Smugglers & Scones

by Talbot, Morgan C

  I led the way into the hall, and my light picked up more details: a black metal spiral staircase, old and dusty and not really looking that trustworthy, led downward through a tight wooden shaft. “Well, that’s cheerful.”

  Lake hesitated. His light settled on the first step in the staircase, made of two dusty, worn wedges of pale-brown wood. “You sure that’s gonna hold me?”

  I gave him an incredulous look. “Dammit, Jim, I’m a hostess, not a carpenter.”

  “Right. Maybe I should go first. I’d hate for the thing to fall down on you.”

  I gestured with my light, and Lake gingerly set the tread of his boot on the top step. It creaked but no more loudly than the Moorehaven stairs.

  “You’ll be fine,” I said, mostly sure I wasn’t lying.

  Lake tiptoed down the wood-and-metal staircase like a ballet dancer who really had to use the restroom. I managed to hold in my snickers as I followed him, leaving my own prints atop his shoe marks in the dust. Older prints mirrored ours, smudging my confidence. I gripped the flashlight harder. Probably Roddy, right? Probably.

  At the lower end of the spiral staircase, a heavy wooden door blocked our way, complete with one of those tiny viewing slots where burly bouncers asked for the password. An old-fashioned black lantern hung right over the door, representing the speakeasy’s name—Epicurus’s Lantern—and carved words blunted with dust and age snaked their way around the doorframe. I read them aloud, shining my light at an angle for better readability. “Stranger, here you will do well to tarry; here our highest good is pleasure.”

  “Epicurus said that, I guess, since this is his Lantern.” Lake flicked his light to the dangling decoration. “Wonder what the password was.”

  Mallory hovered in my mind, staring hungrily. Better find out sooner rather than later, I told myself. “Kamanova?” I ventured, my eyes on his face.

  He twitched his head and stared down at me. His pupils shrank as my flashlight beam caught his eyes. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Just something you said in your sleep. Who’s Kamanova?”

  He shifted to his other foot and studied a dark corner. “It’s not a person. It’s… just an old phrase I used to say.”

  “You still say it. You said it to me.” What does it mean? Why does Mallory say it doesn’t exist?

  His bright-blue eyes found my face again. A tentative, bittersweet smile spread across his lips. “In my sleep? I guess my subconscious really likes you. Why don’t you Kamanova here and do some treasure hunting with me?” He pushed the door wide, and the subtle lack of echoes told me we were standing in a large room.

  Omigod, Kamanova means “come on over” in pillow talk. I pushed away the memory of Mallory Tavish’s dangerous expression. Its chaser—a vision of the two of them in bed—was far scarier. I squeezed my eyes shut then opened them as wide as they’d go. I’d need all my wits with me in the speakeasy, especially if it was already occupied.

  We played our lights around, and everywhere they landed revealed new and exciting details. Dusty, cobwebbed chandeliers hung in two rows from the thick-beamed ceiling. The muted redbrick walls sported old-fashioned light sconces with frosted-glass shades and curling brass supports, as well as the odd portrait or shelf bearing Prohibition-Era knickknacks. A piano, so dusty its black surface looked like snow from across the room, sat in the far corner, its round old stool scooted back as if the pianist had just stepped over to the bar for a quick refill. The bar lined the far right side of the room, its surface abused and filthy. Bottles of booze lined only a few of the many shelves behind it, and most of them seemed empty. Highball glasses, martini glasses, and other containers sat scattered across the bar top and on half of the round tables strewn across the rough wooden floor. One table lay on its side, forgotten decades ago, its upper rim thick with dust. The floor seemed a victim of myriad floods, warped and lumpy underfoot, all signs of foot traffic sucked down into the damp wood. The air, nearly visible with history and dust, carried a thick pong of damp wood, old smoke, and illicit booze.

  I saw no other rooms, no way out except the one behind us.

  “Look. Stars.”

