I followed him into the dank, dark opening. I put my hands out. The cave was narrow. I could touch both sides. “Gus?”
“Right here.” He flicked the flashlight ahead of him in the tunnel. “Keep coming.”
I could hear the surf outside, but otherwise the cave was like a cocoon. I’d never been claustrophobic, but there was always a first time. I took a step and ran into Gus.
“Easy. We’re almost there.”
As we moved along, the sides of the cave turned from rock to earth with wooden supports every few feet.
“Wait a minute. Stay where you are.” Gus pointed the flashlight at a stepladder that stood near the earthen wall at the end of the tunnel. “This’un is new,” Gus said, examining the ladder. “Someone’s been down here recently.”
He put a foot on the bottom rung and climbed up. I hovered below him, staying close for my own comfort and to spot him in case he fell. He pushed open a door overhead, and dim light entered the tunnel. Gus was up and out of the hole. I followed.
I emerged through the floor of locker 10B in the Busman’s Harbor Yacht Club. I couldn’t quite believe it. “Did we just get here through the floor of a locker?”
“Ayuh.” Gus gestured, taking in the big space. “Most of the booze that came into my building went south, where the money was, but the yacht club always charged a cut. During Prohibition, they needed booze for their members. There’s only one thing a rich man desires more than a big boat, and that’s Canadian booze with the label still on it.” He laughed at his own witticism, and I did too.
“Who knows about the tunnel?”
“Fewer of us every year, I’d guess, but still plenty of people. It used to be a right of passage for the yacht club kids, making some poor teenager walk through the tunnel. A couple of times a group of them found their way into my place. Made a terrible mess and drank all my tonics.” Tonic was the old New England word for soda or pop. “I made them seal it up at this end.”
“It looks like someone unsealed it.”
“Ayuh.”
“Why isn’t the end at your restaurant secured?”
“’Twas. I think Chris must have taken off the board I nailed over it when he installed the bar. As you saw, the opening is well concealed. The board probably got in his way and he couldn’t see any purpose to it, so he took it out.”
“Maybe.” It made as much sense as anything. “While we’re here, I need to check on something.” I sprinted down the hallway. As I feared, there was an empty spot where the photo from the 1967 yacht club dance had hung. My heart sank.
“Hurry up! I gotta open in five minutes,” Gus called.
I returned to the locker room, dejected.
“What’s wrong?” Gus asked. “You look like your best friend died.” Without waiting for an answer he stepped back into locker number 10B. “Let’s go.”
“Can’t we walk back on the road?”
“Suit yourself. This way is quicker.”
I wasn’t going to let him go alone, so I followed, closing the door in the floor of the locker behind me.
We made our way through the cave mouth and under the restaurant in no time. Why did journeys always seem shorter on the way back? Gus felt for the trapdoor in the restaurant floor, grunting as he swung it open.
“Wait! Gus, look over there.” I pointed toward an object beside one of the pilings. The sun was finally up and cast a shadowy light through the opening between the restaurant floor and the pilings.
“What is it?” Gus came and stood beside me, looking down at the object.
“It’s the dead man’s backpack. It’s been missing since the night of the murder.” Gus bent to retrieve it. “Don’t touch it!” I scolded. “We need to call the police. Now.”
“Not again,” Gus moaned.
Chapter 22
I stood with Lieutenant Binder in Gus’s parking lot. Sergeant Flynn was under the building, along with two crime scene techs.
“What were you and Gus doing under there?” Binder asked me.
I explained about the photocopy going missing, the unlocked kitchen door, and my discovery of the original photo taken from the yacht club.
“Who did you talk to about this photo?”
I took him back through the whole day. Fee Snugg recalling seeing Caroline Caswell’s face on the yacht club wall. Me borrowing the key from Bud, and so on. When I told him I’d shown Caroline Caswell the photo and she’d identified the people in it, he looked uncomfortable. When I said I’d been out to Rabble Point and talked to Deborah Bennett, the skin over his nose pinched into a glower.
“Now I understand. Last night, that’s why you thought I was going to say Phil Bennett complained about you. You’d spoken to Mrs. Bennett again.”
“She spoke to me. I didn’t seek her out. After her, I spoke to Sheila Smith, which you’ve already heard about, and then Fran Walker.”