Zeitgeist Page 11
“I might have trust issues.”
He set down the knife. “Don’t take the knife yet. I’m not done cutting. I want to see whether I’m right, first.” Grabbing one of the points made by his cuts, he began tugging it toward him.
“You could accept my apology. That would be the civil thing to do.”
Dropping the carpet edge, he sat back on his heels and swiveled his face toward her. She looked miserable, the skin taut on her face, her eyes almost black with remorse. He knew he’d let her off the hook eventually. There was no sense in dragging it out. “All right. I accept your apology. Did you want to help me tear this carpet out, or would you prefer to empty a clip into it?”
Fiona set her gun on the table by the door and moved to join him. “What do I do?”
Grant pointed at one corner. “You take that corner and pull away from me. I’ll take this one and pull away from you. I think the carpet should tear along the bias now, but I might need to cut more. Ready?”
She dropped to her knees across from him and grasped the corner with both hands. “Now.”
Grant pulled and took satisfaction in the sound of the jute backing ripping. “Yeah, that’s it. Again.” While pulling this time, he leaned back, putting all his weight into the job, and the carpet gave with a shriek of shredding fabric, exposing a three-foot square of wood. “That’s good enough. See? I was right. It’s a trapdoor. Don’t shoot me, but I’m going to pick up the knife so I can use it as a makeshift pry bar.”
“Quit that,” she said, her voice soft.
He glanced up at her, noting the shame on her face. “You have to start trusting again.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier than not trusting. What did you feel when you saw me holding a butcher knife and a lantern?”
She stared at him for a long moment before speaking. “Hurt. Betrayed. Afraid.”
Grant rejoiced inwardly at the first word. She’d felt hurt. If she didn’t care for him at all, he wouldn’t have the power to hurt her. “I know you have good reason not to trust, so I’ll tell you this once and ask you to remember it. I’d sooner plunge this knife into myself than into you. I’ll always feel that way. That won’t change.” He looked down when he saw her eyes fill with tears. She wouldn’t want him to see her demonstrate weakness. Sliding the point of the knife into the trapdoor seam, he applied pressure and felt the wood begin to rise.
She scooted close to him, her fragrance a heady combination of flowers and soap. “I’ll try to get my fingers beneath the lip. Go ahead.”
He continued to apply pressure. “I feel the blade starting to yield. Is that enough?”
She nodded and began pulling upward. “Damn. That was a fingernail. Keep trying.”
He applied more pressure. “The knife’s bending.”
“I’ve got it!” Fiona lifted the square of wood and shoved it away, letting it flop on its top while leaning forward to stare into the blackness beneath. “It’s a spiral staircase.”
Dropping the knife with a clatter, Grant picked up the lantern and held it above the hole. A straight spiral staircase, its wood planks acute triangles around a stout wooden beam, descended beyond the flashlight’s beam, its cobwebs diffusing the light. “It hasn’t been used in a long, long time.”
“Maybe decades. Not since we moved here, anyway. I didn’t know about it.”
Grant jumped to his feet and felt a jolt of residual anger when she flinched. Stalking to his suitcases, he popped one open and pulled out a shoe, returning to the opening and crouching beside it.
“You packed dress shoes?” She sounded horrified, as though the packing of dress shoes hinted at an extensive history of criminal acts including the wearing of deodorant and a proclivity for shaving. Police, my stalker has dress shoes in his suitcase. Really? We’ll send three cars. Try to find someplace to hide.
He frowned at her. “And a suit.”
“Why?”
“Because, once this is all over and done with, I’m taking you out to dinner.”
Her eyes widened. “At the time you packed your suitcase, we’d almost died. We were still in danger. Yet you took time to plan the next phase of your stalking?”
“Not stalking. Dating. I’ll take you someplace fancy. We can spear food from each other’s plates and discuss ordinary topics like movies and professional sports.”
She looked nonplussed. “You are a strange man, Grant Haldeman. What are you planning to do with the shoe now?”
