Chapter 47. Holly
Holly
The sky was ablaze with glorious washes of yellow, pink, and lavender, but Holly hardly noticed the sunset. It was dinnertime, and still no word from Jade. She hadn’t responded to her apology, so Holly followed up with a plea:
I’m sure you’re upset with me. I know I could have been kinder. Please get in touch so I know you’re okay. I’m worried about you.
She considered adding Xs and Os—but were they at that stage? Holly felt like they were. Or at least she was. She fretted over Jade the way a mother would.
That kind of caring was probably foreign to her. Jade’s parents were arguably the most wretched people Holly had ever encountered. To survive in that environment, you’d have to be supremely well-defended.
But would Jade lower her guard enough to accept Holly’s apology and respond?
What if she didn’t return at all? Even though Jade didn’t have many alternatives, she had the wits and resourcefulness to survive anywhere.
Have I driven her away?
Holly felt sick at the thought. She hoped that Jade was simply giving her the silent treatment. But she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in her gut that something else was wrong. She tried to quiet her unease by focusing on the task at hand.
Holly studied her writing notebook, where she had jotted down suspects with columns for Motive, Opportunity, and Method written beside each one. She’d never crafted a detective story, but perhaps the bones of one were staring her right in the face.
Tom Walker: police officer, alleged history of sexual coercion. Anna was potentially one of his victims when she narrowly escaped arrest. Tommy Boy had access to evidence and was present the night of the explosion.
Conrad Carmichael: Anna’s lover. It’s always the boyfriend … She was with him that night with the intent to break it off. Did he get angry, take revenge?
Elizabeth Ward: the scorned woman, maybe also a femme fatale? She’d killed before, albeit indirectly by doctoring the Lypotrel research to hide its deadly overdose risk. Could she have taken a more active role in Anna’s death?
Maeve Carmichael: fired Anna and pressed charges. Was she upset when charges were dropped? Maeve was also at home the night Anna died. Did she seek a more violent and final revenge?
Allen Spellman: tricky. He had access to the evidence and had likely tampered with it. He was a criminal as well. But he had no apparent connection to Anna.
Holly left the Motive column blank. But what if he was part of a bigger plot—a cover-up involving Anna’s death—and his suicide was actually a hit in disguise?
Ethan Greene: Aka, Hot Handy. Shit. Too bad …
but he either withheld or strategically omitted having a connection to Conrad Carmichael, outside of being the family’s occasional handyman.
Read Beyond Horizons, the same book that showed up mutilated with a scrawled threat.
Motive, Method, Opportunity all unknown. But … the headaches?
Sadly, Holly added:
Serena: Motive and Opportunity undetermined. Method unknown.
Clearly, she was hiding something related to the necklace, but perhaps unrelated to Anna’s death. Holly kept her on the list anyway.
She jotted down other loose threads: Lypotrel, doctored gas report, her stolen copy of Beach Thriller, weird busker with his odd warnings, mysterious transactions from the house account to … where? Could those transfers have been Spellman siphoning money from the account over time?
Maybe the transactions were one thread she could tie into a knot. Holly tried Shae via FaceTime. She answered quickly, her beaming face oozing California effervescence. Given Holly’s agitated state of mind, it was almost too much to bear.
“Darling, tell me good news only,” said Shae cheerily. “Tristen has eczema because he’s stressed over a history test. His hands and feet look like they’ve been savaged by red ants.”
Holly didn’t skip a beat. “I found a dead guy who blew out his brains with a handgun, and he’s embezzled all my money.
” She forced a smile while Shae’s face went slack.
What Holly needed for this call was a little wine or whiskey—or better still, ayahuasca.
Thanks to Ethan, at least the water was filtered.
By the end of Holly’s recounting of the day’s horrific events, Shae’s usually sunshiny smile had turned into a stormy squall.
Holly left out some details to spare her friend unnecessary worry—like the threats she’d received, the missing evidence, and her stolen novel.
However, Jade wasn’t a minor detail she could omit.
Shae shook her head in a slow sweep of disapproval. “That is a direct violation of the Sisterly Bond Laws: Thou shalt not keep any wandering waifs sleeping under your roof a secret from your oldest, dearest friend.”
Holly rebutted, “She’s tiny but could definitely take me in a fight, so I don’t think I’m in violation. But the next home intruder I let live with me, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Thank you,” said Shae, sitting upright, satisfied.
“I wasn’t just calling to tell you about dead people and teen runaways.
I was hoping you’d have an update on my account.
And not to add to your caseload, but maybe you can help me battle through some red tape so I can figure out if I have any money left.
