Chapter 25. Jade
Jade
The heavy door knocker falls with a thud. A moment later, Sid ushers me inside. He’s dressed impeccably once more—a dapper dark suit, not a speck of lint.
“Jade Jensen. Back for day number two. And to think they say your generation lacks grit and common sense. I guess one out of two isn’t bad.”
I offer an uneasy laugh as Sid steps aside to let me in.
I sort of agree with him. Part of me can’t believe I’m back.
Conrad’s explosive behavior should have warned me away like alarm bells, smoke signals, and a crack of thunder all rolled into one.
But what can I say? I like money. And I might like a good mystery even more.
Miramar has me under its spell.
I keep hearing that familiar piano melody from the tower, and it’s struck a chord. I can’t believe, after my long journey, that I find myself in a gothic seaside setting—like Manderley in Rebecca—a place full of secrets, tinged with darkness, and rife with closed-off areas that beg to be explored.
The grounds even have an honest-to-goodness ruin.
Holly should be the one working here, gathering inspiration for her novel, though it’s obvious she’s done that already.
Holly might claim the book is all fiction, but the Miramar in Beach Thriller is pretty true to life.
Now I wonder if I could help her finish her story.
As I walk through the vast foyer that echoes with traces of yesteryear, the eyes of stoic figures in massive portraits appear to follow my every move.
The high-vaulted ceiling amplifies my footsteps, drawing attention to the loneliness of the space.
Miramar is enormous, which might be why it feels so desolate.
A house like this should be bustling with staff and guests.
Is that why Maeve is reviving the Barefoot Beach Ball? Can she no longer stand the isolation?
Even the threadbare rug stretched across the center of the cold flagstone floor adds little cheer. The air feels damp; the curtains are drawn, keeping the sun out and the moisture in. Is joy not allowed in this house? It’s no wonder Rose is so miserable.
It seems Old Sid, who leads me up a wide staircase to Maeve’s second-floor bedroom, his steps so tentative that he uses my arm as a second railing, may be too close to death to care.
The sight of Maeve Carmichael’s bedroom takes my breath away.
It’s large enough to be two—maybe three—rooms. It’s more like her “chambers.” Contrary to her demeanor, it’s also the warmest and most inviting room I’ve seen yet.
Wall-to-wall carpeting, the color of faded rose petals, feels springy under my feet.
I still have my shoes on, and that seems wrong.
Sid doesn’t tell me to remove them, but I take them off by her door.
Rich antique furniture fills the space. A sitting area includes an ornate desk with intricate carvings. Velvet-upholstered chairs are scattered about, and the glossy mahogany dressers boast brass handles polished to a shine.
At the far end of the room stands a majestic canopy bed, the likes of which I’ve never seen before.
An elephant could stretch out and still have plenty of space.
Lush burgundy bedding covers a plush mattress that begs you to get lost in its satin underworld.
Luxurious draperies frame the windows, cascading in rich folds over sheer curtains in a delicate cream color.
The ivory wallpaper boasts an intricate design I could imagine adorning the robes of royalty.
Maeve sits at her vanity, applying makeup. Again, she’s dressed for success in a tailored silk blouse the color of champagne. A cashmere shawl in a delicate blush tone falls over her shoulders. Her wide-leg trousers match the blouse. Although her clothes are elegant, they convey no warmth.
She glances at her gold watch, speckled with diamonds. “You’re early,” she says, without a pleasant smile or cheerful hello.
Two seconds into our first full day together, and on a scale of 1 to 10, I put the Suck Factor at a solid 4. Judging by Maeve’s deep frown and knitted eyebrows, I’m confident that we will exceed that by the end of the day.
“This is such a terrible idea,” she mutters, loud enough to ensure that I hear.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carmichael. In case you forgot, my name is Jade,” I say.
Her gaze narrows. “Yes, I remember,” she frowns. “I have a heart condition, not dementia.”
“Right.” I avert my eyes. I need to watch my words, or they’ll cost me my job. A smart girl would have already applied to scoop ice cream in town.
