Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (23 page)

I wanted to cry, but what good would it do? I was also getting light-headed, and the burning urge to jump out of my skin threatened to overwhelm me.

“Cyril, I should tell you that I have a real problem with claustrophobia. I’ve got to get out of here. Now. I’m not kidding.”

I jumped as he grasped my hands in the darkness with his cold, work-roughened ones.

“Calm down. Don’t go round the twist now. Breathe, Daisy.”

I closed my eyes, even though it didn’t matter anyway, and clutched his hands as I blew out one breath after another.

The air was musty with the scent of long-ago stored vegetables and the rising damp through the earthen floor, combined with damp wood. And perhaps Cyril had missed showering for a couple of days.

There was a silence, and then he chuckled. “Aye up. This is a fine kettle of fish, ain’t it? This place isn’t so bad, although I’m right sick o’ carrots and raw potatoes. And the ground’s hard, and it’s perishing cold at night.”

“Did you—did you actually
sleep
in here?” My voice sounded faint.

He sighed. “I was a miner, remember? The dark doesn’t scare me. And I knew it were safe. That was the most important thing. Here, come sit on one of these boxes. They’ll find us eventually.”

“When? That storm is getting so bad outside, it’ll cover up my car in no time. It could be days before anyone thinks to look in here.”

I felt him shove what felt like a wooden crate against the back of my leg. I sank down onto it, and for the next couple of hours, I filled him in on what had been going on in Millbury while he’d been on the run. About my list of suspects, from Jim McIntire, to Beau Cassell, to Althea Gunn. Even Ruth Bornstein.

I frowned for a second as I remembered my last encounter with Ruth. I still wasn’t completely convinced that Stanley had died of natural causes, but I guessed I’d never know now.

Talking to Cyril was helping alleviate the panic, so I kept talking as much as I could. I could hear his breathing next to me, but it was getting shallower and he hadn’t said anything in a while. Perhaps he was asleep, but I didn’t care. I kept going, talking about Roos’s history and the sampler at Althea’s house. The voices of long-ago slaves called to me.

Freedom, Daisy, freedom.

Images of the tree of life sampler and also the sketched map I’d drawn of the safe houses on the Underground Railroad floated around in my brain, like pictures superimposed on one another, with the safe houses sitting like ripe fruits on the branches of the tree.

Suddenly I realized that Glory Farm would be in exactly the right geographical position to be the branch with the rooster on it.

Hope surged through me, and I jumped to my feet.

“Cyril, I think this place might have been a stop on the Underground Railroad! I’ve been doing research on the area for the Historical Society. There’s not much documented, but there was a brief mention in Rufus Banks’s diary where he hinted that this farm could be a stop on the route. And then there’s the rooster in the tree!”

“Who’s Rufus Banks when he’s at ’ome?” Cyril’s voice sounded sleepy. “And what bloody rooster?”

“Never mind. Look, I bet that there’s an entrance to a tunnel in here somewhere that leads to the outside world. A lot of these old root cellars followed the stream.” Thanks to teaching, my mind was a patchwork coverlet of information. “Help me look for some kind of escape door or hatch.”

Now that I was calmer and could think clearly, I also remembered I had a tiny flashlight on the end of my key chain. It didn’t take long to find my keys, and as I squeezed it, I grinned at Cyril’s craggy face in the dim light.

I flickered it over the front wall of the root cellar where the door was. “That side is just rock all the way, but I think it’s earth on this other side behind the shelves.”

Wooden shelves behind us were laden with dusty canning jars filled with a bounty of tomato sauce and pickles from a long-ago summer. There were also boxes of rotted potatoes and onions, wicker baskets, and garden tools. I pulled experimentally at the side of the structure. “I don’t think it’s attached to the wall. If we clear off the shelves, we could move it.”

“Don’t waste the light,” Cyril ordered.

“Don’t get cocky with me, mister. I own the keys.” But I took his caution to heart, and with a quick flash of light to catch our bearings, we felt for armfuls of glass jars in the dark and carried them off the shelves and set them on the other side of the cellar, bumping into each other occasionally in the cramped space.

This must be what it’s like to be blind.

Another flash to make sure they were clear, and then Cyril got on one end and I took the other to move the shelves, swinging back and forth, inch by inch, to slowly zigzag them away from the earth wall.