Pretty soon, Jade and I will both be squatters. ”
“You’re not going to be homeless—that’s not an option,” said Shae.
“And to answer your question, no, not really. Those transactions go to two private bank accounts, and I need a police warrant to get the details. Now that we have a crime, I might be able to help you get one, but it’ll take more time.
“As for the rest of your funds, let me see what we can do. Hopefully, there’ll be enough left for your basics. Either way, I’m not letting you starve. There’s this thing called being a patron of the arts.”
Holly’s forehead creased. “I’m not interested in charity. I’ve made my own way in this world for forty years. I’ll figure something out.”
“‘If he was beholden to pride, he would never have braved his many failures, thereby achieving great success.’”
“Are you quoting Chaucer to me?” asked Holly.
“No, Meow Mindfulness, page 172—a passage about King Fluff, the great mouse hunter.”
Holly exhaled a sigh. “Maybe there’s a way Chester can make me millions like King Fluff.”
Eight thirty had come and gone. Enough was enough. There had been no word from Jade. Every call and text Holly had sent went unanswered. She couldn’t sit on her ass and wait. She grabbed her car keys and drove her Kia up the windy road to the bluff.
Flashbacks hit her hard and fast. Holly’s headlights reflected off the trees, bursts of light reminiscent of emergency vehicles from long ago.
The air carried a familiar scent—the smell of summer by the ocean, dry earth mixed with salt water.
But the last time she was on foot, her breath ragged, her panicked mother trying to keep pace.
She expected a headache to strike, but it blessedly stayed dormant. Was she starting to be less fearful of her past, or were the headaches only an Ethan thing?
Holly gripped the steering wheel, trying to steady her body and mind.
For Jade, she could face the Carmichaels again.
She eased her speed. The tall iron gate of Miramar loomed ahead, its imposing spikes warding off would-be intruders.
Holly’s headlights illuminated the intercom.
She pressed the buzzer and waited. A moment later, a croaky old voice answered.
“A bit late to be selling Girl Scout cookies, isn’t it?”
“I’m Holly Sinclair—I live down the road. My friend Jade Jensen works here. I hope she’s still on the premises, because she’s not answering her phone.”
“I see. One moment, please,” the low voice drawled.
She heard a buzzing sound, then a click as the gate unlocked. It swung open slowly. Holly’s vision blurred as she maneuvered her car down a driveway that she’d sworn she would never travel on again.
The home was as she remembered, as she had described in her book—the turreted tower, windows like dark eyes peering out from behind thick stone walls.
She drove her car around the grand fountain in the middle of the circular driveway, parking in front of a large set of wooden doors.
The fountain was off for the night. The man and woman, cast in bronze, held a tipped water jug, but tonight, nothing spilled out.
Tomorrow would be different—the fountain would flow and glow.
Crowds would gather under a large white tent assembled on Maeve’s private beach.
She wasn’t here for a trip down memory lane, but she found herself trapped in a time warp. There he was, silhouetted in the doorframe, poised and confident, Conrad Carmichael in the flesh. He had a sense of ease about him, as if no crisis were afoot.
He stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at Holly as he always did.
She credited him for his sense of style: He was well-dressed in a nice polo and crisp slacks.
He kept his hair neat and avoided late-night snacks; his waistline had changed little, and his jawline remained strong.
They could have cast his handsome face in bronze and placed it in the fountain.
Yet Holly shivered at the sight of him. After all these years, she could hardly meet his gaze.
“Holly Sinclair,” he said, coming down the stairs to greet her.
“I can’t believe it’s you. It’s been so long.
How are you? You look great.” He paused for a moment, appearing confused.
“But the party is tomorrow. You got the invitation, right? I’m sure it was a surprise.
We knew you were back in town, and—well, we wanted to reach out somehow. ”
Holly wasn’t buying his horseshit charm. She launched right in. “I’m not here for the party,” she said, clenching her teeth. “Jade Jensen lives with me. She didn’t come home after work, and she’s not answering her phone. I’m hoping she’s still here.”
Conrad’s demeanor shifted. He pulled back, shoulders tightening, eyes darting around like a man looking for a way out.
“Jade lives with you?” His voice rose. “She never said.”
“Where is she?” Holly asked. “I need to see her right away.”
Conrad appeared nonplussed. “I apologize, Holly.” A slight lilt suggested he was crafting a story on the spot.
“Jade left hours ago. I’m afraid I can’t help you.
But if I hear from her, I’ll get in touch.
I do hope you’ll make it to the party. We’d love to have you. ” He flashed her a stiff, toothy grin.
Holly recognized the look. She had described it many times in her novels—always when a character was lying.