father.

  “Hello, Papa.”

  He gave her the slightly baffled look that said he thought he’d missed something. “Hello, puss. Are you enjoying your chat with your fiancé? “

  “Enormously,” she said. Beside her, she thought Granville choked on his champagne. Serve him right.

  “And what are you discussing so earnestly?”

  “We were talking about whether today is really the dawn of a new century,” Granville said smoothly.

  Here we go, Emily thought.

  “Indeed it is, and it will be Vancouver’s century,” Mr. Turner said with the air of a true enthusiast. “We’ve electric streetcars and lighting, steam trains running clear across the continent. More settlers are arriving every day and real estate is booming. Who knows what might be ahead of us.”

  The same blond maid stopped beside them and held out her tray. Granville and Mr. Turner each accepted a glass of champagne. Emily still hadn’t finished hers. Turner raised his glass in a toast.

  “To progress,” he said, then catching the eye of an acquaintance, gave them a nod and strode off.

  Emily and Granville exchanged glances.

  “He’s right, you know,” Granville said softly. “Here we stand amongst the signs of progress,” and with a wave he indicated the glittering crowd, brightly lit by the electricity that had so inspired Mr. Turner. “And the irony is, tomorrow I’ll be tramping into a wilderness that hasn’t changed in thousands of years.”

  “While I will be mastering the typewriting machines Papa says are changing the face of business,” said Emily,
watching him. “But that’s why you’re taking this job, isn’t it?” she asked. “You appear entirely the polished sophisticate, but it’s the wilderness that appeals to you, is it not?”

  Granville looked at her for a long moment, but before he could answer their hostess came bustling up.

  bustling up.

  “I must introduce you to the Seymours,” she said, and the moment was lost.

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  CHAPTER 1

  There are two things that stick in my mind about the Stewart affair; the look of surprise frozen on the face of Ed McMather’s corpse, and that first meeting with Cassie Stewart.

  It was a Saturday evening in early spring. I stood in front of a sprawling canvas, enjoying the artist’s contrast of pink cherry blossoms against a freeway interchange, when a touch on my shoulder startled me out of my reverie.

  “Barbara?”

  I swung around and smiled to see Ian Wong, the affable and well-connected co-owner of the Omega Gallery. Around us, the din of rising and falling voices confirmed a successful opening, but it was the woman standing beside Ian who commanded my attention.

  “Do you know Cassie Stewart?” he asked.

  I shook my head. I knew all about the works she’d bought, the artists she’d sponsored, but we’d never met. And I doubt she knew about the paintings that gathered dust in my spare room, where I’d once planned to set up a studio. There was a time I’d have given anything for an introduction to Cassie Stewart. It seemed ironic that I’d finally meet her now.

  “Cassie Stewart, meet Barbara O’Grady. Barbara was one of our promising young artists. Now she runs her own investigative firm.”

  It was both embarrassing and rather sad to hear myself described so. “It’s a pleasure,” I said automatically, not yet sure if I meant it, and shook the slim hand she held out to me.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said. There was an odd note in her voice and the look she gave me was assessing.

  I’d seen pictures of Cassie Stewart at various events and fundraisers, but grainy images in two dimensions don’t say much. In person, she was polished, discretely blond and very poised. She looked younger than the fifty-something I knew her to be, though her eyes were tired and there was tension in the line of her shoulders. I wondered how she felt about plastic surgery.

  “Cassie’s just accepted a position on the board of the VAG,” Ian added.

  “Congratulations,” I said. Even the bloggers hadn’t yet picked up on her new role, but the only surprise was that it hadn’t happened sooner. The art gallery board is a who’s who of the Vancouver art world, but Cassie’s influence spread further. Her collection of works by new artists is impressive and her decisions have been known to make or break careers.

  “Thank you,” she said to me with a polite smile. “And thank you for the introduction, Ian.”

  With a nod he departed, leaving the two of us considering each other. Wondering exactly why she’d arranged to meet me, I took a sip of a surprisingly decent Cabernet and let the silence stretch. Finally she leaned towards me. “I’d like to hire you, Ms. O’Grady,” she said in a low voice.

  It was the last thing I’d expected. With her connections, why would she choose me, rather than one of the bigger firms, the ones with resources I could only envy. “How can I help you?”

  She glanced around, lowered her voice still further. Not that it was necessary in this din. “Before we discuss details, I need to know I can rely on your discretion.”

  “In my job, that’s a given.” If I wanted to stay in business, that is.

  “I've heard good things about your work,” she said. Her eyes met mine. Hers were a clear blue, and cool. “But I'm well known in this city, and people love to gossip. I dislike gossip.”

