by Kris Calvert
Climbing up the back of the couch was the only way to reach the door without a ladder. I stood, balancing myself precariously as I slipped the key into the lock marked with a W. The same W that was sealed in wax on every bottle of Winter Bourbon that ever left the distillery.
With a single turn of the key, the door opened. Too dark to see inside, I knew if I was going in, I was going in like the Phantom—with my candelabra.
Placing the keys back in my pocket, I reached for the candles and prayed to get inside the door without snuffing out the light, setting the painting on fire or falling and knocking out all my teeth while trying to accomplish the first two.
Once inside the doorway, it wasn’t as hard to navigate as I’d imagined. The door, also on a hinge hidden inside, closed itself. I heard the painting hit the wall, concealing me within the secret room.
I took a deep breath before turning around to see exactly what I’d gotten myself into and I prayed as crazy and mixed up as my immediate family was, there weren’t any skeletons in the closet—real skeletons.
The room smelled like the library, of old books and artifacts and I could see from where I stood at the entrance, it was larger than I’d imagined. Taking a step forward, a bank of candles protruded from the wall and I went about lighting them, hoping to illuminate what was beyond the candles in my hand.
The room lit up, the light reflecting off four mirrors that lined the walls. I walked to the other side of the doorway, lighting the second bank of candles.
The room now aglow, I realized what it was—a panic room.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I gasped as I looked around at the many trunks, papers and works of art. A huge mahogany table sat in the center of the room complete with chairs. At one end was an inkwell and a feathered quill and on the other, words were carved into the table.
Men at some times are masters of their fates. The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves.
In the center of the table was a leather-bound journal, buckled and locked. I dug the keys from my pocket knowing the key I’d used to let myself in was too big. The photograph of my mother fell from my pocket and I picked it up, only looking at it for a moment before realizing what I needed—the key she wore around her neck.
I ran my hands along the top of the journal where a single gold W was embossed on the cover. Behind the table along the walls were a series of old-fashioned trunks, each with initials. There was MW for Marshall Winterbourne, JPW for his son John Paul Winterbourne, and EW for Edward Winterbourne—Cecil’s father and my great grandfather. I looked around the room for something with Cee Cee’s initials, but there was nothing. What I did find in the corner on the opposite side of the room was a more modern trunk. As I approached, I could feel my heart beat faster. When I saw the initials, MWH on the top, it stopped. “Mom,” I whispered.
Falling to my knees in front of the black trunk, I embraced it with my arms as if I’d found what I’d been looking for my entire life—my mother.
There was a lock on the front, but when I lifted the lid, it opened and I finally took a breath.
Once inside, items stored there flashed back memories I didn’t know existed. The silver hairbrush and mirror that sat on her dressing table, the gold bracelet she always wore, and on top of a smaller mahogany box lay the necklace and key I remembered so vividly hanging from her neck.
Lifting it from the trunk, I sat it on the long table where the light was the best, wrapping the necklace around my fingers so I wouldn’t drop it into one of the deep crevices of the wooden planks that were the floor.
Going back to the trunk, I noticed under the mahogany lockbox was my mother’s wedding gown. Folded in tissue and under a glass window, I could see the bridal lace clearly. Next to it was a worn doll with a porcelain face. I could only guess it was hers from her childhood.
Sitting down at the table, I noticed among the candles and old wax, a corked bottle of bourbon with a handwritten label—1879. Looking back at the box, I wondered what my mother had left inside for the future generations and decided Marshall wouldn’t mind if I had a sip of his one hundred and thirty-seven-year-old stock. If ever I needed a drink, it was now.
Twisting the cork from the bottle, I gave it a sniff before pressing my lips to the rim. Smooth as if it came from our distillery today, I let out a heavy sigh. “Damn Marshall. You knew what the hell you were doing, didn’t you?”
I took another sip for good measure, corking it up again and placing it in the exact spot from which I’d lifted it.
The old chair screeched across the floor as I moved up to the table. Holding the key and necklace in my shaking hand, I thought of my beautiful mother and welled up. Here I was, twenty-three years later, still missing her like I was ten.
I slipped the key into the lock and turned, opening the heavy wooden box. Inside was a set of pearls, a couple of diamond brooches, a leather journal, and an old piece of faded blue construction paper folded into fours.
Leaving the jewelry behind, I thumbed through the book. I saw it was her handwriting and knew it was her personal diary. I picked up the blue paper, opening it to find a red crayon heart with the words, I luv you scrawled in a child’s hand. In the bottom right corner was my name, Win. I didn’t remember making it for her, and yet it was comforting she held it so dear she stored it with her most prized possessions.
Opening the journal, I longed for a glimpse into the life of the woman I didn’t know. I yearned to know everything about her. I read the first line and I felt as if I was somehow violating her privacy. What if she didn’t want her nearly thirty-three-year-old son reading her most intimate thoughts?
June 1, 1976
The wedding was everything I’d hoped it would be. Daddy was so proud and no one got too inebriated or acted a fool at the reception. Robert and I are off for Paris this morning, our first night together as husband and wife a beautiful miracle. I’m so glad we waited. Even Robert agreed last night we’d made the right decision. I stayed in his arms all night after we made love for the first time. And even though it wasn’t his first, he will always be mine.
