The Vanishing at Castle Moreau(4)
Author: Jaime Jo Wright

 

“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.”