Beach Thriller(36)
“Thank you, Rose,” Conrad says, bringing the glass to his mother.
Rose—short, round, and in her fifties, with jet-black hair pulled into a tight bun atop her head and eyes dark with animosity—departs without a word.
“Rose and Mother don’t exactly get along, but I pay her well enough that she hasn’t quit—yet,” Conrad whispers to me while giving his mother a frustrated side-eye.
Maeve drinks her tea in a ladylike fashion, pinky extended, offering no comment about Rose. They’re like feuding neighbors, trapped together and resigned to resenting each other. If Maeve tries to turn me into her punching bag, I’ll be out of here faster than a bullet. There must be a pawnshop somewhere nearby, and there are plenty of gilded goodies I can slip into my pockets on my way out the door.
Half of Maeve’s tea is gone when she sets down her glass with a thud. She quietly gets up, without assistance, shifting her weight from one foot to the other to test the strength of her legs, then smooths her skirt with her palms as if that alone can restore her dignity.
Dr. Hill readies himself to catch her should she topple again.
“Conrad, see to it this young woman has something productive to do—and keep her out of my hair. I’m going upstairs to work on the fundraising gala for the Beauport Art Association. This party has to be perfect. It’s the first one we’ve had in years, and it could be my last.”
Conrad squints, rubbing his chin. “Mother, I think hosting a party is too much for you right now. Can’t we postpone?”
Maeve’s smile comes off as a sneer. “I’m not getting any younger, and you’re not giving me any grandchildren. I need to create some sort of legacy before I’m gone. The Barefoot Beach Ball is going to make a grand resurgence.”
I’m reminded of Holly’s novel as Maeve heads out the door, breezing past like I don’t exist. Dr. Hill follows closely behind, his eyes wide with worry.
She might be dead at any moment. It’s hard to imagine that many people would mourn the loss.
* * *
Conrad invites me on a tour of the grounds. I follow him along a narrow dirt path parallel to the sea. The massive stone house with its imposing tower stands like a scar against the sky. I know about homes like this only from books: opulent estates with a maze of rooms, lush manicured gardens—an oasis for birds and butterflies.
“This place is amazing,” I say, marveling at a graceful willow tree, its loping branches forming a shady canopy under which stands the cutest wooden bench, perfect for reading. “Is it historic or something?” What I really want to ask is: Is it haunted?
“It’s registered with the Beauport Historical Society, and I’ve given them most of the archives for posterity.”
He doesn’t ask if I know what posterity means.
“Are you a history buff?” he inquires.
“Not really,” I admit. “But I like castles and romantasy novels.”
I catch his slightly raised eyebrows. I must sound like a child.
“It’s a portmanteau,” I explain. “Romance and fantasy combined, like brunch—which is breakfast and lunch.”
He laughs. “I know the word. I just didn’t realize you’re a big reader. I thought kids your age were more into their devices than the written word. I’m impressed.”
I blush.
“Maybe, you’d be interested in the history of the house?”
“Of course,” I say, hoping it’ll be brief.
Conrad clears his throat. “Miramar is designed in the High Victorian Gothic style, inspired in part by Henry Vaughan, who likely trained under British architect George Frederick Bodley—a leading figure in the Gothic Revival movement.”
Oh God. I’m suddenly on a field trip. A yawn rises up, almost impossible to fight off, but I asked for this, so I listen.
“My great-great-grandfather was an industrialist and successful banker. After visiting the Washington National Cathedral, he was inspired to build a home that echoed its design. Fortunately for him, granite mining was booming here in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Most of the stone was quarried locally, though some of the rocks came from ruined castles and abbeys. Those were embedded into the walls.”
I nod like I’ve never been more fascinated, but dread creeps in. I felt uneasy inside the house as if something more than old stones were buried in the walls. Tragedy. Sorrow. The air practically hums with it. Why is the outside kept pristine while the interior seems to have been neglected? Maybe it’s a metaphor for the family, or perhaps I’ve simply read too many novels.
“Do you have a gardener as well as a housekeeper?”
“We had a gardener, but he quit. Now I hire a landscaping company for a lot more money. My mother is good at driving people away.”
I could see that after my first five minutes in Maeve’s company. At least Maeve is planning some kind of fundraiser, though I strongly suspect it’s more about showing off than a sudden flare of altruism.
Why did Conrad lure me into this job when he knows how his mother treats the staff? Is he that desperate? Or is he playing some kind of game? Rich people have twisted ways of getting their jollies when there’s nothing left in life to conquer.
“I’m not expecting you to be any different,” he says. “Don’t hang around and suffer her abuse on my account. I’m not trying to sugarcoat it, Jade, though I should have warned you up front. I’m happy to pay you for your time today—maybe two hundred? And you can move on if this isn’t the right opportunity.”