Crossing The Lion Part 25

I hoped the members of the Merrywood clan who hadn't been involved in preventing Gwennie and Jonathan from fleeing would sleep in. As for Cook, as dedicated to the Merrywoods as she was, even she needed a break. And Sunday morning seemed like the perfect time for her to take it.

Despite all these rationalizations, once my entourage and I had stolen into the dining room, I closed the door to the hallway and checked to make sure the kitchen door was closed. My hands were clammy as I planted myself in front of the same painting I'd stood at the night before, my eyes focused on the telltale break in the wall peeking out from behind the ornate gilt frame.

I hoped Max and Lou would act as lookouts, barking or at least wagging their tails if anyone approached. But Lou seemed absorbed in the croissant crumbs he'd found pushed into a corner, no doubt the result of Gwennie being better at sweeping onstage than at actual sweeping. As for Max, he was busy looking for some goodies of his own, sniffing the Oriental carpet with the intensity of a pig rooting for truffles.

So I was pretty much on my own as I reached up and grabbed hold of the picture frame. As I lifted it off the wall, I let out a grunt. The thing was a lot heavier than I'd expected. Awkward, too, since the portrait of the scowling woman--whose fas.h.i.+on sense had just earned her the nickname Morticia--was more than four feet high and close to three feet wide. Maneuvering it through the air and over the coffee urn made me look like a comic actor in a silent movie.

The fact that I was experiencing difficulty prompted Max to come running over, wanting to see if he could help or, even better, engage me in a game. His interest in what I was doing piqued Lou's, and before I knew it, my struggle with the painting was made even more complicated by the two four-legged creatures das.h.i.+ng around me in circles and wagging their tails excitedly.

Even with all that canine distraction, I somehow managed to set the painting safely on the carpet without breaking any antiques or making enough noise to bring the entire household running. In fact, so far the only person who was aware of what I was up to was the woman in the painting. While she didn't look the least bit happy about it, at least she wasn't about to stop me.

But once I'd managed to wrestle Morticia to the ground, I had a much bigger problem: finding a way to open what I could now clearly see was a door that had been cut out from the wall. I stared at it for a few seconds, wis.h.i.+ng an idea would simply come to me out of the blue.

Surely Nancy Drew encountered something like this along the way, I thought, growing more and more frustrated. If only I could remember how she figured out this kind of thing.

But at the moment I couldn't remember the details of any of Nancy's successes, much less one that had specifically involved burrowing through plaster or picking locks. And I seemed incapable of coming up with any ideas of my own. The fact that my dogs had also decided to do their best to engage me in playtime, rather than going back to their crumb hunt, made it even harder to focus.

Finally, I reached up and pounded the wall lightly, hoping I'd hit a b.u.t.ton or a switch or some other device that would open the door and reveal the safe on the other side. Nothing happened.

Then I remembered that I'd already encountered another throwback to the Nancy Drew years here in the Merrywoods' spooky mansion: the hidden staircase. And I'd gained access by taking a copy of Frankenstein off the bookshelf. In other words, the mechanism that did the trick was located someplace other than on the door itself.

I glanced around, desperately hoping that something would catch my eye. But there were no bookshelves in the dining room. No books, either. And as hard as I tried, I didn't spot anything else that looked as if it might be capable of opening the hidden door.

Once again, I was wondering if I should just pack it in and go upstairs to spend what was left of the weekend with Nick. But my ruminations were interrupted by the sound of Max letting out a yip.

"Quiet, Max!" I whispered.

When I looked down, I saw that he and Lou were struggling to beat each other under the table, no doubt because they'd just smelled another tasty treat lying somewhere in the vicinity. The force of two dogs charging through the linen tablecloth that reached nearly to the floor threatened to topple the coffee and tea urns, which I knew were filled with hot liquid.

"Okay, you guys," I told them impatiently, "if you're going to act like boors, I might as well help you. At least that way you won't cause any more damage than you absolutely have to."

I got down on my hands and knees to pull back the tablecloth and help them find whatever it was they were both so determined to scarf up. As I did, I noticed a chunk of a m.u.f.fin. Even though I don't generally let my dogs eat people food, it was small enough that I knew it wouldn't do them any harm.

Max darted under the table and grabbed it--not surprising since he's smaller, faster, and more determined than Lou. He was still chewing happily as I started to drag them both out of there.

But I froze when I noticed a small white b.u.t.ton on the wall, about a foot above the floor.

The b.u.t.ton was directly underneath the door.

"Eureka!" I muttered, feeling a surge of excitement as I crawled a little farther under the table. When I got closer to the b.u.t.ton, I pressed it.

Up above, I heard something move.

"Double eureka!" I cried, hoping that what I hoped had happened had indeed happened.

Sure enough, when I crawled back out, I saw that the secret door had swung open. Even so, I warned myself against getting too excited, since there was still that safecracking thing to deal with.