“I’m going to toss it in this hole and see how far down it goes. If I’m right, the stairs lead all the way to the first floor. However, I don’t know whether it will open onto the first floor from the inside. If not, I’ll need your help. I’ll call to you. You’ll rescue me. Again.”
“I should be the one to go down. You don’t know whether those stairs will bear your weight.”
“This is my project. Don’t try to co-opt my project. As the youngest kid in a family with six kids, I know exactly what you have in mind. It starts with you being the first to go down, and then two days from now, you’re regaling our friends with tales of how you discovered a hidden staircase, all by yourself, while fighting off a man armed with a razor-edged machete and a pine-tar torch. Nice try.”
He saw her fight a smile. “We don’t have any friends.”
“Not through any fault of mine. Be quiet now while I listen.” Grant dropped the shoe, cocking his head to hear it land. Seconds passed before a faint thud sounded. “As I thought. First floor.” Grant rose to his feet, staring down at all those cobwebs and wishing like hell he wasn’t the gentlemanly type.
“What do I do?”
“We need to know where it goes. It might provide a decent escape route, should we need one. Anything’s better than sliding down a drain pipe to a porch roof. I’ll go down this way. You go down the conventional way. If it’s blocked at the other end, you’ll need to listen for my voice so we can figure out how to open it. Ready?”
She nodded.
Grant sat and scooted to the edge of the square hole, placing one foot on a stair and pressing down. It felt solid. He stood, keeping all his weight on the one foot and bouncing up and down. “It’s solid. I’m impressed. Can you pass me the lantern? Thanks. Go. I’ll meet you downstairs, somewhere on the first floor. Listen for me.”
She whirled and raced from the room, and Grant began his descent, taking care to keep his feet on the far outside, the widest part, of each triangular stair. After several twists around the wooden beam, it occurred to him his biggest concern, other than the cobwebs now thickly shrouding his face, neck, and arms, would be dizziness. He kept his lantern extended before him, but all he could see below was more stairs.
After a minute, he knew he’d passed the second floor and was now approaching the first, and he began to wonder whether the staircase led to a basement. There would be no outside egress from a basement, which would pretty much negate the staircase’s use as a means of escape. Wait. That looked like floor coming up. It was. Grant felt relief rise when his feet made the acquaintance of a hardwood floor.
Holding the lantern high, he inspected his surroundings. He was in a square room perhaps five feet by five feet, not counting the space occupied by the staircase. He wondered whether the cavity had initially been intended as a fireplace. No, he decided, that would be a massive fireplace, one big enough to roast a steer, maybe two steers. This was likely a nineteenth-century version of a freight elevator, used by household staff to avoid soiling their elitist employers with their presence.
Now he needed to determine how to get out of here. Wouldn’t it be something if she hadn’t run after all, if she’d turned back and replaced the trapdoor and was even now nailing it in place? He glanced up, relieved to see a tiny square of faint light above. Maybe he was the one with trust issues.
Logic dictated the exit would be straight ahead. After swiping away the layers of cobwebs adorning his face, arms, and clothing, Grant scrutinized the wall, looking for
a door handle or a latch or even a knothole but found nothing. “Fiona,” he called.
He waited. “Fiona!” This time he yelled her name. He thought he heard something, a faint voice not much more than a whisper. Cocking his head to the side, he listened.
“Where are you?” Her voice sounded far away, too far.
“In here!” he shouted.
“Where?” Her voice was nearer.
“In here!” he shouted again.
“Grant?” Her voice was on the other side of the wall.
“Yes! I’m in here. Is there a latch or a handle on that side?”
“Let me check.”
Grant heard thumping on the other side and waited for several minutes before the entire wall opened with a squeal of hinges. Blessed light flooded in, and he looked out, frowning at the sight of red and black, velvet and satin, and colossal photos of a boy and his mother. “Whitley’s bedroom? How?”
“Step through all the way. Don’t forget your shoe. I’ll show you.” Fiona gestured him forward, the look on her face both animated and impatient.
