On the day I met Cameron Clewe, I thought I was simply changing jobs. I had no idea I was also changing my life.
Ushered into a snug but elegant library by a beautiful young woman who informed me she was Lauren Walker, Clewe’s personal secretary, I was struck by two things. First, Mr. Clewe, who’d recently hired me, sight unseen, to inventory and catalog his extensive collection of books and related artifacts, was much younger than I’d expected. Given his wealth and interest in rare books and ephemera, I’d assumed he’d be at least forty. But the tall, slim, man standing by a stone fireplace, one fine-boned hand pressed against the rough-hewn wood mantel, looked to be closer to thirty. He was certainly more a contemporary of my daughter than of me.
My second thought was one of aesthetic admiration. With his slightly shaggy auburn hair and aquiline features, Clewe could be mistaken for a model for a prestigious British clothing company. A smattering of freckles sprinkled across his fair skin gave him a boyish quality that was contrasted by the sharp line of his jaw and tightly drawn lips. As my actress daughter would say, he was “leading man material.” This impression was enhanced by his tailored wool trousers and the ivory fisherman’s knit sweater he wore over a peacock blue button-down shirt. A definite charmer, I bet, I thought, as I fiddled with a button on my navy wool jacket.
Then he opened his mouth.
“I didn’t realize you were so old,” he said, in a voice totally devoid of humor. “And rather heavier than I expected, given that photo on the university website.”
I stared into his eyes, gray-green as a cold sea, and took a deep breath. The picture he was referencing had been taken ten years earlier. I’d been scheduled for another photo before everything had fallen apart. A recent reorganization—or rebranding, as the new provost put it—at the university where I’d worked as a librarian for over thirty-five years had forced me into retirement.
I considered my next statement. At sixty, I couldn’t take early Social Security for another two years, and while my lower-cost group health insurance continued into retirement, my salary did not. This job would allow me to supplement my rather modest pension doing work I loved. It also provided a new challenge. Although the younger generation might see me as over the hill, I still felt the urge to scale new mountains.
All of which meant I had to choose my words with care. I smiled and lifted my hands in a “what-can-you-do” gesture. “That photo is a bit dated. As for my current appearance—years working in academia has taken its toll, it seems. But I’m certain you hired me for my expertise, not my looks.”
“I just hope you’re up to the challenge. I’ve stored portions of my latest collection in the attic, so you’ll need to carry boxes up and down two flights of stairs on a fairly regular basis.” Cameron Clewe’s eyes narrowed. “Please don’t expect me to always be available to assist in that endeavor.”
I tugged the hem of my jacket over my hips. Maybe I was older, and a little heavier than I used to be, but I still had the use of all my limbs. And my faculties, I thought, fixing Clewe with the stare I’d perfected in dealing with students who caused trouble in the library.
“I assure you I’m perfectly capable of any physical exertion required by this position.” I kept my tone mild and tried to avoid flinching at the relentless tapping of his fingers against the mantel. “I must say I’m thrilled to be able to work with your materials. In our email exchanges, you mentioned a new acquisition that particularly intrigues me—the collection of books and papers connected to classic mystery and detective authors.”
“That’s where I want you to start.” Clewe, staring at his fingers as if they were something detached from his body, finally stilled their repetitive drumming. “I own several other book collections I’d like you to work on, some of which are stored off site. I kept the mystery-related materials here, as I want you to tackle that first.” He cast me a tight-lipped smile. “Mysteries are a particular fascination of mine. I love their logic, and all the clever puzzles. I can usually deduce the culprits before the end, but I still enjoy the mental exercise.”
“You said you had materials related to some of the greats, like Christie and Sayers and Rinehart,” I said, shifting from foot to foot. The floor of the library, while beautifully finished, was hard beneath the thin soles of the dress pumps I’d worn for the occasion. Not one for heels, I found teetering on them for any length of time uncomfortable.
“Even a few things connected to Poe.” Clewe’s face brightened. “He was one of the first to write in the genre, you know. He’s usually linked to his horror stories, but he also wrote some wonderful detective fiction.”
I nodded. “The Murders in the Rue Morgue, The Gold-Bug, and The Purloined Letter. Great stuff.”
“Also The Mystery of Marie Rogêt. People always forget that one.” Clewe’s expression and tone grew animated, betraying his deep interest in this subject.
And his need to be right, I thought, studying his angular face with amusement. His enthusiasm reminded me of former library patrons—how their eyes had lit up when discussing any topic they believed they knew more about than I did. I hadn’t minded their air of superiority then and didn’t mind Clewe’s now. It charmed me to see someone so enthused about research and scholarly pursuits.
