Beach Thriller(76)

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, snapping to attention like a good soldier. The guest list is nearby, with all the names of people who received invitations crossed off. There’s one for the Realtor, Gail Provost; Ethan made the cut, as did Serena and Holly’s lawyer, Allen Spellman. Tom Walker has been hired for security, so he won’t receive one, but he’ll still be at the big event.

Oddly, the attendees line up nicely with my suspect list.

I begin the invite re-dos, paying extra attention to the Ds and Ks. However, my thoughts are elsewhere. Before I can filter myself, a question pops out.

“What’s in the tower, Maeve?” Impulse control isn’t a strength of mine.

I shrink from Maeve’s harsh stare.

“Why are you asking?” Her face darkens.

I try to act nonchalant, which also isn’t my forte.

“Oh, I dunno—I’ve just heard music coming from up there, a piano song. It plays on repeat.” My pulse quickens. It’s not salsa-beat fast, but it’s pretty darn close.

Maeve turns her head to peer out onto the balcony of her bedroom. “That’s Conrad’s private quarters. He’s the man of the house now, and his business is just that—his business.” She says this with a degree of disgust, which I can appreciate. She can’t live here and not have a clue that her son carries a sickly woman up and down the tower stairs for twice-daily outings like she’s his pet.

“I don’t go up there. Not sure my tired old legs could carry me if I wanted to.”

Maeve rises from her seat, her knotted fingers curling into fists. She walks to the window, her feet sinking into the plush carpet. I can’t tell whether Conrad’s personal life offends her or if my question puts her on edge. I get the sense she’s unhappy about the mystery occupant—but for reasons unknown, she’s unable to confront her perfect, can-do-no-wrong son about it. Or maybe, like me, she’s seen Conrad’s darker side and knows to proceed with caution.

“If I were you, Jade, I’d be careful making such inquiries.” Her tone is soft. She isn’t issuing a threat—it’s more like a warning.

“Keep your focus on the party details and let Conrad manage his affairs without interference. My son has a temper. I suggest you don’t trigger it.” Maeve keeps her back to me, her gaze settled on the expertly manicured lawn, and the shimmering, yearning sea beyond.

“This party has to be perfect. It’s likely the last one I’ll ever have.”



* * *



After I finish addressing the envelopes, I’m allowed a break. Trucks are arriving with supplies. Groundskeepers are trimming the lawn, tending the garden, and raking Maeve’s private beach of every last strand of seaweed. In no time, the biggest event in Beauport will be underway.

I should be helping—there’s plenty to do—but my focus is elsewhere.

I don’t believe there’s any truth to the old saying Curiosity killed the cat. It’s cars, chocolate, and household plants like lilies you have to be mindful of. But curiosity will kill me if I don’t find out what’s going on up in the tower. Could it be connected to Holly’s story?

Maeve is in a meeting with the caterer (I wasn’t invited, whew!), and Conrad has gone into town, leaving only Old Sid—and he’s busy in the kitchen now that Rose is gone.

Poor guy needs a better retirement plan.

My fingers brush against the brass keys in my pocket. The metal pokes into my skin as if prodding me on. First, I check if the teak door to the tower is locked. I turn the seashell-shaped doorknob, pull, and sure enough, it won’t budge. But that poor woman is up there—I’m certain of it. With my ear close to the keyhole, I can hear the hypnotic melody of that plinking piano song. Is he holding her captive and torturing her with constant, repetitive music?

After double-checking that the coast is clear, I slip the key into the lock. It turns easily, and the door opens silently on well-oiled hinges.

I peer into a gloomy, twisting spiral stairwell. To my surprise, the stone steps go both up and down. I’ve not been shown the basement, but evidently, this is one way to access it. It’s totally creepy in here—dank and poorly lit by a series of low-wattage sconces set into the wall. I’m glad I’m going up because my mind immediately conjures an image of what lies below: a rat-infested cellar with low-ceilinged rooms secured by metal bars, the stone floor covered only in loose straw—a dungeon from medieval times.

My first step inside is tentative, but I brave another. My muscles tense, my gut twists, but I’ve come too far to back out now. I close the door behind me, plunging myself into deeper darkness.

The stairs are narrow and small. It would be easy to lose your footing and tumble down. Cautiously, I ascend, the music growing louder with each step. I keep my sweat-slick hand pressed against the rough stone wall to maintain my balance. I’m already slightly winded from the climb and can’t imagine carrying someone up and down these stairs without falling—but Conrad appears to do it repeatedly.

At the top of the stairs, I pause, unable to advance into the upper chamber. There’s no door. Nothing blocks my way except my own fear. The music surrounds me, echoing off the stone walls. It’s like a lullaby—it should be relaxing, but instead, I’m full of dread. It’s now or never. I brave that last step.