The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

  I watched her face. “I could do that. But before I agree, you have to understand that there’s no guarantee I can confirm anything that quickly. A case like this could take a day, but it could also take a week or longer, depending on how careful your husband is and how often they meet.” Assuming there was someone to find, that is.

  She didn’t look any too happy about my caveat. I didn’t much care.

  “Regardless of what you find or don’t find, I want you to see what he’s up to during the day, and I want you to follow him all day Saturday, including Saturday night,” Cassie said. “We’re going to the theatre that night, and it’s a perfect time for him to make arrangements with someone while I’m in talking to someone else. If he does so, I want to know about it.”

  “Are you concerned he might be having an affair with someone in your social circle?”

  Her eyes flashed cold blue fire, but she gave a curt nod. “Yes.”

  Interesting. “And if I haven’t found something by the end of that evening?”

  “Then we will review your contract on Monday.”

  Something was definitely off here. I wasn’t entirely convinced it was a cheating spouse she was worried about. Still, it was her dollar, and there would be quite a few of them. On the other hand, it was my time and ultimately my career. I’d already failed at one career; I didn’t plan to do so a second time.

  Cassie watched me for a moment, then drew out her checkbook. “Is there anything else?” Her tone said she’d finished with the conversation, and I’d better be too.

  I never did take direction well. “Let’s see. For starters I’ll need to know what you’re really worried about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re holding something back, and I can’t do a decent job unless I know what that is.”

  Her face suddenly looked like she’d had too much Botox. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I kept my gaze level, drank my coffee and said nothing.

  The silence stretched, then she gave a small sigh and said, “He’s ordered a DNA testing kit.”

  Not what I’d been expecting to hear. Still, it did explain the time frame she’d set for the investigation. I knew from a previous case that DNA test results could take as little as three days. My gut said she was still holding something back, though.

  “He’s a lawyer, right? And these days paternity testing is a big deal. Is it possible he ordered it for a current client?” Might as well start with the logical.

  “And hid it in his golf bag?”

  OK, maybe not. I nearly asked why she’d been looking in his golf bag, but given that she was hiring a PI, decided the question was redundant. “Could he be trying to locate ancestral origins through DNA?”

  “Then why keep it from me?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that one, either. “Which company was the test kit from?”

  “One called Gene-test.”

  Now her words rang true. Then she paused slightly, and my radar quivered.

  “If my husband is going to tell me he has fathered a child with someone else, I want to be prepared,” she said.

  My mind raced, considering and discarding possibilities. Was she afraid to have her suspicions confirmed? Or that with such blatant proof of infidelity, she’d feel she had to divorce him? Or possibly that if Brian had fathered an illegitimate child, that child could have some rights against her millions? “And if he doesn’t say anything?” I asked her.

  “Then I’ll have to confront him.”

  Her face was so tight and tired that I actually began to feel sorry for her. Me, feeling sorry for Cassie Stewart; not something I’d ever imagined possible.

  I was getting an uneasy feeling that taking the case wasn’t a good idea. I’ve learned the hard way not to ignore that little voice. I always regret it when I do.

  I considered ending the meeting then and there, but I was more curious than ever, and besides this was Cassie Stewart. She’d done good things for a lot of struggling artists, some of them friends of mine. “Go on.”

  She gave an elegant shrug. “There isn’t much more I can tell you. I don’t have anything concrete, other than the DNA kit.”

  “Then why have me follow him?”

  “Following him might lead you to whomever he is seeing.”

  I noted the “whomever” as well as the misery in her eyes. “But you’ll leave it to me to determine the best way to find out what’s really going on here?”

  She nodded. “I’m hiring you for your expertise.”

  As long as we were clear on that. “What time do I start?”

  I was still ambivalent enough to quote her a daily rate nearly fifty percent over my usual charge. Cassie didn't even blink. She just signed the contract and wrote out a check.

  Looking at the flourishes of her signature, I tried to imagine getting a check like this for one of my paintings, and couldn’t. I felt a flash of pain at the realization that I never would—the price of choosing security over dreams. Ignoring the feeling, I filled my new client in on how I’d handle reports and billing and she filled me in on the basics of her husband’s routine. We shook hands, and she left.

  I watched her go.

  When I was twelve, my mother scrimped together the money for ballet lessons. I think she hoped they would get me past the gawkiness of a sudden growth spurt. I’m not sure it worked, but I’ve always been glad of those lessons; they trained my eye to see people as bodies moving in space. All those art classes only sharpened that perception. Now I automatically note how a person moves; often I can read a client’s state of mind in their movements before I even talk to them.

