by Mary Kennedy
“Exactly what do you think may be misplaced?” Angus said, suddenly appearing in the doorway from the front hall. His face was creased in a scowl; I could see he wasn’t thrilled at my choice of words. He’d like the word “missing” even less, I thought with grim amusement.
“Oh, just a few things here and there,” I said, refusing to be intimidated. “Of course, this is really early in the inventory process, so I have no idea what will turn up down the line.” I gestured to the list next to me. “Abigail was very precise about what items she wanted me to find. Since the items could be scattered all over the mansion, I suppose I’ll have to go into every room.” I paused. “Are there storerooms somewhere where I might find some of the larger pieces? The ones that are no longer on display?”
“What larger pieces?” Angus said in the same argumentative tone. I could hardly believe he’d charmed himself into a position at Beaux Reves; he was one of the most unpleasant individuals I’d ever come across. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
I picked up the list and began reading. “Eighteenth-century Georgian mahogany slant-front desk with original Hepplewhite brass pulls, the writing compartment filled with small drawers and cubbyholes.” I glanced at Sophie, who’d stopped eating to listen. “I’d say that’s pretty specific, wouldn’t you? I didn’t see that piece anywhere in the public rooms and I assume it’s not in any of the bedrooms. So that made me think there must be a storeroom, maybe in the attic or the basement. And that’s where I’ll find the larger pieces.”
Sophie and Angus exchanged a look, and I was sure I saw a flash of fear in her eyes. Was Angus stealing from the mansion and Sophie was somehow involved? The missing items seemed to be the focal point of a web, drawing in more and more people. First it was just Angus and Nicky. And now I had the feeling that Sophie Stanton and Lucy Dargos might also be involved.
“There are a few pieces up in the attic,” he said grudgingly. He looked pointedly at my half-full coffee cup. “I can take you up there before I go out this morning,” he offered. “And there are some more in the basement.”
“That would be nice,” I said vaguely. “Are you going back to Charleston to do some research today?”
He shot a quick look at Sophie. I had definitely touched a nerve. “Why would you ask that?”
“No particular reason, I just wondered.” I sipped my coffee, letting him stew for a couple of minutes. Sophie went back to reading the newspaper, but I know she was hanging on our every word. “You had dinner in Charleston the night Abigail died, didn’t you? I think I remember reading that somewhere.”
“Yes,” he said too quickly. “At the Seven Sisters.”
“Really?” I put my coffee down and stared at him. “At the Seven Sisters on High Street in Charleston?”
“Yes. Sophie was having dinner there, too,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. Pressured speech, they call it. I knew he was lying. I glanced at Sophie, who was a cooler customer than Angus. She stared right back at me coldly; her features could have been chiseled out of stone. “Tell her, Sophie,” he demanded, nodding in my direction.
Sophie gave a tiny catlike smile and placed her hands in front of her on the table. She’d seen this coming a mile away and was ready for it. “Not the Seven Sisters, Angus,” she said without taking her eyes off me. “It was the Sisters on Fairmont Avenue. Don’t you remember?” Score one for Sophie. Either someone had tipped her off or she had done her research and discovered the Seven Sisters restaurant had been closed that night. Nice save, Sophie!
“I thought—” Angus said and then stopped abruptly. He was obviously out of his element. Sophie was what they call a “practiced liar,” and he wasn’t. Clinging to his clumsy mistake only made things worse. It would have been smarter to follow Sophie’s lead.
“It doesn’t matter what you thought, Angus,” she said icily. “It was the Sisters restaurant. On Fairmont.”
Angus nodded, his expression tight. If they were working together, Sophie was clearly the brains of the operation.
“So . . . do you want to see the storerooms?” he asked bluntly, noticing my coffee cup was empty.
“That would be nice.” I stood up and tucked my inventory papers under my arm.
“Oh, Taylor,” Sophie said suddenly, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” I casually moved around the corner of the table, where I had a clear view of her tote bag. I noticed she had one of those narrow little notebooks, the kind Sara had balanced on the arm of the chair last night.
