Without A Clue Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Title Page

  Pamela Wilder @2015 Copyright. All Rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known, hereinafter invented, without express written permission of Pamela Wilder. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter one

  Art galleries made Aden Bourne itch.

  Once upon a time he’d liked them. His dad had taught him the importance of art, taking him to all the major museums in Boston by the time he was twelve. Those experiences had given him a real appreciation for the art world, which he’d held onto until just a few weeks ago, when Diane had broken things off with him.

  Ah, Diane, with her mile high heels and her vanilla and honeysuckle scent. He’d really been a sucker for her—

  “Did you hear me, Mr. Bourne?"

  Aden glanced at his latest client, who owned a rather famous gallery on Newberry Street. She didn’t look like a sleek, uber-fashionable gallery owner, like Diane. Mrs. Riley resembled his Nana Bourne. Maybe Betty White.

  “Missing painting. Must be discreet. No one can know it’s gone. I got it.” Distraction was a bad thing for a private investigator, and God knew women were a distraction for Aden. Maybe he just needed to swear off them for a bit. Women.

  “Yes. Whoever took it also made off with the authentication we had, the list of provenance. That means they can sell it at any auction as if they actually owned the painting.”

  Aden frowned. Okay, now he was paying attention. “Was this provenance kept in the same place as the painting?”

  “No.” She clasped her hands together on top of her desk, the knuckles going white. “That’s what’s so disturbing about all this. Any documentation is kept in the office, locked in a filing cabinet, or in the safe, depending on how important the piece is. This piece is… important.”

  “Okay.” Aden tapped notes into his phone, a habit his dad would have abhorred. His old man had been a cop, and a damned good one, but he’d believed in notebooks and pens, not technology. “Can you tell me why?”

  “This is a rare and unique work. Girard Ledeux won an Annenberg Fund stipend three years ago. This work is from three years before he got his stipend, which, sadly, changed his art irreparably. This early work has a raw, visceral feel to it, evoking pain. Lovely and brutal. Collectors are willing to pay close to tAll Rights reserved under International

  and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known, hereinafter invented, without express written permission of Pamela Wilder. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.hree quarters of a million for it.”

  “Wow.” He blinked. Diane’s gallery moved in the three to ten thousand range. This was a whole different ballgame. “So, has anyone made you an offer?”

  “Oh, several people have, but I had no intention of selling it until after I had the showing in two weeks. I wanted a bidding war at a silent auction, you see.”

  “I see.” He made more notes. “Can you tell me how many owners the piece had? Would someone want it back?”

  She bit her lip. “This is going to make me sound like an idiot, but I didn’t make the purchase. My partner James did. I know we had all of the paperwork, but I never studied it closely. I can ask him when he gets back from Russia, but his phone is out of service there.”

  “Russia.” Man, this one might take some work. “Right. Is there any other information you can give me? Where did James buy it, for example.”

  “That I can look up, I think.” She turned to her computer, then hit print after a few moments of searching. She blacked out something with a magic marker. “Here. This is a receipt for the transfer from the gallery in Philadelphia where James procured the painting.”

  “Thanks.” That was something, at least. “If you think of anything else, call me immediately. I’ll start looking into previous owners.”

  Why hadn’t he stuck to taking pictures of cheating spouses? Those cases were boring, but easy as pie.

  Oh, right. Aden hated to be bored. He bared his teeth in what he hoped was a polite smile when she showed him out. His Nana would beat him if he was rude to a nice lady like Mrs. Riley. He paused outside the gallery to tug out his phone so he could Google the artist and painting in question. The last sale had been in a gallery in Philadelphia, and Aden hoped that catalog would be online somewhere.

  Holy crap. Over 100000 results on Girard Ledeux. Aden had no desire to hunt through all those entries. Maybe he needed to hire an assistant. He glanced up, realizing where he was and smiling. Or, he could go to the library and get his personal assistant services for free. Librarians loved research, right? They were also mostly little old ladies, and that breed loved Aden.

  That sounded like the perfect plan.

  Chapter Two

  “Excuse me, there’s no one at the delivery desk. I need to look at an art catalog. Can you tell me who to talk to?”

  Amelia Patrick glanced up from staring blankly at her computer, her gaze falling on the hottest man she’d seen since she moved to Boston. Talk about tall, dark and handsome. She preferred her language dead, but she liked a man who sizzled with life.

  Ed, who worked in the music collection, just snorted and jerked his head toward Amelia’s desk. “Try Patrick. She has the time.”

