The Vanishing at Castle Moreau, page 2
Cleo pushed on the door that led outside, then quickly shuffled to her right as an older woman stepped through the same door.
“I’m sorry,” the woman mumbled.
“No worries,” Cleo responded.
“Hey!”
Cleo paused and looked over her shoulder, not sure if the “hey” was directed at her or the woman who was headed toward the aisle of bagged junk food. The attendant was eyeing Cleo, leaning on the counter, her elbows propping her upper body. “I’m Stasia.”
Cleo stared at the young woman for a moment, trying to compute the reason behind the sudden personal introduction.
Stasia’s smile slanted, but her dark eyes sparkled and changed the sullen appearance of her face into someone quite pretty. “I noticed your out-of-state plates. You going to be in town for a while or just passing through?”
Cleo adjusted the bag on her arm, shooting a quick glance at the other woman, whose head was bent over a bag of Doritos, apparently to find out their caloric count. Just buy them and to heck with the calories.
She shifted her attention back to Stasia. “Umm . . .” Stasia’s sudden interest was unsettling. “I’ll be in Needle Creek for a bit.” She hesitated to explain further but did anyway. “At Castle Moreau.”
“Castle Moreau?” Stasia’s eyes sharpened. “Really?”
“Yes?” It was a question in return for Stasia.
Stasia chewed her bottom lip, flicking the lip ring against her teeth. “Well, it’s Castle Moreau.” She held her hands up as though Cleo should just naturally know what she meant. “A landmark of Needle Creek. Mysterious and delectable with its—” Stasia paused for effect, waggling her eyebrows—“its deadly charm,” she concluded.
The explanation did nothing to assuage Cleo’s nerves.
“Okay.” Stasia waved her off with a once-again serious face. “Be safe.” With that, she slid backward and off the counter, picking up her phone to stare at its screen.
Be safe.
The words ripped through Cleo with the solemnity of what they implied. To be safe meant danger loomed. She’d been dodging that for the last two years. Two years. Cleo Clemmons was no longer; she was Cleo Carpenter now. Better to keep her first name or she’d completely mess up her cover. One would think she was running from the mob and not a twelve-year-old girl.
Actually, Riley would be fourteen now.
Cleo opened the back hatch of her black Suburban and set the whiskey in a plastic crate so it wouldn’t tip over or slide around as she drove. She wasn’t sure what Wisconsin’s alcohol laws were for transporting it, but Cleo figured it was better to have the whiskey well away from the front seat if she happened to get stopped by a patrol officer.
Settling in behind the steering wheel, Cleo reached out and scratched the furry forehead of her long-haired tabby cat. He was various shades of gray and black tipped with brown, with eyes a luminescent yellow. Murphy had found Cleo one morning near her car. He’d been sitting on the pavement just outside the driver’s door with an anticipatory expression, his delicate nose tilted upward and his tufted ears at attention.
Murphy had been Cleo’s sidekick ever since. She’d put little effort into finding his original owner. He was just too cute, and although Cleo had been raised to have integrity, she figured checking to see if Murphy was microchipped was effort enough. He hadn’t been. No tags. No phone number. So, Murphy was hers from day one.
Pulling out of the gas station, Cleo glanced at the phone that was positioned on the dash. It wasn’t hers. It’d been supplied to her and the very presence of it made her nervous. All phones had GPS in them now, right? Granted, who would know she carried a phone that had been prepaid and purchased by her long-distance employer? No one. It was why she’d agreed. She could maintain her anonymity from her old life while still being able to communicate with her current one.
The phone pealed, startling Cleo enough to make Murphy trill deep in his throat. A questioning sound the cat was prone to make anytime Cleo gave off the aura of discomfort.
Cleo jabbed the Bluetooth button on the steering wheel.
“Hello?”
“Cleo Carpenter?” Deacon Tremblay had the voice of a radio DJ.
“Yes, it is.”
“Good. I was hoping to hear from you today.”
