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“This is fascinating,” said Emily. Her flashlight moved the most, darting over every dank and damp inch of the tunnel. “I’m sure not every crate or barrel arrived and made it safely along the ledge. A person could probably get drunk just by licking the floor.”
A round of chuckles greeted this supposition.
“I just think it’s so cool,” Maren said, “that I own this piece of history—even if it is illicit. I like to imagine Al Capone types, or you know, those classic movie guys in slick 1920s suits. I bet this place just buzzed with Prohibition-era shenanigans. Can’t you just see them down here, maneuvering crates and barrels of contraband?”
“I seem to remember,” Mr. Adamczyk said, “that several commercial buildings in the business district at the time—back then, it was down by Johnson Street and Lakeside Drive—had their cellars transformed into speakeasies.”
“They did!” Maren exclaimed. “There are five that remain in Willowbrook, mostly untouched. Many others were boarded up or simply renovated over the years. Likely, this house supplied the liquor to those establishments.”
They walked on, as far as they could, until Maren flashed her light up ahead, where the floor ended and a set of wide stone steps was seen.
“They don’t normally look like this, obviously,” Maren said, referring to all the snow that had blown in between cracks in the trap door. It was drifted against the entire right side of the stairs, all the way down to the floor of the tunnel. She shivered and rubbed her hand over her arm. “Wow, I can feel that wind. I thought it was letting up.”
“It’s much better than it was,” Dan remarked.
The group made their way back to where the secret door was. Mark helped Maren pull it closed again.
“Feel free to wander around,” she offered. “There’s plenty to see, and despite the way some of the passageways snake around, you really can’t get lost. Oh, wait, I’ll just show you one more thing.” She led them back the way they’d come but made a new turn down a different corridor, which opened into another wider space. This area was different than any other part of the cellar, having an old, peeling linoleum floor and walls that weredecorated with some pretty fancy wood paneling. “Wait here,” Maren said, the dim light of lowered flashlights showing an expectant grin on her face. “And turn your flashlights off in ten seconds.” She left them, exiting and disappearing into another corridor.
Emily counted aloud for the group. When she reached ten, they all turned off their flashlights. Only one or two more seconds passed before a light came through one of the walls, moving from one tiny peephole to another, five in all, just about eye height.
“It’s a false wall,” Maren called from the other side, her voice sounding muffled. “There’s nothing but the framework back here and it could be knocked down onto anyone poking around, authorities, I presume.”
“Or shot through,” Mark proposed. “Gangsters loved their machine guns.”
“Unless we presume this wall was rebuilt,” Mr. Adamczyk said, “looks like they never got the chance to use this cover.”
Curious, Emily led the group through the passageway, around two corners until they found Maren, standing inside a gravel-floored chamber, with an antique metal table and an old safe, laying on its side with the door open.
Emily went directly to the safe.
“Empty,” Maren advised, “and though it looks small, it’s too heavy to lift.”
“What’s the neatest thing you ever found down here?” Dan asked.
“Hm,” Maren considered. “Honestly, by the time I took over the inn, most of the basement was empty, as you see it now. But as you might have noticed, aside from general nooks and crannies, the stone walls have little notches here and there, and I once found a note tucked inside one. It was so sweet, written inwhat I’m guessing was a child’s hand, and stating simply,I will love Martin forever.”
“Aw,” cooed Emily, her interest and fervor a fine match to Maren’s.
“There is a chamber toward the back of the house that has brick walls. I have no idea why, but some of the bricks are loose. I haven’t tested every single brick, but I’ve always wondered if I might remove a brick one day and—”
“The whole house crashes down?” Dan suggested wryly.
“Well, that, too,” Maren conceded, “Or, more exciting, that I might find buried treasure—treasure being some historical document or relic from the past, maybe another secret chamber.” Her expression clearly asked if anyone else was as excited about this possibility as she.
“That would be so cool,” Emily confirmed. “I could never own this place—or certainly I could never run it as a bed and breakfast. I’d be spending all my days down here, exploring.”
“Or maybe you could,” suggested Mr. Adamczyk, glancing between Emily and Maren. “Maren is obviously nuts about this old house and she’s managing the business, quite capably, I would say.”
“You really are nuts about this old house and all its history, aren’t you?” Dan asked of Maren, seemingly charmed by her passion.
“Ilovemy house,” she gushed. “What I wouldn’t give to know each story, from every day of its life. I think it’s fascinating.”
Though she was shadowed a bit, as all of their faces were by flashlights kept politely low, the sparkle in her eye when she spoke was unmistakable. Maren’s accompanying animated gesture, laying her hand over her heart, painted a vivid picture of someone deeply connected to the house and its lore.
Alec could avoid the truth no more. He thoughtMarenwas fascinating.
Chapter Eight