“Is there something I can help you with?” The kitchen was very still, and the only sound was Lucy, who had started humming again to the low music from the boom box.
“I wondered”—for the first time Sophie seemed to falter—“would it be possible for me to attend a Dream Club meeting sometime?”
I hadn’t expected this. “I’m sorry, but it’s a closed group,” I said evenly. “We don’t allow visitors.” The fact is, we go through a rigorous screening process and are very picky about who we allow in the group. Everyone has to vote on admitting a new member, and they have to have strong recommendations. Last year, we had one gentleman drop out of the group. He was a professor at the local university, and I’d thought he would be a good match. However, after a few sessions, he’d decided he wasn’t really interested in dream interpretation and left the group.
“Oh, but I wouldn’t expect to say anything,” Sophie said, fluttering her hands. “I would just sit there observing, soaking up the atmosphere.” She flashed what she probably thought was a winning smile. Like many people, Sophie can be pleasant when she wants something. “I would be as still as a church mouse,” she promised.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but it’s impossible. Having an outsider would be very disruptive to our members. They insist on strict confidentiality, and they wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing their dreams if you were sitting there. It’s nothing personal; it’s just the way we do things.”
Her lips formed a thin line, and she sat back in her chair. She blinked and blew out a little puff of air as if she were trying to get her feelings under control. “Oh, I quite understand,” she said after a moment. What a transformation. The angry scowl had vanished, and she had morphed her features into what passed for a pleasant expression. “It was just an idea; no worries.”
“Are you ready to check out the storerooms?” Angus said curtly. What a charmer. He glanced at his watch.
“Of course. Lead on,” I told him.
“Angus,” Sophie called as we headed down the hall. “Can you give me a lift into town today? My car’s acting up.”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “Be with you in a couple of minutes.” He turned to me. “Attic or basement? They both have antiques. But I don’t know what’s on your list.”
I tried not to shudder at the mention of a basement. I have a touch of claustrophobia, and I don’t do well in dark, enclosed spaces. When Noah had described the FBI hostage training exercise he’d been subjected to at Quantico, I’d gotten goose bumps. Could I have survived being blindfolded, bound at the hands and feet, and tossed into a storage shed like a bag of potatoes? It’s a good thing I never applied to the Bureau, because I know I would have cracked under that kind of pressure.
My claustrophobia is under control but only because I mentally prepare myself for situations and try to take as much control of my environment as I can. I make sure I get an aisle seat on planes, and I avoid elevators whenever I can.
“Let’s try the basement,” I told him. It was time to “lady up” and not give in to my phobia. I was surprised when Angus made an abrupt right turn and walked into a tiny alcove that led into the library. “This is the way to the basement?”
“It’s one way to get there,” he said, smirking. I had the feeling I wasn’t going to like what was coming. “I hope you’re not claustrophobic,” he said in a nasty tone.
�
�Why’s that?” I managed to keep my voice level, but just barely.
“Because we have to go through a secret passage in the library, and it’s pretty cramped. This is it.” I took a quick look around a beautiful library with a magnificent fireplace and a marble mantelpiece. Two ceramic dogs guarded the fireplace, and there was elaborate dark wood paneling with books stashed from the floor to the ceiling.
I would have liked to explore a little more, but Angus pushed against a center panel in a bookcase and a hidden door suddenly swung open. It was pitch-black beyond the doorway, and I could dimly make out what looked like a staircase.
“Will you be okay?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. He gave me a strange look as if he knew I was afraid and was enjoying every moment of it.
“After you,” he said, his eyes glinting.
I took a deep breath to steel myself against what was coming and started down a narrow set of stairs. It was so tight, my shoulders touched against the walls on both sides. “We need some light,” I reminded him. “It’s terribly dark in here.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, not sounding sorry at all. He pressed a switch and the staircase was bathed in a low-level light. It wasn’t ideal, but at least I could see where to put my feet. Angus was very close behind me, and I wondered for one horrible moment if he was going to push me down the steps.
