by Anita Higman
Oh, my, my, my. Vlad was scrubbing the place where his stepbrother had fallen. B.J. had left a noticeable trail of blood from a head wound. If the floor was old and unvarnished, the blood would have stained the wood. Mopping it up was a good thing to do—a respectful thing to do. But the way Vlad was going after the stain implied madness.
But not just madness. The way he was acting could also imply guilt. Of course, people always felt guilty when a family member died. It was a natural emotion. I still felt guilt over Granny’s death, wishing I could have done more. Said more. Anything to stop her from dying. Perhaps Vlad was blaming himself, thinking he should have been there to help his stepbrother. But considering the already dubious track record of Vlad Tepes, maybe he felt guilty because he was guilty. Could Vlad have somehow killed his stepbrother? Max had cautioned me not to go down that road, and yet I couldn’t rule out the possibility.
But as always, evidence was a crafty beast. Telling the police or mentioning any of the recent incidents to the neighbors would only make me look petty and prying. A real meddling neighbor who had nothing better to do all day than to stir up trouble for her fellow sojourners. Not good. I’d known someone like that in my past, and it wasn’t pretty. Besides, Magnolia would be upset with me if I spoke ill of Vlad, especially since she thought the sun rose and set in his eyes.
I looked at the front room again where Vlad was still at his maniacal scouring. He might go half the night rubbing and scouring. He’d certainly ruin those pretty ruby slippers of his. I released a tiny snicker and looked higher with my binoculars. On one of his walls, I saw a gruesome image—a mask with carved out places for the eyes. It was certainly more decoration than B.J. ever had on his walls. But the object looked pagan like the headgear used by a witchdoctor in hopes of summoning help from dark places. I wondered why Vlad would stick such creepy knick-knacks on his walls. The mask was certainly scary.
Scary enough to cause his stepbrother to have a heart attack?
10 – Wild Speculations
Another piece of the puzzle may have just fallen into place, but I’d need to be patient as more pieces dropped into the final picture.
I put the binoculars back on the dresser, feeling a stab of guilt for living a double life. I was doing the happy dance in the coffee shop with Max and then a dicey sort of tango at home. The flip-flopping from elation to anxiety was exhausting, and it distracted me from my duties as a bride-to-be.
I slid into bed with all my conflicting emotions and tried to calm myself with my usual nesting routine. Hugging my pillow, I tossed back and forth snuggling down until I found just the right position for a good night’s sleep.
Then it happened.
My mind conjured up the young face on the photo—the one I’d found in the brass chest. Her name was Alexandra Marie Heltzberg. Hard to forget that name, and in quiet moments, it was even harder not to see her face. Her expression had been so haunting—so full of fear and awareness. It was an image that could stay with a person for a lifetime. What had been her secret?
Then my brain went into sort of a random mode, picking up details from mysteries I’d read. In one instance, I recalled the novel The Water’s Edge, in which the heroine found clues hidden within a window seat. People were notorious for hiding things in window seats. Perhaps families foolishly hid important things in there, thinking it was safe. Didn’t they know? Nothing was ever entirely safe.
I had just the same sort of window seats in my third floor turret. All the way around the room. Four of them, one on each side. They’d been nailed shut, but the nails didn’t look modern. More like the square nails from another architectural era. Since my house was known for secrets, there was good reason to pull a few nails—dig a little deeper. What could I lose, but another night’s sleep? There was no way I was going to drift off now. Exhaustion couldn’t keep me from my quest, ill-fated as it might be.
Still in my nightgown, I hoofed it downstairs, snatched up the young woman’s photograph as well as a small hammer from a junk drawer, and then made my way up the back staircase to the third floor. I walked across a small hallway in the attic, opened the door to the turret, and flipped on one of the small lights. Since there were still no curtains in the windowed turret, I was glad the light was dim. I hated for the neighbors to see my every move. I glanced down at the repairs in the floor, remembering the evening Max had fallen through the mushy spot in the wood. He’d thought I’d saved his life, but in so many other ways, Max had saved mine. Oh dear, I’m drifting. Back to business.
