by Celia Loren
I feel an itch in my fingers, and can't stop myself from googling Brent Redmond. By contrast, a slew of articles pop up for his name, a mix of items from business outlets about his company and juicier pieces from society columns. I click on one of the latter, and bite my lip as a photo of him and a gorgeous blonde pops up. I zoom in on the photo. He's shirtless in it, and heat rises to my cheeks. That black suit he was wearing tonight was hiding some seriously toned muscles. My god. I scroll down to read the caption underneath. Real estate tycoon Brent Redmond and socialite Missy Latrell enjoy some fun in the sun in the south of France. Socialite? Is that a job title? Besides, she looks like a professional model. Of course that's the kind of woman he dates.
I force myself to close the browser page and focus on the sound of the rain outside. The few drops have turned into what sounds like a torrential downpour with high winds, and I can hear the old house creaking slightly. I stare up at the white ceiling and pull the thick blanket up under my chin as the familiar weight of sadness and guilt falls over me.
I picture Grace crossing the narrow strip of floor between our beds when she couldn't sleep as a child and softly raising my sheets to snuggle in beside me. I can almost feel her now, her tiny body generating heat as she would place her head on my pillow.
"I'm sorry, Grace," I whisper aloud, beginning my nightly refrain. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I repeat as tears fall down my cheeks.
Chapter Five
I wake up the next morning at seven feeling like my brain is shrouded in fog, but I force myself to get up, brush my teeth, and put on my uniform. There's no sign of anyone in the kitchen, but I do find a note on the counter from Ms. Mueller saying, "Help yourself to anything in the fridge/pantry that's in a BLUE container. Anything in red is specifically for the Redmonds or guests."
Sounds fair. I open up the pantry and am happy to find a fine selection of cereals in blue containers, so I fix myself a small bowl and brew some coffee in the intimidatingly large machine. By eight, I've washed up after myself and am pulling the cleaning supplies out of the mud room. I decide to start in the massive basement, which I didn't really even have a chance to see yesterday. It seems to have taken the brunt of the last month's lack of a maid, and four hours fly by while I'm down there. At least my attention is focused enough that my mind stays clear of any thoughts of my boss.
I continue upstairs, dusting and vacuuming the East Wing, which consists of a less formal living room, a TV room or den, and a study that looks over the backyard. I cautiously poke my head into the final room—the door is open slightly but there's no one inside, so I push it open, dragging the vacuum behind me. I survey the room, with its thick oak desk and dual computer screens. This must be where Mr. Redmond works when he's home. To my horror, I realize that I actually have my nose in the air, trying to smell him. I shake my head at myself and look around for an outlet for the vacuum. I'm about to turn it on when I glance up to a picture above the fireplace, on the opposite wall from the desk.
My mouth drops open in shock. Is that a Winslow Homer? Can't be… he's one of the greatest painters in American history… his work costs millions… you'd have to be a billionaire to afford… oh, right. I steal to the door and glance both ways down the hallway, then slip off my shoes and pull a chair over to the fireplace. I gently step onto the seat of the chair, leaning forward to see the painting more closely. I look down at the signature in the corner. Sure enough, it reads, "Winslow Homer, '87". Holy shit. I mean, how many of Homer's paintings are even in private hands?
I bring my fingers up just inches away from the canvas, studying his brushstrokes. The image is of children in a rowboat, making their way through a tranquil harbor in eerily pink light. I'm absolutely transfixed by the beauty of it. So transfixed that I jump at the sound of a sudden noise next to me. Mr. Redmond is standing in the door with an annoyed expression on his face.
"Sorry, I—" I begin, and attempt to step toward him, forgetting that I'm standing on an armchair. My foot catches and I tumble forward. I gasp as he jumps forward and I fall face down onto his chest. "Oh god, oh I'm so sorry," I mumble, pressing my hands onto his shoulders to pick myself up. I feel his strong muscles beneath my fingers, but it's nothing compared to being just inches from those piercing light eyes. I freeze, barely breathing.