I held up the key light and we stared at the small door built into the wall that was barely four feet tall and had been completely covered by the junk. There was no handle or lock, so we took turns trying to grip the edges to force it open. I was glad of my gloves. My fingernails would have been ripped to shreds by now.

If you don’t get out of here, Daisy, who the hell is going to care about your manicure? The undertaker?

Odd that I was usually the least fussy person on the planet about things like that. Odd what pops into your head when you feel that your time is running out.

“Wish I had a screwdriver or a chisel or summat,” Cyril muttered. “What else have you got in that bag?”

“I’m a mom. I’ve got lots of stuff.” I felt around some more, my fingers finally closing on promising object. I turned on the precious light to reveal a silver chatelaine containing a pair of sterling silver scissors.

Cyril held out his hand.

“You can’t use this. It’s an antique!”

With a muttered oath, he grabbed it, and soon the space was filled with the screech of rusty nails prying loose from their hundred-year-or-more-old resting places. I stood next to him, holding the light, and wondering how long the batteries in these things were supposed to last.

Even though I’d been the one pushing to uncover the entrance, the sight of the airless narrow tunnel made me break out in a real sweat this time.

“I don’t think I can do this, Cyril.” The passageway was only as high as our bodies. “I don’t think I can fit through there.”

“Of course ye can. Make up your mind, lass. Do you want to come with me, or would you rather stay here while I go get help? I’ve been thinking what you said about the storm and how long it might take them to find us, and I think yer right. While I’m not so worried about the lack of food, we’ve got no water. We need to make a move. Now. Or at least I do.”

“Don’t leave me alone here. I’ll go with you.”

“Look sharp, then.”

“Wait, do you think we should have a code word for panic?” I flashed the penlight for a second, stalling as long as I could.

“Trust me” was all he said before he disappeared into the tunnel.

I
t took all the courage I possessed in the world to follow him into that dank hole. I reached out and grabbed the back of Cyril’s jacket and held on for dear life. If we were going to die, we’d die together. And if we ever got out of here, if he didn’t ask Martha to marry him, I’d ask her for him.

The narrow space was probably only about four feet high and three feet wide. I bumped into the damp sides of the walls enough times to figure it out. I’d never been in such complete darkness before. I opened my eyes as wide as I could, but it didn’t make any difference. I fought to calm my raging thoughts and the sense of powerlessness that made my heart pound in my chest.

After a few minutes, it seemed as though all my senses were heightened. The sound of the rasp of Cyril’s labored breath, the chill and the smell of the musty earth, the rustle of—What was that? A rat?

“I need the light again, Cyril. Stop for a second.”

He sighed. “It’s worse if you keep turning it on and off.”

I ignored him and flashed the light on the key chain. It barely made a pinpoint in the oppressive black. I stood for a minute, practicing my Lamaze breathing. My back was killing me from crouching over. I couldn’t see any rats, but as the sweat dried, I spotted an alcove, hollowed out of the earthen wall. There was some kind of sack stored inside. “What the heck’s that?”

My heart was pounding as I ordered Cyril to hold the light. Inside the sack was what looked like a book. “It’s a diary!” I gingerly opened it and scanned the pages. “Oh my God, Cyril, if this is what I think it is, it’s a record of the slaves who passed through this tunnel on their way to freedom. Do you realize what this means?”

I didn’t care about the claustrophobia anymore. I was practically dancing with excitement. “This farm is an historic site! That creep Cassell will never be able to build on here now, no matter what he does.”

I gasped. “You know, Althea told me she smelled cigar smoke outside the carriage house. I bet Cassell was listening to their conversation. Roos probably mentioned something about suspecting that this place might have been part of the Underground Railroad. That’s why he took all the pictures of this farm.”

Cyril nodded. “And when Althea went into the shivah, Cassell beat Roos unconscious, tied him up, and stuffed him in the tool chest. Clever trick, that. To have Althea be the one to drive Roos to his doom.”

“My God.”

As we stared at each other, the little light at the end of my key chain petered out and we were plunged into pitch black again.

“That’s it, then.”

Cyril’s matter-of-fact voice sounded in the dark. The reality that we had no more light, and no idea where we were, or if there really was an opening at the end, sank in.

Maybe this was just a holding tunnel and not an escape route. Maybe there were skeletons in front of us from those who never made it.

Cyril began marching again, and I stumbled after him, clutching the sack close to my chest. How had the slaves felt, in the days before battery-powered lights, crawling through this space?