There were four window seats, one on each side of the square tower. I chose the one facing the west wall and knelt down in front of it. There were no hinges on the top, so there was no hint at all that they could be used for storage. So much the better—for hiding things.
I studied the two nails, which held the cover down. One of the nails was deeply embedded in the wood, but the one at the other end was loose, showing a bit of the spike. The raised nail did look different—rather antique with its square sides and oddly shaped top. Perhaps then, if the original nails were still here from when the house was built in the 1920’s, it meant the window seats hadn’t been tampered with over the years. These were all wild speculations, and yet I felt a need to continue.
My knees burned with pain as they ground into the wooden floor. I hurried. After positioning my little hammer’s claw under the loose nail, I pulled back. The nail groaned as if in agony, but it finally relented and eased up out of its burial place. I then took the hammer and used it like a crowbar, prying the lid away from the base, hoping it would give way in spite of the other nail. Once again, the wood didn’t feel cooperative as it moaned and rebelled against the hammer. But with some sweat, literally from my brow to the wooden seat, the top finally creaked open.
Dust from beneath stirred in the air. I sneezed and rubbed my eyes. The space under the window seat was empty. I could have guessed as much, and yet I was profoundly disappointed. What exactly had I hoped to find? A treasure that the bootleggers had left behind—the one that should have been in the little brass box? Was I obsessed, or was I merely purging myself of the unsettling feeling that surrounded Volstead Manor? Would I ever be free of these disturbing images?
I sighed, thinking how much I reminded myself of the heroine, Catherine Morland, in Jane Austen’s novel, Northanger Abbey. Miss Morland had gotten herself into trouble from allowing her imagination to fly out of control simply because she’d read too many gothic novels. Then again. In the end, hadn’t Miss Morland been somewhat correct in her untamed speculations?
I rested my head on the edge of the window seat, thinking that a good head-pounding might be in order and yet knowing full well that I couldn’t go back to bed until I’d checked under all the window seats.
Just as I was about to return the lid to its resting place, I noticed several boards on the bottom, which were raised a bit higher than the others. The raised boards made a perfect square. This was starting to look familiar. Oh, yeah.
I dusted off the inner boards and felt for anything that was loose. Amazing. The inside floorboards weren’t nailed down, so one by one, I lifted them out until a perfect square hole had been revealed. I saw no treasure down there, but what I did see was well worth my little nocturnal expedition.
11 – The Head of a Scorpion
Dusty objects—what looked like personal belongings—filled the hidden space. They might mean nothing. And yet they might answer the queries that lingered.
My hand eased down into the hole, and one by one, I retrieved the items and set them on the floor next to me. I stared at what I’d found—a woman’s vest, a cameo, a journal, and a key. What a strange combination of things to hide. Wait a minute. A cameo? I wondered if that could be the same cameo Miss Heltzberg wore in her photograph.
I heard the house make its usual creaking noises, but this time it startled me. I looked over my shoulder just to make sure no one was there. Nothing. I chuckled at my sudden nerves and then retrieved the
photo from the pocket in my nightgown. After comparing the real piece of jewelry next to the one in the photo, I felt certain it was the same kind of cameo.
Next I picked up the crimson vest and studied it. The color had faded, but the material was still intact and was remarkably void of rodent and moth damage. The vest looked pretty standard for the 1920’s, except for the small emblem embroidered on the upper left-hand corner. The black circle contained the letters “SP” in the middle. I wondered what that stood for. Hadn’t a clue, but I thought it might be significant.
Then I picked up the key and turned it around in my fingers. It looked like a copy of the same rusty skeleton key that was in the brass box. But why hide another copy of the key? Maybe the key was very important. But a key to what? Hadn’t I opened every last door in this place? I believed I had.