Lauren Walker entered the library with a pewter tray holding two crystal tumblers. As she passed by, she shot Clewe a sharp look from beneath her thick dark lashes. Setting the tray on a side table, she turned to face him. “Really, Cam, couldn’t you at least invite Ms. Hunter to sit down before you launched into one of your dissertations?” She crossed her arms over the bodice of her pale yellow
linen dress, Yellow wasn’t a color many people could successfully wear, but Lauren, with her dark skin, hair, and eyes, looked quite splendid.
“Besides,” she said, wrinkling her brow, “you hired Ms. Hunter because she’s a professional. I’m sure she knows as much as you do about literature, not to mention more about how to organize all your books and things.”
Meeting Lauren’s implacable gaze, Clewe’s face paled, throwing his freckles into high relief. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me, Ms. Hunter. Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you.” I cast Lauren a grateful smile before choosing one of the wing-backed chairs flanking the cherry table holding the tray and glasses. “And please, call me Jane. I know I may be twice your age, but I hope we can be colleagues. At any rate, you don’t have to treat me with such formality.”
“Of course.” Clewe twitched his lips into what he probably thought was a pleasant smile. “And you can call me Cam. Everyone else in the house does,” he added, with a glance at Lauren.
She lifted her feathery dark brows before exiting the room, her high heels beating a staccato rhythm against the wide plank floor.
Leaving me alone with the rather intimidating young man who was to be my new employer.
I studied Clewe after Lauren left, wondering if there was more between them than a boss and employee arrangement. Not that it was any of my business. It was just one of my quirks to be intrigued by human relationships, especially of the romantic variety. Even though you made a hash of your own, I thought with a wry smile.
Settling back in my chair, I reached for one of the tumblers. Thankfully, it contained water; just what I needed for my dry throat. Taking a long swallow, I surveyed the library. One wall was dominated by the stone fireplace where Clewe stood, one hand still gripping the rough-hewn mantel, while a bulky antique desk was docked like an old wooden ship on the blue-and-beige patterned rug covering the dark plank floor.
The other walls of the room featured floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelves, varnished in an ebony finish. Gilt embellishments tooled into the leather spines of many of the books glinted under the soft white lighting hidden beneath the shelves. Setting down my glass, I focused back on Clewe. No, Cam, I reminded myself.
He met my inquisitive gaze, his rose-gold lashes fluttering and the knuckles on his hand blanching to bone.
I straightened in my chair as a wave of understanding swept over me. Cameron Clewe’s imperious behavior wasn’t driven by deliberate rudeness. He was nervous.
Actually, terribly anxious, I realized, and extremely uncomfortable. One of those people who never knows what to say in social situations and blurts things out without realizing how the words sound to the recipient. “Wouldn’t you like to sit down as well?” I asked gently. “Your secretary left a glass of water for you.”
Cam brusquely bobbed his head before striding over and slumping into the chair on the other side of the cherry end table. “I’m not really good with new people,” he said without looking at me. He stretched out his long legs and grabbed the second tumbler. After taking one swallow, he plunked down the glass before staring up at the ceiling. “Or people in general, actually.”
“I see.” I gave him a sidelong glance. With his chin tipped up, his hair spilled over the back of his collar, making him look even younger. He slouched awkwardly in the chair, like a teen who’d grown too fast to arrange his limbs gracefully. “If I can ask without being rude, how old are you, Cam?”
“Thirty-three,” he said tonelessly. “Old enough to know how to behave, or so I’m told. But I always seem to put my foot in it, especially when I’m around people I don’t know well.” He lowered his gaze and shot me a sardonic smile. “You seem to have a way of making me spill my secrets, Ms. Hunter … Sorry, Jane.”
“Maybe it’s all those years working with college students. Or the fact that I’ve raised an extremely charming but sometimes thoroughly exasperating daughter.” I flashed him a warm smile. “She’s an actress, you see. Drama is her middle name.”
“Ah.” Cam’s expression grew thoughtful. “She lives with you?”
“No, she’s been out on her own for a while. She’s thirty, which is difficult for me to believe, but there it is.” I pursed my lips, considering the complications that could arise if Bailey met Cam. She was a little too fond of handsome men, especially of the
seemingly damaged variety. “Actually, she’s off on a national tour for the next year or so. Which is one reason I was happy to find this job, along with an inexpensive apartment in town. It’s allowed me to sell our old house and start over without a mortgage. Considering my rent is on the cheaper end, it’s definitely a significant savings.”
