The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) (13 page)

“Now for a Scottish whisky.
Again, it is
a single
malt. Notice the peat. There is almost a flavor of smoke. It’s my favorite,” he confessed.
“Aged in oak barrels.”

The taste was very different, not as sweet and I didn’t like it at all. It was like sucking ashes.

“I can taste the difference,” I said diplomatically, setting the glass on the desk.

“Now, the American.
This won’t have the smoky flavor because fire wasn’t used on the rye and wheat.”

“It’s sweeter,” I said after I had dipped my numbed tongue in it. “I like it better.”
But not much.

Ben nodded. “It’s probably more what you are used to. Now try the Canadian. This is a whisky intended for a Canadian market. It would not be imported into the U.S.”

I accepted the last
glass,
glad we had reached the end of the bottles. I was beginning to feel a little woozy. Hard liquor has never been my friend and a very little of it went a long way.

“It’s lighter,” he said.
“Fewer layers of flavors.
Simple.”

“Almost fruity,” I agreed. “I like this best of all.”

“So do a lot of Americans,” he said wryly, no doubt decrying our unsophisticated palates.

“And you said this one isn’t imported into the U.S.?”

“Not legally. And it is less expensive than other brands.
A lot less expensive, especially in bulk.”

“Well, I guess I see why someone might smuggle it in.”

“Yes. And why they would put it in new bottles before serving it in pubs and inns and chowder houses.”

Hearing a new note in his voice, I looked up at Ben.

“Like Mike’s Chowder House or the Great Goose Public Inn?” I asked.

“Exactly like that.”

“Oh.” I tried to think, but the whisky was getting in the way. “Well, this is food for thought.” I made another stab at making the brain cells function but it was hard going. I was beginning to feel very sleepy. “Do Bryson and Everett know about this?”

“Oh, I should think so. They both drink it regularly.”

“Hm.”

“Do you still want to use my computer? You’re welcome.”

“No thanks, at least not right now. I think what I need is a nap. I’m not used to drinking.”

Ben was beginning to smile again.

“Can you get home by yourself?”

“Please. There is only one path. If I go the wrong way I’ll fall into the ocean and that will tell me to stop.”

“Nevertheless, I will walk you home. It’s time to stretch my legs anyway.” He offered me a hand and pulled me to my feet. I hated to admit that the help was welcome. Booze and a lack of sleep were a bad combination.

“So, is your new book about smuggling?”

He hesitated and then seemed to give a mental shrug.

“Yes, only not about smuggling booze. In my story the bad guys are trafficking in humans.”

“Oh. That’s bad. I’d rather have booze. I mean, in real life.
Less tragedy that way.”

“True, but far less literary drama,” he answered, grinning as he opened the door. “Someday I would like to write a historical novel about rum-runners.”

We stepped out and were greeted with a gust of wind and a view of gathering clouds.

“More rain?” I asked the sky. “This is summer, for
heavensake
. Can’t we have one clear night?”

“It’s summer but it’s also Little Goose. I am surprised the whole island isn’t lost to moss and mildew.”

“I will begin to mildew if my clothes don’t dry before it starts raining.”

I had a short nap. The afternoon was dreary when I woke and I felt no inclination to spend it cleaning the cellar, though I did make sure the cupboard door was secured with a nail before going back upstairs for the night.

My brain was busy chewing on the morning’s discovery. I asked myself why I hadn’t told Ben about the tunnel and the booze, but couldn’t come up with an answer. Except that he seemed to know a lot about smuggling, had had ample time to get to know my great-grandfather, and might still be involved with the smugglers.

Not that he would be doing this full time, I assured myself. Probably it would just be research for a book, or something, but I didn’t want the smugglers to be made aware that I had found their tunnel and the rest of their stash. Ben wouldn’t hurt me—I was pretty sure—but the fact remained that smuggling is illegal and someone could end up in jail if this went public. Criminals tended not to like this. It seemed far safer to let them finish removing their goods in peace and to leave them in ignorance of the fact that I was on to their illegal import business.

And perhaps once the smugglers were gone, the tunnel’s existence could be made remunerative in some way or another. After all, I was a reporter. Why couldn’t I go freelance with the story of modern smuggling? I would bring my phone down in the morning and take a picture of the barrels. Surely someone somewhere would be interested enough to pay for this.

Or was exposing this story too dangerous?
Too … rude?
Or at least insulting to local custom?

I shook my head and made some tea.

Maybe I should have been more alarmed about crimes being committed by a person or persons unknown, but I just couldn’t get as worked up over whisky as I would cocaine or Ben’s hopefully mythical slave-trading. Most of my annoyance—now that I knew the causes of the night disturbances were manmade—was that I had had so many anxious, sleepless nights at the smuggler’s hands.

Not that disturbing me had been intentional.
Far from it.
They were clearing out and I would be left in peace hereafter.

Or would I? If I did nothing, would they begin using the cave again the next time they had a shipment that needed storing? If they did, was that bad? What if they decided to bribe me into cooperation—offered a sort of rental agreement? It could be worth a lot of money. Would I take it? Involve myself in something illegal? I tried to imagine what my grandmother would do in my situation.

It was gloomy to contemplate, but looking at things realistically, my life was about half over. And what did I have to show for it? Until Kelvin had died and left me his home I had had a broken-down business and an apartment I was about to lose because it was being converted to condominiums.

