“What did it look like before the Harpies took over? Is anything original?”
“The floors and the fireplace. The rest is new. Mr. Rupert and I were lucky each day a cabinet didn’t fall off its hinges. The ceiling was a terrible mess with holes and water damage from roof leaks.” Proudly, he looked around. “If only he could see it now. He’d be prouder than a peacock.” Then he suddenly startled. “You think it’s Mr. Rupert who’s haunting the place?”
“Could be,” I said, shrugging.
Nodding thoughtfully, he scratched his chin. “If that’s so, those bumps in the night don’t seem so frightful anymore. It’d actually be nice. Does that make sense?”
“It does.”
Virgil and Jenny Jane had been with me most of the day, and I’d grown to find their presence reassuring. They were here now, looking around the house. My body ached slightly, which meant Virgil was closer to me than he should be, but the pain wasn’t too bad, so I didn’t mind much.
With his chin, Mr. Butterbaugh nodded to a door tucked under the back staircase. “My room’s there.”
Logistically, it made sense that he’d hear any bumps in the basement.
He pulled open the basement door and cut on the lights. I peeked down the narrow wooden steps and understood immediately why he’d called the basement creepy.
Thoughts of dungeons filled my head as we started down. It smelled of cut wood, mildew, and earth.
“Careful now,” he cautioned. “Keep hold of the railing. Some of these steps are loose.”
The dry wooden railing was loose, too, so it offered me no comfort. I clutched it anyway.
Something skittered in a corner, and my heartbeat kicked up a notch. It was probably a mouse, but the farther we descended the more spooked I became. Stacks of plastic bins and cardboard boxes threw long shadows across the room, and some of them looked like human silhouettes.
Alongside the bottom step was a pile of wooden trim, two by fours, plywood, and narrow strapping in addition to paint cans, tarps, and rolls of insulation. A rolled-up rug leaned against a wall along with several paintings and a stack of fabric samples. I certainly hoped this was short-term storage for those items or they were bound to be ruined.
“Told ya there was nothing down here,” Mr. Butterbaugh said, his arms splayed wide.
The foundation consisted of large stacked stone blocks. Above my head, floor trusses made of long beams pocked with age supported the house. Several of the beams looked new, and I guessed they’d been piecemealed in with the renovation. Two hanging bulbs lit the room, revealing a custom redwood wine rack, built floor to ceiling, wall to wall. It was enormous, dusty, and all the slots were completely empty.
I wondered if Hyacinth had cleaned it out.
Then felt badly about thinking so and sent her a silent apology.
But really, I was curious.
Jenny Jane and Virgil watched from the top of the steps as I walked around the space. Except for the wall with the wine rack, the others were made of stone set with a thick mortar. Any hidden rooms had to be behind the rack.
“Are you up for an adventure, Mr. Butterbaugh?” I asked, running a hand along the redwood.
Thick eyebrows dipped. “What kind of adventure?”
“I think there might be a hidden room behind this rack. There has to be a way to access it.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. I saw some blueprints for the house recently, and the basement was large. Much larger than this area. And if I saw those blueprints, someone else might have, too, and broke in to check it out.” I didn’t tell him when or where I’d seen those schematics. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him none. “Which explains the bumps you heard.”
His chin came up, and he glanced upward, then all around. “It doesn’t make no sense, does it? This space being so small?”
I shook my head. “And if you think about it, your room would be right above what’s behind this wall.”
“Hot damn.” He coughed. “Pardon my language.”
He clearly hadn’t spent much time with my mama if he thought I was offended by that mild of a curse.
“If you start on one side, I’ll start at the other,” I said. “Work top to bottom then bottom to top in each section, then left to right and right to left. My granddaddy was a master carpenter and he often built secret releases into his pieces. It’s here somewhere. We just have to find it.”
I grabbed a milk crate, turned it upside down and stood atop it to reach the upper part of the rack. I ran my fingers along each piece of wood looking for a seam. I tugged, I pushed, I sneezed. The dust was something else.
The dust . . .
“Mr. Butterbaugh, as you check, keep an eye out for a place where the dust is disturbed.”
“Yes’m,” he answered, intent on his work.
We worked in silence for a few minutes until we both froze at the sound of footsteps above us.
“Were you expecting anyone?” I whispered.