  No frowning, she told herself. It will give you wrinkles. Her mother said that all the time. She grinned at the thought, and stood, drawing the man’s notice. She did have time to help even if it wasn’t her shift on the delivery desk. Or if what this man wanted wasn’t her specialty. This particular public library had more territorial specialists than any academic library Amelia had ever worked in, and they tended to snub the new girl. She had to pay her
dues, and she wasn’t from a Boston family, so that put her even lower on the totem pole.

  The collections made everything worthwhile. Not to mention helping this lovely man was way more exciting than wondering what her cats were doing up in her apartment.

  “I can help you, Sir,” she said. “What was it you were looking for?”

  "I need to see if I can find a catalog for a specific showing.” He smiled at her, the expression in his dark brown eyes warm and maybe a bit surprised.

  Amelia surprised a lot of their patrons, young as she was. “That might be more an online search than a delivery desk issue, but if you want a hard copy I can look for you.” She led the way to the delivery desk, knowing the computer there had more search memory than the one at her desk.

  "I'm easy. I really just need to see if they list any previous owners, that kind of thing.”

  “So you’re interested in the provenance?” That might lead her in a very different direction than a catalog.

  “Vaguely, yeah.” He chuckled, a deep, husky sound that sent shivers down her spine. “I’m a private investigator, and a client of mine is hoping to track down the painting. Any information I can find will be helpful.”

  “Hmm.” Amelia loved a challenge, and this one might require some deep digging. “A private investigator. That sounds romantic.”

  He handed her a card, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. “Aden Bourne, and not really. Sorry to burst your bubble, but it’s really a lot of scut work.”

  “Welcome to my world.” Was she flirting? Gracious, he could pass for a male model, or maybe an action movie hero. Every woman he met probably came on to him.

  “You mean Boston Public isn’t glamorous?”

  “Oh, the building is, for sure.” Amelia chuckled, typing a quick search string into the computer. “Who else had John Singer Sargent paintings in the lobby? But library work can be pretty staid.”

  “You don’t look staid to me.” When Amelia glanced up, Aden was staring at her, his smile sliding into something more intimate than his previous polite expression.

  "No?" Her cheeks heated, the pleasure she got from Aden’s comments completely out of proportion to his words. “Thank you.” A tendril of her hair escaped her chignon, and she wrapped it around a pencil before poking the whole thing back into her hair.

  Aden made a soft sound, and she glanced up again, her lips parting, her breath catching. Oh, he was far too tempting, and she was at work, darn it. Private eye. Information.

  “Oh, we do have a copy of that catalog. We also have a copy of the provenance up until the sale in Philadelphia. Those are electronic documents, scanned from the originals. I can show you where you can view and print them, if you like.”

  “I’d like. Is there any way to search databases to see who might have bid on the last auction? Someone who might have been interested but didn’t get the win?”

  She gave him a raised brow, knowing it was a good look for her. “This painting. Is it missing?”

  “What?” His expression of exaggerated surprise made her laugh. “I can’t divulge the nature of my case.”

  “Hmm.” Amelia tapped another search string into the computer, then another. “That might be a deeper search than I can perform here and now.” She pursed her lips, which netted her another happy noise from Aden. This amazing man really seemed to find her attractive.

  “You have my card,” he said easily. “Are you willing to do a little digging and get back to me?”

  “I am.” She left her perch on the stool behind the desk. “Let me get you that catalog and all.” Amelia didn’t want to do any more research right then and lose the opportunity to call Aden Bourne when she found something amazing. “That ought to get you started.”

  “Brainy is the new sexy,” he told her, his deep chuckle washing over again, transporting her from work to fantasy-land. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Thanks for giving me something to do,” Amelia said. “I have to admit, I’m used to grad students and demanding professors. I’m bored out of my mind.”

  “Too bad. Your mind is obviously a steel trap.” He brushed against her hip when he leaned over next to her to look at the information she’d pulled up for him to print. “That’s perfect.”

  “Well.” Amelia cleared her throat. “Can I help you with anything else right now?”

  “Not now. You will call. If you find anything I mean.” Now his cheeks had gone slightly pink, emphasizing the dark beard stubble along his jaw and chin.

  “I will.” Amelia knew she would find something if it killed her. She had every intention of seeing Aden Bourne again. After all she needed a distraction. She loved her cat, Boots, but some human companionship would be a welcome change.

  ***

  The doorbell rang, and Aden jumped about a mile. No one ever rang the doorbell. His friends texted him if they were dropping by, and if he was open for business in the office that used to be the formal living room, his clients had instructions on how to key in the code on the security panel outside.