Sid turns to Maeve. “It’s almost time for tea. Would you like it brought to your room?” His voice is fuzzy and buzzy, the way it sounds over the intercom.
“I’ll have it in the drawing room today. Thank you, Sidney.”
“Oh, cool, you have a drawing room?” I blurt. “Just like in a Victorian novel. I’d love to see it.”
Old Sid winces. Maeve’s eyes fill with contempt.
In his quiet, raspy voice, Sid clarifies: “You saw it on your tour. The drawing room is what you would think of as a living room.”
“Oh yeah, I remember, that room is sweet,” I say—and I mean it.
It’s actually bright and cheery—no dark furniture in sight.
Everything’s been refinished in soft, sun-bleached tones, like pieces of driftwood.
The stained-glass windows reminded me of looking through sea glass.
Instead of tapestries, the walls are adorned with large-scale coastal landscapes.
The whole room smells faintly of salt and citrus.
“I like the telescope that’s in there,” I say. “I thought I saw a whale, but it was just a rock. I didn’t see any paper and pencils, though.” I’m expecting everyone to laugh, but I’m the only one who does. Maeve looks confused. Sid skews more toward horrified.
“You know, drawing room … pencils…” I explain, my voice soft and uncertain. Still no smile from Maeve.
Sid clears his throat. “Jade, around here, we view humor like a weapon. Wield it carefully,” he advises.
At last Maeve finds her grin. “Leave us be, Sidney. I’ll be down in a minute. I want to get Jade started on her big job.” She doesn’t roll her eyes, but the implication is clear: She thinks I don’t belong here.
In my head, I hear an imaginary train conductor: Next stop, Condescensionville.
Sid bows slightly before turning to go. An uncountable number of shuffling steps carry him out the door.
Once he’s beyond earshot (which doesn’t need to be far), Maeve explains my duties for today.
“We have two closets.” She directs my attention to the large oak doors, each positioned on either side of the massive canopy bed. “The one on the left is mine, and the other is Baxter’s.”
I’m expecting Maeve to show some emotion when she utters his name—a window opening to her soul, if only a crack. She’s talking about her dead husband’s belongings. It’s only been a few months since his passing. But her eyes are as lifeless as his.
I don’t know much about Baxter Ward, but going through his personal belongings will tell me a lot more than an online obituary.
Meanwhile, Maeve projects the sorrow of a wax figure. Perhaps her upbringing demands that she repress her deeper feelings. I’m determined to coax them out of her. I have the crazy notion that Maeve and I could possibly connect on a meaningful—dare I say, life-altering—level.
Throughout this emotional journey, as we sort through item after item and layer after layer of Baxter’s life, we’ll simultaneously discover things about each other.
Together, our bond will strengthen, helping us rise above our challenges and overcome petty differences to become better people.
I see a future book about our experience: In Baxter’s Closet, or The Closet Connection, or maybe simply The Closet. It’ll be a New York Times bestseller.
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.
I’m about to descend the stairs when I hear Maeve returning from her swim. Peeking over the banister, I see her wrapped in a plush white robe, towel-drying her hair.
Conrad emerges from his office, greeting her with a frown. “Mother, I told you to come get me before going for a swim. It’s not safe, especially by yourself. I should at least be on the shoreline.”
Maeve waves off his concern. “I can think of no better way to die than being swallowed by the sea. I don’t need you playing Baywatch on my behalf. And I prefer to be alone. It’s meditative for me, and I have a moment’s peace away from that barnacle you stuck me with.”
I can guess who she’s referring to and take that as my cue to get back into the closet where I belong. Before I go, I hear Conrad defend me. “She’s a good kid, Mother, and she wants to help. Give her a chance, will you please?”
“I don’t know where your altruistic streak came from, but you didn’t get it from me. Fine, I’ll give her a chance, but not today. I have more important things to attend to. Tell the girl to take the rest of the afternoon off. We’ll start up again tomorrow.”
The girl. Could be a lot worse, I suppose.