Her Best Bet Page 10

  Shelly began to dig through the life jackets and other equipment hanging on pegs. “This wall backs up to the hillside. It’s got to be right here somewhere.”

  “Obviously well hidden.” Izzy lifted a couple of oars off U-hooks and set them in the corner.

  “Look—here are the hinges.” Shelly ran her fingers along a well-disguised door edge, flush with the wall. “But no handle.”

  “Just a wild guess, but maybe it’s because they want people to keep out.” Izzy stood back.

  “Nah.” Shelly grabbed a small metal gardening shovel from one of the shelves, stuck the tip into the crack between the door and wall and pressed hard for leverage.

  “Pete did say he’d show it to us,” Izzy said with a smile.

  The door creaked and shifted a little. “Did you see that?”

  Izzy bent forward.

  The door popped out a crack and Shelly grasped it with her fingers, forcing it open a foot. Cool, musty air slipped out from the dark space. “We’re in!”

  “Shelly, I don’t think—”

  “That’s right, don’t think. Let’s go get a flashlight so we can see inside.” She pushed the door shut, then grabbed Izzy by the arm and took off for the cottage.

  Ten minutes later, they were back, flashlight in hand. At the sight of an elderly couple settling into lounge chairs in the sun, they stopped on the trail. Shelly groaned. “The Steinmetzes. They spend every spare minute on the beach.”

  “Guess the tunnel’s out.”

  “No way. You distract them and I’ll sneak into the boathouse to get the door open. Then you come in—”

  “Don’t you think they’ll wonder why I’m not coming out of the boathouse?”

  “Tell them you’re going to organize the life jackets or something.” Shelly took the flashlight and set off, motioning behind her back at Izzy to get moving.

  How did she let herself get talked into this stuff? Izzy positioned herself so the couple had to turn away from the boathouse to talk to her. “Good morning,” she chirped. “Another beautiful day, isn’t it?” She chattered on about the weather until she saw Shelly slip into the boathouse. “I guess I should quit procrastinating. I told the Murphys I would organize the life jackets so…I’m off. If you hear any banging around in there, that’ll be me working.”

  She practically skipped to the boathouse. Inside, she saw the tunnel door wide open and a light flickering in the darkness. Her stomach took a nervous leap. “Shelly?” she whispered.

  The light began to move toward her and Shelly appeared, grinning. “It’s definitely a tunnel. Come on.”

  “I’m not going in there. You heard Catherine—”

  “There’s nothing stored at this end. We’ll take a quick peek around and get out. What if there’s something in here that would make your movie even better? Old machine guns or bootleg whiskey jars.”

  Izzy hesitated, then gave in as curiosity got the better of her. “Let’s test it first, to make sure we don’t get stuck in there.” She closed the door on Shelly and seconds later, her friend shoved the door open.

  “It doesn’t lock. Let’s hurry up before any more people come to the beach.” Shelly gave Izzy a push, then stepped into the tunnel and pulled the door shut behind them.

  “I’ll hold the flashlight.” Izzy took the light and ran the beam over the tunnel’s cement walls and floor, across the stringy cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. A shiver ripped through her in the cool dampness. “I hope there aren’t tons of spiders in here.”

  “Or rats.”

  “Thanks for that.” She aimed the beam ahead, nervously shining it on the walls and ceiling. A spider nearby scrambled away from the light and she jumped, letting out an abbreviated scream.

  “Shush!”

  “Doesn’t seem like anyone’s been in here in a long time,” Izzy whispered.

  “Or else they don’t vacuum. Maybe they want it to look this way so no one suspects they’re still using it.”

  “They are still using it—to store junk.” She narrowed her eyes as she regarded her friend. “I wasn’t kidding before—not another word about the Murphys and organized crime or I’m out of here.”

  As they stepped deeper into the tunnel they came upon all the things that been stored away in the decades since the lodge was built—stored away and probably forgotten. Old dressers and headboards, broken wicker lawn chairs, a cane fishing pole, a couple of big gray pickle crocks, and wooden crates filled with yellowed books and magazines—Liberty, McCall’s and Life. “Check out this old newspaper,” Izzy whispered. “It’s dated 1933. Chicago Bears Win First National Football League Title. Bet this is a collector’s item.”