  Lake’s beam pointed straight overhead. The ceiling of the Lantern was painted a midnight blue, spangled with golden stars that seemed to contain glitter or maybe gold leaf. “Treasure under the stars,” I murmured. “No wonder the murderer targeted Roddy. That clue from Moore’s notes makes it seem obvious that the treasure is down here somewhere.”

  Lake shrugged. “Maybe it still is. Just because Roddy didn’t know where it was doesn’t mean it isn’t here. Let’s look around. Maybe we’ll find a secret compartment.”

  “This is a speakeasy. It’s already one giant secret compartment.”

  He nodded as if my objection supported his point of view. “Exactly. So it probably has a lot more inside it.”

  I headed for the long brick wall across from the bar, tapping bricks that would have been within reach if I were sitting at a table and found a hollow-sounding one after just a few minutes. It seemed to be held in place by mortar, but when I jiggled it, the mortar around it came free with the brick, revealing a small hollow that held a couple of ancient blunts and a matchbook bearing an old-style lantern. Gwen hadn’t been kidding.

  “Really? Marijuana? Man, these old folks really knew how to party.” Lake appeared at my side.

  I jumped at his sudden voice in the silence. “Well, it’s legal in Oregon again, so it’s all good now. We should leave it to be part of the museum.”

  “Or we could try it, see if it still has any potency.”

  I gave him a look that let him know exactly how much time I had for his shenanigans.

  “Kidding. Obviously, we need to find the treasure first. We can light up in celebration later.”

  My look continued.

  “Okay, for the museum. Killjoy.”

  We resumed our search. I found another false brick with a similar stash and a half-smoked Cuban cigar as well, but I didn’t want to draw Lake’s attention if he was only going to joke around again.

  “Pippa.”

  I didn’t look up. He was probably miming drinking straight from the old, dusty tap.

  “Pippa. Come here. You need to see this.”

  I took my unkind thought back. That tone was definitely serious. I abandoned my brick searching and weaved through the silent, empty tables to where he stood at the end of the long bar. His flashlight aimed down at the floor around its corner.

  The warped old wood was stained a dark, fatal red. A thick trail of it ran down the inside edge of the bar as well, implying Roddy had struck his head on the wooden corner and bled out on the spot. “God, that’s terrible,” I blurted.

  “Now we know why Sheriff Kettleman couldn’t find the murder site—or Mallory, either. It was down here all the time, and neither of them knew the speakeasy existed.”

  “That means the killer was down here, too, looking for that treasure under the stars. He probably forced Roddy to let him in, and then when there was no treasure to be found and Roddy couldn’t or wouldn’t give him any more clues or information, he killed him in frustration.”

  “Or just to hide his tracks. He moved that body to distract us.”

  I turned away from the rusty red stain in Lake’s flashlight beam. “I wonder why he only moved Roddy to outside the club door.”

  “Could be lots of reasons. Maybe someone was coming or walking by. Maybe someone heard him leave the club and started following him out. Maybe he was injured in the fight and couldn’t drag him any farther.”

  “That last one would be convenient. Looking for someone with a limp or something would narrow down our list of suspects nicely.”

  Lake gave me an odd look, and I belatedly remembered Jordan telling me, what seemed like ages ago, that she’d noticed
Lake’s slight limp.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean you. Obviously. Or I wouldn’t have come down here, into a dark, abandoned, forgotten old speakeasy with you. Alone.”

  Lake stepped closer. I could smell the sea air in his hair and a whiff of his spicy oak cologne. “You don’t think I’m scary?”

  “Scary hot, maybe,” I murmured.

  He moved even nearer, warming my skin with his body heat, which bore the aroma of his sweat and cologne—a heady, manly bouquet. The room seemed to light with a honey glow, and I could almost hear jazz strains pounding from the piano behind me. I wanted to dance and drink and throw myself at this gorgeous man with wild abandon. I wanted to not care about anything but the look in his eyes.

  His hands found my waist, and he boosted me onto the long side of the bar. Our flashlights tumbled to the bar top and spun wildly, strobing. I opened my knees and he sidled in, pulling me against his chest. His lips found mine in the dark, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He tasted delicious, like hot fudge and almonds, and I heard myself sighing against his tongue.