When I reached the bottom, I realized we were in a large space with dozens of what I guessed were paintings and antiques stacked against the walls. Some objects were covered with sheets or drop cloths, and the whole place was dank and musty. The air was so foul I coughed, feeling my allergies kicking in. It smelled of earth, soil, and moisture, and I had a sudden image of an open grave.
“When’s the last time you’ve been down here?” I asked him.
He was standing a few feet away from me and seemed reluctant to go any farther. I wondered if he was going to watch me the whole time I inspected the basement, but then I remembered he’d told Sophie he’d give her a lift into town. “I checked out the inventory in the basement when I first arrived,” he said, “but I don’t spend much time here now. There’s so much to do upstairs, cataloging the antiques in the public rooms, that I just haven’t had a chance to deal with this.”
“The lighting is so dim in here,” I said. “How do you get any work done?” I could only see clearly for a few feet in any direction. I could barely make out some flat, rectangular shapes leaning against the wall, and I assumed they were paintings. I saw the edge of a gilt frame peeking out of one. The dark, looming shapes were beginning to creep me out, and I was starting to feel as though I were trapped in a Wes Craven movie. At any moment I’d turn into a terrified, shrieking heroine calling for help.
“It’s usually brighter than this,” Angus admitted. “A couple of fuses blew the other day. Lucy plugged in too many things at once, and I heard a popping noise. I’m sure that’s what did it. I could try to work on it now, but I’ve got to get to Charleston.” He looked at me, gauging my reaction. “Maybe you’d like to do this another day?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said airily. Actually I wasn’t fine at all. But there was no way I was going to give Angus the opportunity to move out any antiques or paintings. My chest was getting tight—either from allergies or nerves—but I wasn’t going to let on.
I was convinced the worst thing I could do was show weakness in front of Angus. Somehow I knew he would laser lock in on my vulnerabilities and use them to his advantage. Now that we were alone in the semidark basement, I was feeling sinister vibes rolling off him. Or was I just stressed out from being in such a claustrophobic environment? I couldn’t be sure.
“I can probably switch on another set of lights,” he said reluctantly. “At least you’ll be able to see what you’re doing.”
“Thank you,” I told him. There was no sense in antagonizing Angus while he was actually offering to help me.
“I’ll switch on the lights as I leave,” he said and turned toward the direction of the stairs.
I smiled my thanks and moved toward the painting closest to me. I whipped off the drop cloth. “Oh, Angus,” I said, pointing to the landscape in the gilt frame. “Is this a new acquisition?” The cloth wasn’t covered with dust like the paintings behind it, so I assumed it had been placed there recently.
He hesitated. “Yes, it’s very famous—a William Gilbert.” I knew that William Gilbert was a prominent landscape painter who’d specialized in painting rural scenes of Savannah and the low country in the early nineteen hundreds. “You can find out more about it on the tag.”
“Thanks.” I checked the tag and whipped out my notebook. Bingo. Sunrise over All Saints Church was one of the items on my inventory. I heard Angus clumping his way up the staircase and in a moment, it was suddenly brighter in the basement. Angus had kept his promise. I breathed a sigh of relief and set to work, first documenting the name and date of the painting, the name of the artist, the gallery where it was purchased, and its location in the mansion.
Then I whipped out my phone and took a quick photo. It was a lovely landscape with a rolling green pasture, an azure blue sky, and a church steeple in the forehead. I stood back, admiring the craftsmanship and proud that I’d overcome my silly fear of the dark.
And then the lights went out.
22
I gasped aloud. It was as dark as a tomb. Terror slammed into my brain, and I blindly rushed forward, crashing into an end table. I forced myself to stop dead in my tracks, my heart beating in a crazy, accelerated way, while I tried to get my bearings. This was no time to panic. It was taking every ounce of my self-control to stand still.