This train is bound for glory, this train.
I started humming the old gospel song. I wasn’t just looking to save myself now, I was on a mission to save this land and honor the history of all who had gone before.

I segued to one of my favorite Springsteen songs, “Land of Hope and Dreams,” and sang out loud about steel wheels ringing and bells of freedom.

“Stone the crows,” Cyril cried.

I laughed and sang louder.
Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.

We kept moving, and after a while, it felt as though we were going uphill slightly. I was sweating and my back was screaming from walking so hunched over.

“Did you hear that? It sounded like a church bell.” I strained to hear the bell again. The air seemed fresher, too, and I thought I could dimly see the back of his jacket. I heard other sounds, and now I knew I wasn’t imagining the rumble that was almost on top of us, like footsteps.

Suddenly Cyril came to an abrupt stop. “Ow! Me bloody head!” He reached up and pounded hard on what sounded like wood. “Hey, is anyone there? Let us out!”

I joined in with the shouting. Next we heard the screech of objects being dragged across the floor, and after what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a few minutes, there came the sound of a rusty bolt being pushed back.

We squeezed our eyes at the sudden brightness as a hatch door opened to reveal a very startled Father Morris.

I took the father’s hand gratefully as he reached down and pulled me up into the sacristy of the Episcopal church, where items for worship were stored. Cyril climbed out next, and we stood there, shivering from the damp that had chilled us to the bone. A huge heavy cabinet that held vestments and hangings and a rug were pushed to one side.

“I never even knew this door was under here!” Father Morris said. “What on earth are you two doing?”

“It’s rather a long story, Father,” I said, my teeth chattering, “and I’ll tell you in a minute, but right now could you please call the police? There’s a dangerous man on the loose, and he very nearly killed us.”

“Good heavens! Of course. Come on into the office.” While he called 911, I stumbled off to the restroom. I shuddered at my reflection in the mirror and cleaned up as best I could. I’d need a long, hot shower later, but for now, I was at the limit of my energy reserves.

When I came back to the office, I found Cyril sitting wrapped in a blanket and enjoying a cup of tea from the Keurig machine. Our little church was well-equipped in the things that mattered. Father Morris tucked a thick blanket around me, too, and was about to start a coffee brewing when Serrano strode in.

“Daisy, come here.” I had barely risen before he swept me up into his arms and held me tight. I held him back, feeling the slight tremor throughout his powerful body. “You scared the hell out of me. When you didn’t come home, Joe called. We’ve been looking for you all night.”

“It’s okay. I’m right here,” I said, rubbing his back briefly.

“Damn it. You promised me you would go right home,” he murmured in my ear, so that it was only me who heard the roughness brought on by emotion. And it wasn’t anything sexual. It was the fear of loss. Someday we’d talk about the demons in his past. How he had suffered and survived, but couldn’t cope with the idea of losing anyone else in his life.

There was a commotion at the door to the office, and a very emotional Martha burst in, followed by Joe, Eleanor, and Tony Z.

Serrano and Joe shook hands, and then I was wrapped in my husband’s arms, the arms I had dreamed of during the long torturous crawl through the tunnel. “How did you guys get here without my car or Martha’s?” I asked him.

“Tony gave us a ride.” Eleanor said, grinning at me. “We looked like a bunch of clowns getting out of his Mini Cooper.”

“You are in serious trouble, mister,” Martha said to Cyril, tears streaming down her face as she swept him into a passionate embrace, which went on for quite a while.

Father Morris coughed lightly and turned his attention to making cups of coffee for everyone.

“Did you get my text?” I said to Serrano. “About the root cellar?”

“I did, Daisy, but I’m embarrassed to say, I didn’t go to the one you meant. I thought you must be talking about Althea’s cellar. Especially after how you were going on and on and
on
about Cassell trying to frame her for Roos’s murder.”

I smiled at him in satisfaction.
Maybe he did pay attention in class after all.

“And, yes, Ms. Buchanan, the camera equipment was stashed in there, just like you said. We’re testing the stuff for his prints as we speak.”

“And how about Willensky?” Cyril asked. “Did you find ’im?”

“Yeah, in a manner of speaking. Apparently he drove too fast in Martha’s Lincoln in the snow. It did a one-eighty at the corner of Main Street and Grist Mill and crashed into the tree next to the Historical Society. He died instantly.”

Father Morris bowed his head, and the rest of us took a moment of silence. More tears poured down Martha’s cheeks. She’d really loved that old tank of a car.