  He pulled back abruptly. “Do you smell that?”

  “That lust in the air? Yes, yes I do.” I tried to pull him back down for more ardent smooching.

  “No, I think it’s smoke.”

  Adrenaline pumped into me for an entirely different reason. I swiveled toward the stairwell, sniffing hard. I smelled it, too, burning wood, and something else, like cloth.

  Lake scrabbled for his flashlight and aimed it over, illuminating pale-white billows of smoke wafting from the doorway to the stairs. “Oh, wow. That’s very not good.”

  He bolted over, leaving my thighs cool in his sudden absence. After a deep breath, he leaned into the doorway. I saw his light beam playing up and down against the thickening smoke. He backed up swiftly, coughing. I spun and hopped off the bar.

  “What do you see? Are we trapped?” I can’t die in here. Thoughts of Uncle Hilt, Jordan, and Moorehaven flickered frantically in my mind, moths panicked by the flame yet unable to escape. And I only got the one kiss!

  “We sure can’t get out that way.” Lake coughed again, deep and hacking. “But didn’t you say this place had an underwater delivery tunnel for the whisky barrels?”

  I whirled and dragged my gaze across the far wall, beyond which, somewhere close, the Silver River flowed into the sea. We hadn’t searched that wall yet. “Yeah, but Roddy said at the book signing that it’s blocked off.”

  “Not for long.” Lake’s voice dropped and went gritty, like he’d suddenly begun embodying Bruce Willis. He dashed over to the far wall, flashlight flicking across the wall and the floor. Nothing. No hatch, no grate, nada.

  Smoke curled along the ceiling over my head. I felt panic rising in the back of my throat, clenching, making it hard for me to breathe, let alone think straight. But Lake had no such limitation. He leaned over the bar, examining the floor in the beam of his flashlight, then leaped over it in a single bound, belying his limp, and vanished from sight.

  “Lake? Where’d you go?” I dashed over.

  “I’m down here. There’s a big panel in the floor behind the bar. Gimme a hand.”

  I scrambled gracelessly over the bar, getting decades of dust on my jeans, and nearly fell right on top of him. He offered me a hand and steadied me. The panel he had found had probably once lay flush and undetectable in the floor, but the decades of warping damp had made its subtle edge anything but. Lake eased his fingers into the thin grip slit, giving me room to do the same beside him.

  “On three.”

  He nodded, and together, we heaved. The wood squealed in protest, resisting where it had swelled against the floorboards.

  “Again, harder.” Lake’s voice carried an urgency that made me glance over my shoulder at the growing flames. And regret it. Lurid orange smoke poured through the doorway into the speakeasy.

  I put my back into it, as Hilt would say, grunting with effort. Still only the straining resistance of the wood. I looked down the length of the bar and across the room. The smoke lurked along the ceiling like an ashy cloud of doom, trapping me like a mouse in the far corner.

  Oh, hell no. I will not die like a cowering mouse. I hate mice. I jammed both my hands in the stubborn trapdoor next to Lake’s. If the air turned blue from my frantic, angry curses, I was seeing too much red to notice. I jerked and hauled and pulled until I was sure I was going to rip a muscle right off my shoulder. Lake strained silently beside me, and then suddenly I was on my butt, gasping for air and wondering why I was seeing stars.

  Golden, glittery stars, stuck to the ceiling overhead. And my shoulder really hurt.

  “You did it, Pippa! Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Lake thrust a hand toward me to help me to my feet.

  My shoulder pain sorted into the Inconsequential File as I grabbed his hand, scrambled up, and stared down into the two-by-three-foot blackness of the secret tunnel. The faint sound of lapping water reached my ears. Lake shined his light downward. Several feet below us, greenish water wobbled, reflecting his light in bloops and waves.

  “What, no ladder? I am not jumping down into that. God knows what’s living in there.”

  “No problem. I’ll go first, and if nothing eats me, you can jump in after me. I’ll catch you.”

