by Anita Higman
“I wish I could stay, but I really came over for this.” Max scooped me in his arms and kissed me.
After a couple of rounds of the sweet stuff, I tugged on Max’s tweed jacket and said, “By the way, what do you think about Joby?”
“Joby?” He shut the door and gazed at me. “Well, she’s a nice kid. Precocious and in need of some good parents, but I like her. Why do you ask?”
I snuggled more deeply into my sweater. “I’m not sure.”
“You want us to adopt her, don’t you?” Max leaned over and whispered in my ear.
My mouth came open. “How could you possibly know that? I mean, it was only a thought, a fleeting one at that.”
Max smiled at me. “I’ve watched the way you are when she’s around. You’ve become protective and attentive. You love her.”
“You know me so well, Maxwell.” I took hold of his hands. “Better than I know myself.”
He squeezed my hands. “You’re not alone in the way you feel, you know. I’m fond of Joby too.”
“She’s not in a good situation, and it bothers me. But. . .I still think I’d be a lousy mother.”
Max shook his head. “Come on now. That can’t be true.”
“I’m not gushy enough. I don’t bake cookies, and I’ll never be one of those moms who jumps in to volunteer at every little school function.” I rolled my eyes. “The other mothers would think I was born of an alien.” My hands fell, slapping my legs.
Max laughed. “But there’s only one problem.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Joby already loves you. I can tell. And she thinks you’d be a great mother.”
“Yeah, I just don’t get that.” I let out a pent-up sigh. “But I like it. More than I ever thought I would. It’s just that I assumed we’d have a child of our own.”
Max let his finger slide up along my sleeve. “I’m hoping for that too. But as you know, the more the merrier has always been our family’s motto. And mine too, come to think of it.”
How could I forget? Max’s family could fill an amusement park. “I guess this is one for us both to pray about. But it seems too soon. Maybe we should be married for a few months before we adopt. What do you think?”
Max took me in his arms again and kissed my nose. “Well, that second idea would give us more time to be us first. Sounds wise and fun.” He released me. “I don’t know the laws, but they’d probably want us to be married for a while before we adopt anyway.” He looked away and then back at me, his brow furrowed. “And as painful as this might sound, the foster parents may have rights to adopt her first.”
“Really?” That thought had crossed my mind, but I’d been successful in squelching it.
Max shook his head. “I would hate for us to get our hopes up. And hers.”
“When I think of all the things Joby said about her foster parents I can’t stand the idea of them adopting her. But I know Joby has this way of stretching the truth.” I looked away. “She’s a little like me when I was her age.”
“And did you stretch the truth too?” Max grinned.
“Well, maybe once in a while.” I chuckled. “But I guess I mean the confused part. Even though I had parents who loved me, I still found myself messed up by life at times. It’s so easy to get off track. Too easy. And Joby is at such a vulnerable age. When someone could still encourage her to be all that God intended. I see so much potential and. . .” My voice failed me. “I mean, who’s going to take Joby to church? Or teach her the basics of life?”
Mist stung my eyes. “Of course, sometimes I think I still don’t know the basics of life.” I chuckled. “But I’d like her to have opportunities and fun and. . .well, love. Everyone deserves love. Who’s going to be the one to give her those things?”
Max looked at me. “Well, God willing, it might be us.”
This time, I wrapped my arms around him. “Thanks for listening. Some husbands-to-be might not have warmed up to an idea like this.” My words had to be funny to Max, but he didn’t laugh. Bailey, the hermit, talks of adoption to the ultimate family man. I laughed at myself. In the midst of our ambrosial entanglement, my body unwound itself and my thoughts took their leave, flittering back to the library. Then I reflected on the brass ornament from the top of the perfume bottle, which was artlessly concealed in my pant’s pocket.