“I hope you’ll be comfortable there.” Cam sat up and leaned forward, gripping his knees with both hands. “I’m not sure how I’d deal with a small space, especially in terms of proper storage. Of course, Lauren tells me I’m too obsessed with things being …” He frowned and gnawed on his lower lip for a second. “A certain way, I guess.”
“A place for everything and everything in its place?” I asked. “As a librarian, I can understand that. It helps to be organized, especially when you’re undertaking things like this inventory and cataloging project.”
“It’s a little more than that,” Cam said, standing and striding over to one of the bookshelves. “But yes, your work. I hope you plan to start on that by Monday?”
“Happy to,” I said, which was a polite lie. I’d rather have waited a few more days so I could unpack all the boxes the movers were scheduled to dump in my apartment tomorrow and still have a day or two of rest before starting my job. But I had the feeling my new boss wouldn’t be interested in hearing about, or accommodating, such mundane issues.
“Just so you know, I have some guests staying here right now.” Cam ran one hand through his auburn hair, sweeping it away from his forehead. “They shouldn’t be a bother. I just don’t want you to be surprised by their presence in the house. They’re scholars, like me, although somewhat older.” He glanced at me. “Closer to your age, I expect.”
“Are they here to examine the new collection?”
“No, although at least one of them has a strong interest in such things. She’s actually taught courses on the Golden Age mystery authors.”
Thinking this offered a good opening to further prove my worth as an employee, I slid to the front edge of my chair. “I know the cataloging comes first, but I’d be happy to help any of your guests with research, since that’s another one of my skills.”
Cam drummed his fingers again, this time against the other sleeve of his ivory sweater. “Thanks. I’m not sure that will be necessary, but I’ll keep it in mind. Anyway, I’m sure you won’t get any requests for research assistance this weekend. Everyone’s focused on the fundraising gala happening on Sunday evening.” Perhaps sensing my surprise, Cam added, “Two friends of mine are
actually hosting it. I’m just supplying the space, because their homes aren’t big enough. It will be rather a large crowd.” Cam grimaced, as if the thought pained him. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll have Lauren give you a tour of the house and property.”
In other words, I was being dismissed. I rose to my feet and crossed to him, extending my hand. “I really am delighted to be here, Cam. It’s a librarian’s dream to get to work with such fascinating materials.”
Cam examined my outstretched fingers for a moment before placing his own hands behind his back. “I’m just glad you’re so enthusiastic about the job. I hope that attitude won’t change when you have to dig through stacks of dusty boxes.”
“You really think I haven’t done that before?” I dropped my hand and offered him a rueful smile. “As I mentioned in my cover letter, we took in a lot of gifts at the library, and one of my duties was to examine and inventory those materials. Trust me, I’ve dealt with dust. Mold too,” I added, wrinkling my nose. “I doubt your collection is in as bad shape as many of those donations.”
Cam stared down at his expensive leather loafers. “That’s right. It’s one reason I put your résumé on top of my consideration pile. Along with your knowledge of cataloging and research, of course.”
I tugged down my slightly rumpled jacket. “I hope I can live up to your expectations.”
As he raised his head to meet my gaze, the ghost of a smile flickered over Cam’s handsome face. “Honestly, that would be a first,” he said.
Lauren was waiting for me in the front hall. I noticed she’d changed her heels for flats and had thrown on a sweater.
“I hear you’ve been given the job of tour guide.” I flexed my toes inside my pumps, wishing I could kick them off.
“I have, but perhaps we should stop by the mudroom first, so you can slip on some walking shoes. I think we have something that might fit.” Lauren’s dark eyes sparkled with humor. “It’s not easy to navigate the grounds in heels.”
“I would love that.” I turned to survey the hall, which had a ceiling that soared up into a complex arrangement of wooden rafters. The lower portions of the walls were paneled in dark wood, with whitewashed plaster above. A grand staircase, its double set of polished wood steps rising on either side in a gentle curve, filled the back of the hall. The arch formed beneath the steps enclosed a marble fireplace. “This is all quite grand, isn’t it? I’m surprised the house was built in the twentieth century, to tell you the truth. But I think I read it was constructed around 1920?”
“That’s right. It doesn’t reflect its actual era much. The original owners, the Airleys, wanted to build their very own old English estate, and imported some of the decorative features from homes and castles in Britain. The even named it Aircroft to evoke an Old World ambience.” Lauren cast me a glance. “But you probably researched all that when you were applying for the job.”
