Beach Thriller(63)

The little beauty in the circular driveway is a cherry-red Alfa Romeo convertible—no clue about the year. It has chrome wheels and a sleek, sporty interior with black leather seats, red piping, and spotless plush carpeting. The old me would be thinking about stripping and twisting the battery and ignition wires to get the engine started. But I’m New Leaf Jade—with an honest job and a side gig as a self-appointed sleuth.

Sid greets me at the door. “Jade, what a lovely surprise. Congratulations, you’ve already beaten our average attrition rate.”

I shrug. “What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.”

He almost smiles. “I try to limit my gluttony to sweet cream and berries—doesn’t always work.”

Castle Carmichael is as cold and uninviting as ever, but Sid’s a little warmer. Even so, with his long limbs and sallow, wrinkled skin, he reminds me of a smokestack in a dying factory town. I follow him into the foyer. He moves like the Tin Man. I imagine he’d need half a quart of oil just to muster a genuine grin.

“Maeve is on a planning call for her benefit party,” he tells me in his low, droll voice. “Word of warning—at the last Barefoot Beach Ball, half the guests were drunk enough to go skinny-dipping. I’m telling you this in case you prefer to duck out early. Some things can’t be unseen.”

“Appreciate the heads-up,” I say.

“Also, Maeve asked me to give you some paperwork to file, but first, Conrad would like a word.”

A word? That sounds ominous.

I hear voices coming from Conrad’s office. Maybe one belongs to the driver of that old car. Since Conrad is occupied, I decide to mine Sid for information. We’re not exactly besties, but in a house where staff come and go like dandelion seeds on the wind, he remains rooted. Who better to ask?

I sidle up to him before he can slip away. “So, uh, Sid—” I say with added cheer. “I have a question for you.”

He turns, surveying me with dull gray eyes from high above. “Y-e-s-s-s.” He elongates the word like a creaky door.

“I was walking the grounds with Conrad—I’m sorry, Mr. Carmichael—and we passed by an old ruin. I guess it was a guesthouse once? Do you know what happened to it?” My voice catches. Not surprising—I’ve dipped a toe into murky water.

I didn’t think it was possible, but Sid gets even stiffer. His jaw tightens ever so slightly, and he squints as he leans toward me. I have a disturbing vision of him keeling over and crushing me under his dead weight. His breath carries something sharp and tangy—booze? Is Old Sid a closet drinker? Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him.

“Jade,” he says, his voice as joyless as a grave, “I don’t ask questions about the Carmichaels’ affairs. I keep to myself and do as I’m told. I strongly advise you do the same.”

He finally smiles, but it’s too wide and too empty, calling to mind a jack-o’-lantern.

Old Sid slinks off, leaving me rattled … but as a distraction, I decide to eavesdrop on Conrad’s conversation.

He’s still in his office. I glance around for Maeve or Rose. The coast is clear. I press myself against the wall beside the door and listen. I hear two people talking: Conrad and a voice I recognize as Dr. Hill, the one who looked after Maeve after she fainted. It sounds like a business meeting—professional tone, no raised voices, very matter-of-fact.

Conrad: “So we should increase the dosage?”

“Absolutely,” says Dr. Hill. “Her condition isn’t going to improve.”

They must be talking about Maeve. Is she really that sick? Is it terminal? Their voices grow somber as they discuss specific medications and her prognosis. I’m not familiar with the drugs, but they sound heavy-duty. Is that why Maeve’s throwing this party in such a hurry?

“I’m so sorry it’s come to this,” Conrad says, his voice tinged with emotion. “Does Mother know?”

“No. Not yet.”

“How long does she have?”

Dr. Hill exhales loudly. “It’s hard to say. Could be months, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s less.”

I cover my mouth. Poor Maeve. Now I’m worried the stress of this party might speed things up. I step away from the wall just in time. Conrad and Dr. Hill emerge from the office together.

My heart’s pounding, and it’s not just the adrenaline from almost getting caught. I’m thinking about Maeve—bitchy as she is—heading for the end. Why do I even care? But I do. I feel … sad. Like, I want to comfort her.

Come on, Jade, I tell myself. You don’t get paid enough for that.

Conrad approaches. He gently takes hold of my arm, like he’s glad I’m there. “Jade, you remember Dr. Vernon Hill. He was here the day you started working for us.”

I laugh, but it’s more like a squeak, as if he made a joke—but it’s only nervous energy escaping. “Oh yeah, of course. When your mom had her fainting spell.” I try to mask my emotions, but worry my eyes are giving me away. Maeve is dying and she doesn’t even know it yet. “So, is that your car out front?” I ask Dr. Hill, trying to be conversational. “It’s a sweet ride.”

Dr. Hill flashes me a smile, his bushy mustache arching. “Ah, you’re pretty young to be interested in such old things,” he says. “And you have good taste. That’s a 1958 Alfa Romeo Giulietta. It’s a four-cylinder with four on the floor—a classic roadster.”