Should I tell Max everything? I wanted to, but something still stopped me. And I knew what it was—guilt. As a bride-to-be, I was supposed to be completely immersed in wedding plans, not mysterious ornaments and hidden cellars. I really didn’t want Max to think my lack of focus was because I wasn’t excited about getting married. Soon, very soon, I would tell him everything. And then Max would see that my time had been spent wisely. Yes, all the loose ends were about to fuse together in a long rope. I just hoped there wasn’t a noose at the end.
Then somewhere deep in my thoughts, the names of B.J. Ware and Buford appeared and burbled to the surface again. Should I ask Max a question or two, or would he figure out I was up to something? But I had to know more about a man named Buford. “Max?”
“Yes?” he mumbled into my neck.
“You know that guy you talked about who wanted to buy Volstead Manor. . .a long time ago? You said his name was Buford.”
“Mm, hmm.” He breathed the words into my hair. “That’s right.”
“Well, I was just wondering. . .what he looked like,” I said in the most nonchalant voice I could rally.
Max released me. His expression looked briefly distant as if he’d been pulled from his own trance, and then he suddenly refocused on me. “I’m not sure, since it was so long ago. But, funny, now that you’ve asked, I do remember something about him. Buford did have one feature that stood out.”
“Really? What was that?” I held my breath.
“I’m certain of it now. He had a scar on his chin.”
A scar. Buford had a scar. B.J. had a scar on his chin too. They were indeed the same man. I knew it. I just knew it. So, B.J. was after something in my house. Perhaps Vlad killed his stepbrother to have all the treasure. So simple. Maybe too simple. I braced myself, waiting for Max to ask me the uneasy question.
He slipped his hands into his back pockets. “So, why do you want to know about Buford?”
“Maybe you’d better not ask.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “Yet.”
“Fine, but I hope you’ll tell me soon.”
“I will. I promise.” Boy, I’d been saying that a lot lately.
“Okay.” Max nodded, but didn’t look totally satisfied. “Why does this feel like déjà vu?”
21 – An Unfamiliar World
After another kiss, Max went on his way, shaking his head. And I knew why. He could tell I was up to something, and once again, it didn’t include him. The look on Max’s face as he went away tugged at my heartstrings. In fact, the poor little strings were severed in two. Okay, enough with the metaphors. You know what you have to do. I was determined to finish what I’d started, determined to have closure—for me and for Max. And really, for the safety of the whole neighborhood, and for my own sanity.
I yanked out the brass volute from my pocket and scrambled like some wild thing back into the library. Then I flattened myself on the floor again, not caring even one rat’s hair that I might look like an ill-bred ninny straddled out on the floor like that. I chuckled at the thought and wondered how the Sisterhood of the Penumbra ladies managed such an unladylike maneuver in their dresses.
With shaky fingers, I took the top of the little brass ornament and set it inside the curved notch on the baseboard. I couldn’t believe it. I was dreaming. I had to be dreaming. But this was no hallucination. Nothing conjured from my imagination. I blinked and leaned closer. Like the threads of a jar uniting with a lid, the brass coil fit inside the carved notch as if they were made for each other.
And yet in spite of my victory, nothing happened. No doors swung open. No clickety-clack echoed through the room. No ghouls were released.
I chuckled at the last one. The moment reminded me of the first twenty-four hours in Volstead Manor. The passage in my bedroom closet had been hidden as well, and it too did not want to be found. It too seemed to have a mind of its own.
This time I pressed on the brass ornament, allowing the coil to enter the carved notch like a wall plug. Something snapped that time, so distinctively and with such weighty reverberation, I startled.
In those seconds, a door gave way out of the very piece of wall I’d been fiddling with. It reminded me of the hidden doors one sees in castles—ingenuous ones that open out of wainscoted and mural-painted walls. This door had been concealed by some very ornate wood carvings along the perimeter of the wall. Amazing. The clues really had been real, so I wasn’t crazy.
The door continued to swing toward me, moaning on its hinges and revealing a vault of darkness. I looked inside, but the blackness was complete. Nothing could be seen. Boy, when the ladies of the shadows wanted to hide something, they meant business.