  Cassie’s departing back looked as elegant as when she’d arrived, but she was holding her head a little less stiffly. I’d guess she was relieved she’d hired me to help take care of her problem. I just hoped I wouldn’t come to regret it.

  CHAPTER 2

  Half an hour later, I sat in my ergonomic but gorgeous sap-green desk chair cradling a cup of French Roast and thinking about Cassie and Brian Stewart and their life together.

  I’d seen the articles and smiling photos of the two of them in the social columns. They were almost always photographed together. “Cassie and Brian Stewart, attending the opening of the new wing of the Art Gallery. Mrs. Stewart was the Chair of the committee that raised the funds...” “Cassie and Brian Stewart at the Opera's fundraising Gala.” She was definitely a presence in her own right, not like those sad women whose only function seems to be as “and wife” at social events. And now he was ordering DNA testing kits, while she worried. Why?

  The Perfect Couple not being so perfect didn’t surprise me; few things are as seamless as they appear on the surface, and certainly not society marriages. Call me cynical, but I've been involved in one too many cases where the only thing holding a marriage together is fear of splitting the assets. If it does come to divorce, that’s when people get into the blame game, and settlements become a way of keeping score against the former loved one. If the guy is a lawyer like Brian Stewart, an ex-wife with a good divorce lawyer can end up with half the value of her husband’s practice. But in this case, the money and the connections were Cassie’s.

  So were we talking about Brian’s infidelity here? And if so, was it a recent affair? He stood to lose more than his assets in any divorce action; he could easily lose his social standing and a lifestyle he'd become accustomed to. Why would a man jeopardize all of that? Love? Middle-age crisis? Who knew? I flipped open my laptop.

  These days just about everything is a matter of public record, and my computer and I came up with a pretty comprehensive overview of their lives in a remarkably short time. I paid particular attention to dates; their marriage, the birth of their children – none of which told me anything meaningful. Not yet, anyway, and the picture lacked the human element. I reached for the phone.

  “Trusted Temps, Andrea Fisher speaking.”

  “Hi, Andrea, it’s me.”


  “Barbara?”

  My best friend sounded slightly wary. Not that I blame her; she’s known me for too many years not to recognize that tone in my voice. I needed a favor and she knew it. But we’ve always traded favors back and forth; it’s what best friends do. Though I have to admit since I got my PI license the favors I need have become slightly more complicated.

  “Have you got a couple of minutes?”

  “I’ve got exactly ten minutes before my next interview. What’s up?”

  Andrea runs the best temporary help agency in town, and I swear she has a second sense when it comes to hiring exactly the right person, then matching them to exactly the right job. That unerring instinct for people was the reason I’d called her. Well, that plus the fact that she always seems to know what’s going on in this city weeks before the rest of the world.

  “I’m working on a case, and it looks like a local couple may be peripherally involved,” I said. “I’m wondering what you might know about them?”

  “Before we get into that, I have a question for you,” Andrea said

  Uh oh. “Shoot.”

  “What happened to that guy?” Andrea asked. “You know, the cute blond one who was giving you the eye the last time we went to Guido’s.”

  “I didn’t notice him.”

  “You didn’t? Barbara, do you know what your problem is? You’re still running scared after that disaster you called a relationship with Jayson.”

  No way I was getting into another discussion about Jayson. “Jayson who?”

  “You know I’m right.”

  “That was more than four years ago.”

  “And how many relationships have you had since then?”

  I was not having this conversation. “About my case...”

  She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Names?”

  “Cassie and Brian Stewart.”

  “Not the “if-only-I-could-swing-a-meeting-with-her-I-could-get-my-career-off-the-ground” Cassie Stewart?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. So, what do you know about them as a couple?”

  “Hold on a minute. How do you feel about finally meeting her? I assume you’ve met her?”

  “Yes, I have. It’s no big deal.”

  “Really?”

  She didn’t sound convinced. Not surprising, given that I wasn’t too convinced myself. But I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. “So, what do you know about them as a couple?”

  “Hmmm.” I could picture her pursing bow-shaped lips. Andrea looks a little like an old-fashioned kewpie doll, which belies an incisive intelligence and a killer business instinct. But it’s look that works for her, especially with men, and she knows it. Did I mention her killer business instinct? “They’re very well connected. Cassie’s family, the Grantleys, are old money.”

  “Or at least what passes for old money in Vancouver. Which means a hundred years or so,” I said. Andrea ignored me. She’s heard my “Vancouver is still a pioneer city” speech before, most recently at the last party we’d attended. I hate small talk, so I tend to trot out my favorite theories, partly in order to watch people’s eyes glaze over. I think it’s funny. Andrea tells me I’m nuts, and that I’m missing out on social opportunities. Oh well.