Eleanor pressed another cup into the Keurig. “So. Is the Death Mobile totaled?”

“The tree will need to be replaced, but apart from a dent on the bumper, the Lincoln is relatively unscathed.”

Martha beamed at Serrano. “They don’t make ’em like that anymore. It’s indestructible. Hey, I’ve just remembered where I saw that man before, and not only from the zoning meeting last night. It was the day I was putting up the flyers around Sheepville.”

Cyril shifted a little, and I suddenly knew who had taken the notices down. He hadn’t gone to the trouble to stay hidden only to have his face plastered all over town. I wondered if he’d ever admit it to her. I’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do, too, but for now, I was happy to be alive.

“I saw him checking out the car, but a lot of people do that,” she said. “Especially the antique car buffs. But then he was staring directly at me. It gave me the willies.”

I glanced at Cyril, knowing his blood was running as cold as mine at the thought of how close Martha had come to danger.

Eleanor nodded toward the sack I was clutching. “What’s in the bag, Daisy?”

“Oh my God, I forgot about this for a moment. I found it in the tunnel. I think it’s a diary that details the farm’s history as a stop on the Underground Railroad. Alex Roos wasn’t just here to do the calendar shoot. He was here to document the story of his ancestors.”

I carefully opened one page after another, finally finding the passage I was looking for. An entry about a runaway slave named Roos who passed through this farm on the way to Canada. He was caught and whipped savagely by a slave catcher named Gunther. He died of his injuries before he could be returned to the South. That must be the reason for the rooster in the tree. The final resting place of Roos the slave.

I read the passage out loud to the quiet room.

“Does this mean that Cassell will never be able to build now?” Martha asked.

Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “Even though the National Register can’t
force
the farmer not to sell to him, no matter what he does, the zoning will never be approved.”

“Alex had a personal interest in trying to save the land, which is probably why he did the pictures for such a cut rate,” I said. “I’m not sure we can prove that Cassell knew about the historical significance, but I bet he did, and he wasn’t about to let Roos screw up his development plans.”

“I wonder if there are more artifacts buried in that tunnel?” Eleanor mused.

“Probably,” I said, “but someone else can go look for them. There’s no way I’m going underground again unless I’m toes up in a wooden box.”

Serrano’s cell chirped and he listened intently, not saying much, his expression grim. He hung up and looked at me. “The cameras were wiped clean. No fingerprints at all. Damn it.” He ran a hand across his cropped gray hair. “It’s all circumstantial—the sweater, the cameras, the whole bit. We still don’t have anything on the son of a bitch.”

“At least he won’t be able to destroy the village now.” I let the blanket fall onto the chair, finally feeling warmed up again.

“No one will,” Eleanor said firmly, while Tony Z looked at her with adoration.

“And Cassell will be on my radar forever,” Serrano said. “Sooner or later, I’ll get him. You mark my words.”

Sally McIntire appeared at the doorway. “Oh, there you are, Father. Saw the lights and figured I’d stop in. I need to talk to you.” She was wearing a short red jacket over a black sheath and very high heels with no stockings. I wondered if she’d just come from her latest assignation. She appraised Serrano with a practiced eye and smiled her knowing smile. “Oh, to hell with it, I may as well tell
you
directly. Forget the church.”

Father Morris raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t interrupt.

“You know that piece of sh—uh, I mean, that no-good Beau Cassell?” she said.

Serrano nodded, his expression neutral.

“And you remember how I told you I was with him when Roos was killed?” she said, as if a statement to the police concerning a murder investigation was just a casual conversational tidbit. “Well, I wasn’t. Not all night. Only ’til around 9 p.m. Then I was with someone else.”

I didn’t dare look at Eleanor. I just dared not.

Sally stamped a spiked heel on the floor, and I hoped it hadn’t left a dent in the ancient wood.

“He promised me a tennis bracelet for covering for him, but he kept putting me off. Now tonight he shows up with something that looks like he got it at the charity store! Oh, I can tell it’s not real. He’s all pissed off about the zoning meeting and doesn’t feel like spending the cold hard cash. Well, no one puts one over on Sally McIntire. I’ll show him not to mess with me.”

Serrano sighed as he escorted Sally out of the office. “Come on, Mrs. McIntire. Let’s go take your statement again and see if we can get it right this time.”

I finally let myself grin at Eleanor.

She snickered. “Once a night is not enough, eh?”