Lastly, I picked up the journal. Its smooth leather binding had aged some over the years, and the pages had yellowed, but the emblem on the cover was still readable and austere. The letters “SP” rested tightly inside a circle. The top of the “S” ended with the head of a scorpion, and the bottom of the “S” illustrated the tail of the same creature. Fascinating.
As I leafed through the journal more carefully, I discovered dates and entries. But the pages must have met with moisture at some point, since the script was too blurry to read. I went through the whole book and finally found one page that was legible. It happened to be the last entry, dated April 2, 1927.
To the Sisterhood of the Penumbra,
America has seen revolution, and we have been fortunate to be a part of that great rebellion. Like the scorpion, we’ve become adaptable, hard, ever watchful, and we have bonded into a family for survival. Because of the most recent trials, we’ve also found a need to become nocturnal, retreating to our cellar when the predator is near.
But now, Dear Ones, I must tell you, I am not long for this world. My heart is failing me. But my daughter, Alexandra will continue on. She is young, but committed to our mission. If by the next assembly, I have passed on, Alexandra will read these notes from my diary.
Remember, if the Volstead Act is ever repealed, our income will evaporate. If alcohol is once again made legal, we will no longer be able to sell our fine spirits at good prices. We must continue to execute our right to a decent livelihood, and we must ever preach the lie, “Supporters of Prohibition.” For the greater good, we must bear this falsehood and wear this banner of temperance. But when we sit in the shadows we are revived, knowing our occupations thrive without the patronizing consent of men and our freedoms are once again preserved to drink and commune as we see fit.
Never grow faint and always be diligent to the precious fellowship of our Sisterhood of the Penumbra.
Yours faithfully to the end,
Your president and fellow comrade,
Gertrude Heltzberg
I slowly shut the journal. Wow. What a load to take in. So, now I knew who and what had been in my house—a group, a very passionate and organized group of women, pretended to be part of the temperance movement in order to sell their liquor without discovery. It was that simple and that strange. And that would explain the real reason the house was named Volstead Manor. The Sisterhood was giving the impression, phony as it was, that they were ardent supporters of prohibition.
And the girl in the photo, Alexandra Marie Heltzberg had been put in charge of the Sisterhood after her mother’s death. Or was she? Perhaps Alexandra was not as committed to the Sisterhood as her mother. Did the other members resent someone so young leading them? Was that why Alexandra’s face looked so distraught? I had no idea, but it was a start.
“This is a big find,” I said out loud to no one, but feeling pretty pleased with myself. Unfortunately, the new mouth-watering answers only brought more questions. What a surprise. I considered the word, penumbra. Didn’t it have to do with shadows? That made sense. And how interesting that the vests the ladies wore in public had a demure “SP” on them to stand for Supporters of Prohibition while the real crest was emblazed with the head and tail of a scorpion and stood for The Sisterhood of the Penumbra. Amazing stuff.
I picked up the key and turned it over in my hand as I thought of another sticky point. Gertrude Heltzberg mentioned that they would retreat to the cellar when the predator was near. Who was the predator? Perhaps the enemies were simply any members of the local law enforcement—any sheriff who felt it his duty to pursue the bootleggers. Made sense.
And what about Ms. Heltzberg’s mention of a cellar? I rubbed my temples, concentrating on this revelation—that the Sisterhood used some sort of underground room. No one had ever mentioned a cellar to me before, and I’d thoroughly combed the grounds as well as the inside of the mansion. But of course, if the Sisterhood were concealing themselves from the authorities, the cellar would be hidden too. What about the key? Did it open the door to the cellar? And was that the storage place for the supposed treasure? The one everyone thought would be hidden in the brass chest? Perhaps Vlad was looking for that cellar.
After checking under the rest of the window seats and finding only dust bunnies, I decided to revel in my one victory and call it a night. I raised the bottom of my nightgown and placed all the objects in the folds. Promising myself to scour the house and grounds the next morning for a cellar, I headed back down to the second floor to my bedroom and tucked all the items safely into my nightstand.