I had no family, no sense even of what my family had been. I had been feeling rootless and discontent. I didn’t have any real anchors in the community I’d moved back to when I inherited the newspaper because Grandma Mac and my parents had not been “joiners.” There were no long-standing civic connections, no social clubs, not even close friends left from childhood, and only the two employees that came with Grandma Mac’s business.

But now?
Well, I still had no family, but I had a pre-existing place in the community if I chose to assume it. No one would question my past. I was the Wendover heir and all I had to do was live in this house. And it was a beautiful home. I had enough money to sleep nights without worry—once the smugglers were gone. I had a personable neighbor with shared interests, a chance at friends. And I had a cat
who
needed me.

Weighed against that was the knowledge that my property was being used for something illegal—something my grandmother had probably hated enough to run away from. And the trespassers abusing my hospitality were probably people I knew.

Like my personable neighbor, or my attorney.

“Enough,” I said as I stopped to stare out the window for what felt like the hundredth time.

I needed distracting and recalled the book in the library about witchcraft in Maine. It was the perfect time to give it a try. Maybe witches would be more interesting than smugglers.

Kelvin joined me in the library and I built a small fire. We settled into an armchair and put our feet up on the ottoman.

The font was hard to read and the print dense, the prose turgid. But the subject was sensational enough to encourage me to the labor of reading. It was nice to learn in the preface that no one had ever been executed for practicing witchcraft in Maine. Since the book began on this hopeful note, I thought that maybe I was ready for a bit of sensational reading though the wind was clearly rising outside and we would be having another storm.

However, it turned out that this claim of forbearance was a slight misstatement. There had been two executions in what is now Maine when it was still part of Massachusetts. The name of one of the persecutors caught my eye.

I should have closed the book at this point, but I got caught up in the story of Colonel Sands and the black witch. She was seventeen and beautiful, but never given a name, which is typical, as women were so often dismissed historically. The accused creature
lived with her aunt in a cabin where the black rocks of the island set a guard against the white man’s coming
, or so the rather bad poem immortalizing the trial said.

Brought before the heartless colonel, who had probably been having an affair with the accused witch and was trying to deny the connection, the usual accusations of broom-riding and crop-killing ensued. The poor
woman was gagged throughout the proceedings so that
she would not lay hurtful spells upon the witnesses
—and not mention
her affair with Sands. Not so amazingly, she was found guilty and judgment was passed:
Thou shalt be bound in
thine
own house on the evil island, and we will burn the shameful whole to ash and you with it
.

Fortunately, our ancestors were not barbarians. The burning was mere poetic license and anyway, why destroy a perfectly good cabin that someone else could use as soon as the aunt was gotten rid of? They decided to hang her instead. As the noose was placed around her delicate neck, she uttered a last curse:
Jonathan
Sands,
listen to these words, the last my mouth shall utter. In the spirit of the only true and living God I speak thee. Tremble, for you will soon die. Over your grave they will erect a stone that all may know where the bones of the cowardly Jonathan Sands are moldering. But listen, all ye people, that your descendants may know the truth. Upon that stone will appear the imprint of my raised hand, and for an eternity after your accursed names have perished from the earth, the people will come from afar to view the fulfillment of this prophecy and will say: 'There lies the man who murdered an innocent woman.' Remember these words well, Jonathan Sands, remember me.

And sure enough, Sands died in an accident shortly thereafter and his widow erected a granite headstone over his grave. Almost at once a handprint appeared, obscuring Winston’s name. The stone was replaced, but again a mark in the shape of a hand blotted out his name. This time they left the stone alone.

If it had been me, I would have come up with a better curse. I mean, if you are calling down the wrath of something all-powerful, let’s do a good and thorough job of cursing. You know, think of Job and all his afflictions. But I guess you do what you can and maybe this was all she could think of in what had to be a very stressful moment.

The rest of the book was less exciting. Other women were “questioned” for being witches, but this was the only execution in the islands. There seemed to be a real suspicion among the Puritans for people who lived on the northern frontiers and tiny islands off the coast who might have had dealings with the Indian tribes who were known conjurers and sorcerers and who regularly had congress with demons. People like my ancestor, Abercrombie Wendover. I could only sigh over the ignorance of these long-dead Puritans and pity them for their irrational and unnecessary fears.

I had thought that the story was out of my head by the time I made dinner and went to bed, but my dreams that night were troubled. I dreamed of a headstone with a bloody handprint on it, but the stone did not belong to Colonel Sands. The slightly obscured name read
Kelvin Wendover
.

The next morning I woke with the intention of discovering where Kelvin was buried. I would pay my respects, bring some flowers. Then I was going up to the attic and tearing it apart. There had to be some pictures, some paintings, some diaries, or personal mementos of my ancestors.

However, the best laid plans of mice and men and all that. I had just climbed out of the bathtub when there was a knock on the door. I scrambled into my borrowed clothes, which were inclined to stick on the damp patches and roll annoyingly in the hardest to reach locations.

Expecting it was Ben, or perhaps Harris, I was shocked speechless to find Jack, a pair of crutches and a duffel bag sheltering on my doorstep.

“Dear God!” I said before being enveloped in a hug. A cool wind rushed over my bare feet as I was pulled onto tiptoes.