  Had she meant to insult me? As I wondered whom she’d been talking to, I was watching the subtle changes in her face. My fingers suddenly itched for some charcoal. I wanted to catch on paper the contradiction between that polished surface and whatever emotion was seething beneath it. It would have made for a terrific portrait, but probably not one she’d much like. “You have my word that anything you tell me I’ll keep confidential.”

  “Then we’ll need to discuss this somewhere quieter. Shall we say the Moka Café at ten next Tuesday morning?”

  I’d normally have asked her to come to my office, but the Moka is an oasis of calm on traffic-heavy Broadway. And they make the world’s best dark chocolate cherry scones, with decent coffee to boot. Meeting a potential client there was no hardship, plus at that hour, it would be quiet enough to give us some privacy.

  Whether I ended up taking the case or not, curiosity had got the better of me – I wanted to know more about her and whatever situation had brought her to me. “Ten is fine,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll see you there.” And with a sharp nod, she moved on, leaving me to sip my wine while I studied Yuriko’s subtle use of light. And wondered about Cassie Stewart and the job she needed done.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning found me sitting in one of the cozy booths at the Moka, breathing in the rich scent of good coffee. The door opened, letting in the usual cacophony of taxis, buses and delivery vans racing by outside. Mug in hand, I watched my potential client walk towards me, haloed by the thin spring sunlight streaming through the windows.

  Pale blond hair was pulled smoothly up and back and diamond studs flashed in her ears. She wore an acid green fitted dress and the matching coat swirled around her Pilates-trim figure. Though she wasn’t tall, probably five or six inches shorter than my five ten, she held herself as if she was a finalist in a supermodel reality show. I couldn't picture her ever wearing old jeans and a sweatshirt and munching popcorn in front of the fire. On the other hand, I couldn't picture myself at a fundraising dinner, so I guess that put us even.

  Sliding gracefully into the booth opposite me, she examined me for just long enough that I wondered what she was thinking. Then she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The situation has become urgent. I’d like you to begin work tomorrow.”

  I grinned into my coffee at the combination of impatience and arrogance. This was the woman we’d whispered about and schemed to meet while our work was being rejected by one gallery after another? “If Cassie Stewart likes your stuff, you’re on your way.” It was gospel in our world. And now she was a potential client, and it was my decision as to whether to help her. I’ve always been a fan of irony, but this was pushing it, even for me. “I’ll need a few details first. What did you want me to look into?”

  “I’d like you to investigate my husband.”

  I should probably have expected that. It certainly explained why she’d come looking for a solo investigator - she couldn’t use any of the bigger firms without word getting back to him almost immediately. For a big city, Vancouver can be a pretty small town. “Your husband?” I repeated in the most neutral tone I could manage.

  She placed elegant hands with long, French manicured nails on the table and studied them, perfectly mascaraed lashes fanning against her pale cheeks. “I’m sure he’s having an affair. I have to know if I’m right. And I need a name.”

  “You want me to find out the name of the person your husband is having an affair with?” I asked, watching her closely. I wasn’t about to leap to conclusions about gender.

  “Yes.”

  She was lying about something. It was in the little catch in her voice, the way her eyes darted off to one side before they met mine. That she was worried was evident. I could see the tension in the angle of her head, in the tiny muscles of her face. She was holding herself too tightly, as if afraid something would escape if she let go. Anger? Fear? I couldn’t tell. “When did you begin to suspect something was wrong?”

  Her mouth tightened but she held my gaze. “The changes in his habits have been subtle, over a period of several weeks. It’s probably
nothing anyone else would have noticed. But we’ve been married for nearly forty years. I know him rather well.”

  Or at least she thought she did. I wondered how well she really knew him. “Have his actions changed?”

  “He… it’s his attitude more than anything. He seems distracted, distant.”

  She'd been about to say something else, but changed her mind at the last moment. As I watched her guarded face, I wondered about the Stewart’s sex life, and whether those “habits” she seemed so reluctant to discuss were sexual preferences. I nearly asked her, but I had the feeling a direct question might end our association immediately. Which might not be such a bad thing.

  Best to start slow. “What makes you think he's having an affair?”

  “What else could it be?”

  Surely she wasn’t serious? Brian Stewart was a high-powered lawyer in a prestigious downtown firm. I wondered if he shared details from that part of his life with her. “Any number of things. Problems with work, legal issues, health concerns, money problems—”

  “You do know who I am, don't you? And who my husband is? Money problems are not something Brian or I will ever have to worry about. Not with my trust fund.”

  Must be nice. Was she really this arrogant, or was it the stress talking? “What about his work? Has his schedule changed in any way?”

  “No, he spends every day at the office and every evening with me. And he puts in the same long days he always has.”

  If this were a simple case of a philandering husband, that was clue one, right there. Surely she could see that? She glanced at me, then her eyes slid away. Yes, she saw it.

  “I want you to follow my husband until Saturday night,” she added, before I could ask the obvious questions.