I wanted to scream for Max to come back, but the time wasn’t ripe. I needed to proceed. On my own. I swallowed my excitement and focused. “Ahh, time for my trusty flashlights again.” I strode. . .well, actually, I broke into a run toward the kitchen to rummage around in my deep kitchen junk drawers. Without a bit of lollygagging, I was back in the library with three flashlights in hand. I’d learned from previous experience, Volstead Manor needed help when it came to light. Lots of help.
I switched on the flashlights, set one down on the floor at the edge of the dark space, and placed a smaller light with a cord around my neck. The third, a heavy-duty turbo light, I held in front of me. But there was almost nothing to see, since there was another wall straight ahead just a few feet beyond the opening, and one to the right. But to the left there were wooden steps, which led down into more darkness.
Oh, wow. This is it. This was the hidden cellar that belonged to the Sisterhood of the Penumbra. I paused with the weight of what I’d just discovered and what I was about to do. I stepped forward into the gloom and onto the main landing. Solid. So far so good.
Then I heard a sound upstairs—like a rattling of wood on metal. Why right this minute? I was used to strange noises in my house, the creaking of its various aching limbs, the settling effects. I’d heard it all, and I was no longer afraid, but why right now? Not good timing. I waited a moment for all to be quiet again.
Sucking in a deep breath, I moved closer to the first step. Cool, stale air greeted me. I shined the light downward and saw nothing at the end but more murkiness, rough brick-lined walls, and a wooden railing that looked rotted.
Lifting my light upward, I saw a bulb above me, but there was no switch or chain to pull. That was unfortunate. The bulb didn’t look like any I’d seen before, and I felt pretty certain it was useless after all these years. I surmised that no one had touched this place since Prohibition, so the wiring was most likely faulty to the point of being hazardous, and I doubted the light socket would be able to house a modern bulb anyway. My portable lights would have to be good enough for now.
Shining my flashlight downward and clinging to the course walls, I took a step into the unknown. The shivering that had started deep inside me arrived on the outside as the shakes.
I thought of the character Indiana Jones and his exploits into deep and dangerous places, and wondered if I could be in any real peril as I ventured down into such an unfamiliar world. As clever and rabidly secretive as the Sisterhood was, they may have placed booby traps in the cellar or along the staircase—things that would hinder, maim, or kill anyone who ventured into their private domain. Hmm. What a lovely group of ladies.
As gutsy as Max always claimed I was, his boastful remarks on my behalf didn’t amount to anything at the moment. I stood frozen in my own fear. I couldn’t move another inch. I was trapped on that first step down—suspended in mid-breath.
Beads of sweat gathered all over my body. I took in more air, but it didn’t release me from my stiff and frightful stupor.
God, help me.
I breathed in ever so cautiously, and then shining my light on the stairs, I caught a hint of something I hadn’t noticed before. A rusty wire was strung tightly across the length of the third step. It was a tripwire.
22 – Whispers of the Sisterhood
So, the Sisterhood had indeed created a booby trap. I could be reasonably certain it wasn’t for releasing confetti to celebrate my arrival. I’d read about a similar situation in a mystery entitled The Final Hour, but there was no way to know for sure if it was the real thing without physically testing it. Since I had no intention of using myself as the guinea pig, I needed to think of a reasonable substitute. A bag of potatoes came to mind. That idea might work. Then again, it might not.
I dropped everything and raced to the kitchen, nearly tripping over my own enthusiasm. I grabbed a ten-pound bag of potatoes out of the pantry and headed back toward my discovery, mumbling all the way about how close I might have come to calamity. I hated to even think about what I’d nearly stepped on and what could have happened. But I was about to find out.
Once I’d stepped back into the darkness, I positioned myself at the top of the stairs and raised the sack of potatoes over my head. I held the bag for a second and then froze solid. Was I being too reckless? Should I think things through a bit better? Perhaps the wire was merely a decoy while another less noticeable—but more deadly trap—waited for me. These Penumbra ladies meant business, and they didn’t seem to mind if people got hurt in the process. What should I do? Think some more, go tell Max, or just let the bag fly toward its target?
