Page 10 of Lost Cause
“Hold up.” He stopped near a wall, the upper half covered in old portraits. “Did you see the dust print from these missing paintings?”
Abby narrowed her eyes. “Victor never mentioned stolen art. Just the crown.”
Burke’s instincts buzzed—quietly, insistently. He jotted a note on a pad he took from his suit jacket. If the missing paintings had anything to do with the investigation, he would leave no stone unturned.
She continued to focus on the wall. “You don’t think he’s telling the whole truth.”
“No, I don’t.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “I think there are more secrets here than he’ll ever reveal to us, but are they related to the investigation?”
“Problem is, we have to rely on him to make that determination.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t bode well for us, does it?” She hurried ahead and rounded a corner, then slowed to make her way down a few stone stairs into what appeared to be the mansion’s original kitchen.
Burke took a long look. How could anyone prepare a meal in such a tiny space? Especially service for a large number of guests. If the original owner hosted dinner parties, the crown’s identity might’ve been discovered then. Or maybe he’d been a hermit like Victor.
“The door’s straight ahead,” she said, tucking the blueprints back under her arm. “I saw it when I arrived and came in looking for Victor. Turns out he was upstairs taking a nap.”
“Odd,” Burke said. “He’s a hermit who knew someone was coming to invade his sanctuary. How could he nap? He surely would’ve been upset about the theft of the crown at least.”
“We might have to accept that Victor is unpredictable.”
“Which could make this investigation even more difficult.” Burke tried not to sound discouraged, but he liked things more black and white than he was finding tonight.
Stopping in front of a door, she tugged on the handle. “Locked.”
She handed him the blueprints. “Hold these for a second, please.”
She pulled the key ring from her pocket, the metal clinking in the quiet stone hallway, and fumbled through them until shefound one to fit the lock. “The blueprint makes this look like a passageway that doesn’t lead to the outside.” Pulling the door open, she stared ahead.
Eager to see where it led, he stepped past her to find additional stone stairs leading downward. He returned the blueprints to her and shone his flashlight at the lock. Zero evidence of tampering.
He looked around the space. “No sign of a break-in and no sign of lights, but I do see a few kerosene lamps and matches on the shelf. They’ll cover a wider area than our flashlight so I’ll light one for each of us.”
After stowing his flashlight in his pocket, he fired up the lamps, illuminating the area around him. He handed one to her and took his down the stairway. Six stone stairs in all, the temperature falling with each one until he reached an earthen floor, the dirt packed from many years of traffic. A rank odor clung to the thick stone walls.
With her footsteps trailing him, he held his light out to lead them ten feet down the passageway. The narrow space opened to a wide room with a higher ceiling.
He looked ahead. Blinked. Blinked again.
Couldn’t be, could it?
Yeah, he was seeing clearly.
Two eight-by-ten prison-like cells with iron bars, heavy chains, and padlocks filled the room. Each cell held a wooden cot with a straw mattress, a chamber pot, and a small table.
“A dungeon?” Abby’s voice bounced off the stone walls. “Why would anyone build a dungeon in their home?”
“At the time this house was built, rural Oregon was pretty lawless,” he said as he came to grips with the sight in front of him. “Maybe the homeowner had to take the law into his own hands to protect his property.”
“Something to ask Victor about.” Frowning, she looked around, then bolted for the furthest cell and pointed inside. “Look at this. It isn’t from the 1800s.”
Inside the cell, something red on the cot caught his attention. He moved close enough to pick up an individual paper packet of Tylenol, the top torn and the package empty.
He turned it over. “Expiration date is less than two years from now. If I’m right, the manufacturer sets the dates two years from packaging.”
Her face brightened. “So this packet is current and should be processed for prints.”