Don’t gaslight me into feeling guilty for not calling. Her defenses rose instantaneously. “I haven’t arrived at your grandmother’s yet,” she said instead.
Although it couldn’t be that far away now. She’d already left the small town behind and was traversing the back roads that dragged her deeper into the wooded acreage of rural Wisconsin. She still didn’t quite believe any of this was happening. It felt . . . risky. The Tremblay family was well known, influential. They were American aristocracy. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Granted, it’d been desperation the past two years, and frankly, she was tired. Tired of odd jobs, of waitressing, of cleaning toilets at gas stations for cash under the table. The advertisement had been enticing with wages that would pay for her gas, her groceries, and, well, the bottle of whiskey. She’d found out it was that Tremblay family later—after she’d pursued the advertisement. Deacon Tremblay, however, had made it clear he was managing it all from New York. The idea he’d show up in Podunk, Wisconsin, wasn’t much of a concern.
“I wanted to give you a few pointers.” Deacon’s voice jerked Cleo back to the conversation at hand. “Grandmother can be . . . well, she won’t be thrilled about this.”
“They never are.” Cleo applied pressure to the brakes as a stop sign approached. She winced at her dry comment. How would she know?
“Yeah, well . . .” There was a moment of awkward silence, and Cleo was quick to catch on.
She tapped the steering wheel as she looked both ways at the four-way stop. Woods, woods, and more woods. A soul could get lost here.
“Your grandmother doesn’t know I’m coming, does she?” Cleo was going to have to keep careful track of the broad picture and make sure the major pieces didn’t crash and make it all fall apart.
Deacon cleared his throat, and it reverberated through the vehicle’s stereo system. “No. She isn’t aware of your arrival.”
“I’m sure one more person won’t upset things too much.” Cleo fixed a smile on her face so it would somehow translate through the phone and make her sound more optimistic than she felt. Maintain professionalism, even with rich people like Deacon Tremblay. Although she had to hand it to him. At least he was personally invested in his grandmother’s situation versus having an assistant make all the calls.
“One more person?” he asked.
There was silence.
Tires crunched on the asphalt road that was barely compressed gravel and strewn with sticks from a recent windstorm.
“Well, I mean . . .” Cleo fumbled for words. She really didn’t have to explain what she meant, did she? “Her family . . . they’re there, right?”
More silence.
Deacon cleared his throat again.
“Mr. Tremblay?” Cleo slowed down and pulled onto the side of the road beneath a canopy of oak trees. She needed to focus.
“I am her family. Grandmother lives alone. I thought I’d made that clear.”
Cleo stared at her phone as if she could see Deacon through it. She was glad this wasn’t a video chat. She had a weird thing about talking to drop-dead gorgeous men, and she’d seen enough of him on celebrity sites to know what he looked like. Famous like an American Kennedy, loaded like a Kardashian, and having dated a few celebrity women, Deacon Tremblay was the epitome of desirable. Desirable men made her nervous and shattered her confidence.
She tempered her breathing as she pondered her next words. “Well, that’s fine then.” Really, the less people the better. It just seemed weird that Deacon Tremblay would pick an obscure, no-name like her to dig into the privacy of his grandmother’s belongings. There were companies designed to do that sort of work. Large ones. Professionals.
“My grandmother’s residence needs organization, as we discussed, but you are on your own as far as coordinating what you’ll need. I want this done quietly, efficiently, and no talking to the press.”
That last part was no problem. “Sir, I’m an expert at keeping things quiet.”
“My grandmother is a hoarder. The public would have a field day with that information. It’s why I hired you.” Deacon Tremblay’s tone had grown sterner.
The emphasis brooked no assumptions. The online advertisement had been basic. Home organizer needed for elderly woman. Cleo had responded to the employer, who’d listed themselves as D. R. Brown. It wasn’t until later that she found out it was the infamous multimillionaire playboy from New York City and the heir to the American Tremblay fortune built during the post-Revolutionary War era. The Tremblays were one of the best-known original American families still to exist. Deacon had been flying low under the radar in his job posting. Obviously, anonymity and obscurity were important to him—as they were to her—yet Cleo couldn’t dispel the anxious panic that rode just beneath the surface. Someone as careful as Deacon Tremblay would not hire a person equally obscure with no visible past. Cleo Carpenter did not exist. A simple background check would give her away. He had to have figured that out.