I stood up, my heart pounding so hard that I knew it wasn't even trying to listen to what my brain was telling it. I leaned forward to get a better look at what was behind the door, my eyes prepared for a hard metal safe that would probably turn out to be impenetrable.

I blinked in confusion.

There was nothing there.

And by nothing, I don't mean nothing as in a wall with no safe. I mean nothing.

On the other side of the secret door was a gaping square hole.

A wave of disappointment came over me. But only a second or two pa.s.sed before my entire mood s.h.i.+fted.

Oh. My. G.o.d. I found a secret pa.s.sageway.

Maybe Epinetus Merrywood really had built a system of underground tunnels, as Falcone had joked.

By this point, my heartbeat had escalated to the jackhammer mode. In fact, I was convinced it had to be even louder than that little bark Max had let out.

What should I do? I thought, my mind racing.

But I already knew the answer to that question.

Chapter 17.

"At 20 a man is a peac.o.c.k, at 30 a lion, at 40 a camel, at 50 a serpent, at 60 a dog, at 70 an ape, and at 80 nothing."

--Baltasar Gracian It took me about one and a half seconds to convince myself that Max and Lou would be fine closed up in the dining room without me. Knowing those two, they'd probably find a nice comfy spot on the Oriental carpet and snooze once they realized their favorite playmate wasn't around anymore.

The next step was a little harder. Whoever had designed this secret pa.s.sageway clearly had access to a stepladder, since the bottom of the opening was a good four and a half feet off the floor. I, however, wasn't that lucky.

So I grabbed one end of the table and lifted it enough that I could pivot it on one leg, moving it away from the wall at a wide angle. Then I grabbed one of the dining-room chairs, dragged it over to the s.p.a.ce I'd created, and climbed up onto it.

If anyone comes in, it's all over, I thought. There was no way of hiding the fact that I'd just rearranged the furniture in the room.

The first thing someone would see was the open door, meaning they'd immediately know what was going on--especially since I had no intention of closing the door to the secret pa.s.sageway and sealing myself in.

But I wasn't about to worry about that now. After all, how many times in my life would I be handed the chance to explore a secret pa.s.sageway?

Yet while the concept sounded thrilling at first, it didn't take me long to change my att.i.tude. As soon as I climbed through the opening in the wall and lowered myself onto the ground on the other side, I realized that this wasn't exactly going to be a pleasant stroll.

For one thing, it was dark. Completely dark. I took only a few steps before I discovered that whatever light there was in the dining room wasn't going to do much to help me find my way.

I had no flashlight. Not even a candle.

I wasn't willing to turn around, however. Not when I wanted to do this as fast as possible. Besides, for all I knew, it would be a dead end. And even if that turned out to be the case, I wanted to find out as quickly as I could, go back to the dining room, close the secret door, put the furniture and painting back where they belonged, and get the heck out of there before anyone found out what I'd been up to.

So I kept going, feeling my way by running one hand along the wall and telling myself that, sooner or later, I'd come across a light or a window or something else that would enable me to find out exactly where this mysterious secret pa.s.sageway led.

It was hard to tell how far I'd crept along, taking care not to fall. It could have been five minutes or it could have been fifty--I simply had no way to gauge the time.

In addition to not having any light, there was no noise, either. I was surrounded by complete silence.

These walls must be thick, I thought.

As I patted them, I realized they were no longer covered in plaster or drywall or whatever else had made them perfectly smooth during the early part of my trek. I was now touching the rough surface of what felt like stone. Cold, hard, unyielding stone.

And I still didn't know where I was or where I was going.

Suddenly a horrible thought occurred to me. What if this secret pa.s.sageway led to a dead end--and I returned to the dining room to find that a sudden draft had blown the door leading back into the house shut?

In other words, what if Linus's killer had noticed that sending me a message in fake blood hadn't succeeded in getting me off the case--and decided to try something more effective, such as sealing me inside the bowels of the house?

I can't worry about that now, I insisted to myself. I've come this far, and I've got to see this through.

I'd barely had a chance to form that thought before I felt the top of my head brush against something hard.

Something really hard.

"Ow!" I cried, without thinking.

It wasn't until after I'd let out that yelp that I realized I should probably be as quiet as I could. For all I knew, I wasn't alone in here.

But at the moment I was more concerned about the fact that, when I'd reached up, I discovered that the ceiling in this section of the pa.s.sageway was much lower. And with every step I took, it got even lower.

The walls were getting closer together, too.

Okay, I thought, crouching down to keep from doing any more damage to my head, so you're moving through a tunnel that's getting smaller and smaller, and there's no light and the walls are so thick no one could hear you even if you screamed-- It was at that point that I realized I was right about not being alone in there. I heard a skittering sound that could only be the pitter-patter of little feet.

Rodent feet.

"Eeek!" I cried, as something soft and furry brushed against my ankle.

You're a veterinarian, a voice inside my head scolded me. You're supposed to love animals.

Not rats, another voice shot back. Especially when they're running around at the bottom of a dark, damp secret pa.s.sageway.