  “All this stuff is. But it’s sure not as cluttered in here as Catherine made it sound.”

  A minute later, they came to a door at the end of the tunnel. “I thought they said it was closed off,” Izzy said. She shone the flashlight on the door, then let the beam slide along several old apple crates stacked against the tunnel wall.

  “Apparently not.” Shelly turned the knob and tugged open the door to reveal a narrow room, clearly the family’s fruit cellar. Jars of jam, fruit and vegetables lined some of the shelves. Others were stacked with early twentieth-century soda cracker tins, cream-colored enamel pans, old shoe boxes, empty mason jars and ceramic vinegar jugs.

  “They could make a fortune at an antique store,” Izzy whispered. She stepped into the room and picked up a brown Gettelman beer bottle. “Wonder who drank this?”

  “Probably Al Capone.” Shelly ran a finger down a dusty kerosene lantern. “This stuff would be perfect to set the scene in the documentary,” she said in a hushed voice. “It’s circa 1920 for sure.”

  “Yeah, but how can we know about it? We’re not even supposed to be in here.” Izzy lifted an old cigar box from one of the top shelves. “Maybe some gangster smoked these on his vacation.” She flipped open the lid and discovered the box contained old handwritten receipts. Frowning, she put the box back on the shelf, feeling suddenly like she was nosing around in someone else’s personal business. “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered.

  “Just a second. Shoot that light down here.” Shelly pulled an old wooden apple crate filled with black ledger books from the bottom shelf.

  Izzy held the light high and peered over her friend’s shoulder as Shelly opened the top book and riffled through the pages. Each yellowed sheet was similar to the last, with rows and columns of first names, dollar amounts and dates, all written in neat cursive, the blue ink faded with age.

  “Check this,” Shelly said. “It’s from 1991. Miami Dolphins, New York Jets, San Francisco 49ers—this lists every professional football team and the scores of their games at each quarter.”

  Juggling the flashlight, Izzy picked up a ledger labeled 1993 to find more of the same. She ran a finger down a column. “November 14. Cowboys 20, Cardinals 15. Packers 19, Saints 17.” Saints? “Saints? Ohmigod, Shelly, the envelope that Catherine had—”

  “It wasn’t a Bible study.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Shelly slid the wooden box back onto the shelf and the two slipped into the tunnel, quietly closing the door behind them.

  “I was joking, you know, about gangsters. I didn’t actually think there was something going on here.” Shelly stopped to stare at the crates they had hurried past in their eagerness to see what was on the other side of the door. “More of the same,” she whispered. “Ledgers.”

  Izzy illuminated the boxes as her friend opened the top couple of record books. “These are old ones, too,” Shelly said.

  “So, whatever they were doing, they quit long ago. Let’s go. I don’t want to get caught in here.” Izzy began to hurry toward the exit, fear rippling along her spine like a—She felt a tickle on her forearm and looked down; a hairy black spider crept toward her wrist. She jumped backward and brushed wildly at her arm as a stifled screech escaped her throat and the flashlight flew out of her hands. It hit the flo
or with a crack and went dark.

  “Fantastic.” Shelly sucked in a breath between clenched teeth. “What the heck were you doing?”

  “There was a spider. On my arm.” Izzy took several gulps of air, the weight of the unbroken darkness suddenly very oppressive.

  “It’s dark as a tomb in here.”

  “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” Izzy hissed.

  “Sorry. Where are you? I can’t stand to be in this total blackness all alone.”

  “Over here.” Izzy waved her hands in front of her and collided with Shelly, who was doing the same thing.

  Shelly gripped Izzy’s arm with both hands. “How are we supposed to get out when we can’t see anything?”

  “Just stick one hand out until you touch the wall, then we’ll follow it all the way back.”

  “You stick one hand out. You’re the one who broke the flashlight.”