Before I could spend the rest of the day in a one-person debate, I aimed my bag of potatoes at the third step and heaved them toward the mark.
One second later, an explosion racked the narrow passage as my sack of potatoes struck the staircase. Three wooden steps opened up like the hungry mouth of a beast. A black abyss swallowed up the bag. The three steps, which appeared to have been spring-loaded, snapped back into place with a thud.
My quaking hands vibrated so much with aftershock, I could barely pick up the flashlight. I tightened my fingers around the handle until they ached.
Dust whirled through the stairwell, making me sneeze and cough. Once I’d recovered, I stared down at the steps. All appeared as before. Nothing looked amiss.
My hand covered my mouth. I’d been so close to falling. And possibly dying. I sent up a prayer of thanksgiving, greatly relieved that I hadn’t been the sack of potatoes.
Then I shook my head at the absurdity of it all. Finding such a place was truly extraordinary. Max would never believe it. Or Dedra or Magnolia or Joby. Well, Joby would believe me. I smiled, wondering which one of her expressions she’d choose from out of her wide assortment.
I tied my hair back with a scrunchey and wiped the sweat off my face with the end of my shirt. Should I proceed or get help? Proceed. I took one overly cautious step downward while giving the railing a death grip. Good, I was still alive. I didn’t move to the second step until I was certain it would hold my weight. I used extreme care to miss the third step all together.
At last, when I was well beyond the tripwire, I couldn’t help but shudder as I pondered what might be resting below me in the pit. Were there skeletons stacked up from years of entrapments? Did I even want to know? My suspicions about the Sisterhood seemed over-the-top, and yet they were certainly a scary band of women.
I continued my descent, assessing every creaking noise from the stairs and giving each step a visual check for tripwires. I managed to keep all claustrophobic inclinations at bay as I made my final plunge into the underground space. I shined the light in front of me. The room did indeed appear to be a cellar or basement.
My heart picked up its pace as I moved through the shadowy room. I pulled my sweater around me more tightly. The strong smells of all things old and musty assaulted my nostrils, making me sneeze again. Hopefully my nose would adjust to the thick odors. The space lo
oked bigger than any storm cellar I’d ever seen. Oddly, it appeared to be an elegant place for entertaining, not just a hiding place from authorities.
The ceiling was covered with wood and the floors and walls were plastered with brick and mortar. With some closer scrutiny, I discovered the walls were decorated with tapestries—the expensive kind. At the far end I saw one large wall hanging, which held the embroidered emblem of the Sisterhood of the Penumbra. The capital S and P were in black script swirling together in a circle. The pincers of a scorpion embellished the top of the S and the stinger adorned the bottom section. The whole effect was darkly mesmerizing. I shivered to think how gravely serious these ladies were about their organization.
I searched the room with purpose now, checking out each piece of antique furniture and leaded glassware. A Victrola sat in the corner, and around the room were five small ornate tables, each with two chairs. A larger table and a throne-like chair adorned the head of the room. Perhaps there were ten members and one president.
The room was like an airless tomb, but as I let my imagination go, I could almost hear the whispers of the Sisterhood wafting ghostlike through the room. What had been discussed and decided? Did the Sisterhood choose who would be a friend and then condemn those who they felt were an enemy to their cause? I chuckled at my madcap musings and moved on.
One by one, I studied each of the tables. A perfect film of dust had entombed the opulence. I picked up one of the goblets and blew off some of the powdery coating. Wow. One of the ladies of the Sisterhood had touched this glass. I turned it in the light. Fine crystal. No doubt expensive. Somehow I expected that.
But the Penumbra ladies seemed to have little interest in dining, since there were no plates on any of the tables. Also, women of that era probably would have set the tables for tea, but there were no teapots or cups anywhere in the room. Just the small crystal goblets. The room was not only their meeting place for business, but most likely it was their own private speakeasy as well.