I paused, wondering if maybe it was time to head back and see if the door to the dining room was still open. But, rats or no rats, I wanted to find out where this darned thing ended up.

I kept going, walking with one hand to the side and one above me. Even though I'd been walking with my knees bent about as far as they'd go, I finally had no choice but to crawl.

The ground was made of mud. With puddles. And plenty of stones.

Between my wet, sore knees, the rats I kept picturing, and the fact that the s.p.a.ce I was moving through kept getting smaller and smaller, I was starting to give serious thought to the increasingly appealing concept of giving up.

It was only about five seconds later that I spotted the light.

It was a tiny speck, off in the distance--so tiny that at first I thought I was hallucinating. Or maybe seeing a glimmer reflecting off some nasty rodent's eye.

Whatever it was, the sight of it motivated me to go on. I could hear my own breathing as I became more and more excited over the prospect of actually finding--well, the light at the end of the tunnel.

As I crawled along, aware that I'd be picking dirt and pebbles and who knew what else out of my knees for days, the small spot of light kept growing bigger. The walls around me got lighter, too.

Finally I was close enough to see that I was looking outside, into the fog. Just beyond the opening was the dock.

So this secret pa.s.sageway was built to be another way out of the house. It led directly to the dock--and the boats that could get people off the island.

Epinetus Merrywood's taste in architecture might have been good for making a quick escape, but when it came to my search for answers, this hadn't exactly turned out to be the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Yet even though my first reaction was disappointment, I decided that I couldn't completely rule out the possibility of finding something of value at the end of this rainbow. Especially since I quickly realized that while the tunnel led to the dock, it also led to the boathouse at the end of the dock.

The tiny wooden structure had no function other than storing tanks of gas, rope, oars, and other boating supplies. Which made it a place where, I suspected, hardly anyone ever went.

Especially in winter.

Since I'd discovered that the latest editions of Linus's diaries were missing, I'd been looking for interesting and unusual hiding places. And I couldn't ignore the fact that I'd just found myself right outside something that fit that description perfectly.

Does it have to rain every minute of every day I'm here on this island? I wondered crossly as I ventured outside the tunnel.

Even though I made a mad dash for the boathouse, I couldn't stop the cold rivulets that trickled down the back of my neck, unpleasant as icy fingers. My feet were already wet from slos.h.i.+ng through puddles, but that didn't mean it felt any better to go squeaking across the damp boards of the dock in sopping sneakers.

I made a mental note to dress more appropriately the next time I decided to climb through a wall into a dark, damp, rat-infested tunnel that spat anyone who walked through it out into the rain.

All the same, I was glad that fog still enshrouded the island, since it would help keep me from being noticed by anyone who happened to look out the window and wonder why one of their houseguests was running around in the downpour like a maniac.

The boathouse was in a state of deterioration, probably because Linus and Charlotte didn't use it much now that the kids were grown. It looked as if a single substantial gust of wind could reduce it to a bunch of wooden planks littering the dock and floating out to sea. The fact that it hadn't happened over the past few days of nearly constant storms struck me as miraculous.

The door had been painted blue--about a hundred years ago. Peeling paint chips clung to the roughhewn wood for dear life.

I placed my hand on the door, hoping I wouldn't get any splinters. Then I pushed, holding my breath and expecting it to be locked.

Instead, it gave way as soon as I applied a little pressure.

I stepped inside, immediately searching for a light switch. I didn't see one. In fact, it appeared that this little wooden shack wasn't wired for electricity. Even so, with the door open, there was enough light to find any old notebooks that happened to be lying around.

Doing that wasn't going to be all that difficult, either. The boathouse was tiny, with barely enough room to turn around--literally.

The place was packed to the rafters, positively stuffed with everything any boater could ever need. Coiled ropes hung from big rusty nails that protruded from the walls at odd angles, along with a few plastic buckets that smelled as if their last few occupants had been unlucky fish. Lying on the floor or on the built-in wooden benches that encircled the interior were folded-up tarps, a couple of oars, and a rusted metal box that looked as if it had been designed to hold fishhooks and other fis.h.i.+ng supplies. There was a lot of other paraphernalia, as well, but, not being a boater, I couldn't readily identify the purpose of any of it.

Aside from all that junk, the crowded little building wasn't exactly the most pleasant place in the world to conduct a search. The interior was draped in cobwebs, and as I looked around, a spider the size of a gerbil lowered itself from the ceiling about three inches away from my nose. Fortunately, I'm not an arachnophobe.

But while I wasn't afraid of spiders, I was afraid of getting caught. I did my best to conduct a hasty search, picking things up and looking under them. Nothing. I crouched down and looked under the built-in benches, but that didn't yield any hidden treasure, either.

And then I noticed a shelf in the back left-hand corner. It was small, just big enough to store a stack of well-worn books. When I pulled them down and leafed through them, I saw that they contained nautical charts.