  Izzy made a squeaking noise. “I hate spiders.” At the thought of more spiders dangling in the air around them, a shudder ripped through her.

  “I am…relaxed,” Shelly said softly. She drew a quick breath. “I am…relaxed. I am relaxed.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “The walls are pressing in on me.”

  “Are you claustrophobic or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re claustrophobic? What were you doing insisting that we go into this tunnel?” Izzy slapped her friend’s hand hard.

  “I’m usually okay as long as there’s light.”

  “Well, there isn’t any.”

  “You don’t have to rub it in.” Shelly inhaled slowly. “I am…relaxed,” she chanted. “I am relaxed.”

  “Stop it!”

  “I can’t stop it. Otherwise I freeze. I won’t be able to move.”

  “I’m half-inclined to leave you in here forever.” Izzy felt a fluttering on the back of her hand and jumped, squelching a scream. “Okay, we’re getting out of here right now. Stick out your hand. We’re going to move sideways until you make contact with the wall.”

  She shuffled them sideways as Shelly kept repeating, “I am…relaxed.”

  After a moment, Shelly said, “I’m touching the wall.”

  “Now all we have to do is move forward, one step at a time until we’re out.”

  “What about the flashlight?”

  “I’m not crawling around on this floor in the dark to find a broken light.” Tugging Shelly forward, she began to move them down the tunnel. Five minutes later, hearts pounding, they stumbled back into the boathouse.

  “Get me out of here,” Shelly said on a gasp. She shoved the tunnel door closed just as Izzy opened the outside door. Bright morning light flooded the room and Shelly fled into it, laughing with such giddy delight, Izzy could have sworn she’d been rescued from a week in a collapsed mine shaft.

  She rehung the oars and life jackets, making sure there was no sign that anyone had gone into the tunnel. No reason to advertise they’d been exploring where they didn’t belong. Stopping in the boathouse doorway, she waved to the Steinmetzes. “Neat as a pin in here now,” she called. She closed her eyes and let the morning sun warm her face. Hopefully they hadn’t paid attention to how long she’d been in the boathouse—or wondered where Shelly had come from.

  “Morning, Izzy.”

  At the sound of Gib’s voice, her heart tripped and her eyes flew open. I am…relaxed, she said to herself. “Were you out fishing?”

  He nodded. “Don’t tell me you two are going out on the water. You could have come with me.”

  “Um, no, we were talking about it, but then we decided not to. I was making sure there were life jackets and oars in case—” She forced herself to stop.

  “What’s with her?” He eyed Shelly standing on the end of the dock, face raised upward, arms outstretched to the sky as if embracing the wide-openness of the world.

  Izzy stepped onto the sand, shut the door behind her and said the first thing that popped into her head. “Morning nature-bonding ritual. A yoga thing that she does every day.” She groaned inwardly; Gib was down here every morning to fish; he would have noticed Shelly before now. “This is her first time doing it at the beach.”

  “Is it relaxing?”

  “Very. She swears by it.” She felt a trickle of nervous sweat run between her shoulder blades.

  Shelly strolled down the pier toward them, her expression one of absolute bliss.

  “You ever do it?”

  “No. I always meant to, but…”

  “Maybe it would help me sleep at night. We should try it.”

  We?

  When Shelly got closer, Gib asked, “Mind if I join you tomorrow morning?”

  She slowed her steps and blinked. Izzy gestured loosely with her hands. “I told him about your morning nature-bonding ritual. The one you do every day.”

  “Ooh. Sure.” Then, as if realizing she sounded less than convincing, Shelly said, “It really revs you up.”

  “I thought it was relaxing,” Gib said.

  “It relaxes and revs all at once,” Izzy said hastily. “So you’re ready for the day with energy—”

  “Calm energy,” Shelly interjected.

  “Sounds intriguing. What time should I be here?”

  Izzy swallowed.

  “How about seven?” Shelly said.

  “Seven it is.” His gray eyes met Izzy’s, and she had the unsettling feeling that he could see directly through them into her soul. “You’re coming, too, aren’t you?”