“I did. They made their money in steel and railroads, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes.” Lauren gestured toward the tall, iron-strapped wooden front doors. They were set in an arched opening with plaster decorations that included a medallion in the center—a brightly painted shield that looked like it belonged to some British ancestral estate. “As you see, they even had a coat of arms created. I suppose they planned to establish a dynasty, but then their only child died in his late twenties, without any children of his own, so that was the end of that.”
“And they continued to live here, just the two of them, even after their son died.” I shook my head at the sad image this evoked. “They stayed until their deaths, and then Cam’s father bought the place. That was sometime in the early eighties, right?”
“Yes, around eight years before Cam’s birth. His mother didn’t move in until they married, and Cam was born less than a year later.” Lauren took off at a brisk pace, heading down a narrow corridor leading off the main hall. “Cam’s dad was twenty years older than his mother, but he still outlived her by many years. So, similar to the Airleys, it was old Mr. Clewe and Cam rattling around here after her death. Along with a housekeeper and chef, of course. Cam’s dad, Albert Clewe, started the tradition of having them live in, and Cam has continued that practice.”
As I followed Lauren, I noticed that this corridor was much plainer than what I’d seen of the rest of the house. It had unadorned plaster walls, painted a stark white, and tile flooring. We passed by what looked like a storeroom before stepping into a large, airy kitchen.
Unlike the rest of the house, this space made no effort to appear picturesque—white marble countertops, brushed metal racks, and modern appliances
sparkled in the light falling from tall windows. The slate floor and white subway-tile walls would be perfectly suited to a commercial restaurant setting. Only the mullions in the windows indicated that this kitchen was located in a vintage home.
Two people standing behind a massive work island looked up at our approach—a short, stocky, middle-aged woman and a man of average height whose muscular arms were at odds with the rest of his wiry build. The woman, who Lauren introduced as Dia Denton, the housekeeper, was tastefully dressed in a crisp white blouse and tailored gray slacks. The man, Mateo Marin, whose dark hair was slicked back from his broad forehead, wore a white coat over black trousers, in keeping with his position as chef.
“Nice to meet you both,” I said, after Lauren shared my name and mentioned I’d be working on Cam’s book collections. “I guess you’re busy preparing for Sunday’s gala?”
“Heavens, yes.” Dia Denton ran her fingers through her short, toffee-colored hair. “It’s always a challenge, especially since we have to bring in extra help for these things.”
“Which is why I say we should keep more people on staff permanently. Then we could be better prepared for these special events. But no, we can’t do that.” Mateo Marin’s thin lips tightened into a straight line.
Lauren shrugged. “Cam doesn’t believe in paying people who aren’t needed most of the time.”
“And quite right, too,” Dia said. “We don’t host parties every night, or even every week. Why should he waste his money?”
“It’s not just these fundraising things though, is it?” The chef’s dark brows drew together over his hawkish nose. “There are also all those private dinner parties for female guests. Especially that last one. Ungrateful little diva.” Grabbing a metal spoon, Mateo spun around to vigorously stir something bubbling in a pot on the eight-burner gas range.
Dia pressed her lips together and cast me a bright, if artificial, smile. “Anyway, Jane, let us know if there’s anything you need while you’re working here. Food or drink or whatever. We’ll be happy to accommodate you.”
Mateo’s grunt made me question whether he agreed with her gracious offer.
“Thanks,” I said, earning another smile from Dia.
Lauren motioned for me to follow her through a side door into a small antechamber filled with coats, sweaters, clogs, and boots. “Take your pick.”
Slipping off my pumps, I shoved my stockinged feet into a pair of well-worn loafers. With my dress shoes dangling from one hand, I trailed Lauren out the side door and down a grassy path that led to the home’s main entrance. “Just curious, and you can tell me it’s none of my business if you want, but you seem very knowledgeable about the estate. How long have you worked here?”
Lauren shot me a quick glance as she led the way onto the flagstone path that ran in front of the house. “Cam hired me after his father died, which was five years ago.”
“You must’ve been right out of college,” I said.
“I was twenty-three. Old enough to know better,” Lauren said, with a grin. “But I still took the job.”
Pausing for a moment, I surveyed the expansive landscape sweeping away from the house. Near the front entrance, a circular cobblestone driveway wrapped around a patch of emerald green grass with a marble fountain set like a jewel in its center. The circle connected to a longer paved drive, lined with maple and pin oak trees, that led to the main gates.
Impressive but not too over-the-top, I thought, glancing up at the home’s façade. The central section of the house was taller than the two long wings. They stretched from it, bent at a slight angle like enveloping arms. The entire surface of the house was clad in irregular-shaped stones in tones that ranged from a sandy tan through a charcoal gray, ...
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