I thumbed forward. I couldn’t read about my parents having sex—even though I was a grown man. I loved however, my virginal mother sticking to her guns and not giving it up to the old man before they were married.
I reached for the 1879 bourbon again, taking another swig. If I was going to read more lovemaking, I needed to be mentally prepared for it.
I paged through, looking for anything that had to do with me, and found a couple of photos of the two of us I’d never seen before. One must’ve been at the hospital when I was born, the others were just random shots of me and Lena as babies.
March 22, 1984
Winnie took his first steps today. I was so upset Robert missed it.
“Ha,” I snorted aloud. “He missed more than that, Mom.”
Finally, I saw the day of her murder.
May 17, 1993
It’s over. I told Maggie tonight I couldn’t go on this way. I need to hold it together for the sake of the family. My father and mother, God rest her, would be so disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in me. I’m a married woman with two children for goodness sake. And even though I know Robert has a girl in town, it’s still no excuse to be with Maggie—no matter how I feel about him. God help me through this. If Robert ever knew what was really going on, he’d kill us both.
I sat back in the chair. My mother and Magnus were having an affair and she knew—she knew about Dad’s mistress.
My head pounded and my hands were shaking. Was there no robbery that night? Did my father kill my mother? Surely he didn’t know about Magnus—he would’ve killed him. And then the thought hit me. “Holy Jesus. Lena is in love with the same man our mother was in love with.”
I stood to pace the room and heard the thunder boom outside the house. It seemed fitting I would discover this now—now while my life was falling apart. Why couldn’t I have known this information a couple of years ago when Lena was lo
sing her mind and I was kicking the best relationship and woman I loved to the curb because I thought my family was so screwed up?
If being in this hidden room proved anything to me, it was that even the people I believed to be perfect were flawed. All these years I’d loathed my father for cheating on my mother, when all along she’d been doing the same. We’re not perfect. We’re human. It’s what Ginny had said to me, and it took seeing my mother in a new light to realize that.
I was about to turn thirty-three and as I stared at all the trunks in the room knowing I would have one of my own here someday, I thought about what I wanted to leave behind. It wasn’t the remnants of a broken and bitter man who wanted nothing to do with his legacy—I wanted the future generations and my children to know I was strong and resilient. I needed to be the generation that began anew, not the one that ended it all. Sitting among what was left of the Winterbourne line, I now realized I couldn’t be so cavalier with my heritage. Everyone had worked too hard to bring the family and family business to this point. I realized now why Cee Cee walked the distillery every day, why he knew every barrel of bourbon in the place. It wasn’t just the bourbon, it was the tradition behind it and everything it stood for. Every sacrifice, every lost life, every lost love—it was all for me and Lena. It was all for the future generations.
I needed another drink, but I refrained from taking one more sip of Marshall’s private stash. I felt like I’d angered the ancestors enough for the night by intruding on their secret space.
Putting Mom’s things away, I kept the journal and the key to the box, hanging it around my own neck, concealed inside my shirt.
I needed to get out of the room before anyone made it back to the main house. There was no way others were meant to know about this place, but I couldn’t go without taking a glimpse into Marshall’s trunk.
Opening it with the main key, the hinges moaned as I took a glimpse into the world of the man who started it all.
There were old photos of him at the very first still on the property, journals of his own and another lock box at the bottom of the trunk.
Sitting in the floor, I placed it in my lap, taking the key from my neck to see if it was a match. One click told me there were many secrets at Winter Haven, but only one key to all of them. “Knowledge is the key to life, but faith unlocks the door,” I said, repeating my mother’s words.
Inside the box was a stack of letters tied in lace. Sliding one out, I realized they were letters from my great-great-grandmother to Marshall.
Although we are apart, my heart is always with you. If knowledge be the the key to life and faith unlocks the door, know that only the true key sets free the heart and soul. I am the lock, and you my darling, are the key.”
I closed the letter and slid it back into its resting place. Putting it back, I saw a small, worn ring box covered in gold fabric—the Winter Haven colors. Opening it, I expected to find a family heirloom of some sort—something Marshall had given to his young wife. But the box was empty and I felt a letdown—a sense of loss. It seemed like a metaphor for my own life to this point. The outside was beautiful and full of wanting, the inside empty.
I closed everything up, tucking my mother’s journal inside the back of my pants and began blowing out all the candles, save for the one I took from the candelabra to help me find my way out.
Climbing through the doorway, I locked it again with the large key, making sure Marshall’s painting closed against the wall completely.
The lights flickered in the main entrance and I knew the electricity was coming back on as I made my way off the back of the red overstuffed couch.
Looking around the room, I noticed I’d dripped a tiny bit of candle wax on the couch, but knew I could account for that. What I couldn’t do was explain the now missing candelabra from the grand piano.
“Win? Win are you in here?”
Securing the journal in my waistband, I pulled my button down shirt out, hanging it over my pants.