"Was the painting dusty?" he asks, and I have absolutely no idea if he's joking or not. Before I can answer, he leans forward and scoops me up behind the knees, then sets me down standing on the floor.
"I…no…sorry. I was just checking to see if it was a real Homer. I thought maybe it was a print—sorry, I'll get out of your way," I stammer, hurrying to the outlet to unplug the vacuum.
"Did someone tell you it was here?" he asks, stepping toward me as I glance around for my shoes.
"What? I don't understand," I reply, stopping my search to stare at him.
"Did someone tell you the painting was here? Is that why you took the job?"
Color rises to my cheeks. "Wait, are you accusing me of being a thief? I would never…I was an art student. I painted in oils. Winslow is a great oil painter. I was admiring it. Call one of my old teachers at MassArt if you want." I sit down on the chair and pull on my shoes angrily. He stares at me for a moment before moving to the study door and shutting it.
"Just hang on a minute." He takes a deep breath. "I apologize. I've just been a bit on edge since Jody disappeared."
"If I were going to steal something, I wouldn't wait for the middle of the day, then bring in a vacuum and take off my shoes."
"True," he replies, his mouth twitching. Is he about to laugh at me?
"I'm not a thief," I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
"You just…I was surprised in the first place to see you working here, and then when I walked in and saw you on that chair, I jumped to a conclusion. I am sorry."
I nod, starting to feel embarrassed by my anger, and rather shocked to hear an apology cross his haughty lips. "What do you mean? Why were you surprised to see me working here?"
He walks over to his desk and leans on the edge. He moves so effortlessly, like he has perfect control over his body. Probably how he keeps sneaking up on me. I sit up a little straighter, feeling self-conscious of my posture.
"Because of how you look." I raise my eyebrows at him. "Because you're not how I think of a maid looking." I frown. Does he think these are explanations? "Because you're beautiful," he finally says, without a hint of humor in his voice.
"Oh." I bite my lip, feeling the color rise in my cheeks again, though certainly not from anger this time. "Sorry." Wait, no…
"Do you not think of yourself as attractive?"
"Oh, um…not really, I don't know," I reply, bringing my hands to my face. He really doesn't let up. I bet it'd be hell to be in business with him.
"So you went to college for art?" he asks, and I'm grateful for the change of subject.
"For a while," I concede. "Didn't graduate. It's a long story," I add, not wanting to get into it.
"But you worked mainly in oils?"
I nod. "I like the way they can be layered, the texture you can achieve with them. And that so many painters before me had used them…it made me feel connected to something."
He nods to the painting behind me. "I saw this painting at auction and fell in love with it. It's from Homer's time in Gloucester. Something about the two children rowing with these giant schooners behind them…" he trails off, studying it. I run my eyes over his face, thinking how the light coming in from the windows to his right are creating the perfect glow for a portrait. He glances down and catches me staring at him.
"Sorry, I'll leave you to your work," I say, beginning to stand.
He shrugs. "It's alright. I usually interview any new staff personally, but we were in a rush to hire someone else."
"Oh, is this an interview? I thought maybe it was interrogation," I reply lightly.
He narrows his eyes at me. "Cora MacAuliffe," he says, rolling my name aro
und in his mouth in a way that makes me squirm. "The unlikely maid."
"Are you going to ask me my five-year plan?" I challenge him, surprising myself. Where am I getting the balls to be this impertinent to him? Something about his holier-than-thou air really bugs me.
"I wasn't, but now I am," he says, and I can just see the corners of his mouth curving upward. "So, Ms. MacAuliffe, where do you see yourself in five years?"
"I don't know. Still working as a maid, I guess."
"No."
"No?" The absolute certainty in his voice takes me aback, and absolutely gets under my skin. How would he know what I'm going to be doing?
"No," he repeats. "I doubt it very much. Why did you become a maid in the first place?"
"It's a long story."
"That's the second time you've said that."
