The Vanishing at Castle Moreau(3)
Author: Jaime Jo Wright

 

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.