  “What, were you a lifeguard in another life?” I could hear the hoarse terror in my voice. Or maybe that was just the smoke. It was positively pouring out of the stairwell, and the wall with the old-fashioned lantern hanging on it had just burst into flames.

  “No, this life. Every summer for three years in high school.”

  Oh. Well, then.

  He untied his boots—well, Hilt’s boots—and left them beside the trapdoor along with his knit hat. He gave me a wink and slipped down the dark chasm. I heard him splash loudly, and I got on my hands and knees with my own flashlight. “You okay?”

  He was already treading water. His flashlight still shone, illuminating greenish water around him. His hair slicked across his forehead lopsidedly, reminding me of a little kid in a candid bathtub picture. No, no imagery of Lake in the bathtub! Not now! His grin was a mile wide while I was coughing on smoke. Is he actually enjoying this death-defying stunt?

  Toward the entrance, wood groaned, and the fire made a terrifying noise somewhere between a roar and a scream. I was sure the speakeasy was about to go up like a torch. “Move over, Lake! I have to get out of here!”

  He swept himself into one corner and reached up for me. I abandoned my flashlight and launched myself into the watery hole, holding my nose like a little kid.

  His warm arms steadied me against the shock of the cold seawater. “I got you. There’s some wood down against this wall that you can rest a foot on. Might be a broken ladder.”

  I felt behind me with one foot and braced myself on the submerged rung. Overhead, the smoke thickened and darkened. My abandoned flashlight beam indirectly lit the menacing cloud. “Well,” I said, to keep my panic at bay, “this is good. Great. I’m not gonna burn to death now. Ha! Take that!” I flipped off the smoke. Then I looked beseechingly at Lake. “Am I gonna drown instead?”

  Lake let out a worried breath. “Well, that’s a very good question, Pippa, and I’m glad you asked it.” He checked around the upper rim of our smuggling tunnel then unceremoniously sank under the surface and searched there. He popped back up with a splash and a toss of wet hair. “And I’m pleased to say that the answer is, no, you aren’t gonna drown because I just found the exit tunnel to the river.”

  My heart leaped then sank again. “Wait, isn’t it blocked off?”

  Lake shot me a worried look and dived down again. After what felt like five minutes of listening to the roar of the fire and my own panicked breathing, I was relieved to see Lake’s face again.

  “What took
you so long?”

  “I had to swim into the side tunnel that leads to the river. It’s blocked off with some old wooden panels, but I can force it open.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “If you hold the flashlight underwater for me.”

  “Oh, crap.”

  He offered me his flashlight and a winning smile. “We can do this, Pippa. You and me.”

  I took the flashlight and tried to remember how to sink underwater without getting water up my nose.

  Lake dived under the dark-green surface and kicked out of sight into the side tunnel. I squeezed the knurling on the Maglite handle until it imprinted my panicked grip, took a deep breath, and pulled myself under using the old ladder rung.

  Cold water pebbled my skin, and salt stung my eyeballs. I aimed the flashlight after Lake. He braced himself on the walls of the tunnel and slammed his feet against the old wooden gate in slow motion. Four, five, six times. My lungs screamed for fresh oxygen. Lake seemed to be casually enjoying himself. He’s probably got gills. He really is Aquaman.

  The wood gave way, and faint daylight filtered in from the surface of the Silver River. I shot up to the surface and gasped in some fresh air, basking in the relief of hope. We had a way out.

  Lake surfaced beside me, tossing water from his hair with that hotshot flick like he’d just popped up in the Hawaiian surf after riding a killer wave. “Let’s get out of here. We’re just a tunnel’s length from freedom.”

  I’m not Hilt. I can swim fine. But my mind balked at the idea of swimming through the smugglers’ tunnel. I had freaked out navigating the Water Temple in Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time as a kid. Navigating a real water-flooded tunnel when my life depended on it set off terror alarms in my head.

  “Pippa!”

  I snapped back into the moment, chilled and coughing. “Okay. Do not let me drown, Lake.”

  “Not a problem. I swear. You’ll be safe with me. On my life.”