“Lena?” I called walking into the main entrance. “Where are you? The lights went out and I couldn’t find anyone.”
“Win,” Lena gasped. She was drenched from the rain and breathing as if she might collapse.
“Are you okay?” I asked, taking her by the arm to the library so she could sit. “What is it?”
“It’s…” she took a deep breath and began to sob.
“Calm down,” I said, getting a towel from behind the bar. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Lena gasped, the water dripping from her body. I wiped the rain from her face and asked again as she tried to catch a full breath. “Lena?”
“Piper’s dead.”
26
GINNY
Knotts and I took our separate cars back to Winter Haven. He wanted answers from Lena, I just wanted answers. The storm hadn’t blown over, only getting stronger, and I turned on the weather band in the bucar to see if there was a tornado warning. The last thing I needed was to be swept away like Dorothy. Especially when I was so close to catching a killer I could taste it.
The rain came down in sheets and I couldn’t see the entrance to Winter Haven even though I could see the estate in the distance. Pulling to the side of the road, I decided to wait it out when my phone rang. “Grace!” I shouted over the vibration of the rain pelting the car.
“Can’t talk long.”
It was Pauly.
“What’s the word?”
“No.”
“It’s off?”
“It was never on.”
With that, Pauly was gone.
Our conversations were always short and sweet. He’d call from a payphone or a prepaid burner and keep it brief, but I now knew Winter Bourbon wasn’t selling. Their answer to the Potenza family was No.
With the wipers on the spastic setting, the rain flew off the windshield in thick layers of water, making enough of a way for me to pull into the gate. Pressing the buttons, 187033, the gate opened, but then came to a halt, giving me just enough room to squeeze through. I could only surmise the last bolt of lightning had taken out a transformer somewhere. Winter Haven was dark.
Passing the house, I parked on the side, and pulled an umbrella and flashlight from my backseat. It was a minute’s walk down to the office buildings, but nothing was going to keep me from searching Robert Holloway’s office tonight. I didn’t care how dark it was.
The thunder and lightning were otherworldly and I prayed the storm would pass quickly as I took shelter through the gold doors of the first building.
Dark, as I’d expected, I turned on my flashlight, scanning back and forth across the narrow hallway of the old building. “Hello? Is anyone in here? Piper?”
Met with silence, I hurried to the first door on the left—Robert’s office. Opening and closing the door quickly and quietly, I went to work.
Starting in the corner behind the tall filing cabinet, I searched the area where according to Piper, she’d found the knife. Nothing. Opening and closing the filing cabinets, I searched for any clue or correspondence with the Potenza family.
I jumped at the sound of the thunder, but then stopped in my tracks when I heard a slam.
Cracking the door from Robert’s office into the hallway, I pulled my gun from my waist ready to shoot if I needed to. “Who’s there?” I called out holding the flashlight in one hand, my gun in the other. “This is Agent Grace of the FBI, come out with your hands up!”
I worked my way down the hall, opening each door.
“I am armed and I will shoot you. Identify yourself!”
I made it to the last door, the office of Piper Presley. Looking over my shoulder into the darkness, I turned the handle, kicking open the door.
“Holy shit!”
Sitting at a blood-filled desk was Piper Presley. Throat cut from ear, her head dangled behind her shoulders.
Holstering my gun, I took two steps in before everything went black.
I rolled over on my back, my head throbbing like a brass
band marching through my brain. “Mother eff,” I moaned, feeling the damp surface below my fingers. From the floor I could see the storm still raged outside.
Reaching for my phone, I realized my gun was gone. Whoever coldcocked me, had taken my weapon. “Shit,” I said, scooting my butt to the side of the hallway to dial for back up.
“Knotts.”
“It’s Grace,” I gasped, still doing my best to focus my eyes. I saw not one, but two of everything in front of me.
“Are you okay?”
“Piper Presley is dead. Send back up to the offices at Winter Bourbon and secure the house. No one goes in or out, and Knotts?”
“Yes?”
“Bring in John Lee.”
I dropped my phone and held the back of my head. I could feel the warm stickiness of my own blood dripping from my scalp. The lights flickered once and came on. Lying back on the cold floor, I watched the gold door swinging in the high winds of the storm through my blurred vision.
Pushing myself up against the wall, I did my best to get on my own two feet only to fall back down. I had to get to the house to warn Win and the others.
I gave Piper’s body a fleeting glance and pulled my phone out again as I willed myself to move and staggered through the door.
27
WIN
Her voice was faint at first, echoing off the walls. But when she yelled my name again, I knew it was her—and I knew she was in trouble.
“Ginny?” I called out to her, walking through the entrance hall trying to place her in the house. Stumbling toward me, I caught her in my arms. “Oh God. What happened?”
“Piper’s dead,” she whispered. “Someone hit me over the head and took my weapon. Win, I need your gun.”
“You mean I need my gun.” I ushered Ginny to the couch and sat her down. Walking to a painting on the wall of the library, I pushed it aside to reveal one of the many safes in the house.
A short digital combination later, I was locking and loading the first gun I came to—a Glock.
