Beach Thriller(31)
“Mr. Carmichael is waiting for you in his private study.”
Old Sid gestures to a large door to my left. I follow his loping strides into a gorgeously appointed office. The ambiance is rich and warm, with an ornate area rug set in the center of a massive, airy room. Mahogany bookshelves line the walls, filled with hardback books whose spines suggest antiquity. I want to take down each volume, flip through the pages (gloves on, of course; I’m not a savage), and immerse myself in olden times and fantastical lands.
But I have to shelve that desire because my new boss is here, sitting at his spacious, decorative desk and sipping a steaming mug of coffee. Light floods the room through a tall bank of windows behind his chair. I imagine, during winter, logs in the large hearth will burn brightly, fighting the cold stone for warmth.
Conrad stands to greet me, his smile just as friendly as when he first offered me the chance at gainful employment.
“Jade,” he says, coming around from behind his desk to shake my hand. “So glad you’re here. Any trouble finding the place?”
He smiles as if it’s a joke he’s told hundreds of times, and it’s never been funny, but I give him an obligatory chuckle.
“Yeah, it kind of stands out,” I say.
“And has a good view, too.” Conrad points out the window to where the lawn drops off and the sea rises to meet it, creating a stunning ocean panorama. I hope he wants me working in this room, surrounded by all these books and looking out over the water. I take a peek out the window, and that’s when I notice a framed drawing of Miramar hanging on the adjacent wall. It’s remarkably well done and captures both the grandeur and creepiness of this place. The signature says Conrad Carmichael.
“Wow, that’s really great.” I point to the drawing. “You did this?”
He looks wistful. “Yes, a very long time ago,” he says. “I don’t think I could find my pencils if I wanted to.”
Sid clears his throat. “Mr. Carmichael, Miss Jade … um,” he trails off, looking mildly abashed. “I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”
Conrad laughs. “I don’t know it either,” he admits. “Sometimes I make rash decisions, but I usually get my employee’s full name. My apologies.”
“It’s Jensen,” I say brusquely. “Jade Jensen.” I leave it at that, hoping he doesn’t inquire about my long, sad history.
“Shall I go get your mother?” Sid asks Conrad.
He nods, and Sid departs to retrieve Maeve. I’m offered a seat in the cushy chair across from Conrad’s desk. Sunlight and comfortable furniture—I make myself at home.
I notice Conrad tugging at the sleeves of his shirt, and I catch a glimpse of an expensive-looking watch and his polished gold cuff links, which bear his initials, CC. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had stitched his name into his underwear with gold thread.
“So, Jade, I went over the plan with Mother and managed to get her approval,” he says, settling into his leather chair. “Her husband, Baxter Ward, passed away several months ago after an extended illness—”
I interrupt, my impulse control failing once again. “Oh, does your mother go by Maeve Ward now? I don’t want to call her the wrong name.”
“No, she kept the Carmichael name even after her second marriage. Legacy is important to my mother. She wanted to have the same name as her son and grandchildren, not that there are any…” His voice fades, leaving me with the impression he’s got his own sad story to tell, but he doesn’t elaborate.
“As I was saying, my stepfather passed away, and unfortunately, my mother’s health has also declined. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still a very strong woman at seventy-eight, but she needs to take it easier these days. She’s not up for going through his belongings and clearing everything out. Of course she believes she is. It’s hard for her to admit that she can’t do everything she used to, but the work involves some heavy lifting—nothing too intense. I think someone young like yourself would be better suited to the job. My mother can give you instructions on what to do with specific items. Any questions?”
Yeah, like a million. I knew I’d be helping around the house. But a strong-willed, reluctant widow overseeing a punk kid going through her dead husband’s belongings? Sounds like a recipe for disaster.
Before I can say, “Second thoughts,” Maeve appears in the doorway with Sidney. She’s tall, but only comes up to Sid’s shoulders, and although she’s thin, her arms look strong. Her posture is near perfect, head held high. I’m certain she could sift through Baxter’s things without a problem, although I can’t picture a woman this fashionable getting her hands dirty. Her makeup softens her strong features. She styles her shoulder-length white hair with care. The ivory blazer and long skirt are crisp and crease-free.
She greets me with a tight downturned smile, as if the world always disappoints her. Her stony, gray-blue eyes pierce me like a javelin. Great. Two minutes on the job and I can tell the lady I’m hired to help doesn’t want me around. This should be fun.
From across the room, she says, “Jade, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her tone is so clipped and self-important that she might as well have said, “What do you think you’re doing in my house?”
As she crosses the rug to shake my hand (or slap me, can’t say which), I’m reminded again of Beach Thriller. Old Sid might not have made it into Holly’s book, but I’ve no doubt Holly didn’t stray far from fact when she wrote Maeve Carmichael onto the page. Though something tells me the real-life Maeve is even icier.