The Vanishing at Castle Moreau(8)
Author: Jaime Jo Wright

Cleo surveyed the open space before the castle. It was apparent that historically the winding drive had once served carriages, which were welcome to pull up and stop before the grand entrance that boasted large timber doors. At present, weeds grew in patches throughout the driveway. The lawn on either side was either dead, yellow, or still green but struggling. A sprinkler system would do wonders.

 

Cleo shook the random thoughts from her mind. Squirrels ran rampant in her head, always taking her thoughts places other than where they were supposed to be. If she’d had a caring set of parents as a child, she might have had the benefit of being identified as having ADHD and being given measures to help manage it. Of course, she could only assume that was her issue. Which made this job even more ironic. What right-minded consumer would hire someone with self-diagnosed ADHD to organize anything?

 

Yep. She’d bit off way more than she could chew, let alone swallow.

 

Cleo appreciated the woods that bordered the expansive but dying lawn. Their presence created a hemisphere of oak and maple sentinels that seemed to guard Castle Moreau. In front of them stood a smaller army of apple trees. Their scraggly branches were leafed, and the blossoms had died off in exchange for tiny hints of fruit.

 

“Go away!” The reedy voice startled Cleo to a complete halt. She glanced every which way to identify where it had accosted her from, but she saw no one. Cleo took another step toward the front doors.

 

“I said, get!”

 

Cleo lifted her gaze to the second-story window at the western end of the castle. A wiry-haired, old woman leaned so far out of it, it petrified Cleo that she’d flip right over the sill and land headfirst into the bushes below.

 

“I know who sent you and I want nothing to do with anything that grandson of mine dreams up in his pretty little head!” The woman flailed her left arm out the window as if to shoo Cleo away.

 

Cleo stood her ground for no other reason than she needed Deacon Tremblay’s money to survive. She could not go back. Ever.

 

“Mrs. Tremblay?” She offered the moniker as a pathetic peace offering.

 

“Don’t Mrs. Tremblay me!” The elderly woman’s hair was as white as Albert Einstein’s and about the same style. As best as Cleo could tell from her position on the ground, the woman had on black circular glasses that were reminiscent of Harry Potter’s, only chunkier. “You tell my grandson he can wave his money anywhere he wants, but I’m a Tremblay, and a Tremblay does as a Tremblay wants!”

 

They certainly did.

 

Cleo recalled the images of Deacon Tremblay plastered on magazines in stores, on the internet, and even on his own book cover. Who wrote an autobiography at just shy of forty years old? It wasn’t like he hadn’t much life left to live. But Deacon Tremblay—at least according to the tabloids and media outlets—was a reformed playboy turned business executive after he inherited the lion’s share of the Tremblay fortune in America. Nothing stopped a Tremblay. That there hadn’t been a Tremblay to hold office at the White House was a bit of a shock.

 

“Do you have weeds in your brain?” Mrs. Tremblay howled at Cleo, once again jerking Cleo from her mental wandering.

 

“No!” Cleo retorted defensively before realizing she was snapping back at the Tremblay matriarch. “No.” She softened her tone.

 

Mrs. Tremblay pulled back from the window and disappeared.

 

Great.

 

Cleo shot a desperate look at Murphy, who lounged on the passenger seat of the car, staring at her with eyes that seemed amused by her predicament.

 

Now what?

 

Should she just stand out here or force her way into the castle under the name and authority of Deacon Tremblay? Definitely not the latter. She wasn’t aggressive by nature—or even assertive. She could be when needed, but . . . sheesh, a job serving fast food would be so much simpler!

 

“I said to shoo, and I meant it.” Mrs. Tremblay appeared at the front entrance. The timber door was partially open, just enough for the older woman’s foot, hip, and profile to be seen by Cleo.

 

“Actually, you said to go away.” Cleo bit her tongue the instant the words escaped her lips.

 

Mrs. Tremblay stepped out, squeezing through the gap in the door as if she couldn’t open it all the way. She eyed Cleo up and down, surveying her as if she were an alien. Her brown eyes were sharp behind her round glasses. Wrinkles pulled at her lips, reddened with lipstick that had seeped into the wrinkles, making her look a bit like an elderly female Joker from one of the Batman movies.

 

“You’re sassy.” Mrs. Tremblay’s observation did nothing for Cleo’s confidence.

 

Yes. She was sassy. She’d spent the last several years dampening the sass into submission. But sass didn’t equal confidence, and right now she had about as much gumption as a mouse stuck in a trap.

 

Mrs. Tremblay’s gray eyebrow perked up. “My grandson thinks he knows what’s what. He’s a Tremblay, and all Tremblay men masquerade around with their charm and ils vous séduisent. Are you his lover or his assistant?”

 

Cleo drew back, her eyes rounding and her body stiffening. This would probably be the only time in her life someone would accuse her of being a multimillionaire’s mistress, and she wasn’t even flattered.

 

“I-I . . .” She also wished for her sass to return to wherever it had suddenly fled. Flustered, Cleo searched for words.

 

Mrs. Tremblay gave a delicate snort through her delicate nose. “You’re not his lover, then. I can tell that by the look in those pretty blue eyes. He would have snuffed out that anxiousness and you’d be more like a cat. Victorious that you’d snared the neighborhood tom.”

 

“Okay, that’s enough.” Cleo found her voice again. The woman was anything but grandmotherly, and if she wanted to talk about cats, she was plenty catty—although Cleo found offense to that on behalf of Murphy, who was now perched on the car’s dash, staring at Mrs. Tremblay with an aura of censure.

 

Censure away, Murphy. The woman deserves it.

 

Cleo sucked in a deep breath and found some fortitude deep within. She raised her index finger and leveled a gaze on Mrs. Tremblay that she hoped was both respectful yet drew boundaries. If she’d learned one thing in the past few years, it was that boundaries were critical.

 

“Mrs. Tremblay, I’ve never met your grandson. We’ve only spoken on the phone. I’m here to help you organize your home and get things into a more livable condition so that you can be healthy and content, and so your grandson doesn’t need to worry.”

 

Another snort. “Worry? He doesn’t worry, Mona Lisa!” The nickname slipped from the old woman’s mouth as though half insult, half compliment. “Deacon is only concerned with perception. The media loves to chat about his grandmother when they get bored, and Deacon, frankly, has done an abysmal job of late to feed them any gossip. So, here they are, focusing on my home as if it’s some landmark being ruined by a crusty old woman with a penchant for collections.”