A muffled "Yay!" drifted up from below.
"If I can just work this panel loose, I think I can reach the window!"
"Will we be able to climb out?" she asked.
"I don't know, Mrs. B. The air conditioner might be in the way."
I continued jiggling the air conditioner up and down, up and down, like a kid on a pogo stick. The sliver of light became a slit, and the area I was working in grew marginally brighter, but it was slow going, and I was afraid I might pull the air conditioner clean off the wall. If the falling air conditioner didn't kill us outright, then Chet would probably finish the job when he came in to see what we had been up to.
"Mrs. B, look around down there and see if you can find me a corkscrew, something I can pry with."
"Right." I heard a drawer slide open, then another and another before Mrs. Bromley said, "The only corkscrew he seems to have is one of those pull-screw models, and it's mounted on the tasting table."
"Damn!"
"How about this?" From my perch, I turned carefully and looked down into Mrs. Bromley's upturned face. She was holding up a wine funnel.
"Let me give it a try." Holding tight and fighting vertigo, I stretched my hand down. On her end, Mrs. Bromley stood on tiptoe. I captured the funnel between my index and middle fingers and tucked it under my arm. When I was securely in position in front of the air conditioner again, I examined the funnel. The spout was curved, but it was made of sturdy stainless steel.
Holding the funnel end, I used the spout to dig around a corner of the panel. I made a hole, then rammed the funnel between the panel and the wall and pulled. I moved to the opposite corner and did the same.
Hoping to speed things up, I ran my fingers over the wood, feeling for nails I could work on. I never thought my fingers were particularly sensitive, but even in the dark I could tell that the panel was attached with screws, not nails.
"Mrs. B! I need a screwdriver."
If only this guy hadn't been so modern, I complained bitterly to myself. I didn't ask for much. Just an average, run-of-the-mill corkscrew with the name of a liquor store stamped on the side and a stainless steel, foil-cutting blade that folds up inside.
I heard drawers opening and closing again. "I'm not finding anything."
"A cheese knife?"
"No, nothing." A cabinet door opened, then closed. "Wait a minute! How about this?" She held up a thin piece of metal about a foot long. "I think you dry decanters on it. It's got a plastic tip." She grunted. "There, I got it off."
The drying stem was the thickness of a chopstick, much thinner than the funnel. It fit perfectly in the narrow space I had created between the panel and the wall. I crammed the rod in and yanked it toward me.
"It's coming!" With a screech, the screws began to surrender and the wooden panel started to pull away from the wall. I worked my fingers around behind it, stuck the rod in and pulled again. Suddenly, the panel came off in my hands. I waved it in the air like a trophy, and turned to smile at Mrs. Bromley. She stood below me, silently clapping her hands.
Behind the panel was a nest of wires and white plastic duct work. With growing excitement, I tore away the duct work to reveal the window.
It was six inches tall, large enough to accommodate the air conditioning exhaust, but not nearly tall enough for a human body to pass through.
"Damn, damn, damn!" I didn't realize I'd been sweating until the sweat started to cool on my forehead. "Oh, the big F-word!" All the other words I thought of contained four letters, too.
"It's too small, isn't it?"
"Yes," I whimpered. "We could sneak in a pizza, maybe."
"Come down, Hannah. You did your best."
So Pottorff wouldn't be aware of what I had been doing, I shoved the panel back into place, pushing the damaged corners in as best I could. Then I backed down the wall, carefully avoiding the wine bottles that Mrs. Bromley had arranged in neat battalions on the floor.
Outside the room, Chet was still watching Twister. From the sound of it, Cary Elwes was about to get his, or maybe the cow had just flown by. We were about to replace the wine bottles in their slots when the room outside suddenly grew quiet. I held tight to Mrs. Bromley's hand, hardly daring to breathe.
Chet's shadow darkened the door. He seemed to be listening, but we kept quiet. Chet grunted, and his shadow moved away. We could have frozen to death in there, for all he cared. I heard the refrigerator door slide open and the clink of bottles. Chet, it appeared, was helping himself to a beer.
A minute later Chet crawled back into the fury of the storm and we began to relax. "Just in case we don't get out of this, Mrs. B, I want you to know how much your friendship has meant to me."
"I feel the same way, Hannah."
"I just wish I could get a message to Paul. The last time I talked to him, he made me promise not to leave the house. When he gets home and finds me gone, he's going to kill me." I chuckled ruefully. "So to speak."
I reached for my purse and started rummaging.
"What are you looking for, dear?"
"Something to write with. I want to leave Paul a note, if they-" I swallowed, unable to continue.
For want of something better, I located my checkbook and tore a deposit slip out of the back. It would have to do. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I wrote Paul a note that came straight from my heart.
When I finished, and had pulled myself back together, I turned to Mrs. Bromley. "Where should I hide it?"
Mrs. Bromley didn't even pause to think. "You could empty out a wine bottle, put the note in, and recork it."
"I like that idea."
"I used it in a novel once. The Broken Promise."
"Really? I don’t know how I missed that one. When we get out of here, I'll have to read it." Tucking the note into my pocket, I crossed the room. Starting at the lower left-hand corner nearest the door, I counted nine slots up and seventeen over. I pulled a wine bottle out of the slot and carried it over to the door so I could see the label more clearly.
"Michael LeBois Pinot Noir Santa Maria Highlands 2001," I read aloud.
"Sounds complicated, but lovely," Mrs. Bromley said.
"I'm sure he's waiting for this little beauty to mature." I took the bottle over to the decanting table and positioned it under the corkscrew. "Well, too effing bad!" I pulled down and rammed the corkscrew home. I lifted the handle to release the cork, then held the bottle over the sink.
"Want a taste?"
"Are you kidding?"
I tipped the bottle to my mouth. "God, this is good." I took another swig and swished the wine around in my mouth before turning the bottle upside down and watching every last ounce of Michael LeBois's finest gurgle down the drain.
I rolled my note into a tube, stuck it in the bottle, and replaced the cork, pushing it all the way in with my foot. Then I returned the pinot noir to its proper slot.
"In case something happens to me, Mrs. Bromley, remember: nine up and seventeen over. It's my birthday."
From her position on the floor, Mrs. Bromley looked up at me and smiled. "Under the circumstances, Hannah, don't you think it's time you started calling me Naddie?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"Naddie," I said, trying it on for size. "Naddie."
Next to me, Mrs. Bromley began to weep quietly. "If anything happens to you, Hannah, I'll never forgive myself."
"Please, Mrs. B, uh, Naddie." I wrapped my arms around her, wanting so much to comfort her, to reassure her that everything would be okay, but at that point, neither one of us was likely to believe it.
Tears glistened on her cheeks.
"Here," I said, "let me find you a tissue." I plunged my hand deep into my purse. I had a packet of tissues in there somewhere.
I pushed aside my wallet, my lipstick, an appointment book, my car keys-fat lot of good they were going to do me now. I found an old AAA battery, a stick of gum, and somebody's business card. Then my hand touched something soft and squishy.