He obliged her, picking up his shoe, stepping through the opening, turning, and raising his eyebrows at the black chifferobe, a five-foot wide, seven-foot tall cabinet with the left third a narrow closet and the remainder consisting of six drawers. When they’d visited Whitley’s room this morning, this combination wardrobe and chest of drawers had rested against the wall. Now it stood perpendicular to the wall.
The hinges again protested loudly when Fiona swung the entire piece of furniture back against the wall until he heard a clicking sound. She then opened the closet side, revealing heavy satin robes hanging within. “Watch this and step back,” she said, raising her hand to the closet ceiling and pressing her fingers upward. The right side of the chifferobe moved of its own volition into the room, heralding its arrival with a screech.
“Here’s what’s really interesting,” Fiona said, waving a hand at the chifferobe in the manner of a game show beauty. “He had it painted black, but on the inside you can see the wood is actually maple. He couldn’t move it when he redecorated, it being part of the wall and all, so he repainted the outside of an antique. There are no limits to my brother’s depravity.”
Grant felt disappointment rise. “It’ll be tough to use this as an escape route if he’s in residence, though.”
“If we need to escape, that means he’s found us upstairs. He can’t be in two places at once. This is perfect. I’m really happy I discovered it.”
He stared at her, incredulous until he saw the amusement sparkling in the brown eyes, a rare glimpse of the woman she’d been before the plane exploded and her life imploded. “Did you just make a joke?”
“What? Are you the only one with a sense of humor around here?”
“I thought I was. I was wrong.” He shoved the chifferobe back into place. “Now we need a small area rug to cover up the torn carpet upstairs, and we’re set.”
She turned toward the door. “Follow me.”
“Always.”
She looked back, giving him a sharp glance. “Is that stalker humor?”
“Of course not.” He concentrated on maintaining a straight face.
Chapter 14
Bleary-eyed, Grant wandered into the kitchen. He’d finally fallen asleep—three hours ago. If he didn’t find something to read tonight, something to help him make the transition from wide-awake to drowsy, he’d wind up as bonkers as Fiona’s brother.
She glanced up at his arrival. “You don’t look well.”
And she looked, as always, fresh, vibrant, and beautiful. This morning, after his sleepless night, the thought made him more resentful than appreciative. “I’m not. I’ve become accustomed to reading before I fall asleep at night, generally a nice Soma Tome, but there’s not a book to be had in this house. Have you noticed that?”
She narrowed her eyes and stared into the distance as though retracing yesterday’s exploration. “That’s right. Daddy used to have several bookshelves. He was a big reader, mostly political thrillers. Whitley must have gotten rid of all the books. That’s odd.”
“No odder than anything else we’ve seen from him. Is that coffee I smell?”
“On the counter.” She shoved a forkful of cake into her mouth.
He paused, inspecting the plate in front of her, what appeared to be the top tier of a wedding cake, but with the groom missing. “Are you eating wedding cake for breakfast?”
“I’ve eaten worse for breakfast. It was in the freezer. I like frozen cake.”
His heartrate accelerated. She’d shared with him. Other than mentioning her regret over having delayed her enrollment in college, she’d never before shared with him the trivia developing insight into another’s quirks. He now had an opening line for Fiona’s entry on his personal dating website: Must like frozen cake. It was a start.
Ridiculously pleased, Grant turned to the kitchen cabinets and, after opening several cupboards, found one with coffee cups. Not mugs. Cups. How wonderfully dainty. “You know they save the top tier for their first anniversary, right?” He filled a cup with coffee and, rather than search for a saucer, gripped the delicate handle between a thumb and forefinger designed more for stoneware than china, managing to carry it to the table without spilling any.
“They won’t be having a first anniversary. It needs to be eaten now.”
“What happened to the groom, and please don’t tell me you ate him. My stomach is still chancy after yesterday’s tour of Hotel California.”
