Chapter 41. Jade
Jade
There’s a stack of last-minute party invitations to address, all new additions to the guest list. Maeve’s criticizing my efforts.
Meanwhile, the party is tomorrow and she’s still inviting new guests.
I can’t believe the suggested amount written on the donation form.
Clearly there’s money in this sleepy little town.
Of course, all of these new invitations will have to be hand-delivered by the overworked (unappreciated) party planner. If I had a car, I’d be driving around like a postal worker.
Maeve picks up an envelope I’ve addressed, holding it between two fingers as though my flawed penmanship has contaminated the paper.
“Don’t they teach you cursive in school?” she snipes. “Your Ks look like Hs, and your Ds look like Os. Do it again, please. If you’re going to print, at least go slower and be more careful.” She issues her orders in the clipped tone of a military sergeant.
“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.
The stairwell opens directly into a large, round room.
Small windows are set high and evenly spaced throughout, like a fortress.
I picture archers shooting arrows through the slim openings, which allow only small sips of light to enter, creating shadows that gather in the corners like shapeless monsters.
A large four-poster bed occupies the center of the room, across from a mahogany dresser.
A worn, intricately woven area rug covers the cold stone floor.
The bed is piled high with blankets. My first thought is that the room is empty, but then I see the pile of bedding move. From underneath comes a faint groan.
“Rose? Is that you? Conrad … is it time already?” The woman’s voice is so weak, so faint, I can barely understand her. Even though someone is in her living quarters, she makes no effort to open her eyes. Given her frail condition, perhaps she lacks the strength.
“Um, no. I’m sorry. I’m … Jade,” I say, making my way toward her bed. “Conrad sent me to check on you.” The lie comes easily—they always do. But the sight before me leaves me at a loss for words.
Beside the bed is an old rocking chair. The varnish is worn, raw wood peeking through in places.
The colors of the floral design painted onto the top have faded, as though the flowers themselves are dying.
Nearby is a nightstand littered with pill bottles.
A tall glass of water stands next to a pitcher, but I doubt this woman is strong enough to fill her own glass.
On the floor sits a Bluetooth speaker, playing the piano song that may haunt my dreams for a lifetime. The smell of mildew is pervasive, which can’t be healthy—but it beats the odor of sickness that has saturated these stones.
The woman stranded in bed is like a castaway on a desert island.
Her long hair is lifeless, the color of faded straw, and just as coarse.
Dark rings circle her shuttered eyes, but her face has very few wrinkles, perhaps because she so seldom sees the sun.
It’s fitting, given that she reminds me of a vampire’s victim—drained of color, her life force dimmed to a waxy pallor.
She struggles to prop herself up on her pillows, determined to see who I am.
When her eyes flutter open, I’m stunned.
They glow like two of the clearest blue pools imaginable, set against strikingly pale skin.
For a moment I can’t look away. Her feet, which poke out from beneath the covers, are encased in thin gray hospital socks.
I take a seat in the rocking chair, which creaks faintly as I settle in.
“Jade?” she whispers as if my name is actually familiar to her. Has Conrad spoken of me? Has Rose?
“Yes, I work here at the house. And … what’s your name?” My voice shakes. Perspiration beads on my forehead. The air is hot and stale, but that’s not why I’m sweating. My anxiety is kicking like a horse.
She gathers her breath. Her voice leaks out in a slow whisper. “My name … it doesn’t matter anymore.”
My heart breaks. I thought I was lost and forgotten, but she’s got my sadness beat by miles.
I’m not sure what to say or do, but I can’t just stand around like an idiot. I ask a logical question: “Can I get you anything?” Like, 911? But all I add is, “Are you all right? Maybe you need a doctor?”
She sits up a little straighter. “No, the doctor checks in all the time. I’m not well, but there’s nothing anyone can do. I just need my pills.” She gestures to the nightstand.
“Which ones do you need?” I ask, taking the opportunity to read the labels. They’re prescribed to Elizabeth Ward Carmichael. I recall the names of the medications I overheard when Dr. Hill was talking to Conrad—and many of them are here.
So wait, is this Conrad’s wife? I remember in Beach Thriller that his fiancée was named Elizabeth. It hits me all at once. I never made the Baxter connection before. Probably because I wasn’t sure how much of Beach Thriller was real and how much was fiction. But now all the dots are connecting.
Seeing Elizabeth’s last name, Ward, on the pill bottles, makes me realize that Maeve’s second husband, Baxter Ward, must be Elizabeth’s father.
Which means, Maeve married her daughter-in-law’s dad.
Super cringe and totally incestuous. And now they’re keeping her up here like a drugged, dystopian Disney princess.
Am I the rescuer in this story, or a mouse about to get caught in a trap?
All I know is that I don’t get paid nearly enough for this shit. It feels like I’m putting together a bizarre puzzle, but the pieces are all misshapen and keep multiplying.
First things first. This lady is hankering for her fix, though I’m not about to oblige. I’m not a medical professional. What if I give her the wrong thing, and it kills her?
“I don’t think I should give you anything,” I say.
Elizabeth doesn’t move, but her brow furrows. She’s not too pleased with my response. She stays perfectly still as if trying to process my words, but her brain isn’t firing correctly.
Kneeling beside her bed, I try for a better look at those mesmerizing eyes. I’ve seen my fair share of high people. The pupils are always dilated—and hers come at me like a pair of bowling balls.
Forget the drugs. What this lady needs is a way out of here.
Finally she speaks. “Please. I need my pain pills. My back is killing me.”
Next to the prescriptions is a bottle of Advil. That should be relatively safe—at least I hope so. I dump two tablets into my hand and give her a glass of water. It’s heartbreaking to see her hands tremble, just trying to bring the drink to her lips.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth says, falling back onto the pillows, exhausted.
“Why are you up here? I have so many questions about this family and all their secrets.”
“Oh, you aren’t going to ask me about her, too, are you? I don’t remember. I wish I knew, but it’s all so fuzzy…” Elizabeth trails off, yawning, her head lolling to one side.
“About who?” I ask.
Elizabeth’s eyes lock onto mine. I’m startled to see them look so alive.
A fog has lifted, ushering in a sudden burst of lucidity.
In a weak voice, she answers: “She worked here, like you … but she left, like most of the others … Nobody stays at Miramar for long, except for me, and I don’t matter anymore. I’ve done too many bad things.”
Her voice grows softer, like a toy running out of battery power. Her eyes drift shut. Next, I hear the soft inhale and exhale of each slow breath. Elizabeth has fallen back into a restful slumber. It’s probably the only peace she gets.
I pull the blankets up to her chin and say a silent prayer that somehow, someway, she’ll be okay.
I fear I’ve been here too long, that I’ve pushed my luck, and Conrad will return before I can safely escape the tower.
I whisper a goodbye—not that Elizabeth hears me.
I can’t imagine what her world must be like—every second lost in a haze of delirium and confusion, with Conrad offering her moments of reprieve like sips of life through a straw.
Before I go, I use my new phone to snap pictures of all of Elizabeth’s prescriptions.
It seems Elizabeth never left him at all. I text her: I think I know what happened to Conrad’s wife, Elizabeth.
Before I can attach the pictures of the prescription bottles and explain a little bit more, a noise makes my heart race into my throat.
Footsteps, coming up the stairs.