"Ridiculously over indulgent she said, looking back at me. "But Herbie
and I had always talked about it, and since I was redoing the basement
anyway, I figured it was time to go nuts. Cute shoes, by the way."
I looked down at the pointy-toed mules Grace had convinced me to buy
the other night. They weren't exactly practical, and I was still
figuring out how to walk in them, but they were definitely cute.
"Thanks. Nordstrom anniversary sale," I said, still proud of my little
purchase.
"Best sale of the year." She was stacking more and more documents next
to her, and I was wondering how I'd ever carry them out, let alone read
them. "Clarissa and I always went on the very first day. Annual
tradition."
"So what happened this year?" I said, running my fingers up and down
the mahogany stemware shelves.
"Nothing. We splurged just like always."
"Well, you must not have gotten enough, if you went back again last
Saturday."
"Right," she said, after a second. "But we did that half the time
anyway. You know, you exercise a little bit of willpower, but three
days later you've just got to go back and buy everything you left
behind."
It all sounded good, but I'd registered that telling pause. Susan was
lying.
I quickly changed the subject. "So do these things really help keep
the wine fresh, or is it just for show?"
"A little bit of both." I half listened to her explanation about air
seals, ventilation systems, and temperature controls, but I was still
trying to figure out why her pregnant pause about the Saturday
afternoon trip to Nordstrom seemed so meaningful. Still playing with
the smooth shelves, I realized what I'd been missing all along. I had
assumed a lecture from Duncan was the worst thing that could happen to
me by confronting Susan Kerr, but I'd been wrong. I needed to get out
of here. Immediately.
But I was too late. The door swung shut behind me, and I heard a lock
slip into place. "Sorry, Samantha, but you've got shitty timing. Ten
minutes later, and I would've been on my way to the airport. But, as
it turns out, I've got a flight to catch, so you're going to have to
wait right here."
I banged the palm of my hand against the door. "Susan, don't do this.
My God, you just told me this room was airtight."
"And it is. But you haven't given me a lot of choices here. And don't
try to tell me that if I open the door you'll let me go."
"You're scaring the shit out of me!" I yelled into the door. "I
promise, I will let you go. I'll wait two hours before I tell anyone.
You're talking about my life."
"Forget it, Sam. We both know that's not in your nature. Hell, if you
were that easy, I could have just paid you off and I wouldn't have to
run."
"Don't run, Susan. We can work out a cooperation agreement. You can
start over."
"Yeah, right," she scoffed. "That's how all this shit began. Those
last few years with Herbie, I took care of everything, and I did it my
own way. Starting over, as you say. I distanced myself from his old
friends and all of the wheels they grease to get ahead, and guess
what?" She was no longer talking to me, so I didn't bother answering.
"That's right, by the time Herbie died, we were flat busted. I
couldn't go broke; everyone would know. A few calls to Gunderson and
Matthews, and I was back in the black. It was so easy, but then
everything fell apart."
"I understand, Susan. I know how much Clarissa meant to you, and
you've got information to trade. Just let me out of here."
The sound of my voice seemed to knock away any remorse she had started
to feel.
"If I were you, Sam, I'd try breaking off some of those wood strips.
Maybe you can wedge them through the seal at the bottom of the door and
buy yourself some time. Otherwise, I'm told you've only got about
fifteen minutes."
Bizarre. Even at this moment, there was Susan Kerr, trying to be
helpful. Without any other options, I followed her advice. I tried
pulling on the thin strips of wood that made up the stemware holders
but couldn't get enough torque to break them. Then I adopted a
different strategy, hooking the heel of my shoe on a rail of wood
running along the floor and stepping on it with all my weight. After a
few tries, my body weight won, making me grateful for those eight
pounds I can never quite drop.
I crammed the jagged edge of the broken wood beneath the cellar door,
wiggling and pushing the rail until I felt the tight rubber seal around
the door begin to give about it. Outside, I could hear Susan making
trips up and down the stairs, probably removing from the house whatever
documents she had taken from the files.
"Oh, hey, there you go, Sam. Looks like it's working. You keep at it.
Get your head down by the floor if you need to." This woman was the
Martha Stewart of murderous lunatics. I had an image of her as an
aerobics instructor at the Mac Club, cheering clients on in the same
way.
I broke another piece of wood and wedged it a few inches from the other
one, trying to create a large enough gap to get some air in. I tried
to convince myself that I was only out of breath from the physical
exertion, but I was beginning to panic.
I lay flat on the floor, getting my nose and mouth as close as I could
to the small crack I had made beneath the door. I started to relax
when I was sure that I could feel air coming in from the basement. I
took a few deep breaths and felt my pulse slow from pounding to a
moderate race.
I told myself I was going to be OK. I had air, and I was patient. But
then I wondered just how patient I would need to be. The footsteps on
the stairs had stopped. If Susan had left for her flight, when would
anyone find me? Chuck was expecting my call, but he had no idea where
I'd been heading. If he went to bed assuming I'd blown him off, would
anyone come in the morning? For all I knew, Susan had told her
housekeeper and contractors to take the week off.
I needed to find a way out of here.
I kicked my shoes off and climbed on top of a shelf, holding on to the
bottle slots for balance. I knocked on the wood panels on the ceiling,
listening for any hollow space above, but I never did have an ear for
such things. Explains why I can never buy a good melon. I raised both
hands above me and pushed as hard as I could. The panel didn't give,
but I couldn't tell if it was because the wine room ceiling was built
against the ceiling of the original basement, or simply because I
hadn't pushed hard enough to pop the panel up.
I tried again but felt light-headed after the push. It might have been