  “Cassie went to all the right schools and then to the right university.”

  UBC. My computer search had already told me that. She’d studied art history and organizational behavior, which had struck me as an interesting combination to have chosen, especially given the influence she now wielded in the art world. “Go on.”

  “I think they met there and married right after graduating. It’s the classic story. She was the beautiful heiress, he was poor but talented, a star athlete and an honor student. He went on to law school, she did volunteer work.”

  “Predictable,” I said.

  “Except this was the early seventies. Most of their peers were breaking away from the norms, not following them. Anyway, Brian graduated from law school at the top of his class and joined the city's most prestigious firm, of which, surprise, surprise, Cassie’s father was a senior partner. They have two, no three kids, two girls and a boy, I think. And they seem to be a close family,” she added.

  “Define close.”

  “They do things together. All three kids lived at home through university, which wasn’t through financial necessity.”

  “What about money?” I had the general outline, but Andrea always seems to know the details.

  “Cassie inherited millions from her maternal grandfather on her twenty-fifth birthday. Brian does quite nicely himself as a senior partner. They are definitely not hurting. They’re seen everywhere. And very generous to a number of causes, Cassie in particular to the arts. Which you already know.”

  It sounded like the perfect life, but sometimes things that look good on the surface can hide some pretty ugly secrets. “Any rumors about them?”

  “None that I’ve picked up.”

  “What about affairs? Or tension in the marriage?”

  “They’ve always seemed a very happy couple and I’ve never heard any gossip to the contrary. Don’t be so cynical, Barbara.”

  “What, me? Cynical?”

  “Yes, you. You think there’s no such thing as a good relationship, let alone a good marriage.”

  “That is not true.” Well, not exactly, anyway. I just haven’t seen very many of what I’d consider good marriages. But I wasn’t making the mistake of telling Andrea that. I’d never hear the end of it.

  “Look at the time!” Andrea said, to my relief. “I’ve got to run, I’m late. Bye.” And she hung up.

  Shaking my head, I googled Gene-test. Their website laid out all the different DNA tests available, and told me how to order them. Which was nice of them, but not much help. It seemed anyone could order a simple paternity test online, if they had four hundred dollars and could wait three to five days for results.

  With a couple of clicks, I ordered a basic kit. Might as well see exactly how simple the process was. And it counted as a billable expense; I doubt Cassie would check the “miscellaneous” items too carefully. With a grin, I went back to reading the website.

  Apparently if you needed a paternity test to stand up in court, the complexity of the process and the cost increased. Likely Brian would be familiar with court processes regarding DNA evidence. Or would he?

  I checked out Benton, Grantley, Baynes and Stewart’s very spiffy website, typed in Brian Stewart. Back came the photo, biography and an impressive list of deals on which he had advised. His specialty was corporate law – which meant he wasn’t likely to have much experience with the legal ins and outs of DNA testing.

  I studied the photo for a moment. They’d gone with black and white, which gave everyone that formal corporate look, but Brian was handsome anyway, with silvered dark hair and chiseled features. I wondered what color his eyes were.

  “Why are you buying DNA test kits?” I asked the pictured face. “Are you having an affair?”

  Asking the questions out loud isn’t quite as dumb as it sounds. I’ve found it sometimes points out assumptions I’m not even aware of having made. It certainly did in this case. I suddenly realized that it wasn’t only an illegitimate child’s DNA that Brian could be interested in.

  I was thinking about the Stewart’s three children, and Cassie’s fear. What if Cassie had an affair at some point, and one of those three wasn’t Brian’s child? And he didn’t know, or she hoped he didn’t. No way she’d want to admit that to any PI. It would certainly put Cassie’s worry and my sense that there was more she wasn’t telling me into a different light. But then why would she have hired me?

  I got up, paced to the windows and back. Maybe after thirty-some years Cassie was tired of the marriage and hoping I would find evidence of an affair. It works out better in court to blame the other person for causing an irretrievable marriage breakdown, especially when it comes time to discuss splitting those pesky famil
y assets.

  I paced a little more. It was too simple; there was pain behind Cassie’s worry. I’d be willing to bet she loved her husband. So what was going on?

  I needed more information before I could begin to answer that. With a shrug, I put on another pot of coffee, choosing the organic shade-grown Guatemalan this time, then settled in to design a surveillance schedule. I’d spend day one on surveillance, see what impressions I got of Brian and whether Cassie was right about his workday. From there my plan of action would depend on how the case unfolded.

  With only myself to follow it, a schedule’s not exactly necessary, but I find it helps clarify my thoughts. So I had only myself to blame when the completed schedule said I had to be outside the Stewart residence the following morning at six-thirty.

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