She held a forkful of cake suspended in mid-air. “I didn’t eat him. He was plastic, cheap plastic, I might add. I flushed him in Whitley’s toilet. It seemed appropriate. And what in the hell’s Hotel California?” She slid the cake into her mouth.
“A song by The Eagles. A spooky hotel for unwary travelers. ‘You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.’ It seemed appropriate. Is there enough cake there for two?”
“Help yourself.” She shoved the plate halfway between the two of them. “Get your own fork.” While he found a fork and joined her, slicing off a bite, she continued speaking. “I had a frightening thought this morning about all this food.”
“If it’s about the rest of the giant prawns, they’re yours. I lost my appetite for those after we saw your bedroom yesterday.”
“No, not that, though I did have concerns about the inroads you were making on the crab puffs. I’m wondering why all this food is here, well, not why it’s here, but how it got here.”
Grant paused while slicing off another chunk of cake. She was right. How had the food from a wedding reception wound up in the groom’s refrigerator, a groom who’d supposedly left for his honeymoon right after the reception? “What did you come up with?”
“Someone had to let the caterers in. Someone else knows the alarm codes. You know,” she began, shifting gears, “it strikes me as incredibly selfish Whitley kept all this food. Whenever Daddy had an affair, he instructed the caterers to deliver the leftovers to the nearest homeless shelter. Why would Whitley want it delivered here? And who opened the door for the caterers?”
“To the first question, Whitley’s a selfish son of a bitch who never has a thought beyond the satisfaction of his own needs. To the second question, I don’t know. I do think it’s a good thing we’re aware this other person exists. I’m glad I thought of it.”
She widened her eyes and then smiled, genuinely smiled, while stabbing a forkful of cake into her mouth. “You’re reusing old material, typical of a hack humorist.”
“I am.” Grant grinned back at her.
“We’ll need to be careful, make certain whenever we make a mess down here, we clean up after ourselves.” To illustrate her point, she stood, walked to the trashcan, and tossed in her fork. “We should also take some food upstairs, in case Whitley’s friend stops by and makes himself at home. I’m no artist, and I don’t relish the thought of starving in a garret while a stranger occupies the first floor.”
“In my bedroom. I always hid it beneath the storage trunk at the end of my bed. Daddy called it my ‘hope chest.’ I was supposed to fill it with items I’d need for my marriage.”
“I didn’t see a chest yesterday.”
“The dark pieces of splintered boards.”
“Oh. That was a trunk?”
“Once. I think Whitley used an axe on it. Anyway, he didn’t look beneath it before he demolished it, and my laptop was still there. I found the charger where it had always been, in the chest of drawers he shoved on its face. Once the laptop’s done charging, we can use it to search for the patterns Valencia mentioned.”
“We should check Valencia’s phone first. I’ll bet she has voice mails. Her people didn’t know she died in the crash, and I imagine they called her several times. We might be able to glean some information about her from the phone.”
“Good thinking, Watson.”
Grant froze in the act of forking cake into his mouth. “Why am I Watson and not Sherlock?”
“Because, as must be obvious to everyone but you, I’m the brains of this operation. You’re my sidekick.”
He grinned. “I’ve been promoted from stalker?”
“Yes. Stalkers don’t collaborate with their victims. You’re an ex-stalker who’s been promoted to sidekick.”
Careful not to reveal the mental high-five he gave himself, Grant rejoiced. He had made progress. Yes! Keeping his voice bland, he said, “This sidekick needs your Wi-Fi password, then. I brought my laptop. We can work on the keyword searches together, superhero and sidekick.”
“Sitting companionably, side-by-side?”
“I like the idea.”
“Your liking it isn’t exactly a recommendation, Grant. You also like the idea of sneaking around in the dead of night with a butcher knife. The ideas you like tend to get people shot or worse.”
She was playing coy. He could match her at coy. “How about this? Your room. Me on a chair as far as is physically possible away from you. You wherever people sit when they want to make a point. Then, if our mystery visitor shows up, we’ll be out of the way and making progress, all at the same time. What do you say?”