  She glanced away. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t spend more time with Gib Murphy—it muddled up her mind when she was trying to stay focused on her new career path. Besides, the more they were together, the more likely she or Shelly would make a slip and he’d discover her parents owned the land. No, she most definitely shouldn’t come down here tomorrow morning. She looked him right in the eye. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  BOTTLE OF BEER IN HAND, Gib lay in a hammock at the beach later that day, taking a break after priming the freshly scraped exterior trim at Hickory Hollow. With any luck, he could get in a half hour’s catnap before the primer was dry enough to be painted.

  He took a drink of beer and watched the plump white clouds waft through the flawless blue sky. In the background, he could hear the soothing lap of water against the sandy shore. If he didn’t turn his head, he could almost pretend he was at an all-inclusive resort—not in northern Wisconsin, but on a Caribbean island, alone in paradise.

  He brought the bottle to his mouth again and took a swallow. Nah, there he’d be drinking a mai tai or something exotic. A waiter would be refilling his glass every time it even came close to being empty. And beauties in bikinis would be strolling the water’s edge.

  He closed his eyes. There was, of course, always the possibility he could be lucky here at White Bear. Maybe Izzy would decide to go for a swim—or at least a stroll in her swimsuit. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her in a swimsuit yet—maybe she had a bikini. Maybe fortune would make her stroll by in it right now.

  What did he have to lose by looking?

  Opening one eye, he twisted his head slowly to the right and scanned the beach. Huh. The only view was Mrs. Steinmetz in a black one-piece almost-turtleneck swimsuit, sitting beside her husband in the shade of an ancient maple tree. No good luck that way.

  He rolled his head the other direction and opened his right eye. No bikini girls this way, either. Just four kids leaping off the pier. Rascal wandered out of the woods to lick the hand Gib dangled off the side of the hammock, then dropped to the sand for a nap in the sun.

  He should have known better than to expect anything exciting on White Bear beach. Finishing off his beer, he leaned down to stick the empty bottle in the sand.

  “Gib Murphy?”

  He looked up into the face of an early-forty-something businessman. Clean-shaven, white shirt, loose-knotted tie, sleeves cuffed up twice, no coat. The man smiled, showing off
straight white teeth. Not their average guest. Still…“Yes?”

  “I’m Jack Taylor of Taylor Development out of Milwaukee.” He extended a hand. “We specialize in high-end condominium projects. They told me at the lodge you’re the person I need to talk to.”

  “About what?”

  “The land.”

  Gib spun off the hammock and onto his feet. “What about it?” he asked, leading Taylor away from the beach so they couldn’t be overheard by the Steinmetzes. Who was this guy and what did he want? “What about the land?” he repeated when they were far enough away.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk? I have some information you might find interesting.”

  So much for escaping to an exotic Caribbean beach. Gib narrowed his eyes. They couldn’t talk in the lodge. Whatever this guy wanted to discuss, there was no reason to draw his grandparents into a conversation that may not accomplish anything except to upset them. “Yeah, follow me.” He took one of the paths into the woods and unlocked an unrented cottage.

  As Jack settled onto the faded tan sofa, Gib leaned against the kitchen doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. “I assume you know we don’t own the land.”

  Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “I also know your lease gives you the right to match any legitimate offer the landowner gets.”

  Nothing new there. Gib eyed the patterned avocado-green linoleum in the kitchen with its worn-in traffic pattern. Jeez, but these places needed to be brought out of the sixties and seventies. “Yeah. So?”

  “I hope I’m not talking out of school, but I understand you’re having trouble securing the funds to match the offer they’ve received.”

  Where’d this guy say he was from? Milwaukee? Word sure got around fast. “Go on.”

  “Let’s suppose you—the resort—was owned by partners. If you had a partner who could buy the land, you wouldn’t have to lose the resort.”

  Interesting. “Are you saying you would be that partner?”

  “My company is in excellent financial condition. I can get a loan to buy the land, like this.” He snapped his fingers. “We work together and you wouldn’t lose the resort.”