My heart was drumming a tattoo, and I tried to think of a strategy. Could I turn around and find my way back to the steps that led upstairs? Was that even possible? I did what I hoped was a hundred-eighty-degree turn and immediately tripped over a wooden object on the floor. I reached down and ran my hand over it. A wooden footstool.
I must have moved in the wrong direction, because there wasn’t a footstool in my path when I’d been with Angus. The last thing I wanted to do was move deeper into the basement, and I had no way of knowing how to retrace my steps and reach the secret passage.
I felt like full-blown panic was breathing down my neck. It took me a minute to realize I was holding my breath, and I took in a big gulp of air. The air seemed thick, like fog, and I instantly felt light-headed, as if I might pass out. Had the air changed somehow? I lunged forward, trying to ignore my racing pulse, and ran smack into a large veiled painting.
“Help!” I called out feebly. My voice came out as a croak. My throat felt like it was closing up, and I couldn’t summon up the energy to scream. I took a few shallow breaths, practically hyperventilating. I’d noticed how thick the stucco walls were, and it was unlikely anyone would hear me.
If I couldn’t find my way back to the secret passage, could I find another way out of the basement? Angus had said that this was one way to the basement. Was there another? If there was another way in, there must be another way out! My only hope was to find it.
I stood stock-still and forced myself to take three deep breaths. Think, Taylor, think! I moved a few feet to the left and thought I spotted a tiny crack of light, a vertical line that was slightly angled. What could it be? I tried to remember what the outside of Beaux Reves looked like from the back.
When we’d had lunch on the patio, I’d noticed two wooden doors lying flat, slightly above ground level. I’d asked Ali about them later, and she said she thought they probably led to a root cellar. Root cellars were common at the time the mansion was built. Could this be my way out?
I stretched my arms straight out in front of me and moved forward toward the light step by step. The light was getting closer, and I saw to my relief there were three short steps leading up to a double wooden door. A tiny burst of fresh air wafted in between the doors.
My ticket to freedom!
I nearly cried with relief. I mounted the steps and pushed against the double doors. The narrow slit of light became larger, but only fractionally. What was wrong? Something was holding the doors closed. Fear was getting the better of me, and I pounded with both fists on the double doors. “Help! Help me!” I shouted. “I’m stuck in here!”
I called out repeatedly, and just when I was ready to sink to my knees in despair, I heard the sound of a board being shifted. In a moment, the double doors opened and a worried-looking gardener peered in at me.
“Are you all right, miss?” He reached down to help me up the last step. The fresh Savannah air had never smelled so good. “What in the world happened to you?”
“I—nothing, I’m fine,” I said hurriedly. “I was doing some inventory in the basement, and somehow I couldn’t find my way back through the mansion.” I glanced down and realized I’d guessed correctly. A board about three feet long was lying on the grass. Had someone slid it through the handles of the wooden doors, deliberately trapping me inside? “Are these doors normally kept barricaded?”
“No, never,” he said, shaking his head. He picked up the board and peered curiously at it. “Someone must have taken this from the lumber pile in the garage. And then they threaded it through the handles. Sorry this happened to you, miss. Can’t imagine who would do a thing like that.”
I have a good idea who would, I thought grimly. I glanced toward the driveway and noticed that it was empty. “Is Angus here?” I asked.
“No, he went into town. Do you need something?” His broad face was kind, and I smiled to reassure him.
“No, everything is fine,” I told him. “Are you the only one working here today?”
“Lucy is in the kitchen, and Jeb is somewhere on the grounds,” he said. “If you need someone—”
“No worries,” I said, forcing a cheery note into my voice. “Thanks for your help.” The quicker I get out of here, the better, I thought, making tracks toward my car. I pulled open the door, cranked up the AC as high as it would go, and locked the doors and windows. I was surprised to see that my hands were shaking and my legs were trembling. I took a quick peek at myself in the rearview mirror. As pale as a ghost. I grabbed my cell phone and punched in a familiar number. There was one person who could reassure me, and I was relieved when he picked up on the first ring.