“Ms. Carpenter?” Deacon’s deep voice snapped her back to the conversation. “Is this job going to be too large for you?”
She could picture it now. Boxes stacked to the ceiling and falling over. Garbage rotting in corners. Mounds of clothing. Crates filled with collectibles and junk simultaneously. Rat skeletons buried under ten years’ worth of newspapers. She did not want to clean out dead rats for a living, but she also didn’t have the option to be finicky.
“No, no, I can do it.” Cleo mustered as much patience as she could. “But what if I need outside help? Like a dumpster or something?”
“Then arrange it,” Deacon replied.
“Arrange it?” With what money? Did she call Deacon? Were they doing this project under the Moreau-Tremblay estate or under an assumed name to avoid nosy reporters and paparazzi?
“Yes, arrange for whatever you need to get the job done,” Deacon added in a tone that implied it was the most logical next step. “That’s what I hired you for.”
“No.” Cleo couldn’t help the irritation that leaked into her voice. “No, you hired me to help organize your grandmother’s home.”
“Isn’t cleaning up a part of organizing?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And you’re an organizer?”
“Well—”
“So, organize whatever help is needed. I’m paying for it. You and I will work on this and no one else. If you need money, let me know. I can’t manage the project, though. That’s what you’re for.”
“I’m not a project manager!”
“Ms. Carpenter.” Deacon Tremblay was all business now. “Do you or do you not want the job?”
“I do, but—”
“Great,” Deacon said, cutting her off. “Now, back to my purpose in calling you. Like I said, Grand-mère is not aware of your arrival. When you pull into the property, you’ll want to go to the side entrance. You can ring her there, and when she comes, make sure you immediately tell her I sent you.”
“You sent me.” Cleo felt like a parrot. She also felt her self-confidence draining away.
“Yes. Let her know I’m covering all the expenses—that will be her first concern ’cause she’s stingy with family money. And let her know that if she bars you out, I’ll give you the authority to break in.”
“Break into her house?”
“The castle.” It was no-nonsense, the way Deacon Tremblay declared it.
“A castle?” Cleo met Murphy’s gold eyes in an exchange of doubt and concern. She had visions of King Arthur’s Court and that old movie starring Sean Connery and Richard Gere.
“No one ever said my family was conventional. Neither are our homes.”
Deacon’s admission might have warmed Cleo on another day. It might have given her that slow-nod moment where she admired his veiled apology for flaunting their wealth. It was a rich man’s attempt at humility. But it did not impress her now. She was stupefied.
“A castle,” she repeated, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel.
“Built in the early eighteen hundreds. Apparently, my great-great-whatever-grandfather missed his homeland.”
“He was English?” Cleo assumed without thinking.
“French actually. You’ve seen the photographs of French châteaus?”
“No.” Or maybe she had and just hadn’t paid attention.
“Oh. Anyway, we French have a rich history in them alongside the proverbial English domination of the architecture.”
Cleo waited because she really had nothing to add. Not a thing. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel while Murphy perched on the seat next to her, his tail slapping the leather.
Deacon cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, my grandmother lives in Castle Moreau, and I expect she’ll insist you breach the walls in order to deal with her toxic mess.”
“Why is it called ‘Castle Moreau’ if your last name is Tremblay?” Cleo asked.
Deacon chuckled at her question. “My great-great-great-grandfather’s surname was Moreau. He had a daughter. She married. Names shifted. But the castle retains the original name.”
“Ah.” Cleo nodded.
