Beach Thriller(43)

Shit, I hope Holly won’t be jealous.

Maeve interrupts my fantasy. “Conrad told me you’re a thief. If you steal anything, I’ll cut off your fingers—just like in Victorian times. Do I make myself clear?”

Her smile is chilling.

So much for my book idea.

Maeve escorts me to Baxter’s closet. She opens the door, beckoning me to follow.

I step inside, shocked by what I see. The closet is bigger than any bedroom I’ve ever had. Jesus, it might be bigger than the apartment I lived in with my parents—well, not really, but it’s not far off.

It actually has its own chandelier—no shit—and a walnut floor with a patterned area rug. The walls are lined with built-in shelves and dresser units. There are hanging garments galore and shoe racks aplenty. But what I notice most is the mind-numbingly audacious amount of crap. There are boxes atop boxes, overfilled bags, and every corner is crammed with stuff, stuff, and more stuff.

Talk about job security.

Maeve’s eyes spark like she’s excited for the torture to begin.

“To start, you’ll bag up all of Baxter’s clothes and shoes and bring them downstairs. There are extra garment bags on the back shelf that you can use. I have a number for you to call to arrange pickup from a high-end consignment store.”

Is high-end consignment an oxymoron?

“His other personal items will have to be weeded through more slowly. Since Conrad refuses to do it and feels I’m too frail to manage on my own, I’ll have you bring each box to me in my sitting area by the window. We’ll go through every item together, and I’ll decide what will be saved and what will go. Is that understood?”

I nod as though I’m a small child on the first day of school. Maeve might be physically frail, but she’s no pushover.

“I expect you to take your time and be thorough. I’ve already given several items to Dr. Hill, who is obsessed with vintage fashion. While you’re busy bagging up the clothes and shoes, I’ll enjoy my tea elsewhere, and perhaps take a swim. I also have a party to plan, and the last thing I need is an uncultured teenage girl interrupting my fundraiser arrangements.”

With that, Maeve turns on her heels and heads out the door.

I roll up my sleeves. Time to get to work.



* * *



Several hours later, having sweated out gallons of water traipsing up and down the stairs carrying an excessive amount of expensive apparel, I plop down on the closet floor, iced tea in hand.

I’ve hardly made a dent. And it’s past lunchtime. Where is Maeve?

Without question, Baxter had a pathological obsession with things. I found multiple shirts with the same pattern, several gold watches, and more matching cuff links than a person could ever need. I guess when Baxter found something he liked, he stuck with it.

And the worst is still ahead of me. The piles of boxes seem endless. The plan is to go through them with Maeve, but she’s too busy right now. Am I supposed to sit and do nothing while I wait?

I peek out the door. No one is around. I take the lid off one of the larger boxes. I figure I can poke around and start mentally organizing the stuff. I’m getting paid too well to waste time, right?

The first box is full of books. Oh no, will I need to carry these down the winding staircase as well? They’re all business books. The titles alone bore me. I quickly move on.

The next box is smaller and, thankfully, much lighter. It contains some random paperwork in folders and a few manila envelopes. I look through them but don’t linger. I don’t know what I expected, but spreadsheets weren’t on the list. My imagination keeps picturing an old man who harbored secrets, but so far, Baxter appears as bland as melba toast.

I drop a folder while returning the stack to the box. Papers spill out, littering the walnut floor.

Shit.

I scramble to retrieve the fallen items. A few photos are mixed in with the paperwork. One of them is a black-and-white image. It’s not old, but it’s meant to be artistic. I take a closer look, and yes—it’s an elegant wedding photo. The groom is Conrad, much younger, dressed in a classic tux, holding the hand of a woman who must be his bride. The woman has long, flowing hair but keeps her face turned away from the camera. Her dress, however, is the focal point. It reminds me of Gone With the Wind, with its undulating folds of lace and satin—or is it silk? Either way, no expense was spared on this gown.

It shouldn’t surprise me that Conrad got married—he was engaged in Holly’s fictionalized account of Miramar—but I’m a little perplexed that no one has mentioned it. Maybe there was a volatile divorce, and now it’s a taboo topic.

I’m restacking boxes and starting to wonder if I should drag Maeve away from her party planning so I can get back to work. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a pair of shoes stashed on a shelf that I had missed. They’re old and worn and likely made of Italian leather. I need to put them in one of the bags downstairs. I’ll bring them down and use them as an excuse to check in with Maeve.

I grab the shoes, and when I do, I hear an odd jangling noise from within. Strange.

I tip the shoes upside down, and an old ring of brass keys falls into the palm of my hand. My heart skips a beat. I’ve stumbled onto something important; I know it.

I slip the key ring into my pocket.

The thief in me can’t resist.