"That's because it's private. Usually when people say, 'it's a long story', it means they don't want to talk about it," I snap. He raises his eyebrows at me. I press my lips together, knowing how incredibly stupid it is to talk to my boss like that, but also unwilling to completely back down. "I'm…I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. It's just…it really is private. I hope you understand."
He nods. "We all have things we'd like to keep hidden," he says, and I look up at him. His eyes have clouded over slightly, and something about the way he's considering me sends a shiver straight to my core.
"Did you interview Jody?" I find myself asking.
"I did."
"What was she like?"
"She was sweet, eager to please, not intelligent like you…she tended to see things in black and white. There was something childlike about her…she didn't even drink." I notice that we're both referring to her in the past tense.
"You got all that from an interview?"
"She also worked here for a while after that, but I do pride myself on my ability to read people. I think it's why I've been so successful in business," he replies, looking down at his intertwined fingers.
"And what are you reading from me?" I ask quietly, and he glances up at me.
The air in the room suddenly becomes charged, as though there's a current running between us. He opens his mouth to speak, and I find myself leaning forward in anticipation. Just as his lips begin to form a word, the phone rings, breaking through the spell. He reaches behind him to the receiver.
"Yes?" he answers brusquely. There's a pause in which I can see him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. "I see. We'll be expecting you." He hangs up and stares at the phone for a long moment before turning to me. "That was the police. They found Jody Hall. She's dead."
Chapter Six
"Should I inform the rest of the staff and your mother?" I ask Mr. Redmond as he remains frozen on the edge of his desk. He frowns at me as though he hasn't heard my question. "About the police coming to the house?"
"Oh, yes. Good idea," he says, walking behind the desk and sitting in his high-backed leather chair. As I walk out of the room, I can hear him picking up the phone and asking for Mark Scanlon.
In the kitchen, I pause for a moment, watching Ms. Mueller work over a steaming pot on the stove. I didn’t think about the fact that I just took on the responsibility for telling her about Jody's death. I don't even know if they were close.
"Ms. Mueller?" I say, clearing my throat. She turns to look at me expectantly. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but the police just called. Jody…she's dead. They are going to come by the house soon."
"Oh…oh, dear," she says, leaning on the island. "That poor girl. Do they know how?"
"I don't know any details. Mr. Redmond just asked me to tell everyone to be expecting the police. Were you close?"
"Not very…just acquaintances, really, though she had worked here for a year and a half. It's hard to believe…"
"Is Mrs. Redmond in the guest house?"
"Yes, but I'll tell her," she says, snapping out of her pensiveness. "You run upstairs and tell Aaron," she adds, turning to switch off the burner behind her. I nod and head up the back staircase. Mr. Sarka has the last room in the hallway, which I haven't even had the chance to visit yet. His door is closed, and I knock quietly.
"Come in!" I hear, and push it open.
"Hi, Mr. Sarka."
"Aaron," he says with a smile from his bed, where he's lying on top of his covers, fully dressed, reading a book.
"Aaron. I'm sorry to tell you, but the police just called and they found Jody Hall. She's dead." He snaps his book closed and swings his legs onto the floor, his joviality gone.
"Any other details?" he asks as he pulls on his shoes.
"I don't know. I just happened to be in the room when the police called. I think they're heading over now."
"Maybe he'll finally get those cameras," Aaron mutters, almost to himself.
"Sorry?"
"Security cameras. Around the perimeter and gardens. Mr. Redmond thought they'd ruin the lines of the house."
"Oh." I reply dumbly.
"Where is he now?"
"Study." Aaron hurries past me, and I walk back down the hallway and peer quickly into my room, wondering what I should be doing. I look down at my suitcase on the floor, which I still haven't gotten a chance to unpack. After a moment of feeling useless, I wander back down to the kitchen and decide to make a large pot of coffee. It's probably a stereotype, but maybe the policemen will want some.
Just as the coffee begins brewing, I hear the doorbell ring and walk briskly to the front door to answer it. The police sure made good time, though I suppose a murder must take top priority. Murder…I suppose I just assumed that was how she died. There are, of course, other possibilities. I should know.