Murphy uttered a little meow in his throat, pushing up to all fours and stretching. Cleo gave the cat a comforting pat on his head. She wished someone was in the car to do the same for her.
three
Daisy
She wondered if all castles were like this. Dark hues of navy blue in the corners where stone walls met mahogany floors, no windows in the hallways, only niches that created arched hollows in the walls, with cast-iron arms bearing kerosene lamps. It was cool but not damp. In fact, contrary to what Daisy had imagined when she’d stood outside the castle, the wind didn’t infiltrate the place. The elements were blocked by the castle’s thick walls.
“The castle is small iffen you compare it to the ones of the old world.” The stoop-shouldered, elderly man shuffled ahead of Daisy, lofting a lamp to help light the way. It had been evening when Daisy stood in the castle’s shadow, dusk when she’d mustered the nerve to lift the heavy knocker forged in the shape of a dragon’s head, and now it was nighttime. “There’s the south wing where’n you first comes in.” His grammar was awful, but Daisy hadn’t the heart to judge him. He seemed as uneducated as she was, so in a way, he made her feel a warmth that otherwise didn’t exist here at Castle Moreau. “South wing has them rooms that Madame Tremblay uses—like’n her study, and a place with stuffed, fancy chairs to drink yer tea, a library, another fancy place iffen visitors come—which they don’t—an’ so on. The east wing is the family wing. You won’t go there. Rooms bein’ private and all, you’d more’n like get sent to the dungeon for trespass.”
“There’s a dungeon?” Daisy’s breath hitched as the heels of her worn shoes made echoing footsteps on the floor.
A chuckle rumbled in the man’s chest. “Wouldn’t surprise me in this place.” It was a cryptic response and a non-answer to her genuine curiosity. “Yer room is here—in the north wing.”
“Is it where all the servants live?” Daisy adjusted the weight of her carpetbag on her elbow. The bag held all her belongings, and its well-worn and faded rust velvet had seen far better days.
The old man paused and lifted the lamp, which illuminated the drooping skin beneath his eyes, his jowls, and the long lobes of his ears. His face reminded Daisy of a beagle, and the floppy-eared dog reminded her of melted candle wax. So did Festus. At least that was what he’d called himself when she arrived. Festus. No surname or anything else to signify his position at the castle.
He stared at her now, and in the low light, Daisy couldn’t tell if his eyes were gray, or if they were so clouded with age that what had once been brilliant blue irises had through the years undergone a transformation of sorts.
“Other servants?” he rasped. “Ain’t none more than you.”
“Oh.” Daisy couldn’t hide the look of consternation that crossed her features. Who was going to show her what her duties were? Festus?
He shuffled forward again without offering further explanation as to the abysmal lack of staff. “You gets the north wing to yerself.” Festus announced this as if it were grand news and she the lucky recipient of some unexpected fortune. But as he rounded a corner that led to yet another lonely hallway, Daisy could barely swallow her anxiety.
Alone.
In the north wing.
Festus stopped before a door that was the same dark wood as the flooring. He twisted the heavy knob, and the door opened slowly with the eerie squeaking of old hinges.
“Here you be.” He stepped aside for Daisy to move past him.
She stared at the room with a mixture of amazement and utter horror. It was far larger than she’d expected. It was obvious that this was not a servant’s quarters, but an actual room probably used at one point for esteemed guests of the Moreau family. The room was indeed spacious, yet the luxury ended there.
The bed was canopied and covered in sheets that hung off the top frame, shielding the mattress from view. Spiderwebs swooped in the top corners of the room, decorating the crown molding with lacy strands of very-much-alive arachnids. A window at the far wall was void of its drapery. There was a wardrobe with a skeleton key sticking out from its lock. An Oriental rug stretched across the floor in faded hues of blue and yellow, which seemed to mock the rest of the dark room’s aged elegance.
“It’s like Miss Havisham’s house,” Daisy muttered to herself.
“Pardon?” Festus barked.
Daisy startled and turned her gaze on him. “Oh. Well, she’s from a book I read—Great Expectations by Mr. Dickens. Miss Havisham lives in an old mansion draped in cobwebs.”
Festus waved her off with a meaty hand and a grunt. “No time for books, me. Can’t read no how.”