  “Shit.” He hoped it wasn’t a salesman he was running downstairs for. He couldn’t just ignore the ring, though. What if a client was in trouble?

  Aden skidded to a halt and keyed up the high-tech doorbell camera on a screen that hung on the wall.

  “Well. Hello, there.” The lovely Boston library research lady from his Girard Ledeux case stood outside, her perfectly matched plaid pencil skirt and gray twinset giving Aden an immediate naughty librarian fantasy, complete with glasses and her hair in a bun. Plus she had the best set of legs he’d seen since his short stint with a female soccer player about five years ago.

  His card didn’t have his address on it, just a phone number and website. This honey was good at her job, no doubt. Maybe she had some new information to pass on.

  “Hi,” Aden said after he opened the door. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Is this your office?” her brows rose in surprise, he thought. He was only half dressed, no shoes, just his well worn jeans and a white T-shirt.

  “Just the front two rooms. The rest is my house.” The house he’d inherited from his dad, and Aden wasn’t too proud to be incredibly grateful it was paid off. Successful as he was, a brownstone in the Back Bay was better than gold bonds.

  “Nice.” She nodded appreciatively. “Um, I guess I should have called, but I think I have some information for you. I stopped by on my way in to work.”

  “Yeah? You got a minute? I can get you a cup of coffee.”

  “Oh.” She smiled, the pleased expression making his belly clench. “I’d like that.”

  “Come on in.” There was something about this lady… “Uh, can you tell me your name? I feel weird not knowing.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so rude. I’m Amelia. Amelia Patrick.” She followed him inside, her low, sensible heels clicking on the hardwood floors. “This is lovely. Your house, I mean.”

  He had a big foyer where he’d set up a reception area, but it wasn’t industrial like so many business offices. Aden had wanted to keep the spirit of the house intact.

  “Here, come on back to the kitchen.” The coffee smelled great, which covered up the stale smell of the fast food bag from supper last night. He really needed to give up PI food. Aden poured her a cup of coffee. “Cream or sugar?”

  “A little cream. What a neat kitchen.” She glanced around, obviously admiring.

  A dollop of cream later, and Aden handed over the cup. “So, what have you got for me, Amelia?”

  Her blue eyes lit up with passion, and she bounced a couple of times. “I think I have a real lead for you! I know I got you the provenance yesterday, but I think I’ve found the painting. As in where it’s exact location.”

  “No shit? Pardon my French.” He winked. “How? Where?”

  “I called the major auction houses. Often they take in collections from smaller sale houses so their clients can make silent bids, or so they can snap up cheaper items and resell them. A Girard Lede
ux would draw some interest.”

  “Nice.” He’d add that to his PI bag of tricks for future use. He got so used to the internet that sometimes Aden forgot the value of a simple phone call. “And?”

  “The same gallery in Philadelphia that last sold it has it up for sale again. They’re asking three times what they did in their previous auction. They didn’t list it in the official catalog, but my contact at Sotheby’s had heard about it.”

  “So, someone saw what it was worth now and felt as if they got the shaft. When is the sale?”

  “Tomorrow at eleven a.m.” She made a little ta-da motion with her hands, then yelped when hot coffee splashed over her wrist.

  “Crap. Let me help.” He grabbed her cup and set it aside before tugging her to the sink to run cold water over her wrist. “There. That had to sting.”

  “It did.”

  Tendrils of her blonde hair escaped and danced against Aden’s cheek, the scent of her shampoo all vanilla and flowers. He sniffed, hoping he wasn’t being weird and obvious.

  When she glanced up, he realized how close they stood, how he held her wrist, and how much gray she had in her pretty blue eyes.

  Aden let her go and stepped back. After Diane, he’d sworn off women, at least for a while. Even women as fascinating as Amelia Patrick. “Thanks for the info. I owe you dinner.”

  Amelia turned off the water before drying off with a paper towel. He thought disappointment lurked in the lines around her mouth and eyes, but then she grinned. “Yes. Yes you do.”

  “I’ll make it up to you. Right now, though, I need to go to Philadelphia and collect that missing painting.”

  “Have a safe trip. And thanks for the coffee.” She pressed a hand to his arm when she passed him, a light but familiar gesture, and then she walked out of his kitchen.

  Aden couldn’t help but hope she hadn’t walked out of his life for good.

  Chapter Three

  “So, you think someone is moving your boxes of black truffles out of your cellar by way of some unknown secret passage?” Aden didn’t mean to sound so skeptical, but the client sitting across from him paying for him to eat at Legal Seafood in Copley Place was tough to take seriously.