I fix my face into a polite but grim smile that I deem fitting for the occasion and swing open the front door. There's an older detective standing in the middle of the stoop, and next to him is—
"Jaime," I breathe, completely shocked to see him. "I didn't realize you…you're with the police here?"
"Cora," he says, equally shocked. "I just transferred. They had an opening for a detective."
"Detective? Congratulations." I know that job had long been his dream.
"Well, junior detective," he corrects himself, looking sidelong at his older partner. "What are you doing here?"
"I hate to interrupt, but it's fucking freezing out here," the other man interjects.
"Oh god, sorry. Come in, please," I say, moving out of the way and then shutting the door behind them. "I can take your coats." Jaime frowns at me. "Can't you tell by the uniform? I'm the new maid."
"What?"
"Yeah, I just started yesterday."
"I'm Detective Felix Donohue," his partner says, and my mind jumps back to the quote he gave in the newspaper article. "And I can tell you already know Jaime. How, exactly?"
"We were…" I trail off as I hang their coats.
"Childhood sweethearts," Jaime completes my sentence for me, though he is downplaying our relationship quite a bit. We grew up in the same neighborhood, and were serious together for a while, though our relationship fell apart when my sister died. Not that there weren't already cracks, but Jaime refused to see them. He looks almost exactly the same as he did then, with his closely cropped dark blonde hair and brown eyes, though the frown line between his eyebrows looks slightly deeper.
"Well, if you just started yesterday, that shouldn't be a problem. No conflict of interest or anything, I mean."
"Oh, good. Let me just let Mr. Redmond know you're here," I murmur, trying to get back to my job. I return to his study and knock on the closed door. When I open it, Mr. Redmond and Aaron are deep in conversation and frown up at me. "The detectives are here. Should I show them into the living room?"
"Yes, we'll be right there. Mr. Scanlon should be arriving soon," Mr. Redmond says.
"Yes, sir," I reply, shutting the door and walking back to the foyer. "Right this way," I say to Jaime and Detective Donohue, leading them into the living room. Jaime is looking around at the sumptuous furn
iture with a sneer. He always had a chip on his shoulder about the very wealthy. "May I offer you something to drink?" I ask as they settle into two armchairs.
"Coffee," Detective Donohue says. "Black." Jaime nods as well, and I smile to myself. Well, sometimes stereotypes are true.
When I reenter from the kitchen with the coffee in elegant white mugs, Aaron and Mr. Redmond are sitting across from the detectives on the couch. Just as I set the mugs down on coasters, the doorbell rings again and I hurry to answer it. Mark Scanlon hurries in, handing his jacket off to me, and I follow him into the living room to take everyone else's drink orders.
"…in Cedar Lake. We think the rain last night swept her into shallower water, and a fisherman pulled her out," I hear Detective Donohue say as I hang up Mark's jacket. I begin to move more quietly.
"Drowned?" Mark asks.
"We don’t know yet. Won't know until after the autopsy, but we are investigating other avenues."
"So what are you calling it?"
"Possible murder. Again, won't know—"
"Until after the autopsy," Mark interrupts. "Would it be possible to keep this quiet until after that? There's no reason to cause a media circus until something's definite. Mr. Redmond here has his reputation and his company to think about."
"That's ridi—" I recognize Jaime's outraged voice.
"We'll do our best," Detective Donohue's voice cuts in. "We would like to take another look at Ms. Hall's room, though."
"Is that really necessary?" Mark asks.
"It's fine," Brent says, "though I believe Cora, the new maid, has already moved in. You told us before that would be alright."
"We'd just like to take another look," Detective Donohue reiterates.
"Cora?" I hear Mr. Redmond calling to the kitchen. Shit. I wince and wait for a moment to make it seem as though I haven't been eavesdropping, then walk into the living room. They turn in surprise, expecting me to come from the hallway to the kitchen, and I put on an innocent smile.