I slipped back into bed, pleased with my discoveries. Very pleased. And I wondered what Max would think if he were here right now. He just might say, “Yes, but did you remember to hire a florist for the wedding?” I smiled, knowing I’d need to add that to my list in the morning. Goodnight, Max.
I restarted my snuggling routine, but just as I floated toward the shores of slumber, my thoughts took a visit to my library downstairs—where Vlad’s rose petal had fallen.
The library. Vlad had been nosing around in there. But to hide a secret passage in a library was so cliché. On second thought. The west wall had French doors leading to the dining room, the north wall had a small rock fireplace and a door leading to a hallway, and the east wall had empty bookshelves and an outside door, which had been boarded over eons ago.
But then there was that mysterious south wall, which housed two floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases and two little alcoves for reading. Anything was possible there on that wall—anything that might want to be hidden.
Why was life so cryptic? In a dreamland somewhere deep in my mind, that question swayed in the gentle rhythmic waves of time. I could feel the cool, drifty waters and knew I wouldn’t last long in the waking world.
I woke with a snort, scaring myself. Where am I? Who am I? Oh, yeah, I’m the unlikely mistress of Volstead Manor.
Daylight shattered its way into my room. Had I overslept? Was that the doorbell? If it was Vlad Tepes, I’d be in dire need of a cellar to hide in.
12 – A Jolt of Fear
After tossing a bite of food to my beta fish, Liberty, and throwing on my robe, I made a fast shuffle downstairs to the front door. I could see Dedra through the peephole, so I opened my world to hers as I squelched a yawn. I knew my hair was in the middle of a stand-up comic routine, but I figured she wouldn’t mind. “Yeah, I got muffins.”
“No.” Dedra wiggled her eyebrows. “I’m here to take you up on that promise to show me the passage in your closet.”
I’d actually forgotten all about it, but her hands were clasped together in such a bouquet of eagerness, I couldn’t say no. “Sure. Come on in.”
We climbed the stairs as Dedra told me about Ozzie, her new boyfriend. I wanted to ask her why she’d shared her details with Max first, but since I wasn’t really one of those female friends who got her feelings hurt easily, I let it go. And anyway, Dedra seemed like she was making up for lost time by giving me a double scoop of news.
“Ozzie. I mean what a name. Right?” She giggled.
We hit the top of the stairs. “Well, that name reminds me of—”
&
nbsp; “I can’t even think of enough adjectives to describe this man.” Dedra fanned her face. “He’s charming and generous. He’s gallant and funny and sweet and. . .” She stopped to let out a Cinderella sigh.
I was relieved she wasn’t going to name all his attributes. “I’m glad you’ve found someone you really like. But you know, your friends could conjure up a lot of good adjectives about you too.”
“Really? That is so dear.” She gave me a hug.
Then I meandered down the hallway with Dedra in tow. “But surely Ozzie has a fault of some kind.”
“Not that I know of. But then I’ve only known him for six days.”
Six days?
“But then you’ve never found any faults in Max.” Dedra chewed on her lower lip. “Have you?”
I stopped and thought for a moment. “No, I guess not. Except that he’s foolish enough to want to marry me.”
Dedra gave me a gentle slap on the shoulder. “Now what kind of talk is that?”
I shrugged and grinned.
She looked me over. “Hey, you’re looking kind of thinnish. And look at those circles under your eyes. Are you all right?”
Well, except for spending half the night ransacking my house for secrets and being hounded by a drug-pushing maniacal neighbor, I was fine. “I’m just tired.”
“I’m feeling your pain.” She cringed. “But I got you out of bed; didn’t I?”
“I needed to get up anyway. Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh, I won’t.” Dedra laughed. “You know, I think this house wears you out.”
She had no idea how true that was. “Yes, it does.”
We walked into my bedroom, and I handed her a flashlight off the nightstand. Little did she know, hidden inches below, inside the nightstand, were a host of other wonders, but the news of the Sisterhood would wait for another day.